#the relationship of opposite colors... never fails to amuse me

[nmoroder]

and something else about magicka’s canon characters. i established a headcanonish look for Grimnir last year and since then ive been rolling with it; same for his insufferable robe which i had quite some trouble fleshing out for a reference pic. like how many layers of cloth do you have there man

also Assatur... i think i rambled about them in tags somewhere. sometimes i put on my pink glasses to pretend things could be nicer between these two and i do dance with daemons as well

[dracwife]

🎲 for summerisle. in honor of summerisle saturday.

ship: a love immeasurable -> summerisle/heidi word count: 1170 summary: howie takes issue with the nature of heidi and lord summerisle's relationship. i didn't mean for this to become a full fic.

41. a kiss out of spite.

“Surely, a man of your status and self-respect wouldn’t…” Howie lets out a nervous laugh.

“Wouldn’t…?” Summerisle prods him. Though it was little more than a question, between the two they both knew well it was a challenge, a dare even. Go on, he’s saying to Neil Howie, say it.

“Oh, come on now. You are subject to a Christian nation, as you well know. And -- and you may be teaching this heathen religion of yours to these poor, unfulfilled youth and…Well, I can allow that, because they may still see the err of their ways when they mature and get a little common sense, but you cannot run around, no matter private property or not, and spew this absolute perversion! Everywhere I look, it gets worse, but I draw the line here, I do!”

Summerisle tilts his head curiously, an amused grin tugging at his cheeks with rather disinterested eyes. The gathers his thoughts for a moment, exhaling audibly, that forced, friendly smile not for a second faltering as he stands tall, much taller than Sergeant Howie, and looks down at him as he begins.

“I fail to see what you refer to, Sergeant. I believe in the fluidity of life, its many facets altogether, in my opinion, are ever open for change. Do the flowers not bloom in spring, and wither in the autumn? Does the tide not ride high one day, and run low but hours later? The moon, even, runs in cycles, never stagnant, and that’s not even to reference the rest of our earth. The caterpillar metamorphoses into a butterfly, the egg hatches into a chick. The leaves change color through the seasons, and birds will migrate in the winter. Nature adapts to what best suits its needs, and I do believe we humans try to do the same. Who is to say what the ‘correct’ way is for us to find content in our own cycle of life? Perhaps you, Sergeant, find comfort in the routine of your own normalcy. Personally, I would much rather experience as much of what this great earth offers to me as possible. What you may call deviance, I would call the culmination of what has been offered to me. You are engaged, are you not? From what you’ve said, you worship regularly, too? As do I, dear Howie, though under different conditions I can only presume. The desire for companionship is felt all the same in either case, yours or mine, I’d imagine.”

“An outstanding misinterpretation of devotion!”

"I suspect we differ in definition, then," Summerisle rounds the den to seat himself comfortably in one of the many chairs.

Howie follows as obedient as any dog, "It is completely unnatural." 

"But it is so very human to fall in love, isn't it?"

"Not in this way. Were the investigation of Rowan Morrison not taking precedence in my visit, I would have half a mind to arrest you both now -- I will certainly be reporting this to the proper department once I reach the mainland I assure you."

"Kindly, Sergeant, I believe you might have quite the case to make -- In almost all respects besides social representation, Heidi is female, and comfortable in admitting so."

This only flabbergasted Howie further, a sputtering mess of fury and disgust, "Sexual deviance at its finest! And with all the other indecent practices I have witnessed on the island!"

"There is nothing sexual about it, quite the opposite in fact," Summerisle tuts, which pauses Howie's rant for but a moment.

"And maybe, if you kept it in the privacy of your own home, I could look past it, but --"

"Need I remind you, Sergeant, that you are in my house. And I would expect that a man of your manner would, if nothing else, respect the dignity of his hosts. I understand that perhaps you are not so accustomed to the things that you may see here, but," Summerisle, standing now, and voice raised just ever so slightly, causing an already very small-feeling Howie to shrink even more; He realized then the impossibly imposing nature of Lord Summerisle, "You would have the decency to not speak ill of my family, lest not in my own home."

Though his inflection tipped upwards, phrasing it as though it were some sort of question, it was indubitably a command, one that Howie simply conceded to as he smoothed his lapel. A terrible blow to his ego aside, he sheepishly meets the eyes of His Lordship again, whose undoubtedly alarming anger had already melted away, back into that friendly, approachable smile Howie had been invited into his manor in the first place with, "But of course, I would never think it to come to that brutish sort of insult. Heathens as you may think of us, we are still civil."

It almost frightened Howie -- seeing Summerisle swap between the two temperaments so quickly, his brows furrowed more the longer he stood thinking, if he had so easily hidden his anger, what ever else could the island be concealing?

In that moment, a third joins them in the den, carrying a small platter. They offer it first to Howie, who simply shakes his head, turns and gazes out of the window again. He feels too ill even to meet their eyes. 

Heidi, however, shrugs it off and simply wanders coolly over to Summerisle, who with a small thanks takes one of the mugs of tea.

Heidi mumbles something about being nearly out of milk, and as Howie steals a glance towards the couple he looks over just in time to see him, half bent over, Summerisle's hand resting gently against the other's cheek as he presses their lips together in a relaxed, but delicate kiss. He watches as they part slowly, in both their eyes that same look, a word he could only -- and it pained him so to even admit such a thing -- describe as reverence, with the kind of sincerity and passion that he could only otherwise ascribe to the way a servant may worship it's master. He dare not call it love, not after he argued so violently against it, but the thought prodded at him still that it may well have been the same way he looked at his own Mary, and for a second he considered that he had been too harsh. 

Heidi clears his throat though, and pulls Howie from his reflection, and murmurs about needing to visit the market -- Howie thinks he even hears an affectionate name alongside the "Murdoch" he refers to the man as, Howie makes a note of his lordship's first name finally, befitting to the rest of him -- surely referencing the mainland. He bids a quick, soft goodbye through a warm smile, bowing his head again to Howie as he exits the room, tea tray still in hand, leaving Summerisle and the policeman alone once more. The pagan watches Howie carefully, eyes sparkling with the sweet sense of spiteful victory alongside taunting curiosity, at what Howie's next move may be. 

He merely sighs, "I hope you will forgive me of my rash transgressions. It was rude of me."

"I never held it against you for a moment, my devout friend. I simply hope you may learn a thing or two during your stay."

[rhysismydaddy]

Unholy Matrimony Pt. 1 (Nessian)

Nesta’s part of the Damnation Series.

OOF this took so long sorry. I rewrote it, changed it, then deleted it entirely about 9 times. I literally started writing the version before you, from scratch, on Sunday. All parts are linked below, so I’m only tagging people on this version! To go to the next chapter, there is also a link at the bottom <3

ALSO, an important caviat: Nesta is an only child in this one! I originally wrote it for her to be adopted and not know it, but it wasn’t really relevant to the story, so... idk. Just ignore that plot hole I guess.

Parts 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 -- pls like each part I’m insecure

______________________________________________

~Cassian~

“You’re getting married.”

The glass of bourbon halfway to my mouth pauses, because despite being known for being rash and unpredictable, even I’m surprised by the sudden change in conversation.

My eyebrows raise as I look over at Rhysand, my best friend and Capo, trying to figure out if this bastard is serious. His tone says he is, but that doesn’t make sense, because before a few seconds ago, the word “marriage” was in neither of our vocabularies.

He’s been single for as long as I have, although I’m starting to suspect he’s got a bird in the city. He’s too damn happy these days, and the other day I saw him laugh at something on his phone.

Which is weird, because we both know long-term commitments don’t really do well with our lifestyle.

We were raised to not give a shit about anything except the job. We kill without remorse, live in the shadows, and whatever other shitty euphemism you want to use. Settling down in some suburban, picket-fence prison has absolutely no appeal to Made Men.

Don’t get me wrong, most of us get married at some point. But never for love.

Some men choose a bride that’s pretty and sweet. Someone who will donate to charity and help clean up their image. Governors’ daughters, women from old-money families, and social princesses make up this category.

Some men marry to advance their station in the Family. Second sons who will never inherit the business marry daughters of Underbosses to get a nice boost to their status.

And then there’s the ones who are forced to marry by their capo--ie. me-- so they choose whatever attractive woman that’s in the Family and available. Those are always the happiest.

But regardless of the reasoning, marriage in the mafia is heartless, political, and for me, unnecessary.

I know I’ll have to pick someone eventually, but there aren’t a whole lot of desirable options at the moment. Not many of the other Underbosses have daughters that are over the age of fifteen right now, and I have no interest in doing the child-bride thing.

Plus, there’s no way I’d marry someone outside of the family. At my rank, it isn’t an option.

That leaves... a widow?

The only one I know is Ianthe, and considering I highly suspect she killed her last husband and the fact that she’s crazy, there’s no way in hell I’d legally bind myself to her for life.

So he must be joking.

I take a pull from my cigar and look over at Rhys with narrowed eyes. “Uh huh. Sure. To who, exactly?”

“Volchonok.”

The Wolf Cub.

The cigar snaps in my fingers.

“You’re fucking kidding,” I say, honestly hoping that’s the case. He’s either that or insane, and I’d hate to lock someone who’s like a brother to me in a padded room.

Rhysand’s unflinching gaze doesn’t change, but his tone morphs from that of my friend to my boss. “You will marry her, Cassian.”

“She’s a fucking Russian,” I spit, not understanding. That should be reason enough for him to be joking.

In our world, being Russian is a crime similar to stabbing the Pope.

We’ve been at war over New York with them ever since they decided to try and get a stronghold on the east coast, and I’ve killed more of them than I can fucking count. Now I’m marrying one?

“Yes, she is, and so is her father, Alexei Olov.” Aka the Bratva Boss responsible for blowing up half of St. Petersburg last year when the local police refused to buy his weapons. “You will marry her, move to New York full time, and run the city with her by your side.”

“Why? Two or three more years, and we’ll have the city anyway.” Every day the Russians get weaker, and I’ve been responsible for pushing them out of my city block by block.

So there has to be a reason we’re suddenly okay with the enemy.

Rhysand sighs. “It was his idea, not mine. Orlov has agreed to sell our coke in Moscow and Seattle instead of his usual dealer and will supply us all the weapons we need for five years. There will also be no more midnight raids, bullshit arrests on bullshit charges, or missing shipments. He’s offering you a dowry, too.”

I don’t need his money, but the old fashioned term makes me laugh.

“Yeah? And how much does he think his wolf cub is worth?”

His lips twitch. “Ten million.”

“She must be a real pain in the ass, then, if he’s going to pay me that much to take her,” I chuckle.

Not that ten million dollars is anything but pocket change for the man. Orlov may be losing the fight in New York, but the bastard is richer than sin. 

Selling arms to half of the entire world will do that to a person.

“I hear she’s beautiful,” he says, trying to tempt me to not fight him.

“Then you marry her,” I shoot back, not ready to give up the argument.

“I don’t feel like it.” Fucking typical. Rhysand sighs. “You and I both know we can work this deal to our advantage, so what will make you say yes?”

He could order to me to say yes and I’d have to, but he hates enforcing that kind of authority with me.

So I think it over, make a show of lighting a new cigar. “I want Sera.”

It’s a burlesque club in New York I’ve always been a little envious of, owned by Orlov and operated by his men. I’d tried to buy it a few years back but hadn’t had enough leverage on the Russian to strongarm him into selling.

Now I do.

Rhysand--the only one who knows about my failed attempt to buy the place--nods and tells me he’ll make it happen.

“When’s all this happening, anyway?”

He looks like he might laugh. “Wedding is in a month, but she’s flying in tomorrow night.”

A quick laugh forces its way out of me. Also typical of him to give me absolutely no time to change my mind.

Well, I have a month. That’s already longer than any relationship I’ve ever had. 

Sighing, I stand and shake his hand, cementing the deal before I can even lament the loss of my bachelorhood.

~Nesta~

“Chto sluchilos?”

I slide my gaze to my father, because seriously, that’s the stupidest fucking question I’ve ever heard. 

What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Everything.

“Nichego,” I lie, assuring him for what feels like the tenth time as I look out the window. The plane picks up speed and lifts off, taking me towards an uncertain future, an uncertain place.

I might have told him nothing’s wrong, but inside, I’m screaming.

Three days ago, I woke up to find a marriage contract on the pillow beside me. There was a blank space where my name had been typed and a pen waiting for me to remedy that.

I still haven’t.

I’m not signing anything until I meet this... Cassian. 

God, what an Italian name.

An image springs to mind, one of a slumped-over, hairy-chest beast with slicked back hair and a gold chain. 

I know it’s stereotypical and hopefully incorrect, but I’ve never been to Italy and Alexei strictly forbids me watching movies that portray Italians as anything except revolting. 

But looks aside, there’s one thing I don’t need to guess to know. 

My future husband will be like all the other men in my life: controlling.

Men in the world I live in take what they want, don’t ask for permission, and feel like they’re entitled to anything and everything. I’ve dealt with it my entire life, so it’s more amusing than anything at this point.

I guess I’m a bit non-traditional in that sense, considering most of the women around me have no problems taking orders from their fathers or husbands. But Alexei and I figured out pretty early in life that wasn’t going to work for me.

As he frequently likes to tell me, I started telling him to fuck off when I was five.

What did he expect? All the kids I hung out with were the opposite sex and at least five years older than me, so my vocabulary and mannerisms became pretty... colorful early on.

Regardless, I’m just not looking forward to having to deal with yet another man who thinks he can control me.

“Ty vresh',” Alexei accuses, lips twitching. You’re lying. 

“Konechno.” Of course. 

Of course I’m upset, but I understand what’s happening. I might have found out about it three days ago, but I’ve known it was coming for far longer.

As the only child of the great Alexei Orlov, Wolf of Moscow and Pakhan of the Russian Bratva, I’ve been told my entire life that I will one day be used as a pawn to gain more power.

It would--should--piss me off, but I’ve also been told I’m to one day take my father’s place and run his company.

So by gaining more power for him, I’m also doing the same for myself.

Not that I really give a shit about that kind of thing. I started officially working for Alexei years ago, and I already have enough money saved to never have to work again. 

But in the Bratva, there’s no getting out. I was put in this world by birth, and the only thing that will take me out is death. 

In case it isn’t obvious, I’m not a typical business woman. 

My father is an arms-dealer. 

A less than legal one, if you believe the heinous lies the media spreads about him.

He sells weapons to governments, private armies, and whoever the fuck else has the money to buy. 

He’s also built himself a shipping empire to haul said weapons around the globe, runs the drugs and prostitute rings in Moscow, and has enough real estate to rival most small countries.

It probably sounds like I don’t care, and that’s because I don’t. 

I like what I do in the sense that I have a mind for business. I went to business school and graduated at the top of my class, and I enjoy running the clubs and hotels I have. Trained by Alexei himself, I’m ruthless in negotiations, enough so that people started calling me the Wolf Cub by the time I was twenty. 

But despite being good at it, I’m not particularly fond of the aspect most people think of when they picture my career in the Bratva. I detest drugs, have never hired a prostitute, and don’t really enjoy selling arms to bad people. 

The alleyway meetups, the broken bones and bullet holes, and the blown up houses are all a little tiring to me.

Sure, it sounds exciting. And for a while, it was. I used to lose myself in the chaos, used to enjoy coming home with busted knuckles. But I honestly just got tired of it.

Right now, I don’t have to deal with it as much because Alexei’s still alive. But when he dies and I officially take over the family business, I’ll have to be more involved. Even if the thought makes me want to sigh.

I pull out my laptop and look over the financial report for Sera, my newest club in New York. As predicted, everything’s running smoothly. 

I turn the laptop around to show my father, grinning when he pulls out his reading glasses and leans closer. 

“Starik,” I tease. Old man. 

He flicks my forehead, then reads the report and nods. Then he turns to his phone, probably playing Angry Birds or some shit, and leaves me to work.

The plane ride goes by quickly, and by the time we’ve landed in Chicago, I’ve gotten ahead on my schedule for next week, slept, and changed into what I’ve chosen as the “meeting my future husband” dress.

It’s simple and sleek, the black material clinging to my curves without being obscene. It’s long enough to hide the holster on my thigh, not that I feel in any danger with four personal guards stationed near me at all times.

My heels click as I make my way down the plane stairs and across the tarmac to the waiting sedan, and once my luggage and belongings are unloaded, we head to the Italian Capo’s house.

We’re meeting here, finalizing the contract, and then Cassian and I are flying to New York. 

My new home.

“Try to look happy,” Alexei tells me, his heavily accented English almost ridiculous to hear. He speaks English only when he’s in the states, and considering he hasn’t come here since I graduated B school two years ago, he’s a little out of practice.

“I’m ecstatic,” I say, intentionally using a word I know he doesn’t understand.

His eyes narrow, because it isn’t the first time I’ve used this trick, but he doesn’t call me out on it. We continue to ride in ecstatic silence, eventually pulling up in front of the Capo’s... house.

It’s almost obscene to call it that, considering it’s fucking huge. Like obnoxiously huge.

I heave a sigh, step out of the car, and take in my surroundings. The neighborhood’s quiet, likely filled with friends of the Cosa Nostra too scared to make any noise. 

A butler--seriously, a butler--opens the door and welcomes us inside, and as soon as I step in, I have to repress the urge to roll my eyes.

The amount of dirty money in the air is suffocating. It drips off the vaulted ceilings, down the artwork on the walls, across the marble floors. It’s in the little details of the crystal chandeliers and the mahogany staircase. 

Ridiculous.

One look at Alexei’s disgusted face says he’s thinking the same thing.

Don’t get me wrong, we’re rich. Grossly so. Alexei could have ten houses just like this, if he wanted them.

But he doesn’t. He owns property all over the world, but most of it is commercial or apartment complexes--property that makes him money, in other words. This, however, is a massive waste of capital. 

The butler leads us further through the house and into an office where four men wait. 

One is immediately identifiable as their lawyer, his over-priced cologne making me have to resist the urge to sneeze. The humongous man in the corner is hired muscle, if the boxy shape of the guns under his jacket is any indication.

The man behind the desk is obviously in charge, so I’m guessing he’s the Capo. Rhysand or Rhyland or something weird like that. He takes me in silently, bright eyes not seeming to miss any details. 

That leaves the man leaning against the desk to be Cassian Azara.

My fiancé. 

Our eyes meet, his golden gaze beautiful and wild, and I have to remember to keep my expression bored. 

Because the stereotype, the horrible image I’d conjured up in my mind, couldn’t be further from the truth.

For one, he isn’t hunched-over. He stands tall, leaning a hip against his Capo’s desk with obvious confidence. But I see more than just self-assuredness in his eyes. He seems a little too rough around the edges, wild gaze almost like he’s daring someone to swing at him. 

If the confidence didn’t already make him attractive, his looks sure as hell get the job done.

His hairs long and dark and curly, half of it pulled up in a rouge manner that clashes with the suit he’s filling. He has a few days’ stubble, too, like standing still long enough to shave just isn’t an option. 

His shoulders are impossibly wide, narrowing down to trim hips and legs long enough to make him tower over everyone in the room. 

His knuckles are tattooed and split open, and there’s a cut above his eyebrow that tells me I was correct to assume he’s a fighter by nature. 

Usually, that would be a deterrent for me, but there’s something about the way he’s dressed in a dark suit jacket and crisp white shirt while also looking so untamed that has me cocking my head to study him some more. 

He studies me, too, beautiful eyes taking in the long blonde hair and bright blue eyes offset by pale skin. He looks at the dress like he can see everything underneath, and I have the strangest urge to blush. Jesus, he’s toxic.

He’s attractive, is what I’m getting at.

Which is not what I had planned on, considering I’d been trying to think of a plan on how to not sleep with him, but suddenly that’s all my mind can focus on.

His lips twitch like he knows what I’m thinking, and I realize we’ve just been standing here staring at each other for a bit too long.

So I turn back to Alexei and shrug like I’ve seen what my future husband has to offer and aren’t impressed in the slightest. 

I toss the marriage contract on the desk, grab the Capo’s fancy little fountain pen out of his hand, and sign my name on the blank above my name. 

Cassian watches, but I ignore him entirely until the ink has dried. Then I look up at him through my lashes and wink, turn on my heel, and leave the room.

~Cassian~

I think I’m in love.

Fuck.

She hasn’t said a single goddamn word, but the way she looked at me has me feeling itchy all over, anticipation and nerves rolling through me. I feel like I feel before I fight or something exciting happens.

Like I’m primed and ready and need it to happen now. 

Nesta Orlov, my bride to be, is nothing like I expected. 

I was fully braced for some meek little woman, similar to most of my friends’ wives, to come in and smile and say hello. 

But nope. Nesta didn’t smile; she came in like she was walking onto a battlefield. 

And she didn’t smile. She looked me over, clinical blue gaze noticing too much, and left me feeling winded. God, she’s beautiful. Just looking at her made me hot.

She also didn’t say hello. 

Just signed the contract and left, like this was nothing more to her than a boring business deal. I mean, that’s what it is, but... I don’t know, I expected more of a reaction. 

I’ve heard from some Underbosses that their wives cried or raged when they were forced to sign, but shit if that were the case with Nesta. She honest to God looked like she didn’t care.

Alexei, on the other hand, does look a little pissed about the situation, but I couldn’t care less of the old man’s opinion. He’s signed the contract, so to me, he’s irrelevant. Regardless, he and Rhys proceed to iron out some of the details about the wedding and other shit I’m not paying attention to.

Then they shake hands, and the Russian warlord turns to leave. 

He reaches the door and looks over his shoulder at me, and there’s amusement in his cold gaze as he mutters, “Udachi.” Good luck. 

As soon as he’s gone, Roman and the lawyer follow, leaving me alone with Rhys. 

He slides the contract to me, and I sign my name next to hers, making this shit official. 

“This should be interesting,” he comments, vague as usual. 

I sigh, because I have a feeling interesting isn’t going to cover it. 

_____________________________________________________

NEXT CHAPTER

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[lovehotelreservation]

Flimsy

Summary: Despising how your robe was so effective in concealing the marks he leaves on your skin, Grima has had enough. 

A means to show his claim on you.

Thankfully, a solution has finally come to mind.

He would just need to make you a mother in the process.

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: F!Reader/Grima

I WAS LOOKING UP GRIMA’S VOICE LINES WHILE WRITING THIS AND HE REALLY??? DOESN’T HAVE AN ALT YET???

IF F!GRIMA GETS HALLOWEEN, THEN I FEAR FOR SUMMER HFKALFHA

ANYHOW!!! Thanks so much to the lovely commissioner who requested this piece! ; v ; I hope you enjoy!!! -------------------

That damn robe.

How the mere sight of it never failed to draw Grima’s ire.

To the Order of Heroes, it was the symbol of persevering hope.

To him, it was a pestering obstacle that constantly got in the way of his conquest of you, the Summoner.

On one hand, the ivory fabric complemented by golden trims and royal blue lining served as an amusing contrast to the deep dark wine color of his own robe.

The virtuous beacon of peace who stood in opposition against the corrupted harbinger of ruin.

It was a duality that should have kept the two of you apart, save for the pact that bound him to serve under your leadership.

But Grima did not need some ordained obligation to keep him to your side.

Rather, he was willing to eliminate any one who would dare to think they were worthy of even looking at you.

Any of those blasted princes and kings who fancied to make you their queen, that inferior excuse of a counterpart Robin.

It should be clear to any one who looked your way that you belonged to none other than Grima with the shades of red left by his lips and teeth upon your skin, the splashes of pearly white that seeped out from your drooling core after he had his fill of ravishing you to no end within your quarters.

But no one could see that.

Not with that damn robe in the way.

Considering the tension that Grima’s presence caused amongst the Order of Heroes, it was understandable that you--as the organization’s leader--wanted to keep your relationship with him hushed. And while your mystery only continued to entice suitors, you were quick to dismiss any courtings sent your way.

Your reasoning made sense.

He just didn’t like it.

You were his and he did not want to yield you to any one else.

A means to declare his ownership on you that no amount of adjusting or tugging of your robes could even begin to obscure his possession of your body.

The solution did not occur to him until the day you were to deliver an address on the future of the Order of Heroes to the rest of warriors who resided within the castle headquarters.

Ever your shadow, he lingered behind in your quarters while you were going through your speech as you stood by your desk, now just a passage away before you were ready to head down to the assembly room.

While you were in the midst of tugging on your robe, it was while he was admiring the shape of your physique that he realized just how much that accursed fabric draped over your body whenever you had it on, your curves hidden away with ease the moment you finally slipped into the garment completely.

But there was one curve to your body that could not easily be hidden.

Grima’s eyes glinted with wicked intent, a quality matched by the smirk that soon spread onto his features.

A curve that did not exist just yet.

The clock hand then ticked once more, bells ringing to signal the dawn of the next hour.

The assembly was to begin soon.

But you were nowhere near the door of your bedroom.

The notes you labored to study and recite were left in a pile on the floor, joining the shredded and torn ribbons of ivory, gold, and royal blue.

Helpless mewls of his name and labored breathy pleas for him to refrain until after the assembly could not stand to match the thunderous slaps from each and every time he pounded his cock into your awaiting core.

You remained beneath him, your face burning with flustered heat, all while you were left captive under the tremendous strength he imposed onto your body, your legs trapped in place while he squeezed your thighs and kept them pushed down onto your chest, the merciless pounding of his thrusts making it difficult to move, let alone think straight.

Smirking with sheer satisfaction at your vulnerable state, he mused in a sneer, “You can hide that pretty neck all you want, my dearest Summoner. I will see to it that no matter how you decide to wear that robe of yours, everyone will know--”

His crimson eyes glinted with wicked  glee.

“--that you live to serve my cock--”

His mouth watered at the thought of creamy milk trickling onto his tongue from your nipples.

“--that you, their Summoner, will be the mother to the Fell Dragon’s kin--”

His hands squeezed your thighs even tighter.

“--that you belong to no one else but me once they see your rounded belly!”

The last of his temperance eviscerated, Grima snarled as hot spurts of his seed soon flooded into your core in a sticky rush. And though he just came, his cock did not soften in the slightest--rather he just felt even more invigorated to keep going, to keep pumping your womb full of his cum.

You were not going to be attending the assembly any time soon.

Not after he finally attained the solution to this irritable dilemma.

And it was all in thanks to that damn robe.

[lightdancer1]

Death and the Firebender:

Chapter II:

Azula blinked, squinted, cocked her head, then laughed.

"You're Death?"

She shook her head.

"I know Yama, King of the Dead and his icons and symbolism and all that.....whatever it is that Aang tries to tell me. You are not Yama."

Death smiled in that amused fashion.

"No, I'm not Yama. He is the God in charge of your world's afterlife. I don't rule souls, I take them to their destinations...and I breathe life into life."

Azula nodded, pretending she understood what that meant.

"Right...."

As she got up and put on her armor, Death shook her head.

"That won't help you if Del's in a bad mood."

Azula stopped.

"Huh?"

"My family and I are nowhere near all powerful. It's a very big multiverse and there are entities in it that make even our world's creator-entity look like chump change. It's the nature of...." Death waved her hands theatrically. "Everything. I think it's peachy keen, really, but I've lived....a long time...and I have my reasons for enjoying that kind of reminder. But......if Del's in a sufficiently bad mood she could turn your world into an upside down and backwards place and not bother to fix it."

Azula blinked.

"And you're really sure you don't want the Avatar for this?"

Death shook her head.

"The Avatar has different burdens. He'd interpret Del as an angry spirit, which is true from a certain point of view, and he'd try to use methods of his world. They're...not likely to work here."

Azula blinked, then her eyes narrowed.

"Is this some kind of belated thing from my time in that asylum after the war?"

Death shook her head.

"Oh no, no. Not at all. I'm not as good with people as my younger brothers but I would never do that to someone."

Azula relaxed more than slightly.

Death laughed awkwardly, fidgeting.

"In truth my little sister's angry about forever being the little sister. I promised Dream I'd take care of it but I have seen, repeatedly, that my attempts to talk to people invariably get the exact opposite goal of what I want. One of my younger brothers left my family, I actually tried to leave it before anyone else did."

There was a haunted look on her face for a moment and then she shook her head.

"I am not good at communication, and I need someone who can connect with someone else on being a little sister who has too heavy a burden that she did not ask for, and doesn't really know how to address as one."

Now those same beautiful eyes of infinite darkness looked at her and Azula felt the gaze of something very old in a body that looked younger than she was. It was at that moment, in the weight of that gaze, that she *believed* for the first time that the strange spirit standing in front of her really was what she said she was.

"I am hardly an expert at communication myself."

Death shrugged.

"It's hard to be worse at communicating than I am. I'll help you find my sister, who I believe is here in this city, and you can help talk her out of her mood rather than my trying to do so and failing. And potentially...." Death's nose twitched. "Causing a few very bad things to happen here."

Azula pinched her nose.

"I still think anyone expecting me, of all people, to communicate on something involving personal relationships when the Avatar exists is making a mistake, but fine. Sure. Why not?"

With that Azula took off her armor, shook her head, and decided to set out on another of her adventures. She'd discovered her power to affect spirits and it made her life even more complex than it had been. Now, she marveled, she was literally walking with at least A spirit of Death to find one of....Madness.

--------

Delirium hummed as she stopped by one of the experimental gaslights made by Future Industries. She moved her hand in a graceful loop and then brilliantly colored butterflies with gossamer wings began to form in a tornado-like pattern that was upside down, gleaming with a thousand different lights.

There had been those who had thought the strange heterochromic entity sliding up and down the age scale was merely a spirit. The sight of the butterfly tornado and the sussurrations of wings was the first sign that there was something distinctly *other* about this spirit.

The second was when she turned and saw two of the Republic City police preparing to metal-bend a snare for her and wagged her finger at them.

ThE lAsT poLICemAN to TrY to ArReST mE goT ThE sEnSATIon of LiTTlE buGSes aLl oVEr hIM.

Her voice did not sound like most voices they'd heard, the sound echoing not merely within ears but in a very visceral sense within their very *souls.* Between this, the butterfly column, and the floating gulping goldfish behind the spirit the policemen did the sensible thing and walked away at first in a disciplined pattern and then ran like the hordes of Yama's Hells were behind them.

When Azula and Death stepped out of her office, she stared in mute shock at the sight of a vast inverted tornado of butterflies.

"That," she said to Death, "might be your sister."

Death nodded with a smile that blended amusement and sorrow.

"Del always loves her butterflies," she said quietly.

"Have you ever teleported before?" Death asked as she put her hands on Azula's shoulder.

"Have I ev-"

In a sudden weightless moment of dislocation she went from an office a good six leagues from the butterfly column to standing in a street where a girl in fishnets, a jacket, and a pleated skirt looked at her with bright heterochromic eyes.

SIsTER! Delirium's voice was bright and she almost literally lunged at Death, pulling her into a hug as her older sister reciprocated.

WhO's yOuR frIeNd?

[atinybitofau]

S E O N G H W A ⥈ mafia au series

RECAP: training with the boys begins and frustrations between you all get heated. Seonghwa offers you a kind gesture of motivation to get you to learn how to fight.

word count: 1600+ , tags: angst fluff

characters: ateez (ensemble), reader

⤩ CHAPTER 3 ⤩

character list . one shot

“So what DO you know how to do?”

Yunho has never recalled seeing such a pathetic attempt at shooting in his entire life. Up until today when he saw the way your hand trembles around a gun. San, on the other hand, was elated to watch you suck at every single thing you tried to do. You were downright frustrated knowing: learning how to shoot, physically defend yourself, and fighting back wasn’t something you sought to learn.

He kept his hopes high though, Yunho, wanting to see you prosper at the side of his ruthless boss. And even if San thinks otherwise of the circumstances, Yunho assumed your place beside Seonghwa would do the heartless southside king justice. Being with him for so long, Yunho knew of Seonghwa’s shortcomings. Love was undoubtedly one of the assets Seonghwa never had. Seeing as he’s at least trying, Yunho wanted to help out the fact.

He had become frustrated too whilst teaching you and decided maybe you needed a breather.

You were quiet despite San’s failed efforts to get into your head with his rambunctious insults. You only stared at the ground while the other two pondered over new ideas. You weren’t trying at all. You’d like to think it’s because you refuse to take part in justifying yourself for a self proclaimed husband. Honestly, you just had little motivation to try let alone exert any unnecessary efforts.

“Your husband’s arrived early.” A meddling voice fills your empty mind. “He‘s on his way to pick your ass up so look alive.”

Your lips curt a faint affirmation before taking your things and beelining for the building’s locker room. There was soft excitement that frenzied deep down in your stomach as you changed. Not that being around a bunch of buffoons bothered you much but you’d much more prefer the company of a senile swine like your husband than them any day. As pathetic as they sounds to you...

San’s picking at his nails cooly on the outside patio while Yunho leans against a pillar. You’re sat cozy in a chair with your bag over your lap as you all await the said mob boss’ arrival.

“Fashionably fucking late, as always.” San seethes through gritted teeth. “Does that asshole not know I have better things to do than babysit his sorry excuse for a wife?”

San was getting sick and tired of it already. Of course, unbeknownst to you, San absolutely adored his precious leader. It doesn’t excuse the fact that your obnoxiously attractive self gets to settle down with his own first love. To add to it, Seonghwa was effortlessly throwing you around like a treasure that must be watched at all times. Somehow, San realizes the time Seonghwa claimed he had when bargaining his new gift did not exist. So here San was doing Seonghwa’s bidding yet again.

Yunho notices the clench in San’s tight look and glares into his own. “Sannie. Let’s not get careless.”

“Bastard better think twice if he thinks I’m gonna still be sleeping in his house after this.”

San glances at you with no momentary comfort before sticking a cigarette into his lips. You note the face of shock that masks on Yunho’s face but says nothing at all.

“He’s here.” Yunho coughs out while glaring at the cancer stuck between San’s lips. “Kill that stupid thing.”

“With pleasure.” San growls back eyes groveling at you.

“San.”

You stand up upon seeing Seonghwa’s knowing glare from the cracked window of his sleek black SUV. The tables turned on the fellows around you when your heels flick on an opposite direction. Being unwanted never bothered you. Being unwanted forced into a situation has not once bothered you. Being victim to it and having the choice to walk out? Now that’s an additional option you’ve never always have and will always willingly take. You don’t do unnecessary efforts. And you know when you aren’t wanted.

“Y/n!”

You ignore them with heavy feet trudging in no resolute destination in mind. Your fingers play with the earphones in your bag before placing them in your deafening ears. You’re joined by a slow moving car at your side while you walk in no particular direction away from your fiancé.

“Honey, get in.”

You ignore him with a long press of your volume up button.

“Stop being stubborn, y/n.” His voice gets harder. “If I have to get out of this car so help me god I’ll—“

You snatch an earphone out of your ear. “You’ll have San deal with me?”

He abruptly brakes when you do. You let out a grunt of vexation before placing an earbud back in your ear.

Seonghwa decides to park his car right then and there to throw you over his shoulder like a sack of rice. Your face flushes in the hottest color of pink as you try to break free.

“S-SEONGHWA WHAT THE HELL?”

“This’ll be what stubborn gets you from now on.”

You resort to sulking in the front seat as your husband possesively holds his hand on the surface of your thigh. You don’t bother even looking back at where the both of you left San and Yunho, irritated eyes strewn on the outside of the moving vehicle.

“I’m assuming your training didn’t go too well.” He comments while driving faster this time.

You don’t reply making Seonghwa’s fingers twitch on your lap. So much for convincing yourself you aren’t wanted.

“Y/n, I’m no psychic. You need to tell me if something bothers you.”

You scoff. “And what, Seonghwa? You’re gonna fix it?”

“I most definitely will try if that’s what you entail me to do.”

You don’t move from your position as your husband drives you to what you know is back home. The eerie silence that fills the both of you in the car makes your gut clench. His fingers on your thigh aren’t helping the entire car ride either.

Seonghwa’s presence to you reminded you of air. He wasn’t a nuisance to have around and for an appraising relationship to move forth with lesser issues, that’s a good thing. Actually, to add to the fact, Seonghwa was much more meaningful company than anyone else. He never crossed any unnecessary lines and if he did, he did so with grace. It was hardly something you can’t sleep on.

He escorts you, with a distance between you two, towards your shared room and it feels domestic. There’s little need for words. Needn’t questions either. Seonghwa was far from an open book, but he’s not the type of novel that pegged your fancy anyway.

Seonghwa’s back was to you as he stripped out of his dark suit, shoulders bared with torturous temptation. Your mind was clouded no thoughts head empty when he brings you out of your trance with a slight quirk of his chin around his shoulder.

“I can at least draw to a conclusion,” He just keeps pushing the subject of matter you refuse to shed light on. “that the basics of living with a man like me weren’t taught to you properly then.”

Your face becomes shaded with amusement. “Living with a man like you requires basic training?”

“You always think so little of me, my precious wife.”

You feel like you’re in some fanatical love story— how fast he is to getting to your place, finger upon the tip of your chin. He lifts your gaze up onto his eyes with certainty and slight amusement too.

“I may not be of some threat to you but some people will think of you to them. I’m an expensive man and I don’t spend my money and the likes of it on just anybody.”

A twitched smile screws your expression. “And that’s supposed to impress me?”

“Scare you a better word for it.” He slips on a low cut long sleeve and a pair of casual pants before dropping you onto his lap. “I need to know. That at all times I’m never with you.. you’re prepared to take down the worst.”

Your breath hitches at the back of your throat as his fingers grace the exposed skin on your neck. His lips take upon the deed of pressing a sweet kiss, the feel of pain besting you. You don’t realize in the blur of the pleasure how a throbbing pain lingers where his lips lift.

“I know I promised not to take things too far but if you have no reason to fight, I’ll have to offer you one.”

It’s not a mark of lust nor was it a bite of love. It was a mark for people to see. It was a caligraphy of his own sort, making itvlegible for anyone to read. His lips relieves the vibrating pain and you’re curious. You turn to face him and his breath meets yours. You get caught up in something that isn’t there but you can taste. It was like something you need. A lot like air.

“It was meant for your skin.” He reassures you taking an inch of space back. “It’s not inclined for you to believe it’s also for your lips sake.”

You chuckle softly no blush apparent to his notion. “What a romanticist.”

He boredly hums. “Seems so.”

You wear a shirt that reveals the mark as if you’re proud to bear it. No, it’s not pride you feel entitled to, it’s the meaning. It gives you reason to fight.

Seonghwa stands beside you while you throw punches; in front of you when you kick and swing so he can teach you how it’s done.

It’s then you realize why he’s Southside’s king and why he deserves his title.

“Yunho informed me that your lack of skill was overbearing this afternoon.” Seonghwa speaks highly, eyes dawned with amusement and amazement. “That or I’m just one hell of a good teacher.”

You lean over to help him up. “I didn’t have a reason to defend myself. I think I do now.”

“While fighting me?”

“Something like that..”

@atinybitofau

a/n: ROUGH EDIT

[ddarker-dreams]

Affliction II. Yan Giorno x Reader [COMM]

warnings: general yan stuff, mentions of previous abusive relationships, isolation and self deprecation. word count: 3k. link to the previous part.

There aren’t many places left where you feel comfortable enough to be yourself. 

Not an identity that was painstakingly crafted for the sake of self preservation, but your genuine self. Here in the midst of Giorno’s grandiose flower gardens, you’re given the scant opportunity. Whether it be paranoia, or if it holds some ground in reality, there’s a possibility that guards are watching over you from afar. Lost in the thickets of nature, even if you’re being fenced in against your will, is preferable to the suffocating walls of the mansion. There isn’t a lot you’re willing to praise Giorno about, but his taste in flora is breathtaking. Palettes of complementing colors mesh together in a wide array of nature, stepping into it like entering a new world.

This particular section is your favorite. Azaleas are in full bloom around you, the sweet scent wafting to your nose. Stone garden benches, slightly aged by weather and covered in moss, make for a nice spot to collect yourself. This time of day, a sizable tree provides shade from the oppressive Neapolitan sun. Taking in a deep breath, you consider what to do for the reminder of the day. There isn’t much in the ways of entertainment, not in the sense you’d grown used to. No using the internet, or interacting with anyone that isn’t Giorno, aside from rare exceptions when you need food. Some of your hobbies are provided for, but the inspiration to partake in them when in captivity is dwindling at best, nonexistent at worst. 

You’ve had plenty of time to mope around the long, seemingly abandoned halls that make up your prison. After nights of incessant tears and sighing, you’ve made up your mind to make the most of the dreadful situation. Biding your time for a possibility of escape is all that can be done. Walking around the gardens almost felt like a form of reconnaissance at first, scoping the foreign territory in hopes of locating a weakness. Frustrating hour after hour would pass, no convenient cracks in the wall or fencing making itself known. Of course he wouldn’t make it that easy, not after all the apparent effort that went into kidnapping you.

The sun is beginning to set in the sky, the lengthier days of summer beginning a downwards trend as September soon approaches. You frown at the sight of clouds bathed in rays of golden light, knowing what unique horrors night time brings with it. During the day you get to be on your lonesome, making as much space between you and Giorno as possible. While there are some fortunate nights where he’s too engrossed with work matters to seek you out, Lady Luck hasn’t been on your side lately. He’s been woefully insistent on spending dinner with you, wanting to form a bond that you hold no interest in. You’d sooner seek out the company of a snail than Giorno Giovanna. 

When the crickets begin their anthems, the moon hanging high overhead, your freedom is restricted even more. The heavy weight of this realization pushes against your chest, a fresh wave of chills running through you. Anxiety is a finicky creature, making itself known at the worst times. Having a choke hold on you at its own leisure, preventing you from making any meaningful progress. It’s been somewhere around a few months now, you believe, since the encounter that changed your life for the worst. 

Shaking your low hanging head at the thought, you occupy yourself with the parchment sitting on your lap. It’s coarse against your skin, a much needed anchor to keep yourself from drifting away from this world. That’s right, you’ve come here for a reason. You’ve had this blank piece of paper, that has beckoned you to fill it for some time now. The problem being, the lack of proper equipment to use on it. Some pieces of charcoal that you found earlier after lunch sprang hope anew, the tool familiar in the best of ways. Holding with it fond memories, a desirable distraction from your bleak outlook on life. 

The guards that take care in shadowing you didn’t protest when you took it, so you assume it must be allowed. Bringing the dark instrument down to the parchment, you begin a rough sketch of an azalea plant in front of you. As you make the various shapes that define the flower, time almost seems to speed up around you. Before you register it, the sun has almost finished its descent into the sky, your hands fully covered in residue from handling the charcoal. Too absorbed in perfecting your work, you fail to notice approaching footsteps from behind. 

“--[First].” 

A surprised gasp leaves your lips at the unexpected greeting, your head whipping around to identify the source of the intrusive noise. Panic bubbles within at the sight of Giorno, who is taking a keen interest in what you are working on. From how at ease he looks, it’s difficult to gauge his thoughts. His visage never offers insight to his mind, always schooled and taciturn. He must be awaiting a response from you, but your mind is a state of panic. This activity isn’t something that’ll get you in trouble, is it? Subconsciously, you move the canvas to the side, your fingers wrapping around the edges uncomfortably. 

You need to say something, but the words die in your mouth before coming to life. Pushing through your storm of dread, you offer a response. “I… I’m sorry, if I wasn’t supposed to.”

Turquoise eyes regard you in kind, taking a seat next to you on the bench. He’s generous enough to leave a respectable gap, but is still too close for comfort. From how his lips are turned into a soft smile, you want nothing more than to believe you won’t be chastised for this innocent indulgence. Spending time in Giorno’s presence is akin to navigating through a minefield, never certain what step may end up being your last. All of the promises he offers feel unfounded, the sickly sweet assurances of never harming a hair on your head. Why should you believe him? He’s given you no reason to take his word as concrete, and you can’t see that ever changing.

You remember the scent of blood. The nauseating sound of bones crunching, how flesh sounds when thrown against a wall. How when approaching death, the eyes grew bloodshot, lips trembling as they took on a haunting shade of blue. It’s the stuff of nightmares, watching a life snuffed out right before you. Matteo, someone who had been your companion, was gone before you could even process it. The strain on your relationship with him is unforgettable, but having to see his body tossed aside by a ghostly force? Witnessing how limp his limbs were, the same arms that once sought refuge in long ago? 

You’ll never forget the devil Giorno is, no matter how much he paints himself as a saint. 

“I had no idea you were interested in art,” he chooses to ignore your previous comment, wanting to redirect onto more positive things. “You have a real talent for it. Had I known, I would’ve prepared a wider array of art supplies for you.” 

The compliment has the opposite effect as intended on your person. Instead of filling you with validation at the wholehearted praise, the words ooze down your skin like droplets of corrosive venom. A sudden disconnect between your creation is torn, and you can no longer stomach to look at it. How an object of beauty can turn into a reminder of your captor in a few measly seconds is a peculiar thing. When he leaves for work the next morning, you consider the possibility of destroying it all together. A last ditch effort to rid yourself of this revolting feeling that creeps down your spine. 

“Please, don’t trouble yourself.” 

There are multiple ways of interpreting your words, ranging from a dismissal of Giorno’s presence to humility. He spins it in his favor, as he’s showcased his brilliance in doing so. Your lack of straightforward animosity towards him serves to backfire every time. 

“It’d be no trouble. Truth be told, I’m lacking an in-depth knowledge of the arts. What kind of equipment would suit you best?” Giorno inquires with a tilt of his head, his eyes leaving the impression that he can see the full dimensions of your soul. Ignoring him isn’t going to be of benefit, so you provide the bare minimum to satisfy his quest. 

“It’s… more of a personal preference, what an artist chooses to use.” 

He’s not letting you off the hook just yet. “What do you prefer to use?” 

“The basics. Pencils, watercolors, the like. Nothing too fancy.”

Giorno looks fascinated at anything you offer him. Even if you only speak when spoken to, it’s a good place to start. Your muscles tense as he leans closer, to get a better look at the drawing of flowers. His eyes scan every stroke, seeing how it all culminates into a grander picture. You move your legs over, internally pleading that he’ll leave you alone soon. Speaking for him with any amount of time, no matter how small, is exhausting. 

“Azaleas, correct?” 

At this guess, you nod in confirmation. 

“Please, should you ever need a reference for flowers, let me know. I’d be more than happy to provide it for you.” 

The chance to refuse this offer is fleeting, curiosity taking over at how he reaches for a rock on the ground. Taking it into his hand, he puts it in full view. You blink at the uncanny series of events, wondering why Giorno is putting a simple rock on display. Any semblance of understanding is stolen from you, as the colors twist into a different assortment. The spherical shape shifts into a stem, the bud on top growing light pink petals. He watches with amusement at how you look at it closer, mouth agape.

“W-what?” It’s a weak whisper, betraying the full extent of your awe. How did he pull this off? It isn’t like a cheesy magic trick, where the rock would slide somewhere, only to be replaced by a flower. No, you witnessed the full life cycle of the flower. He chuckles lowly at your childlike wonder, preparing a palpable explanation. 

“It’s an ability of mine,” he elaborates, placing the newly former azalea on your lap. “I can make any living thing.” 

Is this a dream? To test the theory, you rub your eyes, uncaring of the smudges likely left against your skin. When your eyelids flutter open once more, you’re still in reality. Wanting to inspect the flower closer, you lift it up, close to your eyes. Studying every aspect of it, from how soft the petals are to the firmness of the stem. While not a professional botanist by any means, there’s no denying that this is a real flower. 

“Any living thing…” 

The words dance on your tongue, parroting his words back to him to make sense of it all. “Does that include animals?” 

“Naturally. Is there anything you’d like to see, [First]?” He tempts you with promises of spectacle, fully aware of how bewitching Gold Experience’s ability is. Numerous ideas flood through your mind, possibilities infinite. Thoughts ranging from your own favorite animals, to cute creatures that might improve your mood. While creating bouquets of any flower might be an intriguing prospect, you’re more drawn to seeing animals. The only animals you’ve had contact with in the longest time are occasional frogs that congregate near the running foundations at night. Everything else is reduced to sounds, from owls to cicadas. 

It’s when you see Giorno’s knowing smile that something deep inside you stirs. 

He’s basking in the lightheartedness you’re exuding. This… this ultimately doesn’t change a thing. Giorno is a terrible man, who has taken so much from you. The hedges surrounding you both suddenly feel suffocating, a merciless reminder of who it is you’re dealing with. Beauty pales in comparison to real freedom. Every day has been the same as the last, an infinite loop of going through the motions, destined to never make progress. All of this has been thrusted onto you by Giorno Giovanna, a man in relentless pursuit of your heart. 

None of this is right. Being near him is enough to too much to take.

You hold your tongue, eyebrows furrowing at Giorno bringing out all this conversation from you. It’s humiliating how all your efforts to deny him the desires of his flesh never work as intended, this one of the many times he’s bested you. Now that you’ve spotted his game, you clamp shut like a clam, intent on hiding the pearl of yourself from him. You’re intentional in looking away, the luxury of him maintaining eye contact with you a memory of the past. Sensing the barriers you’re putting up against him, Giorno stands, dusting off his expensive pants. He offers you a nod of acknowledgement, pivoting on his heel and calling out to you over his shoulder.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” 

Too absorbed in your self deprecating thoughts and misery, you offer up no response. Footsteps crunching against the vegetation on the ground fade away, your heart pounding violently against your chest. Something wet caresses your face, teardrops falling and smudging your art. Your sniffling grows in volume, becoming a full set of sobs. Hands shaking by your side, you hang your head low, biting your lower lip to the point of drawing blood. 

Feeling like a man possessed, you wildly rip away at the canvas that taunts you so. The sound of paper ripping pales in comparison to the natural ambiance of the summer night, and you pay it no mind. All you want is an outlet for this surge of emotion. Any guilt over littering the ground with remnants of your work dissipates when you remember how servants will scurry like insects to clean up after you. For extra measure, you pick up the former rock, glowering at it. Breaking the stem with your hands, you throw it as far as you can manage, not able to stand the sight of all it stands for. None of this even begins to remedy the abhorrence that clogs your heart for Giorno, but it’s a start.

Exhaustion seeps into every pore of your being, and you retire to your room. 

- - -

He notices a lot of things about you when you’re asleep.

There’s clear serenity on your countenance, far away from the world of unfortunate reality. Giorno catches every rise and fall of your chest, how delicate your breaths are, the way your long eyelashes flutter against the soft cheeks of your face. When you’re lifted from the depths of deep sleep with a dream, frustration overtakes you, eyelids twitching. He’s inquisitive on the nature of your dreams, that must take the form of nightmares. What is it that haunts you? There’s a twinge in his heart at the possibility of it being him. 

The first time you reached out to him in your sleep, he thought it a trick of the lights. A fine delicacy he doesn’t deserve to gratify himself with, as a reminder of his own sins. You’re too good to him when you’re like this, arms subconsciously reaching out for something to grasp on. A few times, you found a pillow, content with it in your arms. In moments like this one, your hands touch the bare flesh of Giorno’s chest, drawing yourself against him. He stays perfectly still, recognizing the humiliation you’d face should you wake. No, this is just fine with him, enough to satisfy a dormant hunger. 

He can’t help himself, ghosting his fingertips up and down your bare arms. Goosebumps dot your skin from the motions. It’s a selfish wish, that you’d always be like this around him. Giorno would be a fool to think of himself as anything but self-serving after all he’s taken from you. Your future, freedom, your life. What is possibly an attempt to justify some of the extreme measures arises, Giorno incapable of hiding the scowl of your former situation. Such a kindhearted person, diluted by scum of society, churns his stomach in repulsion. The original plan didn’t include offing your former partner, but righteous fury overtook him. It isn’t often Giorno’s composure can crack, but seeing you belittled was all it took.

All the damage inflicted on you left gaping wounds, too great for Giorno to heal. 

He witnessed how radiant you’re capable of being, how your face glowed the first time you met. It’s a fond memory now, a way to placate him. Anything less than honoring the memory of you treating his wounds is a disservice to your person, Giorno incapable of offering nothing but high praises for you. This highlight of humanity, a pinnacle of what people are like at their best, is what motivates his goals further. To see Italy become a better version of itself, eradicating the nefarious plots that fester in the shadows. 

You rub your head against his chest, murmuring incoherent words in your sleep. His heart leaps at the endearing sight, wishing he could stay like this with you for eternity. In the midst of his musings, his own Stand materializes into existence, unblinking eyes considering every curve and dip of your body. Gold Experience Requiem wishes you were capable of acknowledging it, having to be content with observing you from afar. It’s a double edged sword. There’s an opportunity to wrap phantom-like appendages around your waist, you only believe it to be a gust of wind. Touch starved as Giorno is, he’s willing to accept any scraps of your touch he has access to.

Tiny pieces are better than nothing. 

Tomorrow will bring troubles of its own, yet he can’t find it in himself to complain. Your scrutiny is wholly deserved, and all that he can offer in meager attempts to reconcile is effort. To be better for your sake, and his own.

[normal-thoughts-official]

Take a different turn

Fandom: Shadowhunters (TV)

Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood Magnus Bane & Alec Lightwood Magnus Bane & Raphael Santiago (mentioned) Alec Lightwood & Izzy Lightwood (mentioned) Izzy Lightwood/Meliorn (mentioned)

Alec Lightwood is a practical man, who happens to have an all-black house because it just makes things easier for him.

Magnus Bane is the witch that lives across the street from him, in a house covered in flowers and plants, always with a smile on.

And Magnus' clients keep knocking on the wrong house.

Read it on Ao3

Alec looks up from the book he was reading right in time to see that the latest client has just left his neighbor's house. The woman is leaving with a smile on her face, but it is no match for the one on the man that she's talking to. He waves at her, and she waves back, laughing, and one would think they are long time friends were it not for the vial of purple liquid she holds in her hand, making it unmistakable what this visit truly was, and what Magnus' line of work is.

Alec's neighbor is a witch, and the woman came to him for a potion. It's not like it's supposed to be a secret; there are signs along the nearest road advertising his line of work, and they even give his address - correctly, Alec has already checked plenty of times.

He waits until the woman has rounded the corner and Magnus has gone back into the house, and then precisely five minutes so the guy has some room to breathe, before getting up and crossing the street to talk to him.

The guy's house is nice - more than nice. Its walls are light yellow, not so bright that it hurts the eyes or even calls that much attention, but upbeat enough that it gives the place a happy kind of air. There are plants all around it and inside, some of which reach out from the windows. One particular tree has a branch that goes all the way outside, where it touches another's, where their branches almost curl around each other. There are a lot of flowers in neatly arranged little pots outside, all in constant bloom, of bright and beautiful colors. Anyone would think Magnus uses magic to keep them always beautiful, but Alec's seen him manually watering and pruning them, smiling and talking to them all the while.

I could use magic to keep them alive, but the plants need care and contact to be truly healthy. Why do you think Peter Plant and Perry the Plant-ypus are always holding hands? They need connection, he had said. Just like all of us, he added, in a much smaller voice.

The house is clearly well-lit, and there is sweet fruit hanging from some of the trees, which have little signs that read "feel free to take some!". Alec supposes it's a lot more fruit than anyone could eat or use on their own. All in all, Magnus' house is beautiful, and has an aura of kindness and happiness that sticks to it.

Alec's house is all black, because that way it isn't as obvious when it gets dirty.

Which is why they are stuck in their current predicament: every time Magnus has a client over - and man, does Magnus get a lot of clients. Alec wonders when he even eats - they go to Alec's house instead, because they "figured the address in the signs was mistaken".

Just like that last client, which Alec had been waiting to leave so he could talk to Magnus about how they could fix this. Again.

It's a little annoying, but Alec would be a lot more upset about it if Magnus weren't so genuinely nice to talk to. Alec has never been friends with any of his neighbors before, and it turns out that he likes it.

Still, Magnus' business can't prosper if the clients keep going to the wrong address, and Alec needs to work without being interrupted every hour or so to point people the right way to his neighbor's house. And assure them that yes, the yellow flowery house is where the witch lives. Yes, he is sure.

So, he knocks on the door, corners of his lips already tugging a bit as he hears the quick approaching footsteps of said witch.

Magnus is the most gorgeous guy Alec's ever seen, but that is fine because Alec already knows this and therefore won't act completely braindead. His hair is always changing style, length, and color, which would have cemented any doubts Alec could have had about whether or not he's the real deal. His real eyes have slitted pupils - which, okay, now that Alec thinks about it, that should have cemented whether or not he's the real deal - but he usually hides them behind a warm, rich brown that sparkles in the light as it assesses Alec, just like it's doing right now. Alec thinks the glamour is kind of a pity, because the golden eyes are also gorgeous. His hair has light blue streaks today, matching his eyeliner and vest, contrasting nicely with the yellow shirt that definitely doesn't hide the muscles of his arms, dear lord. His lips are a deep pink as he talks, just like the details in the shirt Alec can't quite make out; definitely courtesy of some kind of balm. His eyes are worried as they focus on Alec, and he snaps his fingers gently.

"Alexander, are you okay?"

Alec blinks. "Yes, why wouldn't I be?"

"You aren't saying anything."

Step one failed, Alec thinks. "Ah," he says, eloquently, before pulling himself back together, "yes, sorry, I just wanted to ask," his voice sounds that weird kind of forced pleasant that he wears sometimes when he needs it, and the idea of using it with this guy makes him cringe internally, but well, he wants a conversation starter and he's bad at sounding natural, sue him, "are you sure that you aren't hiding the house or something? I mean, it's the third time today."

Magnus brings his eyebrows together, amused. "Well, you can see it, can't you?". He shakes his head slightly, and it would be challenging, but the guy has a way of making you feel like he was laughing with you.

Still, Alec huffs. "Fair point. Still, I thought your- solution would have worked out by now."

Magnus' "solution" to their little problem was to snap his fingers and make some kind of tower appear on the side of the house. The tower has a triangular roof, and it kinda looks like a witch hat, Alec will give him that.

But it's also light pink.

Magnus purses his lips, seeming genuinely lost. "So did I," he agrees, scrunching his nose a little as he thinks. "Maybe some kind of spell where only someone who knows what to look for can find it?" he says hesitantly. He then reaches out with his hands, scanning his own house with his magic thoughtfully. His head tilts slightly in thought as he does it, and flowers or no flowers, no one would doubt that Magnus Bane is a witch at that point. The way that he holds himself, the grace in every tilt of his head, the not at all exaggerated - now that he's actually concentrating and not showing off - movements of his fingers that are still so purposeful and fluid it's impossible not to look. Then his hand drops, and he sighs. "There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it," he says. "What about your solution?"

Alec's solution was to place a hundred thousand signs near his door that said This is not the witch's house! The witch lives across the street and Yes in the yellow house with all the flowers, and yes THAT one I promise you it's the one you're looking at, and don't knock to confirm just go there. But Alec's other neighbor, Meliorn, just so happens to be a fairy, and takes great pleasure in stealing them whenever they can. Superglue hadn't stopped them, nailing the signs to the door hadn't stopped them, not even painting them directly on the walls had stopped them. And Alec can't use the usual seelie-shooers to keep them away because they are dating Alec's goddamn sister, who will not ask them to stop. Hell, Alec's not even entirely sure she's not the one asking Meliorn to do this in the first place. She might be more of a trickster than they are, at least when it comes to Alec.

Match made in Heaven, Alec scoffs to himself before replying.

"Still no luck with Meliorn," is all he says.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help more with that," Magnus says, and he sounds so genuinely regretful Alec couldn't be upset about it if he tried. Magnus tried to talk to Meliorn about it, but he said they looked so happy with all the stolen signs he couldn't even bring it up. It's a fairy's nature, he had said, and Meliorn seems to have gotten pretty attached to the signs. They have a special place in their house and everything.

Meliorn's house, Alec can't help but note, is exactly what one would expect from a fairy. It's covered in vines and exotic-looking flowers, not that different from the ones Magnus grows, but that unnervingly follow you as you walk past. And, of course, it is filled with their treasure. Just Alec's luck.

Magnus purses his lips again. "I could change your house into something a little more like mine, so people at least won't keep coming to you- okay, I see the face you're making, and I'll have you know I'm offended. My house is beautiful, if I do say so myself," he winks, smile bright.

"Of course it is," Alec says, making a dismissing gesture with his hand, because the idea that it wouldn't be is ridiculous. Magnus softens in a way Alec can't quite understand, his face warmer than it looked even as he grinned, "it's just- not quite my style. Besides, I wouldn't want to kill all the plants. Also, I don't like big changes in the environment," he says, scratching the back of his neck. Magnus is the opposite, always changing something here and there, even if the core theme of the place never changes, "And black is nice. I just didn't think that there would be a witch next door people would mistake me for."

Magnus scoffs. "I still don't get what that's about. Black is the worst color for a witch. Absorbs all kinds of energies, you don't want that when you're using magic. Yellow is a lot better, irradiates pretty nicely and absorbs the good things. Besides, my tower has a witch hat now! And there are plants!" he gestures widely, in an almost offended way. Alec doesn't know how to tell him that no one associates plants with witches, at least not the kind of pretty, bright colored flowers and fruits that he grows.

"I guess people expect witch's plants to be less…" He pauses for a second, looking for the perfect word, "voluptuous".

Magnus scoffs. "Then how would I get my ingredients??"

Alec shrugs. He has no idea. He doesn't know how witches work.

"Besides," Magnus continues, "why do people not expect a witch's house to look approachable? Why would you seek help from someone that doesn't look trustworthy? I work to cure the sick, bring good fortune, keep plants and people healthy, keep away bad energies. It's not like I work with bad energies or take those stupid," he emphasizes the word with a tilt of his head, "requests, like 'Hex my neighbor's grass!'" He says that in a demanding voice, snapping his fingers and grimacing a little as he impersonates that kind of client. Alec knows for a fact that his mom has hired witches to hex their neighbor's grass more than once, and Magnus' imitation is surprisingly similar. The fact that this guy has unknowingly talked shit about Alec's mom only makes Alec like him more.

Once upon a time, he would have felt guilty about that feeling. He doesn't anymore, and it's a nice change.

Magnus looks at him, squinting slightly, "you have hexed your neighbor's grass, haven't you?," he says.

"What? No," Alec grimaces, disgusted, "you are my neighbor."

Magnus gives a little laugh. "Fair point. I suppose I'd have to charge a lot for that one. Starting with even getting a lawn to be hexed. That would need considerably more space. I am not getting rid of my plants, I'll warn you." He says playfully, pointing a finger at Alec. It stops just shy of poking him. Magnus seems to be very careful when it comes to personal space, which Alec appreciates so much he finds that he wouldn't mind if he actually touched him.

Alec smiles, because he can't help it. "I don't have a lawn either, so I don't think that's necessary. No, it's uh, my mom who has hexed the neighbor. And I agree with you, it's stupid."

"Glad we're on the same page," Magnus replies, raising his eyebrows playfully for emphasis.

They fall silent for a while, but it's comfortable, and Alec's smile lingers on his face as he watches Magnus look at his own house in concentration. It's like a puzzle he can't figure out. Alec supposes pop culture has been lying to people about witches more than he ever thought, if this guy's completely clueless expression is any indication. His house has pastel colors.

"I mean, look, logical or not, you could change the front a bit to look more like people expect, right? Make it a darker color or something, put the plants on the back? If people want unapproachable, give them what they want, you know."

Magnus sighs, and he says, in a small voice, "but I want people to visit."

This is exactly the kind of conversation that would make Alec freeze up, not knowing what to respond, usually. But instead, he finds that he actually knows what to do and grabs Magnus' hand almost on instinct. Magnus looks at him with wide eyes, shock and sadness and the kind of guarded hope that means fear, and Alec just looks back at him, gathering words.

But it still seems to be the right thing to do, because Magnus says, "Raphael just moved out. I had never lived outside of the village before, but because he's not a witch, I thought it best to come to a neutral place. But everything is so different, and now that he's gone… The house feels empty." Then he quickly takes his hand from Alec's, and a smile is back in place, bright as ever, but it makes Alec feel a lot less warm. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be putting this on you. I promise I'm not usually such a woe-y old man, you just… Caught me by surprise."

"No, no, I like it," Alec says, because it's true. "And well… I can visit, if you want." Magnus looks at him with doubt in his eyes, so Alec quickly amends, "I've always wanted to know what a witch's work is like."

That's not really true. Alec hasn't always wanted to know what a witch's work is like, more like he's wanted to know what a witch's work is like ever since he's met Magnus. But potato, potatoh.

And if he didn't want to know before, well. He definitely does once Magnus' smile blooms with brightness, his fingers almost twitching as he goes to show him the plants he grows and what they do.

[r6sblitz]

Happy Valentines day! I don’t have an AO3 but I am debating on making one. Nevertheless, I haven’t written anything fictional since middle school so if it’s bad...at least I have an excuse.

It’s Valentines week, and Montagne needs a date to get entry to the fabled Valentines party. I wonder who it’ll be? (This fic is mild, just some kissing, a little less than 5k words, Montagne/Blitz)

Montagne turned the paper over, inspecting both sides. Valentines was coming up once again, and as per tradition Rainbow threw a huge Valentine's party at whatever hotel ballroom would let them. He's heard the stories of past years--like the one year someone made a "punch" that was nothing more than a concoction of pepto bismol and fruit punch. Or how every year would end in someone finding a couple making out in numerous secluded areas. The Frenchman himself had never been to any of the outings, as the big bold print at the end of the rose colored flier always barred his entrance.

    ‘Must have a date!’ it read in it's silky letters, mocking him. 

It was no secret Gilles loved a good party, especially one where he could engage with his fellow peers. Sadly though, he's yet to find a date. He's thought about just taking a friend and lying, but his poor communication skills also factor into his inability to lie.

    With a sigh, he places the flier next to his plate, eating his lunch in peace. That was, until two familiar faces joined him at the table.

    "Hey Gilles!" Emmanuelle's warm voice brought a smile to his face as he watched her and Rook sit across from him.

    The two very much reminded him of his siblings when they were younger--bright and protective, but they could be mischievous at times. Montagne hasn't even had a chance to greet her back before the flier is snatched from across the table by Julien.

    "Planning on attending this year?" he asks with a smirk. Emmanuelle's smile brightens, "Oh it's so much fun Gilles! Please tell me your coming."

    Gilles gives a waning smile, "I haven't got a date."

    Julien let out an amused huff, "As if that's ever stopped Bandit from sneaking in and stealing the snacks."

    Twitch gives him a fake slap to the shoulder, "Don't be mean!" she turns to Monty, "What he means to say is don't feel bad for not having a 'date'," she says with air quotes, "you could just bring a friend. I'm sure everyone would be happy to see you there."

    Montagne rubs the back of his neck, "I'm not so sure. I feel it is...out of the spirit?" The two across the table share a confused look unbeknownst to Monty, Julien simply shrugging his shoulders in response. A few moments of silent eating pass before Julien speaks up.

    "Well...is there anyone you're close to? Maybe you could use this chance to get to know them a little bit better?" he asks before sticking another forkful of food into his mouth and winking.

    Montagne chews the inside of his cheek a moment, cogs in his head turning. He honestly hadn't had a romantic relationship in decades, deeming his job too important to have something take more of his focus away. But if it was a fellow operator...No. That was equally as bad. Job relationships were known to crash and burn when they went south, and with this job they needed exactly the opposite of that. However his mind wanders to the relationships of Rainbow--how despite so many disliking and downright hating each other, it hasn't caused catastrophic issues.

    "I think you might have broken him." he faintly hears Emmanuelle giggle, causing him to snap out of his thoughts.

    "Well, Valentine's isn't for another week, so there's plenty of time to think it over." Julien says, standing with his empty plate and bidding farewell.

    Emmanuelle searches her empty plate a moment, trying to find the right words for the older man. 

Eventually, she picks up her plate, "Try not to think too hard, I say just go with a friend. Who knows what might happen!" and with that he is left alone once again. He peers down at the pink flier and it's swirling text, pocketing it as he too exits from the cafeteria.

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

The note has burned a hole into both his pocket and his mind. Every time he casually puts his hands in his pockets, or reaches for his wallet or phone, he is reminded of it and it's connotations. The past few days he's been taking Julien's advice, thinking about who he would want to bring given the chance.

    When he's practicing his shooting, he thinks of Thatcher, has to admit the elder man is rather handsome. Though he highly doubts he's gay or bi or whatever sort of things people call themselves these days.

    A technology session with Dokkaebi has him wondering about her, but quickly stuffs the idea--she's much too young, he'd feel like a creep asking her.

    After training, a few cuts bring him to Gustave. He too admires him, both for his looks and for his dedication. The two made small talk as Doc inspected the cuts, seeing if they needed stitches or if a heart covered bandaid would do. Montagne laughs at the bandages, oddly cute for a man like him to have, to which Doc sighs and explains someone must have replaced the regular ones with these--the name of the culprit not explicitly said but known anyways.

    "Are you attending the Valentines party?" Montagne asks as he pulls the sleeves of his coat back over his now Valentine themed arms.

    "I do actually," Doc replies offhandedly, busily putting away the peroxide and bandages, "do you?"

    Montagne shakes his head, pushing himself off the gurney.

    Doc hums in response, “Well if you can’t find one, don’t feel bad for bringing someone more platonic.”

“Emmanuelle told you didn’t she” Montagne sighs, rubbing his face. The younger GIGN members had good intentions but, sometimes they were a bit too much for the old man. 

Doc chuckles, “My lips are sealed. Take it easy friend.”

Montagne leaves, spending the rest of his free time pondering a potential partner and wondering who the hell Doc is bringing as a date. His pacing has led him to the upper floor balconies of the base, one of the many enhancements from their old station at Hereford. He sits on a relatively new cushioned bench, watching wistfully as the setting sun stains the sky a deep orange and the clouds purple. It seems he is destined to not have any time to himself as the glass door facing out onto the balcony opens with a quiet squeak. A familiar figure in a puffy white jacket steps out.

        Blitz.

    The younger man strides toward him, "Hey, mind some company?" he asks.

        Montagne shuffles a bit, making room for the german to sit down. He does, with a long winded sigh.

    "Hope I'm not interrupting anything." he chuckles. Montagne smiles back at him and shakes his head. The two enjoy the sunset in peace, though Montagne's mind is elsewhere once again.

    Why hadn't he thought of Elias earlier? The german was one of the first people he ever met when Rainbow was conceived. He remembered back to when he was first working with everyone, how he enjoyed Blitz but first thought him naive, or a thrill seeker like Smoke. However as time went on, he found it was the total opposite. Occasionally the german would regale an enthralled younger operator about his time in Kosovo, or in India, or wherever he was stationed in between. Oftentimes the story would horrify them, sometimes along with any older ops within earshot, but he'd lighten the mood by bringing in a happy ending, or following it up with a lighter story. The two also shared morals--the need to protect and make sure everyone was safe regardless of their own situation.

    The more Gilles looked at Blitz, the more he began to see. He was kind and pleasant to be around, and had even been helping Montagne improve his english skills. And yet it seemed he was spending less and less time with the german, whether due to more responsibilities or more operators to deal with or a combination of the two. The fact really saddened him, just as they were becoming good friends, they were beginning to drift away.  

    With his mind lost, he failed to notice Blitz had turned and was now staring at him.

    "Er...is there something on my face? Please don't tell me it's marker again, it took me weeks to get that doodle of my neck." he groans, beginning to pull out his phone to check. Montagne shakes himself of his thoughts.

    "Ah no, I was just wondering-are you attending the party this weekend?" he asks, unusually nervous.

        Blitz tilted his head, "No I'm not, though I have been curious as to how Dominic manages to sneak in every year." he says, putting his chin on his fist in thought.

Before Montagne could reply, the man interjects, "I have an idea, do you have a date?"

Montagne nods his head no.

    "Great! We could go together!" he says as if it's just a casual everyday line. Montagne gawks at him, unable to process what's happening until Elias explains further.

    "I've always wanted to know how Dom gets in, and I assume you want to go cause well," he vaguely gestures at the frenchman, "it's your type of thing. It's a win win! Unless, you didn't want to go?"

    Montagne blinks, waving his hands in front of him, "Oh yes, yes I do." He says, and is surprised he sounds slightly disappointed.

    Blitz hops up from his seat, "Great, this will work out perfectly. See you on Saturday?"

    "8:30 sharp" Gilles hears himself mumble with a smile. With a lazy salute, the younger man leaves Montagne alone with the rising moon and an odd feeling in his stomach.

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

 It had been a long time since Gilles had gone shopping for clothes. Typically he’d wear whatever was supplied, and rarely dress up in an old tuxedo that forever sat in his closet. But with a little egging from a certain two GIGN members, they convinced him to go out and buy some nice clothes for once. So now Gilles was inspecting a large map of the mall along with Julien and Oliver, the latter coming along in place of Twitch who claimed she wanted the three of them to have some “guy time”. After a few moments of inspection, Oliver points to the shop.

    “Looks like it’s downstairs, toward the east entrance.”

    Julien groans, “Should’ve parked at the other lot.”

    The three set out, passing by various clothing boutiques, kiosks of toys and gadgets, and sickly sweet dessert stands. Their leisurely walk leads them to a large outlet at the other end of the mall. As soon as they enter, they’re immediately bombarded by the staff, who manage to wring out of them that Montagne was buying an outfit for his “date”. He’s corralled into a changing room and given several different dress shirts, jackets, and chinos before Julien and Olivier manage to drive them off. 

    He takes his time, putting on the matching sets before coming out and asking the two’s opinions. Gilles almost instantly regrets bringing the two along--both of them manage to find something or other to downvote an outfit. His latest attempt is simple, a peach colored dress shirt with tan brown dress pants. His hands are folded on his chest, exhaustedly listening to his two countrymen.

    “Hmm I don’t know Gilles, I think the shirt is too close to your skin tone.” Julien tuts.

        “Why did they think that was a good color to make pants out of, it looks like they're made of—” Gilles stomps back into the dressing room before he can hear the rest of Olivier’s sentence.

 It wasn’t an easy feat to make Montagne frustrated, but after nearly an hour, he found himself at the end of his rope. The hangers clatter as he inspects what he’s worn and what’s been tossed to the wayside. A pair of black pants and black shirt are the last two items.

 He disrobes before shouldering the shirt on, mumbling to himself that if they didn’t like this one, he was just going to wear his old tuxedo. After putting on the outfit, he takes a moment to inspect it in the thin mirror at the back of the changing room. At first he thought the shirt was just a plain black, however the sleeves bare an intricate lacework of swirling gold vines and roses. The pants have a similar, smaller pattern along the seams going down the outside of the legs. 

It’s probably one of the more risque things he’s worn, though nothing will top his April fools butterfly armor, but he takes a deep breath and walks out. To his surprise, the two of them are stunned into silence.

“That looks...amazing!” Julien beams. Olivier nods his head in approval. A nearby store attendant comes by and gushes about the outfit, doing their best to flatter Gilles who takes the compliments with a fake smile.

Montagne lets out a relieved sigh, quickly zipping into the changing room and paying for the clothes before he’s hounded anymore. The three of them merrily made their way back to the other side of the mall, finally getting to the car and heading back to base.

—————————————————————————————

The day of Valentines was like any other day. Training, training, and more training. Though the regiments didn’t seem as intense, the day ending earlier than usual and Montagne found his muscles weren’t as sore as they normally would be. He showers at his dorm, taking his time. Personal bathrooms were among many of the luxuries afforded to them at his base, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t appreciate some privacy every once in a while. After he’s done, he dresses in his new attire, and stands in the mirror. He fiddles with his shirt collar, adjusting it this way and that. He’s oddly anxious, a feeling that’s rare for the older man. He couldn’t help but chuckle at himself, years of firefights and hostage situations and he’s scared over a date. Not even--it’s just a friendly outing to get in. Despite his initial excitement for the party, it’s turned into mild disappointment. With a deep sigh, he hopes to at least spend a little time with the german.

Gilles stuffs his wallet and phone into his pocket, and opens the door, and heads toward the parking lot.

    Upon arrival at the hotel, he’s surprised to see just how many operators were milling outside the ballroom, waiting to get in. He’s toward the back of the line and is still nearly half an hour early, but he isn’t alone for long. 

    “You’re early! And it looks like everyone else is to.” Elias says as he makes his way next to him in line, “You look amazing by the way!” he beams. Despite the low light Gilles swears the younger man is blushing.

    “Thank you. You look nice as well.” he says, scanning his partner’s outfit. He’s cleaned up nicely, though his hair is a bit tousled, likely the work of Lera. His skin tone contrasts perfectly with his wine red dress shirt and black pants. The two wait in line patiently, which can’t be said for some of the others. A tug at Montagne’s sleeve gets his attention. He looks down to see Blitz discreetly pointing at someone further up the line, follows his direction and spots the person in question.

    “Dominic?” Montagne whispers.

    “He’s alone, you think Ash is going to let him in?”

    Montagne shrugs, “We’ll have to wait and see.”

The booming voice of Clash from the front silenced all the chatter. She announces the beginning of festivities and the door opens, allowing the guests to file in one couple at a time. Slowly but surely the two make their way to the front, watching in awe as Ash and Clash let Dominic go in sans date. 

    They were about to enter the crowded ballroom when Blitz stopped him.

    “I have to ask,” he says, addressing Morowa, “why’d you let Dom in?”

    Clash snorts, “About time someone asked me about that. I owed him a huge favor--he fixed my shield during a firefight and probably saved my life. When I asked him what I could do to return the favor, he said he just wanted to get in here every year.”

    Elias quirks an eyebrow, “Seriously?”

    “Seriously, now off you go, have some fun.” she ushers the two in, who slow down to take in the sights and sounds. Outside of rumors, Montagne didn’t actually know what the Valentine’s party actually looked like. The ballroom was extremely long, ending with an empty stage except for a small table and something under a cloth. Scattered around the room were large round tables fit with white lace table skirts. The dim lights, in addition with the added pink and red lights casting small bubbles of light, shower everything in a soft glow. To the left of the entrance, a row of long tables, nearly stretching to the end of the ballroom, house seemingly every dessert and cocktail in existence. Montagne is sure if he ate one of everything from there, he wouldn’t survive the night.

    His hand is still in Elias’s as the younger man guides him away from the entrance toward the center of the room. Montagne takes a moment to appreciate just how warm he is, his hand heating Gilles’s forever cold ones. Through the sea of people he manages to spot Emmanuelle and Gustave. He must have slowed down a bit to see them clearly, as Elias turns around, before he too manages to spot the pair.

    “Why don’t you go over and chat, want anything to drink?” he asks.

    “Just a bit of champagne, thank you.”

    “You got it.” Elias replies, and soon he is lost amidst the waves of couples. The mountain of a man manages to squeeze his way over to Emmanuelle, who’s arm in arm with Caveira, chatting with Gustave. The two women are in wildly different dresses--Emmanuelle in a short strapless navy blue dress that fringes as it goes down, while Taina confidently sports a bit longer obsidian color dress, the long sleeves and low cut accentuating her long jet black hair. Twitch perks up upon seeing Gilles, waving him over.

    “You made it! I knew you’d find someone.” she says with a grin, which soon turns devious, “so, who’s your date?”

    Montagne scans the room, pointing out Elias at the opposite end holding two drinks and engaging in small chatter with Dominic, the other german’s hands holding as many desserts as humanly possible. It takes a few attempts for Emma to see, until Taina helps guide her vision.

    “Oh, Elias! Good choice.” she says playfully. Both her and Taina giggle, striding off to mingle elsewhere. 

    “I’m glad you could make it Gilles.” Doc says, looking comfortable in a barely blue dress shirt, hands stuffed in the pockets of his dark grey slacks.

    “Glad to be here, though I do have to ask-”

    Doc tilts his head.

    “-who in the world did you bring as a date? I never found out.”

    The medic barks with laughter, shaking his head, “You were really concerned about that? I brought Mister Baker,” he points to a gaggle of men nearby consisting of mostly SAS with the exception of Adriano and Aria. Lo and behold Thatcher was among them, waving his hand at a comment Seamus made. 

    “Ah. I didn’t realize you two were together.” he states bluntly.

    “It’s only been a few months, we wanted to keep it relatively low.” he states, “So, how long have you been with Elias?”

Montagne rubs the back of his neck, “In all honesty, he just wanted to see how Dominic got in.”

    Doc hums in acknowledgement, “I see. Well, you two enjoy the party, try not to drink too much.” he says, splitting off to join his partner. Thatcher takes to him casually, looping an arm around his back and resting his hand on the doctor’s hip. The little gaggle are surprised at first, that is until Smoke undoubtedly says something raunchy, which earns him the stink eye of both men. Montagne can’t help but chuckle at the site of it all.

    “Gustave and Mike huh, can’t say I saw that one coming,” Elias says. Montagne turns to find he’s returned, drinks masterfully held in one arm while the other teeters two plates of dessert foods. Gilles quickly grabs his drink and food, relieving the other man of his juggling duties, which he thanks him for. 

    “You could have asked for help.” Montagne jokes, taking a sip of the sparkling champagne. It’s a lot sweeter than normal, but he has no doubt everything at that table is more sugary than it should be. 

    “It’s ok, didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.” he replies softly. There’s an unplaceable look in his eyes as he stares at the liquid in his glass, before taking a chug. Montagne still swears there’s a blush to his cheeks, but the lighting still obscures the colors of his face.

    The two chat, occasionally accompanied by another couple, but mostly they talk amongst themselves. Montagne learns a lot in their chatter--like how Elias is pretty good at a lot of sports, but can’t shoot a hoop to save his life. Or that he was in a choir when he was younger, but never pursued music because he’d choke up on stage, though he can’t help but sing while doing the dishes. In turn, Gilles tells him tidbits about himself. Tells him his love of old country guitars, tells him he hates the winter because he gets so cold, tells him he of the times he and his brothers would sneak into their sisters’ room and hide their dolls in odd places around the house. The last one getting a good laugh out of the younger man.

    After what seemed like hours of talking, Ash walked up on stage and addressed them all.

    “I hope everyone’s been having fun! Now it’s the moment you’ve been waiting for!” she announces, lifting the cloth off both the table and large obelisk on stage. They reveal a turntable and huge speaker accordingly. The lights somehow dim even further, leaving most of the ballroom in shadow. A large portion of the dance hall lights up under a disco ball, its tiny mirrors casting orbs of light that twirl on the floor. Anyone who was sitting down immediately jumps to their feet, grabbing their partners and guiding, or in some cases dragging, them to the dance floor.

    Montagne watches wistfully as the operators sway slowly with the beat of the music. Castle picked a good song, an old one he recognizes from the many times it’s played while someone’s cooking or cleaning on base. There’s a pressure on his shoulder. When he looks it turns out to be Elias’s hand.

    “Do you...want to dance?” he asks, and this time Montagne is certain the man’s face has gone red. He smiles, takes his hand and the two of them go to the outskirts of the dance area. 

    “Sorry if I step on your shoes, I have two left feet.” the german chuckles. 

        They waltz and step to the music, making small movements so as to not step on each other, but soon they get into a rhythm. Elias has rested his head on Gilles’s shoulder, while the older man feels like he’s having a revelation. Everything felt just so right. Like god has molded Elias to fit perfectly in his arms, and that Gilles was sculpted to perfectly hold Elias. It felt so good, Montagne never wanted to let go.

    They danced. And danced and danced, until the music stopped. Gilles wasn’t even aware that most of the operators left, save for a few stragglers trying to get their drunk dates to a hotel room for some sleep and water. Elias still had his head buried in the space between Gilles’s neck and shoulder.

    “What time is it?” he heard him mumble.

    Montagne reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

    “It’s almost one in the morning.” he said as Elias pulled away. The older man felt himself missing the contact, the cool air of the ballroom almost immediately replacing the younger man’s warmth. 

    “Can’t believe you made me dance past midnight.” he joked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with a forefinger and thumb. 

    “Someone mentioned free hotel rooms…” Gilles murmured.

    “At this point, I don’t mind paying. I don’t want to drive home.” Elias yawned.

——————————————————————-

Everyone he had talked to about the party seemingly forgot to leave out that the hotel booked one room per two guests. One room with one bed. How cliche. But at this point Montagne didn’t really care, snagging to key from the receptionist. He met up with Elias, who was sitting on a chair nearby, looking ready to pass out.

“We get a room?”

“Yes, I hope you don’t mind sharing the bed.” Gilles replied. 

Elias just shook his head, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn. The two made their way out of the brightly lit lobby to a nearby hallway. Thankfully they didn’t need to go far--their room was on the first floor. 

“Oh hey,” Elias perked up, stopping Gilles, “do you mind if I get a water real fast?” the younger man pointed to a closed door, the sign tacked on it read ‘Ice and Vending Machines’. Gilles let him go, waiting only a few seconds before Elias popped back out, face a lot redder than before.

    “Is everything...alright?” Gilles asked, eyebrows furrowed.

    Elias cleared his throat, “Ah yep! Just uh, well. Now I know just how intimate Taina and Emma are.” he stuttered.

Montagne couldn’t help but chuckle. 

The room appeared before them after a minute of walking. Gilles swiped the card, clicking open the door and flicking on the nearest light. The room itself was cozy, the walls a warm tan color against a navy blue carpet. Though small, it still had a countertop with a coffee machine and mini fridge stuffed underneath. Popping it open, Gilles took out two water bottles, handing one to Elias. With a small thanks the younger man chugged it down, sighing when finished. 

The two stood in the room. The tension in the air was tangible, like a static buildup. But Montagne let the feeling pass over him, and didn't want to impose on the younger man. Elias took a step forward.

“I, uh, had a really fun time tonight.” finally meeting Gilles’s eyes. 

“I’m glad.” he hummed back. Elias took another step forward.

“If you wanted to do this next year, I wouldn’t be opposed to it.” he said gently, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. They were close now, barely inches away. Gilles leaned down a bit, taking in everything he could. From the wrinkles shirt, to his reddening ears and messy hair.

“And I…” he begins, but cuts himself off. Their faces are inches away, perfect for kissing.

And so they do.

It’s a step beyond incredible. Montagne hasn’t felt this elated in years. Elias’s lips are surprisingly soft and as warm as the rest of him. He tastes like champagne and chocolate, fitting for someone as sweet as him. They stay there a moment, simply enjoying the touch as they continue to kiss, Montagne winding his arms around him. After what seems like hours, they eventually part, breaths still close enough to intermingle.

Elias laughs, embracing Gilles back, “So now that we got that out of the way, can we sleep now?” he jokes tiredly.

Montagne pecks the top of his head, “Of course mon amour.”

It takes an enormous amount of effort to get to bed, neither of them wanting to move, to let go. Gilles makes the first move, taking a hand and guiding Blitz to the bed. They kick off their shoes and climb into the bed, which was thankfully big enough for the two of them. Not like it mattered--as soon as both were in bed they huddled close, Montagne wrapping an arm around Blitz’s waist, and Blitz slipping his feet between Montagne calves. They sit in silence for a moment. Gilles can feel the younger man sigh against his neck as he rubs circles in his shoulders.

“Goodnight Elias, I love you.” Montagne hums. He’s not sure if Elias hears him at first, the shorter man’s head is stuffed under his chin, until he hears him squeak a reply.

“I love you too.” 

Montagne grins, letting the warmth of the other man overtake him, helping him drift to sleep. 

[letsperaltiago]

all i want for christmas is you

🌟 HAPPY 26TH OF DECEMBER: DOOR THREE 🌟

Welcome to (belated) door three of four!

Behind my Christmas calendar’s third door is a... married, pure fluff and bit smutty Peraltiago Christmas oneshot! ♥️ Also thank you to @amyscascadingtabs​ for the help with coming up with this idea 🌟

Summary: Jake and Amy celebrate an early Christmas together, just the two of them, before they're headed to the Santiagos’ for a huge family-Christmas. It's their first Christmas as a married couple and husband Jake knows just how to make it extra special and please his wife.

Rating: M, maybe E (Idk but def some smut in there!)

Words: 4k (just barely)

Read on AO3 here

“Why won’t you just tell me where we’re going?”

“Babe, just trust me, okay? You’re going to love it… and me. Even more than you already do.”

It’s a few days before Christmas, two days before they’re headed off to celebrate Christmas with the entire Santiago-bunch - parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, kids and all.

For the time being, they’ve spent the last two hours driving God knows where. Or more like: Jake knows but she doesn’t and she hates it. Only because he assures her that, with those deep brown puppy-Peralta eyes, they’re headed on an “unforgettable Christmas adventure” does she get in the car with him. The farther away from Brooklyn they get, with nature growing denser with every mile, the more suspicious she gets. If it wasn’t her husband driving the car, through heavy snow, into the barely lit woods, then she would be fearing for her life. But it is her Jake, her husband, after all, and he looks at the road ahead with a certain glimmer and excitement in his eyes. A glimmer so contagious the slight worry is replaced with excitement. Is everything precise and planned like she prefers it to be? No, not at all. Does she trust her husband? Yes, of course.

She’s quick to embrace her husband’s spontaneous side, the fact that he’s her very own antithesis, and leans back in her seat to look at the beautiful white outdoors.

They arrive about half an hour later, Amy thinks, the darkness outside blurring her sense of time. Together they carry their weekend-bags, specifically packed by Jake for the trip, up some old wooden stairs to join the front door of a cabin that Amy, even in the dark, is pretty sure she’s never seen before. One of a million curious questions is about to fall from her lips but never makes it past the idea-stage because Jake has already unlocked the door and behind it is a room that looks like a scene picked out of her dreams.

Amy is absolutely, one hundred percent sure: she has the best husband in the entire universe.

“Welcome to Mr. and Mrs. Santiago-Peralta’s first eh- espoused Christmas getaway!” Jake exclaims in his best showman-manner way.

Hidden behind the exterior of an old, abandoned cabin happens to be the cutest, most wonderful and cozy interior. A fireplace, colorful and glittery Christmas decorations, beautiful antique furniture, books… The list just goes on and, of course, she shamelessly makes a note of how strategically, perfectly aligned with the fireplace the rug is. It takes her a split second to be convinced of the fact that it looks soft enough to cuddle - and other things - on.

“Jake,” she gasps in awe and, there’s no holding back just how amazed she is, Amy throws her arms around her husband’s neck. A long, thankful kiss is initiated and happily reciprocated. Not even when she feels how cold, as a consequence of their little walk from the car to the cabin, his lips are does she pull away. On the contrary, Amy can’t wait to be the one to bring the heat back to them.

“Thank you. I love it here.” She pulls away just enough to be able to look at him in the eyes, golden-brown irises glowing from the sheer happiness that comes from being here with him. It’s infectious and Jake’s eyes and smile shine just as bright.  

“I hoped you would.” He plants his soft lips on her forehead and she can tell they’re already warmer than before. “Don’t get me wrong: I love that we’re spending Christmas with your family. But I did want to make sure that we got some time to ourselves first. It is our first Christmas as husband and wife, after all. Consider it a marital, romantic recharge before the storm.”

Somehow the glow in his eyes grows even stronger, those special words still affecting him, even seven months later, and Amy only makes it better by cupping his face in her hands. They’re cold but he doesn’t care. Not as long as he can still feel the two rings on her finger against his skin.  

“I love that you considered that. I love you. ”

He leans in booping the tip of her nose with his. “I love you too, Ames,” he declares and the only reason why he manages to not kiss her is that he has plans, an ulterior motive, per se. Plans that he knows she’ll love and want to get started on right away.

“Truth be told, there’s one main attraction of this trip.”

Amy cocks an eyebrow like she always does whenever she’s unsure of what mischiefs and ideas he’s come up with. Nonetheless, she doesn’t say anything but,´“And that is..?”

“Come with me.”

There’s no time for further questioning. Jake has her hand trapped in his and tugs her in the direction of a dark, wooden door. He pushes it open and after quickly realizing that Jake is not just showing her the cabin’s bathroom, Amy’s jaw drops.

“You got us a bathtub!”

Excitement is very obvious especially when she instantly jumps him and traps him in a hug that almost has him tumbling over. After just barely restabilizing himself, and her, for that matter, she looks down at him from where he’s still got her hoisted in his arms. “Right now being a frilly person might just be the best thing to ever happen to me. I’m so excited!”

Jake laughs and puts her down. While he did know his wife would appreciate it, he clearly didn’t expect she’d love it, possibly more than him.

“And I’m freezing after that car ride so it’s even more perfect!” She squeals and pecks his lips. When she pulls back he’s frowning.

“Babe, I had the heat at maximum.”

“Jake. I’m cold. Bathtub, now!”

“Noted!”

❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄ ❄

“Come on, Ames. Get in here. The water feels amazing. And this salt stuff smells so good.” He grabs the container of purple salt from the edge of the tub to look at the ingredients. “Kinda makes me wanna taste it, yanno?”

Jake is already submerged in the tub, filled to the brim with warm water and Amy’s favorite lavender bath salt, and all there’s missing is his wife. The main character. She’s in the bedroom finding their towels.

“Please tell me you didn’t eat it!” She calls out, genuine worry present in her voice.

“Pfff- no!”

“Good. Because if you have then we’ll be spending our romantic getaway in the ER and I’d rather not.”

“Smort. Good thinking. Now could my wife please get her naked, beautiful butt in here and join me.”

Within a matter of seconds, his wish is granted. Beautiful as ever, his wife comes prancing into the bathroom wearing nothing but a happy grin and her hair in a bun. If he wasn’t already sure, which he was, Jake is now, even more, convinced: his wife is heaven and he never wants to leave this oasis in the middle of the snowy woods.

“Scoot over, Mr. Santiago.”

“On it, Mrs. Peralta”

A chuckle is shared, both bursting with pride on the inside - taking each other’s names was undoubtedly a very good idea - as Jake scoots backward in the porcelain tub to make room. So fast and eagerly that the water almost forms a tsunami threatening to go over the edge. On her part Amy is much more careful, holding Jake’s hand for support, Amy treads over the edge and slowly sinks her body, slowly submerging herself. The warm water swallows her, lapping up against her goosebump-covered skin caused by the frisk air, and she’s where she’s supposed to be.

“Ohhh mama, this is so nice. So hot.”

“I know I am.” The teasing grin on Jake’s face makes it obvious that he’s very proud of his little joke to which Amy replies with an exemplary roll of the eyes.

“Do I need to deflate your ego tonight, Peralta?” She sits down in the opposite end of the tub with a challenging, amused expression that leaves Jake hating the fact that she seems so far away and - even worse - out of reach.

“What ego? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Santiago. I’m perfectly humble - as always.”

A jocular silence washes over them but it’s too much to maintain and, like she so often does around her husband and his wits, Amy breaks.

“Shut up.”

She uses her hand to splash water towards his end of the tub.

“Hey!” He fails to dodge it, lavender-scented water soaking his face and hair, but he’s quick to respond. A swift reach gets him a grab his wife’s lower arm. “C’mere,” he groans and pulls her to his end of the tub, listening to her squeals and laughter that accompanies the sound of sloshing water. It’s far from elegant or easy but, somehow, rotating Amy’s body within the narrow space of the tub can be regarded as a success. Seconds later he has her reclined against his chest, her soft skin against his, and the feeling of her settling has them both fall silent. A big contrast to their bantering just seconds ago. This kind of switch of mood is no stranger to them though. Actually, it’s probably the fundament of their entire relationship.

“This is nice,” Amy sighs happily, the steady rhythm of her husband’s breathing oscillating her, submerging them in a calmness that’s unlike anything she’s felt recently. With work being extra crazy around Christmas they haven’t had much quality time. Nevertheless, they’re here now and that’s what matters the most. Knowing that her husband is always so aware of what she needs, even when she doesn’t fully realize it herself, warms her heart beyond explanation. “And you know my favorite bath-scent, I see?”

“Of course.” He plays with her fingers. “I know everything about you. You’re like… the only test I’ve ever wanted to study for.”

“Jake, that might just be the sweetest and also hottest thing you’ve ever said. If I wasn’t this relaxed and didn’t have the willpower of a pile of fluff, then I would not just be sitting here.”

“Good to know. Keep that sexy energy stored for later.” She doesn’t have to be able to see his face to know he’s grinning knowingly.  “I’m glad you like my little getaway-idea.”

Drips, drops falling from him, make an appearance when Jake’s hands emerge from beneath the water, but even then Amy’s newfound state of ultimate peace remains undisturbed. She only falls deeper into relaxation when her husband’s hands - a personal favorite -  latch onto her shoulders where they immediately, firmly yet softly and with all the affection she knows he has for her, start massaging the tired muscles and flesh of her upper back and shoulders.

“Oh god.” It comes out as a moan. Not exactly with erotic intentions but sure Jake still feels his heart thumping just a bit harder against the inside of his ribcage. Nothing feels better than making Amy feel good. Loving her and marriage has really turned him into the most selfless man ever, huh? He could sit here and rub her shoulders forever, feel the water turn cold, without the favor being returned, and he would be fully content.

“Feel good?” He chuckles before placing a soft kiss on the back of her neck. Amy’s hair is beautiful and he loves it no matter what, but there is something about a high bun and the skin it leaves exposed, leaving room for kisses and touching, that gains his preference.

“So good. Thank you.”

Another kiss models itself on the first one. The mixture of warm water and her husband’s delicate kiss is all she needs for Christmas.

“Merry Christmas, wife.”

She can feel him smile against her exposed shoulder and even though she’s eyes closed, deep into a heaven of pure relaxation and bliss, she forces her eyes open. Her neck twists, enabling her to see said smile and return it.

“Merry Christmas, husband.”

Amy loves her husband’s curls, more than anything and she hopes that, someday, their children will inherit them. This in mind, Jake’s wet hair sticking in every direction imaginable and onto his forehead, undeniably, does something to her. They’re able to hold the other’s gaze for a while, only for a few seconds, that is, before it becomes hopeless to stay apart and their lips meet each other. Just a soft peck. They pull back, water sloshing around them like a stupid gross metaphor for their love. Their grins are wider and more stupidly in love than ever before.

“I love you, Ames.”

“I love you too, Jacob.”

To Jake’s honest delight Amy’s neck stays twisted and it allows him to admire her sharp, striking side profile that has him feeling like he’s dating a supermodel. Small frivolous tufts of hair frame it so effortlessly, clear drops of bathwater painting her skin, and so many more tiny details he could spend hours admiring, describing and thinking about.

His wife is irresistible. She draws him in like a bee to honey; as she has since the day they first met - even though he didn’t fully realize it back then. Incapable of not doing so Jake, firstly, places a feathery kiss on her damp shoulder, drops of tepid water sticking to his lips as he pulls back before, secondly, pecking her cheek and then, lastly, the corner of her lips withing his reach.

Amy untwists her neck and lies back down against him, allowing the water to swallow them both whole, only the very top of their torsos and knees poking out of the water. The evening-lull falls over them. Two bodies connected skin-to-skin, by love and affection, lie in the water for what seems like an eternity. Like an implicit deal, they’ll take turns stroking the other’s leg or make a remark that’ll make the other laugh as the steam from the water rises into the cool bathroom air. They can’t feel it though. The water and each other are warm. It’s simple, it’s very much married life, and it’s perfect.  

After a few hectic weeks at work and even more chaotic days with the Santiagos awaiting them, there’s something, something that is not just steam, in the air between and around them. Undoubtedly so. For Jake to last this long in a setting like this is, all at once so natural yet so rousing, without at least testing the waters - metaphorically speaking - is impossible.

Kicking off an attempt at what could potentially happen, he starts off gently.

“I’m really glad we get to do this,” he mumbles softly, almost in a whisper, with his lips pressed to the back of her neck. Letting them reside there, keeping the kisses falling, he lets the hand currently located on her knee lazily caress the area around and above it. Acting as if nothing special is on his mind.

“Mhhh,” Amy agrees, obviously not thinking much of her husband’s actions. “Our own little Christmas Eve.”

“Yeah...” The kissing of her neck doesn’t seize but rather relocates, kissing all the skin stretching from the back of her neck to her shoulder and back to the side of the neck where he then lingers. “Only the best for the best.”

In the meantime, his hand has clandestinely made its way out of sight; underwater up her thigh. Tracing small circles and squiggles. His free arm and hand are casually resting on the edge of the tub. Amy on her part doesn’t seem to notice, at least not right away, supposedly too relaxed and enamored by the fact that her husband has come up with this whole ordeal.

“Agree. I think we might just be the best husband and wife ever. We deserve this.” A happy sigh follows her statement.

“We do…” His hand never ceases moving upwards. Only when it reaches the meeting of her thigh and pelvis. “Especially you, Mrs. Peralta.”

Having finally noticed the journey Jake’s hand has been on, she suddenly tenses causing her hands to grab his knees on either side of her for support. He awaits a sign, a word, sound, or movement that tells him to stop. But it never comes. He feels encouraged to continue. His hand splays out across the very center of her crotch, right above where he wants to be. From where his lips are still stuck to the side of her neck, gently knawing, he can feel a hitch in her breathing.

“You are the best wife in the entire world, babe. Can’t believe we’ve already been married for seven months. It’s incredible. You deserve the best Christmas present in the world.”

Upon allowing his hand to slide a few inches downwards, he can feel the very top of her slit under the tip of his middle finger.

“Kinda feels like you’re going to give it to me a bit early,” she lets out in a breathy chuckle before spreading her legs as far as the tub will allow.

“Oh, babe, this is just the opening act.”

“Sounds promising.” She’s barely able to finish her sentence before it’s interrupted by her own gasp. His lips have traveled upwards to find the magical spot right beneath her ear. A spot he knows she loves and will drive her mad if paid attention to - a tiny bite to this specific area of her body means there’s no turning back. As per natural reaction, her thighs attempt to spread even further. Only to be stopped by the tub.

Feeling cued to do so Jake slowly slides his middle finger into her while the surrounding ones gently help part her lips.

“Mmmm.”

Drawing small sounds out of his wife is definitely just as good as touching her, Jake quickly agrees with himself. He’s quickly pulled out of his thoughts and back into reality when he feels Amy thrust, desperately chasing the feeling of his fingers. He doesn’t hesitate to add another finger and, as hoped, it earns him more tiny sounds that feel a lot like magic. The lips attached to her neck never stop working their way into her skin. Jake smiles into it as a thought strikes him, thinking of his fingers working her up.

“I know it’s dirty talk 101 to tell you how wet you feel but I honestly can’t tell right now.”

“Oh my god,” Amy bursts out laughing, Jake chiming in with a chuckle. “That is very real, babe. I honestly can’t tell either but feels good.”

“Great. Then we’re probably doing something right,” he jokes before pecking the shell of her ear.

“Yes- oh.”

His fingers draw another moan out of her and a smug smile, pleased to be pleasing her, hides in the side of her neck as he picks up the pace. Her small thrusts try to keep up but the slippery surface of porcelain and water makes it quite hard, Amy quickly learns. Sex in here screams trip to the ER, but guess she can keep going - just for a bit longer.

“This is just what I needed, Jake.”

“The bathtub or the sex?”

Slowly as to not slip he guides his free hand from its spot on the tub’s edge to her chest.

“Both.”

“Noted. Delighted to please.”

Just the way he knows she likes it, he languidly starts caressing her breasts. Combined with the warmth of the water, the other hand that’s still taking care of her clit, this new sensation presenting itself on her chest has her body go weak, head lulling back to rest against his shoulder. It offers the perfect angle for him to kiss the top of her head as he goads sounds and smooth movements out of her. Progressing to pay attention to her nipples as well only has her intoxication build. Her chest’s heaving picks up momentum, simultaneous stimulation of both her clit and nipples making normal breathing seem impossible, to which she tries to cope by letting out small gasps. Jake takes it all in - touching her, the sounds, their surroundings - and he almost can’t believe how much he’s grown to love Christmas because of her.  

“Best. Christmas. Everrr,” Amy punctuates each word with small whimpers, the last word transitioning into a high pitched whine that lets Jake know he hit the jackpot.

“And this is just the beginning, babe. We’ve got all night and all day tomorrow too.” He nibbles at her earlobe and gives it a small tug that matches his thumb and index finger currently milking one of her nipples.

“Oh yeah, you think this is all we’re gonna do? This is a religious holida- ah, Jake.”

He grins at her attempt at being the saint she otherwise always is, but with one pair of fingers playing with her clit and lower lips, and the other with her nipples, it’s safe to say that he’s not convinced.

“Oh, honey,” he pauses to bite into, hopefully bruise, the skin at the nape of her neck. As wished it does leave a red mark and earns him a soft, despairing whimper. “I saw the way you looked at the rug and fireplace when we first walked in. Don’t you think I know you’ve already imagined every single way I could make love to you in front of that fire? Lucky for you, Mrs. Peralta, I already lit it while the tub was being filled.”  

Only then does it seem to fully hit her that they have this entire place, the entire night, to themselves. Under a spell, next thing they know, Amy has straddled her husband's waist and water is violently waving, spilling over the edge of the tub and onto the bathroom floor. Jake has no time to fight it nor complain about his loss of touch.  

“Fuck,” she breathes in between kisses and the tiny waves coming from her grinding motions. Beneath her, she can feel her husband gradually, but quickly, grow harder and ready - more than he already is. Her legs barely fit on either side of him, but Amy Santiago is a determined woman. “I want my present now. And I don’t want it here.”

She raises to her knees just enough to be able to grab his erection beneath her. Jake could burst right then and there, so much build-up having happened already, but he holds back and tries to focus on her voice rather than the way her fingers work his shaft.

“We’re getting out of this tub and then you’re going to fuck me into that rug until every inch of my body is dry. And that is how you have a merry Christmas, hubby.”

Her growling almost scares Jake, the determination in her eyes very clear, but he’s so down for it and everything that could possibly make her happy. It’s safe to say that they’re both so busy getting out of the tub that they need to cling on to anything within reach in order not to fall on their faces.

[bunnyywritings]

hi!! i absolutely love you and your content 🥺💞 can i request for some UA teacher!s/o finding out Aizawa’s wallpaper is a picture of her with a cat, from back when they were both ua students bc i thought of it suddenly and spilled all my uwus 😔👉🏻👈🏻💗 (ps ily and don’t forget to smile and drink ur water!!)

precious memories

Aizawa Shota x UATeacher!reader

[a/n: anon 🥺 you’re so sweet ily !! Thank you for requesting, this prompt also made me spill all my uwus, enjoy! -yours truly, bunnyy -`ღ´- ps. (y/n) is bête noire the illusion hero: nicknamed Noir™ pls don’t take the quirk or hero name as your own without permission 😣 it took me a hot minute to think of it and I want to use it in future fics]

Dating a fellow teacher had many, many perks. One mainly being that you get to see them everyday and on those rare occasions, teach a joint class together.

You were the teacher of Class 1-A’s Special training class. You had a quirk called ‘nightmare awakening,’ on a base level it allows you to be able to get into someone’s head and make them hallucinate but at your advanced level, you were able to temporarily eliminate someone’s quirk. This allowed you to create a type of simulation for the students to experience a situation where they can’t use their quirk and make the most of the situation. Even though they absolutely HATED that class, they loved you. You were probably one of the most laid back and kind hearted among the teachers. No one had really known about your relationship with Shota. Just a few of the teachers and Shinsou. The only reason he knew was because Shota wanted him to train with someone with a similar working quirk and he had accidentally caught you and his mentor mid-smooch. That was...that was an awkward time for everyone.

The class had their suspicions. They had noticed the lingering touches that would’ve seemed normal if they weren’t so nosy. The way that he would subtly compliment your combat style and they had definitely seen the blush that would color your cheeks when he had stayed to watch their training, the way that you glanced in his direction every so often. They had narrowed it down to the possibility that the both of you were mutually pining for each other. Strangely enough, everyone was intrigued. Yes, even Bakugou and Todoroki. Deep down they just wanted their teacher to be happy, especially after everything that he’s sacrificed for them. They were in for a very shocking discovery.

Once the bell rang for your class, they all made their way to the training grounds. Heading to the locker rooms, Mina was trying to get the other girls on board with a plan to get their two teachers together.

A sudden warmth on the small of your back made you jump a bit. “So what’s on the lesson plan today, bête noire?” The way he basically purred your hero name in your ear made you turn a bright red, butterflies fluttering around in your stomach.

“O-Oh uhm well I was planning on doing a hostage situation.” You motioned to the trio of dummies tied to some chairs. “I’d be playing the villain, I’m still not sure about the exact simulation so I might just wing it.” You shrugged.

“Hmm well you always do amazing so, I’m not too worried. Just know that Bakugou, Denki, and Mineta have the lowest scores with hostage negotiation.” There was a slight teasing undertone to his statement.

“Well maybe that’s not their fault.” His eyebrow rose at your accusatory tone.

“And what are you implying? That I’m not a good teacher?” He played along.

“All I’m saying is that, a little more kind reassurance instead of constant discipline goes a long way.” You laid your hand on his shoulder.

“Is that so?” His voice seemed to get impossibly deeper, capture weapon moving to wrap around your wrist and hold it taut against your lower back. “That’s awfully rich coming from someone who loves being disciplined...kitten.” You could hear the smirk in his voice, breath hitching in your throat before realizing where you were.

“Shota! Don’t say things like that, the students could walk in at any second.” You scolded quietly, playfully smacking his chest as he let go of your wrist. A soft chuckle made it past his lips. This was a little out of the ordinary for your boyfriend. “What is going on with you today? You’re never this playful, especially in public.” you couldn’t help but smile up at him.

“Well, you haven’t been coming around to my place lately...I just missed you.” He stuck his hands in his pockets.

You basically swooned at his words. “Oh honey, I’m sorry. I’ve just been so busy grading, along with a couple of other things but I missed you too.”

“Considering it’s Friday and you don’t have patrol duties tonight, come get dinner with me.” He wasn’t asking.

“That sounds like a wonderful plan, Eraserhead.”

“I’ll pick you up at 7 sharp, Bête Noire.” He then made his way to the exit just as everyone started to pile into the room. Going to keep the door open, his phone had fallen out of his pocket when pulling out his hands but being someone who doesn’t care much for the device, he hadn’t noticed. Once he walked off, Denki, Hagakure and Mina made their way to the door but stopping once Mina saw the black device on the ground.

“Oh, someone dropped their phone.” Denki picked it and examined it for any damage.

“Who even brings their phone to training?” Mina frowned, turning the phone on to see the wallpaper.

“Wha- hey that looks like Noir-sensei? What’s she doing as someone’s lock screen?” Kaminari tilted his head in confusion.

“Look, it must’ve been when she went here! That’s a UA uniform.” Hagakure pointed out enthusiastically.

All three of them looked at the picture, then at their teacher. “Wow...hopefully I age that well.” Mina pouted.

“What are you three doing over there? You’re already late for class.” You weren’t chastising them but you made your disapproval clear.

“Well we found someone’s phone and you’re their lock screen!” At Denki’s words, your face scrunched up in confusion. They ran over to you and handed you the device. You turned it on and your eyes widened.

“You guys, I’m flattered but that’s a little strange to have a picture of high school me on your phone...so who’s phone is it?” Everyone looked at each other, shrugging. “Hmm strange.” You looked down at the phone and brushed your finger over the home button, realization filling your body when it unlocked. “Well anyways!” You cleared your throat. “Today’s simulation is hostage negotiation.” Some students, mainly Bakugou, groaned as you slipped the phone into your pocket for safe keeping.

...

After everyone left for their next class, you took your scoring sheets to the teacher’s lounge to have some coffee and do some grading. 

Letting out a heavy sigh, you plopped down onto the couch and placed the stack of papers and mug down onto the coffee table.

“Rough day?” All Might asked as he sat on the couch opposite couch.

“Mmm not really, just tiring.” You answered while rolling your shoulders back. “After today, I now only have a student failing at hostage negotiation.”

“Ahh! I see. That young Bakugou can be a bit difficult.” He nodded sympathetically.

You snorted a laugh, almost spitting out your coffee. “Yes he can be but I’m talking about that boy Mineta...he tried to flirt with one of the hostage dummies. It was s-strange.” A shudder ran through your body at the memory.

“Oh...I-well I don’t really know what to say to that.” He chuckled awkwardly.

“Neither do I...” You pulled the phone out of your pocket and looked at the lock screen.You couldn’t believe he still had the photo.

It was during your guys’ last year at UA. This was before either of you had worked up the nerve to confess your feelings. The two of you had been going to a cafe a little ways from the school, it was a pretty solemn day because the two of you would be graduating in three days and heading to different agencies. Shota was staying in Musutafu and you were heading a few cities down. This would be the last time the two of you would really have quality time together until a few years later when you opened your own agency and moved back to Musutafu and quickly rose in the ranks. Once at the cafe, you couldn’t help the delighted squeak that left your mouth. It was filled with adorable cats.

“We’ve been here before, (y/n).” Shota shook his head fondly as to both of you went to sit. Almost instantly, a bunch of cats made their way towards you. He watched in amusement as a calico kitty climbed onto your shoulder, you had gasped and gently gathered it into your hands.

“Well hello there~ What are you doing up there you silly kitty~” You cooed as you started to pepper its little face with kisses. He had taken advantage of your distraction and took a picture of you. He caught the moment the kitten placed its paw on your cheek and gave your nose a lick. He blushed. You looked so adorable...ethereal even.

Your eyes began to water at the memory. You were so grateful for this man. You had been bullied by other students because you had, what they saw as, a villain’s quirk. You had absolutely no friends. Until he mustered up the courage to talk to you, since he too had been bullied for his “villainous quirk.’ The two of you had instantly clicked and became good friends, your friendship expanding during your second year when the both of you met the resident loud mouth, Hizashi.

Caught up in the moment, you took notice that it was lunch time already and made your way to the Class 1-A classroom. Sliding the door open, you were met with the sight of Shota writing on the black board. His features quickly changed from confused to worried when he saw the tears in your eyes.

“Sweetheart? Is everything alright?” He put the book he was holding onto the desk. He opened his mouth but closed it when you held his face in your hands, thumb gently running over the scar under his eye.

“I love you so much...you know that right?” You whispered, voice thick with emotion.

“Of course I know that darling, I love you too.” The way he said those words back with absolutely no hesitation made the tears fall and he pulled you close, hands on your hips. He leaned down, meeting your lips in a soft kiss. Your mouths fitting together like they were meant to never be apart, lips moving to convey all the things you wanted to say out loud but didn’t have the patience to confess. Your tears had intermingled with your lips but neither of you seemed to care.

When the both of you pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, wanting to stay as close as possible in the moment. Lashes still wet with tears as you looked at him. “I never believed in soulmates, but I do believe that it was by fate that I met you. You were there for me when others called me a villain. You still made an effort when I went away...I don’t deserve you.”

“If anything, it’s me that doesn’t deserve you.” There was a silent pause. “I plan on marrying you one day, you know?”

A grin split your lips at his words. “I hope you know that I plan on saying yes when you do.”

He kissed the teas from your cheeks and brushed your hair back. “What brought on this sudden love confession, kitten?”

You pulled his phone from your pocket and showed him the picture. “Ahh...so that’s where it went...” He muttered as he took it from your hand. “This is the day I decided that I was gonna marry you one day.”

“I’m glad. This was the day that I realized I wanted you by my side forever.” You pulled out your own phone and unlocked it, the homescreen was a photo of Shota on that same day with a cat nuzzling into his hand.

The two of you were just a pair of lovesick idiots.

“Oh my goodness...that was absolutely adorable!” Mina quietly fawned at the sight of their two teachers.

“That’s how a man truly shows his love.” Kirishima and Mina were both teary eyed at the sight.

“Whatever idiots, let them have their gross love fest alone...” Bakugou growled as he pulled the two away from the door.

The entirety of Class 1-A knew by the end of the day and definitely teased Aizawa about it on Monday.

[luna-almighty-god]

Guardian Angel N°1 [The most beautiful flower could not satisfy me…]

Read on Ao3 !

Translated by @theokusgallery ! Thank you very much!

This story is obviously not canonical, please do not refer to it if you are looking for canonical information.

Dreamtale belongs to @jokublog , Error belongs to @loverofpiggies and Ink belongs to @myebi ! Enjoy your reading!

===

Ink sighed long, his back arched while he watched with a dull eye the field of echo flowers in front of him. He was desperate, desperate by his constant fails, his flirting attempts for Error that didn’t lead to anything. Seriously, why couldn’t the Destructor just accept his advances? Oh, yeah, because he had haphephobia, they were both enemies and, parenthetically, because Error hated him.

Yet, the painter just wanted to stop these perpetual fights, he wanted love and nothing else! But no, no matter the efforts, the Destructor didn’t want to hear anything.

A teleportation noise caught his attention, taking him out of his sullen thoughts to annoy him even more. He could recognize these steps between a thousand, so he left a weary sigh out:

“Nightmare, I am really not on the mood to fight now.”

The bad dreams master was definitely most detestable living being that Ink could ever know, and he was weighing his words! His animosity towards him wasn’t a secret for anyone and this hate was perfectly reciprocal. Yet, this night, Nightmare didn’t try any trick, any attack. He just set next to the painter without saying a word, visibly mad even if he was trying to control himself.

“I’m not on the mood either if you want to know.

-Bad day?

-Yeah. You too?

-Yeah.

-Error ?

-Killer ?”

They both nodded at the same time. What a poor duo… The only think they had in common was the fact that they both were as bad in love as the other.

Ink puffed his cheeks:

“I’m done making efforts for nothing! Seriously, I’ve been flirting with him for a while now to obtain nothing but hate!”

Nightmare laid his chin on his hand, irritated:

“Same. I make considerable efforts for Killer and this asshole still say that I’m not honest and that he’ll go with Color!”

New simultaneous sighs. They shared a look. An understood look as if, for the first time in many centuries, they were on the same wavelength. After all, … If their loved ones rejected them, what was left for them? What was left except them, two broken and sad souls, looking for comfort?

They brought their faces imperceptibly closer, staring at the other, ready to turn the page, to go to the next step…

And a crunching sound petrified them. Still near to each other, not sure if they heard well or not, they slowly spinned their heads to see behind them… and then they saw a black bones' skeleton, sitting just behind their back, who was looking at them, eating greedily a handful of pop-corn.

“Go on, go on.”, said the stranger, still staring at them.

The two others blushed with embarrassment, suddenly getting further to each other, recovering quickly.

“Who are you ?!” yelled the master of nightmares, unsheathing his deadly tentacles.

The stranger took the time to end his bouchée, then licked his fingers one by one before standing up and dust himself. Mad of impatience and rage, Nightmare projected immediately his appendages towards him… To hit nothing but empty.

“Wh…?

- What? You think I’m just gonna stand there and take it?”

Nightmare speedily turned around: the black bones' skeleton was now behind him, one hand in a pocket of his long violet coat and the other rearranging his grey scarf around his neck.

“…. Hum… Really, who are you? I don’t remember having seen you in the Multiverse! Ink intervenes, curious, while his pupils were turning into interrogation points.

- Yup, I'm new here, and I don't like socializing. But I like overflowing love scenes.”

The stranger tends his hand to the painter, a little smile on his teeth:

“Yo, my name’s Nyx, Nyx the skeleton.”

Always happy of meeting new people, Ink didn't hesitate to shake his hand:

“Nice to meet you! I'm Ink, the multiverse guardian! And here’s Nightmare, the bad dreams’ guardian!”

Bad dream's guardian who grumbled, glancing at Nyx. This one gave him an amused smile and stretched.

“Cool. So, you're a couple or something?

- Wh… NO! panicked Ink. It’s… It's just that…!

- That you've been rejected by your crushes and you're looking for comfort? Not lucky, really.”

Nightmare prepared himself to skewer Nyx but was narrowly restrained by Ink. Without even caring about it, Nyx took a huge bag that he had left near here and started to look for something in it. He ended up taking a notebook and a pen, then wrote.

“Hey, would you guys wanna do an experiment? said Nyx. I want to increase my matchmaker skills.

- Matchmaker? cautiously repeated the two others.

- Yep, like, I try to play the matchmaker. I can help you with your men.

- Tch, go die, mumbled Nightmare.

- Ok, I write ‘do not cooperate, prefers to let Killer to Color’ “

A tentacle caught violently Nyx on his neck, but he didn't even let his sketchbook down. Nightmare, mad of rage, rumbled with hate:

“I'm going to make you swallow your own teeth…

-… No problem. So, you know how to manage with Killer?”

The bad dreams' master tensed up, reluctant. He thought of Killer's face, of his smile, his laugh, of his presence that he could not do without anymore, that he would miss so much if he left the castle...

He rumbled again but let Nyx fall on the ground. The one massaged his neck, wincing a bit, but came straight back to his goal:

“I guess I can intervene then. Same with Error, isn’t it?

- How did you…? marveled Ink before getting interrupted.

- I’d just ask a place to live, please. A bedroom in the castle will be perfect.”

He took his things and dragged Nightmare and Ink in a portal, landing directly in the bad dream’s castle, in one of the main free rooms. Any of the two skeletons had the time to be chocked that Nyx continued, still writing on his notebook:

“So Killer doubts of Nightmare and wants to go with Color, so we have to show him his master's sincerity and take him away from the rival. Any idea? Of course not, or you wouldn't need my help. I'm gonna think about it. As for Error, we have to find a way to reach his feelings. I already have some ideas about that. Let's talk about this tomorrow, okay?”

He dragged them to the door while saying all of his monologue, and it was when the door slammed and they were all alone in the corridor that they finally realized that they had been totally manipulated from the beginning by a completely unknow skeleton who, astound, seemed to know their entire life.

  Ink was the multiverse's guardian, the creator, one of the most powerful living beings of all AUs. But beside his role and his duty, Ink was still a big child skeleton and immature who liked to have fun, and plainly, this secret meeting between him, Nightmare and Nyx was one of the most entertaining. He seemed to be a member of a secret group with serious rules like “Rule 1, talking about the secret club is forbidden. Rule 2, talking about the secret club is FORBIDDEN!”.

However, he was having a lot of fun and stamping with excitement, cross-legged on the bed of the room that Nightmare ‘gently' lent to Nyx.

The bad dreams’ master, as for him, was standing, crossing his arms, looking grumpy with a furious look. This meeting enchanted him as the undesired presence of this unknow skeleton in HIS castle, which wasn’t much.

And last but not least, Nyx, peacefully seated on the office's chair, doodling random things on his sketchbook while chewing some dangos' skewer.

“Ink, we’re gonna start with you, finally announced the black skeleton.

- Ok chief ! What do I do ?

- The opposite of what you did until then.”

The painter leaned his head on the side:

“What do you mean?

- You’re giving too much attention to Error. You’re always looking for him, talking about him, showing that you want to see him and that you love him, and I don’t mention the fact that you’re always trying to approach him.

- I'd just want him to get used to me and to try to touch me…

- Unfortunately, it doesn't work, so we're gonna change our method. First, stay away from him, don't talk about him, stop looking for him every time. You're preventing him from living by showing your affection too much. He's gonna feel jailed and forced, that's not what you want, isn't it? A mutually consented relationship his better, huh.

- Yes, of course, seen like this… I never thought about it this way.”

The creator looked down shamefully before refocusing his attention on Nyx’ speech:

“More, Ink, being obsessed with someone is dangerous for yourself. You're too dependent on Error's presence. Loving someone is good, but getting sick about it isn't. I think this will be as beneficial for you as it'll be for your relationship with him.

- … Change at all is going to be hard.

- Change slowly, then. We’re gonna do it step by step. Wen you’ll wanna see him, come up to me instead, or go to your friends’ place. Think about something else, draw, have fun! Intervene when it’s urgent only, when Error is destroying an AU, for example.”

Ink nodded fast, his eyebrows frowned, writing on his scarf all he must remember. Nyx smiled a little at Ink's attendance before turning to Nightmare. The bad dream's master grunted:

“I'm not your pet, don't give me orders.

- Advices aren't orders, only suggestions. And I know that you're clever enough to choose which advices you should to follow.”

The anger of the place's master subsided, but didn’t disappear however. Haughty, Nightmare said:

“Well, go on then.

- Did you say to Killer that you love him?”

The office shattered and Nyx avoided the massacre only thanks to his sharp reflexes that teleported him in the other side of the room. He wrote on his sketchbook:

“‘Haven’t told his feelings yet’.

- I don’t need to tell him, he knows it! yelled Nightmare.

- Not necessarily. What do you do to prove it to him? He says ‘I love you’ and your answer is a vague ‘me too’?”

Nightmare reminded silent, we could almost see smoke of anger coming out of his ear canals. Mad of anger, his non-response was a loud and clear confirmation.

“You're hopeless, commented Ink.

- Look who's talking!”

An amused smile stretched Nyx’s teeth before completely disappearing. He looked at his notes and resumed:

“Killer probably have a big lack of self-esteem to doubt about you that much. After all, the bad dream’s master answering ‘me too’ for an ‘I love you’ is more of an achievement. You dislike public marks of affection?”

Nightmare made a little wince, which confirmed Nyx’ doubts.

“I see. Well, in that case, we will do it slowly too. Show little affection marks to Killer in public, as often as possible. First in your privacy, and then gradually in public.  

- … What kind of marks?

- Mm… little touches, physical contacts as rustlings, gifts maybe? And, no, violent rough sex is not an affection mark. Killer probably ended up thinking that he’s just a sextoy to you.”

The guardian froze while hearing these words, suddly feeling very guilty. He looked away, muttering out a small anthology of insults while clenching fists.

Nyx smiled again:

“We’ll already try to do this. I count on your collaboration.”

==

End of chapter one !

Next Chapter

You can support me on my Utip or on my Ko-fi account !

[fictionaffliction]

Better Forgotten

Chapter Two

Pairings: Loki/OC

Summary: Dr. Ingrid Hansen is a respected psychologist struggling with the aftermath of the Snap as well as her own trauma from an accident she endured many years ago. Her world is thrown into utter chaos when she meets a dangerous man posing as a client. Dr. Strange is reluctantly tasked with protecting her, but in order to do so, he must first help her recover who she truly is. While she is grateful for his help, she has to wonder, are some things better forgotten?

Rated M

Chapter Warnings: Canon typical violence, memory loss, chronic pain

June 6, 2024

The clock seemed too loud in Dr. Hansen’s office as the afternoon sun filtered through the unshaded windows. She glanced up at it, annoyed.

2:30 . Her clients were due half an hour ago. She swallowed her frustration and massaged her brow as she picked up the phone and called her receptionist, Lauren, whose desk was down the hall.

“Yes, Dr. Hansen?” Her voice was chipper, likely because of how much coffee she drank.

“It looks like the Coopers are a no-show. Can you please phone them and see if you can get them to reschedule?” Ingrid said, looking over their file. It was disappointing to see them skip an appointment. They had made good progress over the last two months.

“Sure thing. Would you like me to send in your next client?”

“He’s here already?”

“Yep.”

Ingrid was used to people being right on time or five minutes late. To be half an hour early was nearly unheard of in her practice.

“Sure, send him in,” Ingrid.

“You got it!” Lauren said and hung up the phone. Ingrid found herself smiling at her young employee’s enthusiasm. Sometimes she wished she could bottle some of that energy for herself. She took a moment to refresh her lipstick in the mirror she kept in her desk drawer and smooth the stray hairs that had escaped her barrette.

There was a hesitant knock on her office door and she put the mirror away. She stood and straightened her skirt, crossed the plush carpeted floor, and opened the door.

The man at the threshold was tall and slim, wearing a dark suit and deep green tie, which only served to emphasize his pale complexion. His coal-black hair was combed neatly back, which almost hid how long it was. She smiled up at him pleasantly, not allowing herself to linger on the strangeness of his presentation. He stared back at her with striking green eyes. Something about him seemed slightly familiar, but she couldn’t place it. For just a moment, he looked ever so slightly unnerved, but she blinked and his expression was once again composed.

“Mr. Lawson?” she asked, holding out her hand.

“Yes,” he said in a voice just slightly deeper than she had expected. He took her hand gently. “Dr. Hansen?”

She nodded and opened the door wider. “Come in.”

He stepped into the room and looked around. The office was decorated in Ingrid’s favored modern style, with tones of soft grey and blue being the dominant color scheme. She found the colors to be calming.

“You have a lovely office,” he commented, searching for something to say. She kept her face in its practiced neutral expression as she made note of his body language. He held his hands clasped in front of him. His posture was excellent but rigid, with his chin held a little higher than what she would consider to be normal.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “I like to keep the space organized. I find that it invites a clear mind.” She gestured to the soft blue couch with an open hand in invitation. “Have a seat,” she said as she settled into the short-backed chair on the other side of the coffee table, crossing her ankles gracefully. He sat, but only after she was sitting.

“Would you like anything before we begin?” Ingrid asked.

“No, thank you,” he said, settling in his seat. She flipped open a legal pad in a handsome leather portfolio.

“Your first name is Walter, yes?” she asked. He nodded. “Well, Walter, what do you do for a living?”

“Advertising,” he answered in an almost practiced way. She scratched a note on her pad.

“Ah, psychology’s evil twin,” she quipped. He smirked.

“I suppose so.”

“And what brings you in today?” This was the first hurdle. Sometimes a client wouldn’t be fully transparent and Ingrid would have to coax it out of them. Walter shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.

“I’m...I’m looking to reconnect with my wife,” he answered, his voice tense. She nodded in acknowledgment, taking another note. “I was told that you were the person to come to for this sort of thing.”

She smiled. “Well, marriage and family counseling is my specialty.” She pointed her pen at her degree on the wall. He remained stiff. Best to stay on topic, she decided. “Are you and your wife separated?” He nodded, thin lips pursed as though he was deciding what he would and wouldn’t tell her. “Divorced?”

“No.” His tone was final. She watched him closely, eyes betraying nothing but patience. He seemed to realize how rude he had sounded. “We never discussed it,” he amended. Her eyes darted to his ring finger, still adorned with a gold band carved with designs she couldn’t quite make out. He followed her gaze. “I never had the heart to take it off.”

“You sound a little embarrassed about that,” Ingrid observed. His knuckles turned white as he briefly clenched his fist.

“I’m not known for being particularly sentimental.”

Ingrid looked up from her notes and smiled softly. “Then you have made a very brave choice in coming here. It can be difficult to allow yourself to be vulnerable.” He chuckled and shook his head as though trying to shrug off the idea.

Ingrid let him linger a moment in the silence that followed before calling him back to the present. “How long have you been separated?” she asked.

He thought for a moment. “About thirteen years.”

She raised her eyebrows and leaned forward, lacing her fingers together. “That’s a long time.” He nodded. “Were either of you victims of the Decimation?”

Walter nodded again slowly, keeping eye contact with her as though trying to make her understand his reasons without speaking them aloud. She would get to the bottom of it eventually, but if he did not wish to discuss it now, she certainly would not push it. The elimination of half the population had caused a significant amount of trauma for most people. The sudden loss of so many loved ones left many feeling alone and instilled a sense of fear and uncertainty that left them feeling hopeless. Some feared that a second Decimation would happen, and the lives that they had managed to piece together would be shattered once more.

It was a topic for another session.

“Have you spoken to her since then?”

“No,” he said, his voice quiet. “No, I haven’t.”

“I see.” She sat back again and folded her hands in her lap. “Well, the Decimation certainly has affected relationships, whether it’s torn them apart or prompted couples to get back together. That being said, thirteen years of separation changes the dynamic of a relationship. It may be...difficult for your marriage to recover.”

He frowned. “Are you saying you can’t help me?” There was an icy edge to his voice that unnerved her. Something had peeked through his carefully crafted fa ç ade. Rage, loss, desperation? It seemed to be all of those things at once and then none of them at all.

“Not at all,” she said after a pause that was longer than she meant it to be. “I only want you to be prepared if your wife does not wish to pursue reconciliation.”

He ran his fingers over his ring, staring out the window again. “Don’t say that, Doctor. I need her back.”

“I will do everything I can,” she assured him.

“Thank you,” he said, refocusing his eyes on her. She nodded.

“The Decimation was only six years ago,” Ingrid continued. “What happened to prompt such a lengthy separation before that?”

Walter considered her carefully before replying, watching her as keenly as she watched him. “There was a...family disagreement regarding an inheritance.”

“And this was enough for you to separate?” she asked curiously.

His jaw clenched and relaxed again as he shifted in his seat. “Yes,” he answered after a pause that was a mere moment too long. She waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

Perhaps she could prompt him in the right direction. “Tell me about your family,” she said gently.

“I don’t see what they have to do with anything,” he hissed, a small snarl revealing itself under his sharp nose.

Though the severity of his reaction was slightly unusual, the sentiment was not. The connection between one’s upbringing and how they handled their personal relationships were inextricably linked, whether it was because the person wanted to be just like their parents, or the opposite of them, or simply because they mimicked what they observed and knew to be normal. More often than not, they were entirely unaware of the connection.

“Think of your psyche as a house.” Ingrid began. “If your childhood is your foundation, then everything built upon it is dependent on it. If the foundation is flawed, then the frame of your house might tilt. You might not even notice it at first, but sooner or later you’ll want to hang a picture and that picture will never quite hang straight.” He tilted his head and raised a brow in what appeared to be amusement. “We need to examine your foundation to see why your pictures aren’t hanging straight.”

He allowed himself a chuckle. “I don’t know if there are enough hours in a day to recount all of my family’s failings. Besides, I don’t think you’ve ever heard a story quite like mine.”

She sat forward. “Try me.”

He took in a deep breath and let it hiss loudly out between his lips. “It’s complicated.” She squinted quizzically at him. He huffed. “Why does this have to be so difficult?”

Ingrid closed her notebook and set it down. “The first session is always the hardest,” she said reassuringly. “Why don’t we take a break? I could personally use a cup of tea.” He sighed and nodded. She got up and went to the electric kettle she kept on the side table by the door and flicked the switch.

“I’ll take a black coffee,” Walter said from the couch. She set a bag of pomegranate tea in her mug to steep and poured him a cup of coffee. She held his drink out to him as she came back around to face him.

Walter’s hand reached out to take it from her. As he took the clean white ceramic mug, his fingers brushed against her skin. Surely an accident, but Ingrid found herself holding his gaze. Something familiar scratched at the back of her mind. Not quite déjà vu, but more like the hazy memory of a long-forgotten dream. But the harder she tried to dredge it to the surface, the further down it sank. A pain bloomed behind her eyes. She looked away and massaged her temple with her free hand.

She hoped it wouldn’t turn into an episode. The idea of getting a migraine during an appointment was mortifying.

“Is something the matter?” Walter inquired.

Ingrid shook her head. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of a headache. I’m sure some tea will clear it right up,” she assured him with a smile as she resumed her seat.

Walter sipped his coffee thoughtfully. His gaze did not leave her as he brought the mug to his lips. She found it slightly unnerving. The spot behind her eyes throbbed again. She set her mug down with a wince as she pressed her hand to her forehead firmly.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Walter asked, a slight tone of worry coloring his voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she insisted as the pain subsided again. “Sorry, that was so strange. Let’s continue, shall we? Tell me about your wife.”

He rubbed his thumb along the handle of the mug and sighed. “Gentle, kind most of the time, and beautiful of course.”

“Of course,” Ingrid agreed with a smile, though she wondered if perhaps he was seeing through lenses tinted with pretty memories. “What’s her name?”

Walter’s hands stilled. He set his cup down and steepled his fingers in consideration as he examined Ingrid from across the room. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for his response.

“Sigyn.” The name fell from his mouth with reverence, the syllables passing over his lips like an incantation. Longing draped itself over the word and Ingrid felt a pang of sympathy. His wife’s name was sacred to him even after so long being apart from her.

“Like the myth,” she remarked, pretending not to notice Walter’s initial hesitation. He sighed heavily, his eyes sliding away from her. “Have I upset you?” she asked with a practiced but sincere tone. Walter frowned but remained silent, running his fingers over his bottom lip in thought. “Walter?”

He glanced up at her again before getting to his feet and crossing the room to the window. Ingrid stood and followed him as he clasped his hands behind his back, reminding her of a ship’s captain surveying the deck below. She wasn’t alarmed by the behavior, having dealt with many couples trying to hash out issues and finding themselves pacing in an attempt to work off the nervous energy.

“Myths,” he muttered, studying the New York skyline. “That’s what we were reduced to.”

Her brow furrowed. We?

“Only they weren’t myths, were they? Thor is real. He’s out there making a spectacle of himself every chance he gets,” he said, spite cutting into his voice.

“Well, yes. I suppose that’s true,” she admitted. “A lot of things we thought were impossible have been proven possible over the past few years.”

He turned abruptly to look at her again, green eyes piercing her own in a way that made her suddenly feel like she was under a microscope. “More than possible, Doctor. Factual.”

She opened her mouth to agree but found herself mute at the sight of a golden shimmer passing over Walter’s body. She gasped and stumbled backward into her desk, knocking over a stack of paperwork. He stepped toward her as his suit was replaced by a black breastplate with gold inlay catching the light of the afternoon sun. A long green cape flared out behind him as he continued forward with a wicked smirk.

In his full regalia, the image of him finally placed itself in Ingrid’s memory.

“You-” she said breathlessly. “You’re Loki. You’re the one who attacked New York!” she exclaimed shakily, pressing herself farther against her desk.

His smile faded, replaced by a bewildered expression. “What?”

Panic ripped itself through her veins and she did the only thing she could think of. Ingrid opened her mouth to scream for help, but her cry was quickly muffled by Loki’s hand.

“Don’t,” he said in a low voice, keeping his hand clamped over her mouth.

She fumbled for something to defend herself with and blindly snatched a copy of the DSM-V, hitting him over the head with the heavy book, knocking his hand away. He grunted at the force of the strike but hardly seemed slowed by it. If anything, he looked annoyed. She made to punch him before he caught her hand, arresting her blow just as she was about to connect with his face. She tried again, only for him to repeat his defense and catch her other hand.

“Stop it!” he demanded, scowling down at her.

She stilled, trying to remember any negotiating tactics she could think of. Did the same rules apply to alien supervillains? “What do you want from me?” she asked, trying to match his scowl.

His grip slackened just a little. “I’m not--”

At that precise moment, the door came flying open and Lauren burst into the room. Ingrid wanted to shout to her to run, but then she saw the pistol trained on Loki’s chest.

“Why do you have a gun?!” was the only thing Ingrid could manage.

“Get down!” Lauren shouted back at her.

Ingrid felt herself being pushed away as Loki lept away and the first shot rang out. Ingrid screamed and took cover behind her desk, covering her ears in an attempt to block out the deafening noise of gunfire. She heard glass shatter and in a strange moment of confusion wondered how much replacing the windows was going to cost her. The gunfire stopped and Lauren swore.

Ingrid peeked out from behind her desk to see that the middle window was shattered. Her ears were ringing and her hip ached from where she had hit the floor, but she seemed to be otherwise unscathed. Loki was nowhere to be seen. Her eyes finally landed on Lauren, who was reloading her magazine.

“Lauren, what the hell-?” Ingrid said breathlessly, unable to articulate further.

“Dr. Hansen, are you hurt?” Lauren asked, her voice lower than Ingrid was used to hearing.

"No, I don't think so," she replied quickly.

"Good. I need you to come with me," Lauren said, barely letting Ingrid finish her sentence.

“But-”

“Now.” She grabbed Ingrid’s arm and pulled her out into the hallway and to the stairwell. Ingrid immediately regretted wearing heels that day and quickly pulled her shoes off, opting to carry them instead. Lauren urged her to hurry as she led a now barefoot Ingrid down the four flights of stairs to the ground floor parking garage.

“Where are we going?” Ingrid asked desperately.

“Getting you out of here,” she replied.

“But why? He’s not even here anymore,” the bewildered psychologist pointed out as Lauren pulled her to a shiny black sedan and ushered her into the passenger seat. “Hey!” Ingrid protested as the door slammed without a response from her receptionist.

“We don’t know that,” Lauren said as she hurriedly got into the driver’s seat and turned the key, peeling out of the parking garage as quickly as she could. She directed her phone assistant to call someone named Maria Hill. The robotic voice confirmed the call and the phone was answered before the first ring was finished.

“This is Hill,” said the steady, feminine voice on the other end of the line.

“Hill, this is Soren. We’ve had an incident,” Lauren said. Ingrid made a face.

“Soren?” she asked. Lauren just shook her head as a signal for her to be quiet.

“Who is that?” Hill asked, concern coloring her tone.

“One half of the incident,” was Lauren’s reply. “I have Dr. Hansen with me. She was confronted by Loki.”

There was a brief silence before a stern reply. “Get her here, now.”

“Already on it. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Good.”

The call ended and Ingrid looked at Lauren questioningly. “Am I being kidnapped?” Ingrid asked. Lauren smirked.

“No Dr. Hansen, you’re not being kidnapped,” she said in a flat tone that only vaguely revealed her amusement.

“Then do you want to explain just what the hell is going on?” Ingrid said, anxiety now dissolving into irritation as she slipped her shoes back on her feet. “Starting with your real name.”

“I can explain everything once we reach our rendezvous point, but I can tell you that my name is Soren and I am not a secretary.”

“Oh, well that explains everything,” Ingrid said sarcastically. “I want to know what’s going on, now, before I go anywhere with you.”

Soren stopped the car at a stoplight abruptly and Ingrid’s seatbelt constricted painfully across her chest. The younger woman turned to look at her with a face devoid of any amusement, her brown eyes narrowed. “Look Doctor, I know you’re scared and confused, but I have been ordered to keep you safe. We aren’t sure what Loki wants or why, but we’re going to figure it out. Right now, you just have to trust me, okay?” Ingrid swallowed and nodded. “Good.”

Soren hit the gas as the light turned green.

“Can I at least ask where we’re going?”

“Greenwich Village.”

The hour and a half it took to get to the grey nondescript building would have been a mere forty-five minutes if not for the New York traffic. Ingrid thought mundanely about how traffic in large cities was awful no matter where you went. They pulled into a parking structure that appeared to be largely abandoned.

“I know, it’s pretty austere looking,” Soren said. “We just want to make sure we aren’t somewhere where he might hear us.” Ingrid couldn’t stop the anxiety from creeping into her chest as they parked next to a black SUV. Soren got out and looked around before gesturing for Ingrid to follow. She obeyed and they climbed into the backseat of the second vehicle.

“Glad you made it,” a woman in the driver’s seat said to Soren as the two of them slid into their seats. The interior of the car was neat, with all the bells and whistles and then some. It smelled like new leather, though it must have seen frequent use given how much it must have cost.

“Me too,” said Soren. “Dr. Hansen, this is Maria Hill.”

Maria turned to look at her and offered her hand. Ingrid shook it.

“Don’t worry, Doctor. We’ll take care of you,” she said with a reassuring smile. Ingrid tried to smile back, but only managed a grimace.

“I appreciate it.”

A tall man with cool brown skin and a patch over his left eye turned to greet them from the passenger seat. Ingrid watched all three of them closely, her apprehension only growing as more people were introduced into the equation.

“Am I under arrest?” she finally asked.

“No, you’re not,” the man said, turning to look at her with his single eye. “Dr. Hansen, my name is Nicholas Fury,” he said, shaking her hand. “Just call me Fury. I heard you’ve had quite the afternoon.”

“You could say that,” she replied. He smiled, though she sensed he was only trying to put her at ease. She set her jaw. “Are you with the FBI or something?” she asked.

“They wish,” Soren said.

“We represent an extra-governmental intelligence agency that’s been keeping tabs on persons of interest,” Fury explained. The vagueness of his explanation did nothing to calm Ingrid’s nerves.

“And I’m a person of interest?” she asked. Fury nodded. “Why? I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I know,” Fury assured her. “It isn’t that you’ve done anything wrong, Dr. Hansen. We’ve seen your records. Graduated NYU after coming here from England after a boating accident killed your parents and nearly killed you too.”

Ingrid’s eyes went wide and she pressed herself into her seat, watching him carefully. “H-how did you-?”

“Like I said, intelligence agency.” His voice was smooth and calm, though she could not help but detect the barest hint of a warning through his words. Her mouth felt dry. She tried not to show her alarm, but she was certain they could all feel it pulsing through the air between them.

“But why me?” Ingrid pressed.

Fury and Hill exchanged a look, communicating all they needed to without a word. They must have worked together for a long time.

“Your accident corresponded with an unusual atmospheric event,” Fury began as he turned back to face her. “We wanted to make sure it was a coincidence.”

“That was thirteen years ago,” Ingrid reminded him. “You’ve watched me for that long?”

“Yes, and it turns out it was a damn good thing we did,” Fury replied with an edge of irritation. “I know this is difficult for you to understand, but after the events of the past several years, we couldn’t take any chances. The fact of the matter is that in our line of work, there are no coincidences. We don’t know what Loki wants, but we know that he came to you for a reason. It’s our job to figure out why.”

An overwhelming sense of dread filled her gut. Ingrid looked down at her lap, nervously wringing her hands together. “How can I help?” she asked quietly, looking back up at them.

“Why don’t you explain what happened today?” Fury said as he adjusted his posture to get comfortable.

Ingrid took a deep breath and told them how she had had an appointment with a man named Walter Lawson, everything he had told her, and how he was acting somewhat strangely, but nothing terribly unusual until he revealed himself to be Loki.

“He didn't hurt me, but I don't know if that means he wouldn't have,” she said. “And then Lauren...I mean, Soren, burst into the room.”

Fury squinted at Soren with his one eye. “The alias you picked was Lauren?” he asked skeptically.

Soren shrugged. “Rhymes are easy to remember.”

Fury shook his head and returned his gaze to Ingrid. “Is that all that happened? Seems strange that he would come looking for therapy, as much as I'm sure he could use it.”

“I’m sure it was a ruse,” Soren offered.

Ingrid frowned in thought. “But, he seemed sincere.”

“He’s the god of lies, a master manipulator. He knows just what to say and how to say it to get his way,” Hill reminded her.

“Yes, well I’m a doctor of psychology,” Ingrid said stubbornly. “I know what manipulation looks like.”

The three of them exchanged a look. “This isn’t a judgment of your abilities, Doc,” Fury said. “Loki could sell you oceanfront property in the Sahara desert and you’d thank him for it. He’s been at this a long time. Longer than any of us have been alive or even hope to live. I very much doubt he was telling you the truth.” He raised his brows expectantly as Ingrid considered this. Her pride deflated slightly. He had a point.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said.

All three breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” Fury said. “You’re sure nothing else happened during your appointment?”

“Yes,” Ingrid said. “I did get a headache in the middle of the appointment, but that isn’t out of the ordinary.”

“Do you get headaches often?” Fury asked.

She nodded. “I’ve gotten migraines a couple of times a month at least since my accident,” Soren and Hill exchanged a look at the mention of the accident.

“My mother got migraines,” he said. “I don’t envy you.”

“I’ve got some memory loss too,” she added.

“Sounds like something you should have checked out,” Hill suggested.

“I have,” Ingrid said. “CAT scans couldn’t find anything wrong. I guess it’s just one of those things.”

Hill, Fury, and Soren exchanged a quick look. “Must be,” the man said, looking back at Ingrid. “Dr. Hansen, I know you’ve had a harrowing day, but I’m afraid it’s not quite over yet.” She felt her stomach tighten. What more did they want from her? She was exhausted and her headache had continued to persist since the confrontation, and she had the distinct feeling of grime on her skin from running through a parking garage barefoot. “We’re going to have to insist that you stay in protective custody until you’re in the clear.”

“What?!” she exclaimed indignantly. She felt like he had just told her she was grounded. “But what about my patients?” she asked in desperation. “I can’t just leave them without explanation.”

“We’ll get it sorted out with you. Soren has told us that your practice is your pride and joy,” Hill said.

“Where am I supposed to stay?” The logistics were sending her reeling. She wasn’t prepared to drop a small fortune on a hotel room.

“We’ll take care of it,” Fury assured her. “The most important thing is that you’re safe.”

“I appreciate everything you’re all doing for me, but I’ll be fine if I go home,” Ingrid insisted. All three sets of eyes looked at her incredulously.

“With all due respect, Dr. Hansen, I don’t think you understand what this man is capable of,” Hill said, watching her closely. “We’ve arranged for a place for you to say where I’m sure you’ll be safe.”

“And where on earth is that?” she asked, her irritation growing more apparent.

Fury smirked. “We’re going to visit another contact of ours.”

[immoral-tales]

Character Analysis: Osamu Dazai

001

A/N: this is a character analysis on Osamu Dazai with an older lover. Nonnie and I were discussing this concept back on my old blog. I adored these discussions, therefore, I have decided to move all of them here.

You, I really like you. Believe me, you are not the only one thinking Dazai would fit well with an older S/O. There are numerous reasons and I can write an entire dissertation on why Dazai would have a great relationship with an older S/O. I adore the concept of him having an older, more experienced S/O in almost every field. I need to calm down and sort out all of my thoughts, I have just returned from a trip and I jumped to my computer as soon as I read your message. First of all, I would like to thank you for sending this headcanon. I completely agree with you and I will defend this headcanon with my life. I do have one simple favor, could you send me more headcanons and concepts similar to this one? I love, love reading ideas about Dazai having an older S/O. I have a request sitting in my notifications about Dazai and his older S/O, if it is your request, then you are the best! It has been in my messages for some time now; however, it is one of my favorite requests, therefore, I’m going to take my sweet, sweet time to write it.

Dazai is a complex character, it is not a simple task to understand his layered personality. A young person will have difficulty understanding him and he would have a hard time opening up to a person who is in the same age range as him. You can argue with me about it, but I strongly believe he would be attracted to a woman who is in her late twenties or early thirties and emotionally stable. An understanding woman with a mature, yet playful personality. She should be understanding of Dazai’s situation. He has been through hell and back, Dazai has a nihilistic outlook on life as much as he refuses to admit it. His childish and foolish behavior is a facade and every one of us is well aware of it. It is his coping mechanism to cover his melancholy. If he decided to reveal his true colors, no one would accept him. A man like him has no place in the world of normal human beings, therefore, he would be quite lucky to find a person that would be by his side no matter the circumstances—a woman that would be with him until the end of the line. His S/O should not be discouraged by his suicidal tendencies. Quite the opposite, she should be able to handle his dark sense of humor and play along with him—bonus points if she has a similar taste in humor.

He needs a trustworthy woman by his side, a person he could rely on, and be able to rest his head on her shoulder at the end of a busy and tiring day, telling her about his day as he wraps his arms around her waist protectively. Despite all these traits, Dazai needs a person with a cunning intelligence and quick-witted to comprehend his mischievous attitude and tolerate his antics. His S/O should be quite educated and knowledgeable, as well. This man deserves the world, even though he wronged in the past, but he is trying his best to redeem himself. Perhaps, even Osamu Dazai deserves some happiness.

Additionally, I’m writing some one-shots for “Dragged Across Concrete” and there is one with Dazai and older S/O. If you are curious, I will reveal the name. Thank you for coming to my pep talk. With this, I rest my case.

I’m delighted to know I’m not the only one considering Dazai having an older S/O is adorable. There is no need to worry about it, everyone has their own preferences and there is nothing wrong about it. Hell, you should be proud of it and I’m with you on this one. My apologies to everyone, but I’m with this anon. I have read many stories with Dazai being paired up with an innocent, childish type and I simply cannot vibe with it. I do not have many stories published here, but if you read any of them, you will understand what type of personality I’m aiming for. An older/mature S/O for him is one of the best options for him and no one can change my mind. Therefore, I would like to thank you for agreeing with me. I greatly appreciate it. Imagine his S/O being a highly trained spy with a particular set of skills who is fully capable of keeping up with Dazai. As a spy with the years of experience under her belt, she can read people like an open book and this is what Dazai needs. A person that can understand him, without him uttering a word.

You have requests? Send them in. I might be slow as fuck, but I like to take my sweet, sweet time whilst working on them. I wish to give you quality content and not half-assed stories. The title of the one-shot is “Stray Dog Strut.” Whoops.

It is about Dazai falling deeply in love with a senior member!S/O, but she has difficulty understanding he is serious about his intentions with her, due to his constant flirting and what would he do to convince her that he is considering pursuing her. Is this your request?

I’m a fucking genius! Seriously though, I’m delighted to know the feeling is mutual. A childish, innocent reader is great and all, but you will have difficulty finding such content on this blog. Whoops. I might or might not like it when the readers in my writing have big dick energy and Dazai’s S/O is not going to be an exception either. I completely agree with you, once more. One simply does not go to Dazai when they have problems, you have Kunikida for that. Recently, I have been thinking about it—believe me, I have nothing else to do—and I strongly believe Dazai would never be attracted to a female version of himself, considering his past and mindset. His outlook on life does not help in this situation. I will die believing he is a nihilist and no one can change my mind. Despite his layered personality, at the end of the day, he is a nihilist. Therefore, to counter his complex character, we need an older, experienced reader that has seen enough in this world and would not be surprised to see one of his stunts. I will go into details, I have been waiting for this opportunity to whip out my concept of Dazai’s significant other. Thank you for giving me a perfect opportunity for it. A fair warning, mentions of suicidal tendencies. We are talking about Dazai, after all.

I have a strong desire to review his outlook on life and reveal which type would be a perfect match for our nihilist. This is my personal opinion, therefore, it would be natural for some of you to disagree. Let us proceed, shall we?

I will not bore you with his past since every one of you are familiar with it, more or less. Dazai has been exposed to death, violence, and brutality at a very young age. Hell, he met Mori at the age of fourteen as he attempted to take his own life, but most likely, failed. We, the readers of the manga and the watchers of the anime, are not certain of his living conditions. Unfortunately, it has never been revealed, therefore, let us assume he grew up in a horrible environment that led him to become quite suicidal, then apathetic. There are many factors that played a major role in making Dazai who he is today. If it had not been for Odasaku, he would have remained with the Port Mafia and surpassed Mori with his ruthlessness and holding no regard towards the life of a human being. Because of his past, he became a nihilist, but he is great at concealing it by plastering that ridiculous grin of his on his handsome face. Deep down, he is well aware he does not deserve to live because of the atrocities he had done, yet he does not deserve to die. He can still redeem himself and that is what he is doing. And he deserves to be happy, as well. I’m not saying, everyone has the right to be happy, but Dazai is one of them. All his life has been grey, but the time has come for him to see the world in black and white, perhaps, in colors, as well.

This man deserves someone who can truly love him and stay by his side no matter the circumstances. He needs an understanding, mature woman. She should be able to understand his dark sense of humor and play along with him. For instance, upon their first meeting—undoubtedly—he would suggest committing double suicide with him. I can imagine her responding with a low chuckle and asking him to reserve that place specifically for her, but first, she would prefer to get to know him better as she wishes to know the person whom she is going to commit double suicide. Her unusual response would pique his curiosity as he engages in conversation, asking some odd questions, but she answers all of them without breaking a sweat, watching Dazai’s reaction with great amusement. After his first encounter with her, he would reserve a special place for her but decides to put his suicidal tendencies aside as he interacts with her, getting to know her better. If she allows him to be physically affectionate with her, then it is expected to find his face buried in her chest. He adores those titties—size and shape do not matter to him. And another weakness of his would be her thighs, as well. As he gets comfortable with her, he discovers she is quite good at holding decent conversations and drinking whiskey alone at his favorite bar is no longer an option because he has her. During one of their conversations, he discovers she is a realist, sees the world the way it is, not the way she wants to see it. Dazai is fascinated by her outlook on life and her personality draws him more and more. He becomes infatuated with her and as he spends more time with her, he realizes he cannot imagine his life without her. The woman becomes more than just his drinking buddy. Yes, they do not have much in common, but it does not stop Dazai from harboring romantic feelings for her. At first, he does not understand these foreign feelings, but then he discovers he is head over heels in love with her and he has no desire to let her go. His life would be empty without her.

My apologies, I have got carried away, but I’m rather passionate when it comes to Dazai. Even though I’m Dostoyevsky’s slut, I still love Dazai. In the beginning, I thought Dazai and happiness should not be used in the same sentence, but now, I’m convinced even he is capable of loving; however, I’m not too certain about Fedya.

Before I rest my case, I want to add, even if Dazai cannot love, he would genuinely care for her like he cares for his colleagues and watches out for them. In the present, he is fully capable of feeling such a feeling, but his past self would not.

Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

[altumvidetur]

Haikyuu!! Fic Recs (MatsuHana)

Fic Recs Masterpost

So, I was thinking about the coronavirus pandemic and what I could do to help people out. I’m isolated because I’m at higher risk, so I can’t really offer to go out for my elderly neighbors or my family… but I thought I could try to help keep people entertained.

Because I don’t have an AO3 account right now, I’ve been compiling fic recs for my own amusement for a year or so. And I thought – maybe that’s the time to share these with everyone? So everyone will have plenty of things to read while they have to stay at home, or even to escape anxiety a little bit if you’re forced to go out.

Of course, these cater to my own tastes, so you may find stuff you don’t like around here. I never include works in progress. The Mature and Explicit works will be in italic. I ask you to READ THE WORK’S TAGS before continuing, so you won’t find anything that makes you uncomfortable.

I’ve decided to split it in a series of posts, starting with my OTPs. So here we go with some MatsuHana!

rated m for, by orphan_account

He should have known that there was a Specific Reason™ why it was so absolutely vital that he and Matsukawa specifically meet for a reading of the script. He should have known that there had to be some evil catch beyond sitting in a tiny, cramped studio with his newly sworn enemy.

Hanamaki stares at the title of the script he’d so gracefully neglected the night before.

FORBIDDEN PARADISE

“Excuse me,” Hanamaki starts, raising a pen in the air while staring blankly at the packet in his free hand. “Just to clarify, you want me to record a boy's love CD with Matsukawa?”

of weather, of leisurely tensions, by b_minor

Two boys share an umbrella.

Don’t Lie, Bright Eyes, by tookumade

“Where do you see yourself in twenty years?”

It’s nearly one in the morning and Matsukawa, tucked up comfortably in bed next to Hanamaki, is on the verge of drifting off into blissful sleep when the question stirs him.

“Why are you trying to give me a late-night existential crisis?” he mumbles.

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 4 - leaving home)

Roses, by h_lovely

(Summary by me: slow burn, friends to lovers, things are kinky, I’m pretty sure this is the best MatsuHana I’ve ever read.)

You’re in Pink (and I’m in blue), by Hyeyu

Takahiro held his gaze a few seconds in silence before he sighed. "...It's only been a week, okay? S'not serious yet."

“Not serious yet?” Something jumped in Matsukawa’s jaw and he abruptly released Takahiro’s hand, sending the petals cascading to the ground. Takahiro was going to have to clean them up before the others started streaming into the clubroom, and wouldn’t that be fun. “You’re coughing up fucking flowers, Hanamaki.”

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

-

Hanamaki Takahiro has 99 problems and Hanahaki flowers make up 98 of them.

Good Bad Ideas, by tookumade

When Oikawa asks his friends to help out at his nephew’s birthday party, they get a little more than they bargained for.

(written for Haikyuu!! Rarepair Week - Day 1 - beginnings, celebration)

texting (with a capital S), by parenthetic

Hanamaki breaks his No Texting In Class rule, and it's all downhill from there.

Wet Your Whistle, by darkmagicalgirl

Hanamaki gets a job as a bartender. Matsukawa likes his uniform. (Alternatively: Matsukawa tries to ignore his huge crush on his friend-with-benefits. He fails.)

[obnoxious clucking noises], by parenthetic

On the last night of their last training camp together, Oikawa has a bad idea, Hanamaki goes along with it, Iwaizumi sort of wishes he had better friends, and Matsukawa proves himself to be particularly adept at intimidation tactics.

Love Doesn’t Come with an Instruction Manual, by plumtrees

Seijou 3rd years (now college freshmen) go to ToyCon. Oikawa has a spaz attack over Star Wars, Iwaizumi is his designated babysitter, Hanamaki is adorable, and Matsukawa doesn't know how to deal.

Here Today And There Tomorrow, by tookumade

A first meeting on opposite sides of the volleyball net, and chance meetings afterwards without it.

A Ring of Cream, by plumtrees

Hanamaki has never been one for grand romantic gestures, has never been one for romantic gestures at all, but Matsukawa's a stubborn guy.

Who can't bake for shit.

Iwaizumi and Oikawa (mostly Iwaizumi, really) to the rescue.

Morning Glory, by darkmagicalgirl

On their days off, Hanamaki and Matsukawa's mornings follow a sort of routine.

Even Though It All Went Wrong, by plumtrees

It hadn’t always been so cold. Matsukawa remembers a time where the sun shone high, its rays bright and its heat pleasant like a blanket against his skin. He remembers Hanamaki holding his hand, remembers his cheeks hurting because he’d been grinning so much. Hanamaki had opened his arms wide, and Matsukawa ran straight for them, like he’d been magnetized. He picked up Hanamaki easily and twirled them around, danced with him until they both tumbled along the grass, laughing like idiots.

He remembers because it’s all he can do now.

Crescendo, by plumtrees

Day 1 for MatsuHana Week: Online

-

The voice continues to feed him instructions, the deep rumbling purrs reverberating across his body, each hiss and click of a consonant like a sharp bite, each roll of his tongue a slide of silk against his overheating skin.

Fuck, he loves it.

Somewhat Well-Kept Secrets, by tookumade

“Why don’t they just… date already?” said Iwaizumi.

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 2 - cream puffs, in the background)

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time, by plumtrees

Day 3 of MatsuHana Week: Tattoos and Flower Shops

-

Hanamaki, cheeks as pink as his hair, says, "I was drunk."

"Okay?" Matsukawa prompts.

"And it's way too expensive to laser something this big."

Holy shit. "Okay?"

"Look, can't we just go with 'I made horrible life decisions in college that are now coming back to haunt me' and move on?"

morning, noon, night, by b_minor

A day in the life of two losers in love.

on the anatomy of crushes, by carafin

A part-by-part dissection of their relationship. Medical school AU.

-

‘See you tomorrow?’ Hanamaki asks. He’s still smiling faintly, still carrying about his usual air of quiet self-assurance, but there’s no mistaking the hopefulness in his voice. ‘On the bus, I mean.’

‘Yeah,’ Matsukawa says, and tries not to make it sound too much like a promise. ‘See you tomorrow.’

(Falling in love is really, ridiculously easy.)

Dating Is Not A Nine-To-Five, by tookumade

“What if,” said Hanamaki in a whisper, “we walk in and there’s a yakuza member getting his tattoos done, and he tries to kill us because we saw his face?”

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 3 - tattoos and flower shops, coffee shop)

To Fit Myself In The Spaces Between, by tookumade

It's late, a boring movie is on TV, and the remote control is nowhere in sight—and that suited them just fine.

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 4 - midnight, no control)

It’s not even close to your birthday, by squidmemesinc

The shoes look like they could be some kind of gothic lolita item, with thick, tall heels and Mary Jane straps that have little silver hearts on them. The socks are simple except that they run all the way up to his mid-thigh; the crisp white makes enough of a contrast with his skin that the colors flatter each other, rather than subdue them. Then there's the dress. It's just plain black, short and slim, though the skirt flares out at the waist. Takahiro's eyes run up it, stalling where it cuts off around the shoulders and has a wide boat neck trim with a thick ivory collar. The final piece is a simple pink ribbon—not even a necklace, just a ribbon—tied around his neck with the bow in the back.

Where Was I, When The Rockets Came To Life, by tookumade

In a city like this, there wasn’t much of a chance that they would meet again, and given Hanamaki’s current career of choice, if they did, then it was more than likely to be because of a cruel joke set up by fate. He was not about to let his heart be broken now. He had more important things to think about…

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 5 - glasses, piercing)

not like the movies, by bravely

“Here,” he says, offering the thumb back to Hanamaki. Absentmindedly, Hanamaki licks it back off. “Thanks.”

Then he blinks.

“Wait,” he says. “Shit, wait. Was that supposed to be romantic just then?”

“ — Well.” Matsukawa clears his throat. “You tell me, I guess?”

No One Else Like You, by auber_jean

"It’s not at all liberating to finally have it said out loud, because it makes it all that more real, and Matsukawa was doing really well pretending that he wasn’t in love with his best friend."

With the turn of graduation, Matsukawa finds himself choosing between a future that he has planned or something more.

live it up, drink it in, by puny

Hanamaki's not a detective, just a wing spiker with a hangover, but he's gonna figure out who gave him all these hickeys if it damn well kills him.

Begin, by Karasuno Volleygays

It's the last day of their high school years and the first day of the rest of their lives. As they spend the night under a blanket of stars, they can't help but wonder where will they go from here?

Playing Doubles, by squidmemesinc

“We always said we were going to fuck at every possible time of day,” Takahiro says, rolling his hips gently over Issei’s.

“I do remember saying that once. Do you have the calendar on hand?”

Captured Light, by plumtrees

“The smile you’re wearing in this photo,” Hanamaki continued, just a little bit sad, “you haven’t smiled like that in a long time.”

Matsukawa looked at the photo again. It was awkward; it always was, seeing himself through Hanamaki’s lens. He’d never really focused on himself whenever he looked at the photos Hanamaki took of him, but now his eyes actively trailed over his face, the crinkle of his eyes, the twinkle in them from the light reflecting off of his cellphone, the smile wide enough to show an entire row of teeth.

He tried to emulate the expression, only to realize how foreign it felt on his face.

-

A love story like most love stories, stuck between busy days and too little time spent together.

Matsukawa learns to take it easy, and Hanamaki is his teacher.

Marks, by Andramion

The room is quiet when Issei gathers the pillows under his arms and lies down. He presses his nose into his shoulder, closes his eyes and focusses on the barely-there touch of fingertips to his skin.

Hanamaki always does this, every single time.

Sure, by kiyala

Beginning university brings a lot of changes with it. As Iwaizumi and Oikawa deal with going to different universities, Hanamaki thinks about his own relationship with Matsukawa.

nebulas, by tothemoon

“You'll have to let me think about it,” Hanamaki says to him while they're looking at soup stocks in the supermarket one evening, because he knows being with someone is not as simple as he'd like it to be.

(At this, Matsukawa does not fret. He goes for the snack aisle, instead.)

Settled, by kiyala

Hanamaki and Matsukawa go for a walk in their hometown in the middle of the night, and reflect on the things that have changed since high school.

Staking a Claim, by iwaizumemes

"Do you think they can tell?"

"Tell what?"

"That we've fucked in all their bedrooms."

something of a disaster, by latenights

“This is the part where you make a wish and blow.”

“Now, let’s not get too hasty—“

“I meant the candles you bastard.”

that’s you get (for waking up in vegas), by skittidyne

“There was an Elvis?” Hajime asks.

“He was the officiator. It’s the cliché, right?”

“…Officiator of what?” Tooru asks with a look down at Takahiro’s hand.

“You can borrow my phone to pull pictures from for our wedding album.” Issei reaches over and grasps the hand with the ring on it. Everyone is staring at their clasped hands like a three-headed lobster just crawled onto the table. “You were both the best men and I was very, deeply touched by how affected you both were at the ceremony,” he says in a perfect deadpan.

(( or: iwaizumi does not want to be the responsible one, and thus they suffer the consequences, or, perhaps, 'suffer' is a bit too strong of a word ))

Wilds, by AngryKitten

Makki waded back to him, two handfuls of stones dripping lake-water. He was grinning, like he always did, like their lives were one great joke that Matsukawa only occasionally understood. Hanamaki tipped his hand, and the rocks tumbled out into the bottom of their canoe.

“For later,” Hanamaki said.

Parting Words, by kiyala

Matsukawa confesses his feelings for Hanamaki at graduation, knowing that they're unrequited. Hanamaki's not so sure about that.

we could be the greatest team, by anyadisee

Oikawa mock-gasps. “Makki! You should know that I was genuinely planning on talking about strategy! I just thought it would be polite to wait for Iwa-chan and Mattsun to get back. But since you brought the topic up”—Hanamaki opens his mouth to protest, but is ignored—“have I told you how amazing Iwa-chan is? Like, he’s just the best boyfriend ever.”

“Wow, I never would’ve guessed what with, you know, how much you’ve been talking about it,” Hanamaki deadpans.

Oikawa waves a hand airily. “Don’t be jealous that my boyfriend is so sweet and romantic.”

Now it’s Hanamaki’s turn to raise eyebrows. “Excuse me, but did you just indirectly drag Issei?"

[in which hanamaki and oikawa get competitive, matsukawa and iwaizumi are good boyfriends, and the rest of seijoh somehow get involved.]

chocolate, by tellalie

“We have to do something,” Mattsun says.

Tides That Bind, by rubyfiamma

Matsuhana Fluff via prompt #19. Things you said when we were the happiest we ever were.

Room to Talk, by holdontoyourhulahoops

In which one snarky comment from Yahaba makes Hanamaki realize he's been a dirty hypocrite all this time.

The Best/Worst Places to Cry in the City, by AngryKitten

“Okay this is going to sound weird, and I get it if you want to say no, but I know a good place to cry and it’s only like a block from here. If you need to, um, let that out or something.”

Matsukawa gets hit on while crying in public and it might be the worst thing that has ever happened to him. Or it might be the best.

plus one, by orphan_account

"Did you know we're dating?"

"What? Says who?"

"Says everyone apparently."

"Oh," Hanamaki frowns for a few seconds before shrugging and turning his attention back to the chocolate fountain. "Nice."

Making Sense, by kiyala

Sharing an apartment does very little to help Hanamaki deal with his feelings for Matsukawa. Perhaps that's not such a bad thing.

and indeed there will be time, by plumtrees

Between volleyball and the looming end of their high school years, Hanamaki thinks he’s already dealing with more than enough, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, no one else gets the memo.

-

Alternatively: “I am not in love with my best friend!” says Hanamaki Takahiro. Nobody buys his bullshit.

snakes, meth labs and something like love, by orphan_account

"Did you know snakes can give birth to between ten and 150 babies at any one time?"

Matsukawa tenses. "And how many have you, um— How many have you found?"

"Four," Hanamaki sighs, voice shaking slightly with what sounds like pure, unadulterated defeat. "So far."

Flamingo, by JanaRumpandRCJawnn

Summary by me: series with Trans!Makki, dealing with transphobia, and a nice lovely characterization of Ushijima.

it’s cold out there, by bishounen_curious

Seijoh's parties are always a mess, but this one takes the cake.

he’s a looker but i really think it’s guts that matter most, by respectableflourish

His fellow first year loves volleyball, has a chill factor verging on glacial, partakes in the type of verbal repartee Takahiro has only ever dreamt of finding in another person, and just so happens to exhibit an eyebrow and eyeliner game that is on another fucking level.

my heart beats for contract law, by orphan_account

"You had an emotional breakdown in a McDonalds drive-through."

"Mmm."

"And proposed to me."

"Shhh."

"In a McDonalds drive-through, Hiro."

Takahiro huffs out a nervous laugh, keeping his eyes closed. "You love it," he repeats, nuzzling closer.

services i can provide, by commovente

“So, what’s this?” Matsukawa asks. “An apology?”

Hanamaki drawls the words out, but he’s rambling. “I mean, I was actually going for a bribe, but. You know what, Mattsun? I’m nothing if not adaptable, so. Yes. Consider this an apology.”

it’s easy being with you, sacred simplicity, by earlgrey_milktea

a conversation at half past three.

poolside, by tothemoon

At eighteen, it'd been a matter of wading.

At twenty-five, Hanamaki tries not to fall in headfirst.

need a little sweetness in my life, by orphan_account

The smell of freshly baked bread, watching his cakes rise, listening to customers endlessly praise his desserts? All that is great but, Matsukawa thinks as he shuffles closer to the counter to greet him, the best thing about his job is the man standing in front of him.

And he doesn’t even know his name.

Lemonade, by carriecmoney

“Seriously, after Oikawa’s Oikawaness, Iwaizumi with the shoulders and the intensity and the caring about people shit and you with…” Takahiro gestures at Matsukawa’s everything. “That. What am I?”

Sing For Me, by rideahorse

The first time he hears Matsukawa singing, it’s in the shower, post-practice, when Matsukawa is likely positive no one’s around to hear it. Takahiro doesn’t even know what to think at first; Matsukawa sings just as he talks, voice a low timbre, barely changing pitch as it navigates through some melody that is so familiar yet unreachable in Takahiro’s mind. It’s English, too, so Takahiro wouldn’t understand it anyways, but that’s beside the point.

The point is that the locker room suddenly feels ten times hotter and Takahiro feels like he might melt into a puddle of very gay and very confused sludge.

Realisations, by kiyala

In which Hanamaki realises that Matsukawa is a werewolf, and has a few other realisations while he's at it.

Magical Mishaps and How to Deal, by plumtrees

Hanamaki Takahiro loved Matsukawa Issei. Sometimes. Mostly. When he wasn’t being bull-headed or overly-difficult. Which wasn’t a lot of the time now that Hanamaki thought about it. Shit. But he digressed.

Demon-mating was a for life kind of deal. Certainly not a decision one could make out of the blue, without years of prior thought and much meditation. The day he asked for his mother’s blessing, the day he planned to ask Matsukawa to be his mate, she had told him If you’re sure you’ll be happy with him, then all I hope for is that he says yes and by some miracle he did and here they are now and Hanamaki could say with all the certainty in the world that he loved Matsukawa Issei with all his heart and soul(s).

But some days…dear gods, some days…some days he just made it really, really difficult.

-

Or: Matsukawa accidentally turns Kindaichi and Kunimi into babies and guess who has to help him clean up his fucking mess.

Pink and Yellow, by hotcocoa

Hanamaki is beautiful, Matsukawa is supportive, and both of them are the luckiest boyfriends in the world.

hang out fall in love, by carafin

In which Hanamaki's humble medical practice is threatened by an intractable asshole a witch doctor who's just moved into the shop down the street. Medical/Witchcraft AU.

-

As far as Hanamaki’s concerned, and as far as bad life decisions go, setting up your witch clinic right next to an actual, proper, medical clinic is practically akin to setting up an all-you-can-eat buffet right next to a gym. Or a sex toy shop next to a church. Or a vegetable patch next to a goat farm. Or – yeah, the point is, this Matsukawa guy has totally cornered the market in Terrible-Life-Decision-Making-Skills.

Baby It’s Cold Outside, by dancingwithwings

Matsukawa looks round. And – heaven help him – he’s greeted with the guy from a couple of apartments down, the guy who dyes his hair to look like a strawberry for reasons unbeknownst, looking so disgruntled, so bedraggled, so akin to a drowning cat, that it almost makes him laugh out loud. The guy is barefoot, wearing only a towel. And the look on his face might turn Matsukawa to stone.

In which the fire alarm goes off, Hanamaki is in a towel, and Mattsun just really needs to study.

Zenith, Nadir, by tookumade

A former god realises that it's time to say goodbye.

Parallel Lines, by orphan_account

Yesterday night, Matsukawa had told his parents that he was joining math club, which lead to several confused smiles from them as they tried to figure out his change of heart.

“Didn’t you say you were allergic to competitive math?” His mom had asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we’re very supportive of your decision, but-”

Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, they’d let it go because no sane parent prevents their child from joining math team, which is intellectually beneficial and looks very nice on college applications. This, in turn, prevents Matsukawa from having to explain that he’s joining- dear god- because of a crush.

this isn’t exactly how i thought i’d spend my adult years, by jadedpearl

When Hanamaki coughs–hacks–the guy, who's been near comatose this entire time, opens his eyes and looks over a little, seemingly with the least amount of effort possible. "Bless you," he says, but his eyes are still sleepy. Hanamaki turns his head and stares at him. "I didn't sneeze." The guy looks a bit surprised. "What?" "I coughed." "So?" "Who the fuck says bless you when someone coughs?"

The Courage of Stars, by FairyLights101

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Then again, not many things were.

sugar pink liquor, liquor lips, by h_lovely

His lips still taste like sugar and liquor; they’re rosy and plush as they fit softly against Matsukawa’s own.

What would you do (if I told you that I la, la, la, loved you?), by Frenchibi

5 IwaOi moments as seen by Hanamaki and Matsukawa ... +1 moment of revenge :'D

Shoulda Known, by fxvixen

He quickly composes his face to look concerned. “What’s the matter there, sport?”

The groan cuts off.

Hanamaki lifts his head, a few strands of hair flopping onto his forehead. He narrows his eyes at Matsukawa’s attempt of a poker face. “Never call me that again.”

~or~

matsuhana feels and cuddles

Time and Distance, by kiyala

Matsukawa is attending university in Kyoto. Hanamaki comes to visit.

Kaleidoscope, by tookumade

Fall in love in five cities.

press play, by airblends

“Makki, you want in on our intro?” Oikawa gestures with his hand.

“Nah, I already promised Issei we’d do one for his channel. There are only so many intros a man can film in a day.”

“Issei, huh?” Oikawa’s lips settle into a knowing smirk. Iwaizumi coughs into his fist, gently prying the camera from Oikawa’s hands to turn it off.

Hanamaki’s face burns up, his cheeks a fiery red. “We’re just friends,” he says, the phrase rolling off his tongue by sheer reflex. He has lost count of how many times he’s typed it into the comment section beneath his videos. At this point he might just start to believe it himself.

New Ground, by kiyala

About new cities and new relationships.

Trusting Things Beyond Mistake, by twinkrevali

"‘I–’ Hanamaki starts, then stops, turning to face the lake and frowning as the words fail to reach him.

Matsukawa pushes himself up to look at Hanamaki properly, hands resting in his lap.

‘You,’ he prompts, and Hanamaki looks at him, eyes shining.

This must be, he thinks, what they call a moment of clarity."

Would You Rather, by jadedpearl

“Y’know,” Hanamaki says, stretching his arms above his head, “I don’t even get why Oikawa is the popular one. If this was an anime, I’d be the main character.”

The setting sun burns his edges gold, alights the sharp planes of his face. Matsukawa looks away, faces forward, towards the houses that wind out of sight.

“What makes you say that?” he replies easily, because things have always been just that, with Hanamaki.

too scared to say (that i want you), by urieskooki

"How could he not hate me if he knew?"

Falling in love with your best friend sucks.

one-way ticket, by noyabeans

post-chapter 258.

-

in an alternate universe, they would be the ones on that screen, feet solidly planted on the smooth ground of the tokyo gym and the smell of air salonpas around them.

take my hand, take my whole life, too, by earlgrey_milktea

matsukawa and hanamaki, a few years down the road, and years to go, together.

all our stolen moments (i’d spend forever with you), by earlgrey_milktea

quiet moments between matsukawa and hanamaki.

it's all worth it, in the end.

Switched Jerseys, by chromyrose

After practice on an afternoon shortly before the Spring High tournament begins, they’re the last two people changing in the club room. The weather is starting to turn for the colder, and Hanamaki sighs when the cool air touches his heated skin after he takes his jersey off. He feels a warm hand on his back, and looks over his shoulder...

oh we’re fading fast / i miss missing you now and then, by earlgrey_milktea

It’s strange, missing someone. You find them in every thing you do, and you think you want them back, but you don’t. Not really. Not now, not like this.

-

issei and the quiet that hanamaki left behind.

i thought i could tame these memories to keep me company like a housecat, by earlgrey_milktea

So he stayed here, in a house that hasn’t been a home in a long time, with a cat that keeps looking out the window as if waiting for someone that isn’t coming home.

-

takahiro and the empty house and lonely cat that issei left behind.

those days are dead and gone (but we’re still here), by kythen

They're graduating today and Hanamaki doesn't want to get out of bed.

stranger things, by tinypersonhotel

In 2012, the men’s national volleyball team took home the bronze at the Asian Cup. Tokyo Skytree opened to the public. Also, the dashing Hanamaki Takahiro and painfully cool Matsukawa Issei started a radio show out of Aoba Johsai’s abandoned A/V room and accidentally became the two most popular guys in school.

Daily Password: [ ], by tookumade

“Neko Atsume?” Hanamaki says sleepily when he recognises the song coming from his phone. He opens his eyes with a mystified smile. “You’re still playing?”

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 1 - music)

tell them i love you, by tookumade

“Are you two serious about it, though?” Oikawa says dubiously after training when they’re leaving the clubroom together. “Could you seriously tell each other ‘I love you’?”

“Of course we’re serious!” protests Matsukawa at the same time Hanamaki says, “Of course we can!”

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 3 - romantic gesture)

like a river, by astersandstuffs

“Is that a confession? Are you actually confessing to me right now?”

“Hm. Yeah.”

-

Or, they still have a lot to learn (and maybe that's the thing about being together).

Baby(sitting), Maybe, by tookumade

“One day,” says Hanamaki, “we’ll look back on this and laugh.”

“Mm-hm,” Matsukawa hums.

“It’ll be a cute little story. We’ll tell our friends, and they’ll laugh along with us. They might even be sympathetic.”

“Mmmm…”

“You’re absolutely right, sympathetic is reaching way too far.”

-

(written for Haikyuu!! MatsuHana Week - Day 6 - children, bonds)

Matsuhana Week 2017, by h_lovely

Day 1: music//relationship goals Day 2: competition//petty Day 3: romantic gesture//fairy tale Day 4: in danger//leaving home Day 5: food//science Day 6: children//bonds Day 7: on video//surprises

A God for Every Season, by timkons

Mortals have all kinds of foolish tales, like how Hades and Persephone's annual reunion causes the seasons. Matsukawa knows better.

Habenaria Radiata, by tookumade

Hanamaki turns onto his side so that they’re facing each other, and his smile is warm; Matsukawa feels his heart skip a beat, as it always does whenever this happens, and he wonders when he’ll ever get used to it, when it’ll become normal enough that he doesn’t get butterflies in his stomach every time Hanamaki smiles at him.

(Probably never, if he’s being honest with himself. He is content with this.)

take my heart and put it in your pocket, by Frenchibi

Issei blinks. “I ain’t drinkin’ any of your froofy Christmas Latte thingies.” “Orange Caramel Mocha.” “What?” “Vanilla Chai Latte.” “Ew.” “Cinnamon Hot Chocolate.” Issei rolls his eyes, resigned. “Fine. That doesn’t sound too awful.”

Remind Me, by tookumade

For Hanamaki and Matsukawa, their first meeting consists of a small accident, a terrible first impression, and the start of something new—maybe something better.

(In which they learn to keep trying, and to try again.)

like twinkling lights and the warmth of your hand, by earlgrey_milktea

mattsun and makki go on an impromptu date.

in a daze, by wyverning

The sound of a camera shutter goes off, and Issei lazily cracks open an eye to see Hanamaki grinning down at him, phone held loosely in one hand.

“That was the best Kunimi impression I’ve ever seen,” he says by way of explanation.

Clueless, by Elleh

If anyone had asked Issei how he’d thought his night would end, he’d have never said: catching my best friend moaning my name while fucking himself.

There’s an odd second, between Issei entering their room and sliding the door of the bedroom open, in which Issei is still oblivious. Skin prickling, a sudden dryness in his mouth, but oblivious. He’s taking his shoes off when the first moan catches him.

He stills right on the spot, a shoe hanging from his finger, the other hand half-way to opening the bedroom. Issei swallows, images of Hanamaki with a girl from the hotel, that’s why he didn’t want to come with us drink, the bitter taste that realisation leaves behind. Issei shouldn’t care Hanamaki’s having sex with someone, but the sourness turns into rage—and maybe disappointment. He’s gonna have a serious conversation about boundaries and, you know, could you let me know in advance, so I find—

“Issei… Mmmh, fuck.”

IOU, by Karasuno Volleygays

Matsukawa Issei goes in for a tattoo and ends up with an interesting new friend in Hanamaki Takahiro. Soon his visits to his tattoo artist's studio in the back of a restaurant become a highlight of his days, and that's before feelings start to wriggle their way into the picture.

take a screenshot, it’ll last longer, by h_lovely

It’s all fun and games until someone pops a boner in a staff meeting.

lapsus linguae, by astersandstuffs

“I’m literally your best friend,” Matsukawa says.

Takahiro pauses. “Shit. You’re right.”

Reflex, by hiuythn

Nobody likes to talk about how Hanamaki and Matsukawa met, which is a shame, because they both think it's the funniest fucking thing to ever happen to either of them.

my way home, by tookumade

Matsukawa has been sitting at their freshly-placed dining table and staring at his copy of their new apartment keys for at least an hour.

(Hanamaki checks his watch. Okay, five minutes; same thing.)

first light, by tookumade

Iwaizumi and Oikawa immediately break out into booing and gagging noises, because as much as they both think themselves mature and reasonable people, they are honestly idiots. Matsukawa just grins and takes a sip of his own beer, pleased, but Hanamaki is frozen, eyes wide and a blush creeping across his face in a way that had nothing to do with the beer.

Tactical Retreat, by Karasuno Volleygays

After years of getting their asses handed to them by the seemingly psychic Iwaoi bond, Issei and Takahiro opt to spend the rest of their paintballing trip engaged in other activities.

Mirror Flower, Water Moon, by h_lovely

Matsukawa’s gaze lingers on Hanamaki. He’s talking about something, ranting on and Matsukawa isn’t sure about what at this point. He should be listening really, how rude of him. But spring has just sprung and the little pink petals dotting the sidewalk match so pleasantly with the strawberry shade of Hanamaki’s short-clipped hair.

(Or, a study on timing and how to get it right.)

quidditch gloves, parchment, and custard cream, by h_lovely

After class, Matsukawa finds Hanamaki in the tall cushy grass by the lake.

[joon-ipersgirl]

O2 - “airplane”

genre: strangers to lovers!au, angst, fluff

pairing: jimin x reader (f)

word count: 3.5k

warnings: cursing

summary: they say home is where the heart is. you’re convinced yours was taken the day your father died. until you meet jimin.

you believe in love but after watching men cycle through your mother’s arms, rocky relations with ex boyfriends, and broken friendships, you no longer see it in your future. so much so, you never settle in one place long enough to create ties and call it a home, choosing a job where you’re always on the go and on your own. 

a chance encounter on a flight from new york city to bali, indonesia, you meet. flustered by jimin’s flirty advances but enamoured by his understanding and good-natured tendencies, you start to fall. what starts as a work-trip soon blossoms into a budding romance, but will jimin’s secret destroy the relationship before it’s had the chance to truly begin?

a/n: whew! we made it to part two. thanks for sticking with me y’all. we get to see a little more banter with jimin. thank you again for reading and hopefully i’ll get the next part out on time for y’all. leave a comment with some feedback; i love receiving them. have a wonderful rest of your day/evening/night and thank you vi for being my editor in chief as always!

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You could only thank your sweet Lord and Savior for blessing you to fly on an aircraft that had some semblance of high-speed data. There was only so much one could do with the airplane monitors to keep yourself entertained - if the flight you were on had them. Skimming through your email, you stared skeptically at the most recent one from Michael. Hadn’t you just spoken this morning?

Y/N,

I assume that your meticulous planning has failed you for once in your brilliant life and you were late to catch your flight so you didn’t have time to check your phone as you would not purposely ignore a text from me. Gods be with you during this time - I have taken a moment of silence as I pray for your divinely placed gift to be restored upon you.

Onto more pressing matters, Julia has sent me an updated list of the things they expect to see in this video; please see attached. Because I have so earnestly prayed for your skills to be returned to you, I have full confidence in your ability to work through these minor inconveniences.  

Just because I know you missed my text, I’ll say it again: remember the passion! Enjoy the moment.

Yours eternally,

Michael  

P.S. Garland Sans has an exhibit coming to the MET! We must go!

You snorted. Michael was as ingenious as he was dramatic. One of the best in the management game, Michael was sought after to solve the worst of problems when regular members of his team couldn’t in his own consulting company, Callahan Consulting. His personality was infectious and made one want to strive above and beyond for his approval. It surprised you every time that you were partners and he was your manager as declared by himself. As they say, opposites really do attract.

Clicking on the files attached in the email, you groaned softly as you realized that though the wifi was available, it wasn’t strong enough to access any large multimedia files, the downloading circle on a seemingly never-ending loop. You sank further into the seat, your knees hitting the one in front of you due to the cramped economy design. Your fingers slipped easily through your short locks as you tried to stay calm. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if you couldn’t see what changes you’d made. It’s not like you’d have to potentially rework your entire itinerary for the trip the moment you landed. You scrunched your eyes shut as you tugged on the roots of your hair in an effort to quiet your increasing anxiety. The softest of touches against your knee jerked you upright.

“Are you alright?” You gazed down at the hand splayed across your leg, eyes wide. It squeezed and you finally turned your eyes towards its owner.

“What are you doing?” you asked hurriedly, tugging your headphones off. The weight of his hand, though not physically heavy, metaphysically felt like it was anchoring you to your seat and you wouldn’t be able to move it yourself even if you tried.

“Are you alright?” stranger-that-causes-you-continuous-embarrassment repeated. “You looked like you were in pain,” he trailed off, finally removing his hand. You slumped over in relief on your exhale.

“Fine,” you replied curtly. You could feel the blood pounding in your ears as you shifted in your seat. His long legs seemed precariously too close to your own in the compact space.

“Are you sure? I can call an attendant -”

“No!”

“What are you doing?” he murmured, eyebrows raised and amused. Looking like any stubby child hanging off of the monkey bars, you were clutching onto his forearm and yanking down with all your might to stop him from pushing the call attendant button above you. The muscles under his forearm flexed as stranger-that-causes-you-continuous-embarrassment lowered his arm against the armrest. You blinked slowly as the realization that you were still holding onto him traveled to your central nervous system and you let go as quickly as you’d clung onto him.

“Nothing!” you inhaled deeply. “Seriously, I’m fine. You don’t need to call anyone,” you told him sternly. You turned back to your laptop and opened your 0618 Bali Itinerary document; adjusting your plans would calm the thumping in your chest. You could handle the anxiety of trying to edit the document blindly, but handling his apparent concern over your physical well-being was another story you weren’t prepared to read. He hummed in acknowledgment and settled back down in his seat, eyes focused on the book in his hand. How he managed to fit in any seat was a miracle.

“What are you doing in Bali?” he asked casually. He didn’t look at you as you turned to him.

“Nosy aren’t we?” you  replied in the same tone, eyes challenging. Your eyes met, a glimmer in his.

“Hmm?”

“How did you know I was going to Bali?” you contested.

“Well, I would hope you didn’t board the wrong flight - though you don’t strike me as the woman to make that kind of mistake,” a soft smirk graced his lips. You bit your lip hard.

“Well, I could have been getting off at the Hong Kong connection,” you said, trying to counter.

‘True, but you confirmed that you were going to Bali when you asked how I knew that. I was just assuming before,” he replied with a shrug and a soft grin. You tongued your cheek in annoyance at his observation.

“Right,” you mumbled. You yanked your headphones back over your ears, cutting off the ability to continue the conversation for both your sakes. Only 13 hours and 25 minutes to go.

Your Fujifilm camera felt light in your hands as you recorded a few minutes of the passing clouds. Capturing the changes in the sun during the duration of the flight seemed like a simple task, but balancing the light and adjusting the colors so they came through as vibrant as what they really were was difficult. These would be the first shots seen and they had to evoke the right feeling - the passion that Michael and Julia were looking for. Your passion for your work, for your art, for your life. You stifled your groan, not wanting to cause panic in your concerned neighbor again. You frowned as you stared down at the short video you’d taken; the focus wasn’t as sharp as it needed to be. Turning to the interior of the plane, you held the camera back up to your eye trying to get it to focus.

“If you wanted me to be your muse, all you had to do was ask,” he said with a chuckle. “I won’t even charge you for taking the shot.” The corners of your mouth turned down further.

“You’re not my muse. I’m trying to refocus my camera. You just so happen to be in the way,” you said matter-of-factly.

“I seem to always be getting in the way huh?” He leaned further back in his seat as he turned his head towards me, the sunlight hitting his face so gently. You bit your lip and fiddled with the AF fine-tune again. “First it was your seat, now with your shot. What are you going to do with me?” he asked with a fake sigh of contriteness. You rolled your eyes at his dramatics and took another test shot, the corner of his face creeping into the frame.

“Absolutely nothing,” you told him, adjusting the calibration once again. He moved closer as you snapped another test shot. His olive skin glowed under the mellow rays of the afternoon sun filtering in and his smile filled the small screen of your camera.

“Would you like some help?” he offered as he noticed the slight tremble in your fingers.

“I don’t need your help,” you mumbled.

“Are you sure?” he asked again. “You’re adjusting your AF fine-tune, but you’re in the wrong AF mode. Any adjustments you make wouldn’t have a significant effect if you’re shooting the inside of the plane.”

Stranger-that-causes-you-continuous-embarrassment slipped your camera out of your hands, his fingers brushing against yours, and flipped modes quite expertly as the blood rushed up your neck and into your face. The sounds of your breathing echoed in your ears as you could not believe you’d made a fool of myself in front of him for the fourth time now. Michael must have been right when he said your previous abilities had left, the stress of this upcoming project getting the better of you. It had to be.

“Are you a photographer?” you asked. He took his own test shots, double-checking his adjustments.

“Here and there,” he replied nonchalantly. “I have a few friends in the industry and I dabble in a little bit of art myself. A hobby really,” he continued, snapping his last one of you before handing the camera back. You nodded your thanks and tucked the camera back into its bag; your nerves were too shot to continue. You could probably edit the footage to be better anyway.

“Excuse me, are you Park Jimin?” An attendant appeared with a tiny cart filled with food, her petite frame barely visible from behind it. Jimin.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Here’s your vegetarian lunch, sir. Please enjoy,” she told him as she set the tray down in front of him. Her reach was far more extended than it needed to be and you internally scoffed at her not so subtle attempt to flirt. He smiled and thanked her before turning his attention to the steaming plastic bowl in front of him.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a vegetarian,” you thought aloud.

“Do you think about pegging often?” Jimin’s smile was innocent but his gaze was not. Your eyes widened comically slow as you realized what he was suggesting.

“No! Not at all! What are you talking about?! I would never -” you spluttered out, hands waving frantically in front of you “- I mean, if you’re into that, then that’s great. I’m not judging you at all!” His laugh cut off your backtracked rambling. It was boisterous and loud and filled up the entire space between us as he tipped his head back, clearly delighted by your discomfort. It hurt your ears but made your heart jump. “Please stop laughing at me, Jimin.”

He hummed an “okay” and filled his mouth with another large bite of what you assumed to be vegetarian lasagna. Your  eyes fell to his plump lips as you watched him, his jaw moving almost rhythmically as you counted each chew to ground yourself into the present moment. 7, before he swallowed. It was only the tiny flicker of his tongue against his bottom lip that reminded you that you were staring at him. Again. You busied myself with the in-flight monitor screen, extremely fascinated by the current flight path.

“So, are you going to tell me your name?” You raised your eyebrows at his question.

“No, I don’t think so,” you said with a smile.

“Why not?” Your smile widened as you felt like you finally had the upper hand, something that he seemed to continuously have.

“Why should I?”

“Well, you know what my name is. I think it’s only fair that I have yours as well. What else would be appropriate to call you other than your name?” He asked thoughtfully as he pointed his fork towards you, the mischievous glint never really leaving his deep brown eyes.

“Are you going to stab me with your fork if I don't tell you?” He lowered it sheepishly. “Besides, you didn’t tell me your name, Mr. Park. That nice flight attendant did,” you said with a shrug. “So technically, fairness isn’t a part of this equation. The odds just so happened to be in my favor.”

“‘May the odds ever be in your favor’, my ass. Alright, fine.” Jimin peered around your seat, leaning over into your space while nearly knocking his food off its tray, trying to find any semblance of a clue to what your name could be. He sat back and directly faced you, almost folding his body underneath the tray table to do so. You ignored the way his knee bumped against the outside of your thigh.

“Give me a hint,” he pouted. You giggled as his lower lip jutted out.

“You’re too big to use the puppy dog face against anyone,” you informed him with a laugh. Even if it was cute. You hauled your beanie off your head and wrenched your hands through your hair.

“Just call me Clifford,” he teased. He perked up, an imaginary lightbulb going off in his head. “Elizabeth! Is that your name?”

“No,” His shoulders slumped. “But it could have an ‘a’ in it,” you commented casually. His shoulders rallied at the small hint.

“Don’t worry Shutterfly, I’m going to figure it out. Promise.” He beamed at you and you offered a half-smile in return, your attention more focused on the attendants bringing the rest of the food to passengers as you pondered over his words. Promises were made to be broken, filling you with disappointment and regret. In fact, they only served as false assists in the game of life and you’d stopped playing a very long time ago.

The cabin became pleasantly quiet after dinner was served, the passengers settling down for the night. It was cold and you were grateful for the hoodie you’d folded into your bag, the thin airplane blanket not doing much to keep you warm. Your Saipan video was pulled up on your laptop again and you longed to be in the warmth of the beach. Adele would always know when you’d been out in the sun for too long, more freckles dancing their way across your cheeks as your tell-tale sign, but it never stopped you. You smiled at the memories of busted knees and skinned elbows from being too adventurous with friends during the summer.

Nursing your cold cup of coffee, you sighed in exasperation as you felt the strong urge to use the bathroom. Of course, it would only be fair that your favorite drink was also a diuretic. You chewed your lip as you contemplated how exactly you were going to make it out of your seat without disturbing Jimin who was comfortably sleeping beside you, his arms folded and face hidden in the confines of his hood. He looked peaceful and you felt guilty for even thinking about waking him up. If you went to sleep now, maybe you could hold it? You squirmed in your seat as your bladder protested profusely at the thought. It was now or never.

“Jimin,” you whispered and gently poked his arm. Nothing. “Jimin,” you whispered a little louder, leaning closer to his face. You whimpered softly as he didn’t stir. “Fuck this,” you muttered and pushed off the blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

Peeking over to the passengers behind you to make sure they were asleep, you carefully maneuvered your laptop into your seat before standing up. Jimin had titled his seat back to get more comfortable and you assumed to give himself more room - though again, you didn’t believe there was any space that could fit his long legs; they still touched the seat in front of him. Bracing yourself between the rows in front and behind you, you placed one leg in between the gap of his two and held your breath. So far so good. You twisted to face him so you could slot your second leg into the gap, bending over his sleeping frame. It was nerve-wracking to be this close to him in such a tight space and you prayed to your Lord and Savior that he wouldn’t wake up now as you’d gotten so far into your poorly concocted plan.

Just as you were slipping your left leg over and into the aisle, Jimin shifted beneath you. You froze. The strings of your hoodie dangled treacherously close to his nose. You pleaded silently that he wouldn’t wake up as you scrunched your eyes shut.

“Shutterfly?” The sound of his deep voice caused you to look down. “What are you doing? If you wanted to sit in my lap, all you had to do was ask,” he murmured as he removed his headphones and sat up straighter. Of course, he couldn’t hear you.

“I have to pee and you weren’t waking up, so,” you trailed off, ignoring his flirtatious comment again. He gave you a lazy smile that barely reached his sleep-heavy eyes. The distance between you was much shorter and you focused on keeping your breathing as even as possible.

“Hmm, you should go pee then,” he replied as he let his hand rest gently on your hip, nudging you into the aisle. You squeaked and darted from under his touch, hitting your knee on the armrest. You grumbled a string of curses and rubbed your knee as you headed to the back of the cabin, his quiet chuckles fading behind you.

The relief was imminent and you sighed in contentment as you washed your hands in the tiny sink. Under the dim fluorescent lighting, your skin looked washed out. Your eyes and cheeks were puffy from the high altitude and you tried to rub the tiredness away. You knew you should get some sleep, but the thought of accidentally cuddling into Jimin’s soft, warm body as you slept was so tempting, it was terrifying. You sighed in annoyance as you thought about your fellow passenger. He would be the bane of your existence with his deep sleepy voice and soft touches and stupid nickname.

You shut the door with enough force that you grimaced at the loud noise. It wasn’t as if you could shut all your thoughts of Jimin into that pint-sized restroom as you’d attempted to do with Tiago those many summers ago. You scowled at his memory as you angrily walked back to your seat, the pain in your knee forgotten. You tapped Elijah harshly on his shoulder but softened your gaze after realizing you’d startled him.

“Sorry, I’m in your way again.”  He stepped out into the aisle to let you through, the subtle waft of his cologne moving with him.

“No, you’re fine,” you told him as you slipped into your seat and rested your laptop onto your open tray table.

“You think I’m fine?” you rolled your eyes at his dumb grin.

“Do you ever stop flirting?”

“Who said I was flirting?”

“Your entire demeanor!” you exclaimed. He hushed you and warned you to keep your voice down as people were sleeping. “Your body language, your tone, your eyes. All of it - all of you,” you finished, gesturing to his body.

“And here I was thinking you weren’t interested,” he said with the same smile. He propped his chin up in his palm as he gazed at you through his long lashes. You scoffed.

“No one is interested in you, Jimin.”

“Mhmm, I love it when you say my name.” You covered your mouth to stop the burst of laughter in your chest. He chuckled quietly and returned to his seat. “You don’t have to lie to me though, Shutterfly.”

“Delusional and dramatic. That’s quite the combination you have going for yourself, Mr. Park,” I commented as you searched for your additional Saipan clips.

“As delusional and dramatic as you are uninteresting and not flustered by me,” he shot back playfully and you struggled to keep the corners of your mouth from turning up as you kept your focus on the screen. “How long does it take you to do that though?”

“Do what?” you asked.

“Edit your videos,” he clarified, closing the distance between you again. It was becoming increasingly obvious that personal space did not matter to him.

“Oh. It depends on the project and how much material I have to work with. Sometimes I can knock out a video in a couple of hours, but other times I get stuck for inspiration or I can’t figure out this one technical aspect and it stumps me for days before I can finally move on,” you said slowing down as you realized you were rambling. “Sorry, that was a lot,” you apologized.

“No, I get what you mean. The purpose of projects will definitely define what type of style you go for. I’ve been in those spaces. No need to apologize, seriously.” Jimin rested his hand on your forearm in a comforting manner and you smiled softly at the gesture.

“Is that a genuine smile I see?” He shoved his head in front of your face trying to get a better look.

“Way to ruin the mood,” you said with a laugh. You pushed his head away gently.

“Wow, I think it is,” he continued. “Your freckles are beautiful by the way. And don’t worry about the mood, darling. I can create another one for you.” Jimin winked at you and placed a headphone in his ear.

“You’re a fool,” you informed him, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“A fool in love!” he sang. “Don’t stay up too late. Gotta reset your circadian rhythm before we get to Bali,” Jimin warned. You shook your head at his concern; if only sleep was so easy. Even so, it was only 2 am back in New York. Plenty of time to nap and be up by your usual 4 am wake up time.

“Goodnight, Jimin.”

“Goodnight, Shutterfly.”

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