#the stolen grey sweatshirt hanging off the muscles

[martianbugsbunny]

ah stab me it's Hugh Jackman gives me gender envy hours again

[pinkchanelbag]

#500. 1 levi + filth + 19 <3

congrats on 500! 🎉

you got . . . . .

“and you weren’t going to say anything?”

nsfw 18+. 

maybe it’s the new wave of heat. surely that’s it. the spring weather must be the reason you’ve been feeling hot and bothered since before even waking up this morning. or maybe the dream you had. or maybe the way levi’s grey sweatshirt seems like it’s going to burst off his pecs. 

but it doesn’t matter. although this brand of torment wasn’t something taught in any of of your training, you’re still a soldier. 

though maybe not a great one. 

levi doesn’t miss the way your eyes don’t meet his for longer than a few moments. he doesn’t know it’s because the steel grey sets your inside aflame, can’t know how they’re still the same eyes that peered into your soul when he’d spend stolen nights making you feel full down to every pore in your body. he notices, but he doesn’t know, so of course it’s not surprise that after assigning the cadets their grim fate of dinner cleanup, levi is following in the steps you took when you scurried out of the mess hall as soon as your plate was empty. 

he doesn’t knock when he comes into your room. he doesn’t knock on anyone’s doors except the girls, but with you, you know it’s not about entitlement of the space like with the others. it’s sort of like intimacy. perhaps practice from late hours spent tip-toeing down the halls like teenagers and not affording the luxury of knocking lest anyone hear. 

he finds you lying on your bed with arms stretched out like a starfish and shins hanging off the foot. your intense stare with the ceiling is interrupted as you meet his eyes. he can’t help but frown at the intensity he sees in your face. 

“what happened?” are the first words out of his mouth. you huff and push your hands up your forehead, shaking your head as if to say, nothing happened. 

he comes to stand right in front of you, not quite touching your knees but close to it. you sit up and crane your neck up to look at him and again you feel like you’re on fire. with all that’s been going on, there’s been little time for each other. it isn’t the worst thing in the world, since neither of you could possibly have very high of a libido while planning your acts of treason against the monarchy. but today’s different. 

“what happened?” he asks again, but his tone is different. it’s the same question, but it means something else. a meaning only you understand, a question that doesn’t allude to strategy developments or new information. a question that prods at you gently and asks, tell me what you’re thinking about. tell me anything. 

“nothing,” you say. your voice is almost like a hum. you’re completely sheepish, but it’s overpowered by the pure force of whatever the hell your body is up to. you let the crown of your head rest against levi’s hard abdominal muscles. he instinctually brings up a hand to rest at the nape of your neck and smooth it over, his manner still expectant, attentive. “it’s really hot today,” you murmur. this is how it goes. you fumble with your words for some time until levi’s intuition does the job for you. he never chastises you, never asks for anything different, because he knows how hard it is sometimes to say the things that seem like they don’t belong in spoken words. he picks up on all your words and knows what to say and when to say it, and when to prod and when to listen. and he’s on cue.

“weather’s getting warmer,” and you mumble an mhm in agreement. “is it messing with your head? your body?” he asks. 

“my health is fine. i just feel a little…um…” you search for the words, and he’s so patient with you. “…frustrated.” 

his soft ministrations on the back of your neck stop, and after a moment he leans back a bit and brings a hand down to your face to pull it up so your eyes meet his. 

“why didn’t you say anything?” he asks. his tone is perfectly calm, doting. it makes it so easy to melt into his care. 

“wasn’t important.” levi frowns a little again. he moves so that he’s sitting beside you on the bed and in an instant he’s gathered you onto his lap. 

“tell me.” 

and so face buried in his neck and hands playing with his hair or tracing pondering shapes into his shoulder blade, you quietly recount the dreams you had the night before. fragmented memories where levi’s hands explore your body and you feel so full and it feels so scarily real that you couldn’t help but feel its effects well into waking. 

levi’s chest rises and falls deeply and steadily the whole time, running hands up and down your back and sides while listening intently. when you finally fall silent with hands clutching his sweatshirt, he pulls you back a bit to look at him. he pushes the hair away from your forehead and flattens the hair on one side of your head gently. 

“you want me to do that?” he asks. still, he’s calm. there’s no teasing or mocking or sarcasm in his voice. you nod your head. levi doesn’t waste time in gently pushing you off his lap and turning you around to lay you on the bed. you’re splayed out with softly bent limbs and just a little short of breath, and when you stare up at levi, the way your eyes are so big and vulnerable has levi ready to do whatever it takes to bring you the relief you need. 

note: im literally SO SORRY this isnt even actual filth but i made it almost 1k and was like “either im gonna lose motivation to write out the whole thing or i can make it a cute lil lewd with what i have” feel free to request something new again aaah i feel so bad

[impossible-rat-babies]

don’t stop (color on the walls)

fallen hero | 2.3k words | post second escape | cw: graphic depictions of violence + mild gore

read on ao3

--

It’s a clear night out tonight, the sky an endless dome stretching miles and miles overhead out into deep inky blackness bespectacled by freckled stars. 

Pollux blows a stream of smoke out of his mouth and it drifts up and up until it dissipates and he wonders if any particles of the smoke will reach that impossibly high ceiling. If they’ll touch moon perched on the roof, staring down at him with her grey blue light. 

He glances down at his hands, still bandaged and aching, lit instead by the fluorescence and the red and green neon glow from the gas station behind him. His shadow stretching long and narrow, falling across the desert dirt towards the dusty two lane highway disappearing out west. He breathes out again, the chill of the dry desert air stings in his nose when he takes a deep breath. It still hurts his lungs and his lips are broken and chapped, the wind sharp against his skin and he scratches the side of his face, sand and dirt rubbing off on his hand. He’s already got a fine layer of sand and dust under his clothes and it itches, but it’s better than what he came from.

The stolen sweatshirt itches and smells like cheap booze and sweat, the oversized sweat pants tied off as tightly as he can manage, but they still need coaxing to stay up. He looks back out east, across the desert and a shiver runs down his back staring into the darkness of those looming hills. It’s been days now, he can feel it in his joints, his aching muscles and in the caffeine shakes making his leg bounce, paranoia sharp as a knife when he hasn’t slept in three days.

If they were going to come after him, they would have by now.

Or maybe they were still busy cleaning up the mess he left behind. He picks at the dark lines wedged under his fingernails, flicking away the dried blood and dirt.

He’d cleaned the worst of the viscera off at the first abandoned house in some podunk hundred and fifty person town--a quick bucket and hose bath to scrub away the worst of it. Patched the worst of the hurts with a stolen first aid kit and cheap vodka to calm the shakes and practiced hands make quick work. He’d scrubbed raw and shuffled away the memories of what he had done too, letting them scab over and scar. Days later and miles away and there’s no regret in his actions—nothing he hasn’t done before.

Fool you once, shame on me, fool you twice, shame on you. A lesson they all learned too late and Pollux quickly rubs goosebump sticky arms.

Thoughts best left for later and he takes another long drag of his cigarette before he drops it to the ground and kicks some dirt over it. He needs to find actual shoes, his feet numb with scraps and burns from desert. He turns back to the gas station, the sad looking thing still clinging to life from a threadbare wire linking it to the rest of the chain which traces the narrow highway. A pulse, a guiding light to the south. Las Vegas and then west further still, down through what highways remain to the ocean—to the city that lies at those ruined shores.

There’s a few truckers packing up their things, shuffling around their big rigs and filling up at the meager pumps for the inevitable long days ahead of them. Pollux had picked one out earlier—an older woman heading just the direction he needed. 

She’d seen him inside earlier, moving through the aisles of candy and assorted snacks, poking at the chips and sneakily sticking packages of fruit snacks in the pockets of his sweatshirt when the attendant wasn’t looking too hard. She had saddled up next to him, taking the package of chips he had been reaching for and tucked them under her arm, hand held out expectantly. Her eyes drifting down to the drooping pocket of his sweatshirt with a pointed frown. 

He’d almost panicked, dropped everything and disappeared back into the desert--he could find his own way South. He’d done it before. But...there was no intent to rat him out, only give him a chance to not get caught. Give him a chance to mess this up; care about him a little.

Maybe that’s what made it easy, taking what was in his pockets out and passing them off to her one by one like some kid coughing up the candy they’d stolen from the jar and shoved in their cheeks.

He’d stood beside her like some poor lost child, eyeing everything around them while she checked out. Tucking an energy drink or two under her arm before she’d passed him his own meager bag with yet another look, thick southern drawl of a thank you for the attendant.

He fusses with the plastic handle of the snacks digging into his hand, peeling the wrapper from off the one of two packages of cigarettes she had added on his meager hoard of snacks. A little way to sweeten the pot for his honesty, he had easily picked up from her casual mind. 

She was kindly enough to offer a helping hand, but knowing enough to not get curious--her assumptions secure. Ironic how little work he has to do sometimes when people will fill in the gaps of what they want to see: just a poor runaway with nothing to his name, looking to head south to the coast. Disappear into the big city and be nothing--be a nobody.

He clambers up into the passenger seat, dumping his bagged snacks on the middle seat and it smells like cigarette smoke and cheaply made new care smell trees—half a dozen of them dangle from the rear view mirror. A lanyard hangs alongside them with small polaroids clipped to the key ring. Children, he’s guessing: grown daughter out east, living in up in New York—at some big architect firm and there’s a touch of pride in all those memories. A high school aged son back home, deep in the bowels of Los Diablos. He doesn’t care to poke more, settling deeper into the passenger seat once she too hops in.

He tucks his aching, stinging feet under him and cranes his neck to look out the window, watching a she slowly gets the big rigged turned around and headed off down the highway. The truck lurches and protests with the shifting of the gears, but it gets up to speed and the telephone poles and electric wires fly by, disappearing into the dark once the headlights hit them and pass on by. He counts their movement by the dip and rise of the wires from one pole to the next, the light from the moon too weak to keep pace.

Pollux cranes his neck up to look up at the moon and the scattering of stars this late at night, the buzz of the radio nothing but warm static against his ears. The heat of the vents blasting him in the face and still he looks out the window, wondering what it would be like to fall from the surface of that domed ceiling where the moon makes her home. If there would be anything left to salvage after that catastrophe, hitting the earth at terminal velocity. He would be nothing but a splatter, a crater in the wet sticky mud, utterly obliterated and there’s no coming back from that.

He thought it would be like that after the gun--after the window, nothing left to rebuild. But there was--they did. Dragged him kicking and screaming back with a tube shoved down his throat and white hot lights above an operating table. A new hip, knee and shoulder and spine--a persistent ache and he runs his thumb across the puckered scar near his shoulder. He winces, closing his eyes.

“Hey sugar, you okay?”

A deep breath and he yanks his head up, the driver giving him a long look out of the corner of her eye, cigarette dangling from her lips.

“You look like shit, darling. Go ahead and have a smoke.” She plucks the pack from the cup holder and urges him to take it.

“Thanks...” Pollux mumbles, pulling a cigarette from the package and he quickly sparks it up, sucking in a long breath. The nicotine settles the shakes and he rests back against the seat, head rolling to look out the drivers side window.

“You heading to Los Diablos?” She asks, testing the waters it feels like--getting a read on him.

“Yeah...”

“Got a place to stay when you get there? Someone to look out for you?” She looks over at Pollux again and he nods. Generous, wanting to look out for him--knows a thing or two about runaways. He’s not the first to sit in her passenger seat on this long drive; maybe the worst looking out of all of them. He pulls the hood up on his sweatshirt just a bit, running his fingers over his smooth scalp.

“Yeah, I got a plan when I get there. I’ve been there before--ran away there before.” He purses his lips, a little honesty creeping through. Just to sell it a bit more, give her the right impression.

“Didn’t stick around then, eh?” 

Pollux snorts and shakes his head, cracking the window to let a bit of the smoke out.

“Wanted to stay. But...wasn’t as good at hiding as I thought.”

Hiding in plain sight sure. Should’ve actually hidden, laid low, been a nobody. Carved out a life watching the Rangers on television screens in ancient electronic store windows and listen to them on half broken radios in homeless camps huddled in a sleeping bag. But he just had to stick his nose out--seen some poor chump harassing people in an alleyway, steps one, two, and three to take him down and it was all downhill from the moment his fist made contact. Sure he saved those people from a stolen wallet and some stitches, but then he did it again. And once more after that, and again.

It was just about the rush at first--like the first cigarette in the morning--the consuming way violence felt when deprived of it for so long. Unable to lash out, fists curling in excuses to crack his fingers.

It burned at first, the need to destroy--to wreck and scream and screech and tear out his growing hair all because he could. Or maybe it was like being drunk, high off the power and ability to let go. Let himself destroy a little, grin a little too wide and laugh a bit too loud. He isn’t proud of those first few months, taking down back alley slum lords and drug kings, high off the thrill of being able to do something to people that hurt him. Left a lot of bloodied messes--killed a few people in the rush. 

Not like it changed anything.

Not like he still doesn’t feel that need. Escaping the Farm was just the means to an end and whomever got in the way, got in the way. He’s still nursing a steady ache deep at the base of his neck and his temples, the strain of Numbers and the dampeners almost too much. Clumsy, inefficient--only breaking their brains like a toddler on a rage induced temper tantrum breaks their toys.

Some of them might recover, brains only half turned off, or only a mild seizure to stall their progress. Others won’t. Brains squeezed until they ruptured, seizures enough to hemorrhage, hands breaking windpipes, necks twisted until they cracked. Indulging in the need to destroy, letting his fingernails dig into faces, dig into eyes and oh how easy it was to scoop and pluck them out. Tongues and throats too--the body so soft and pliant like the mind.

Laughing and laughing himself silly while they screamed and begged and there’s no mercy left between his fingers.

“Well...” She speaks up, cutting through his thoughts and she’s back to looking at the dark road in front of them. Swallowing hard, she continues: “whatever was causing you pain where you came from, it’s good you’re not there anymore. No one deserves that...” So resolute and he’s too tired to laugh. Throat still sore.

“If you need a place to stay, or anything like that...I got a spare bedroom at home you can stay at. Long as you need. Maybe a spare pair of shoes, too.”

She wants to help, wants to help so badly and there’s more too it. Little girl, running away from home herself so many years ago--there’s mirrors upon mirrors decorating her thoughts, reflections of the past and the present and he draws his shields up tighter, bundling them around himself to block her out.

“Thank you...” He replies softly, still undecided but her caring...it’s a bit clumsy, a bit messy and tangled, but it’s genuine and its better than most.

She nods, returning her attention to the road.

The radio is turned up, some song he doesn’t recognize fading out into some late night news commentary. Tensions growing tighter overseas, the economy still hiccuping and sputtering with trade deals still on hold in Los Diablos. Some new villain upstart handedly taken in by the Rangers, cutting to some official press debriefing with Steel’s voice laced with carefully scripted professionalism.

Years ago and it was a different voice, a very different man behind the speaker and he was just some poor kid standing stock straight among the rest of the Rangers, hands tucked into fists behind his back.

No more press conferences with blinding camera lights and too many thoughts roaring in his ears. No more sleeping under bridges, no more tiny radios clutched to his chest. No more rules, no more what those old days represent, the voices coming through the radio--the familiar names talking about anniversaries of six and four years past.

“It’ll be a long ways to Los Diablos, so get some sleep. You look like you need it, sugar.” She adds on and Pollux nods rather than argues, letting the cigarette hang between his feet, ash dripping off the end and onto the floor mat between long drags.

The cigarette burns down to the butt, the heat uncomfortable against his skin but it too dies as the embers burn out. There’s nothing but a stub left and he discards it amongst the others crowding the cup holder, one lost amongst the many. He scrunches the hood up tight, tucking his hands into his sleeves. Letting the rocking and lurching of the truck steadily take over his senses.

Five hours--just a little longer on these first few steps and then he’ll be home.

[burnedbyshoto]

Hey, Amor! I was wondering if you could do Fluff- #6 “You look really good in my sweater”, NSFW -# 1 “Lay back and touch yourself. I want to watch”, and “Say my name. Louder.” With Todoroki and fem! s/o but, instead it’s Todo doing these things?

todoroki shouto x reader

“You look really good in my sweater”

“Lay back and touch yourself. I want to watch”

“Say my name. Louder.”

warnings: smut

a/n: i went way too overboard... its 1.8k words..... but also me, 5′1, 126 lbs who wears a small in sweaters, tryna talk about why my 5′9 bf shouto who definitely can't fit in my sweater is wearing my sweater without being mean: ...did you shrink your laundry, dumbass????

You ran into your apartment building, soaked to the core due to the pouring rain outside. Despite being drenched to the bone, you turned and laughed at Shouto who was equally as soaked.

The two of you had decided to have a quiet and cute picnic at the park. You had been wearing the cutest floral dress you owned. Shouto was in a white t-shirt and dark blue jeans. The fabrics of your outfits pressing like second skins to your bodies.

“Why is the weather the absolute worse right now?!” You laugh as Shouto opens the door to the staircase, and the two of you climb up the stairs at a fast speed to get these clothes off of your skin.

“Give me your hand,” Shouto says as you’re three steps in front of him. Smiling you stretch out your right hand, and his left one grasps yours. His hand heats up against your cold, wet skin and you hum contently. 

“Not gonna lie, if you ever want to freeze me in an iceberg, I’d be okay with it.” You state as you turn back forward and continue climbing the stairwell.

“That would be an awful waste of my quirk,” Shouto informs you, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

Entering your apartment, you toss your wet heels in the pile of shoes you own and turn to Shouto who’s peeling his own off, including his socks. You stare at him with a smile as he stretched back to full length, and you press your cold wet lips against his own.

His face is deliciously warm as he pulls you in closer. The wet fabric almost ignorable as his hands roam your backside. Switching from your waist to the top of your ass. You thread your fingers through his shaggy hair, his styled hair now long ruined due to the rain and the natural heat of his body.

You pull away. Your eyes fluttering open as Shouto exhales shakily. God, did this boy make your heart clench in the best of ways. “I’m going to shower? Do you want to as well?” You ask.

Shouto nods as he presses a kiss to your cheek, “Let’s go.”

The two of you shower together, your shampoo covered hands gently rubbing circles into his hair as he stayed underneath the hot jets of water. You smile even more as Shouto turns you around and shampoos your hair. Showers with Shouto were honestly soul cleansing as he presses a kiss to your shoulder as the two of you finish up.

“I don’t have clothes,” Shouto says as he stares at his still drying clothes in your dryer.

“Oh, I have some you can borrow!” You call from your room. 

Shouto walks over to see you pulling a large grey t-shirt over your head. It’s his shirt, and it extends all the way to the middle of your thighs. He did, however, catch a glimpse at the maroon thong you were wearing. Shouto watched with the towel resting around his waist as you pulled out a few things from your drawer, and handed it to him. Kissing him softly as you left the room to let him change.

Shouto unfurled the clothes and sighed in amusement. It was his sweater, sweatpants, and underwear. All of which you had stolen from him months ago. 

Slipping them on, Shouto relishes in your scent. The smell of your detergent and apple shampoo hanging onto the fabric. A sure tell sign that it was more yours than his now.

Walking out with the towel to his head, slowly drying his hair, Shouto smiled as you sat on the couch. Your legs pulled into your chest as you scrolled through your phone. A bright smile on your face.

You noticed him as your eyes left the screen of your phone and locked on your boyfriend who was smiling at you. It was moments like this that made your heart beat faster. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing in this world that mattered. The only one that he loved.

Biting your lip playfully, your eyes raked his body in the clothes you had long ago claimed as your own. “You look really good in my sweater,” You giggle as Shouto snorts in agreement. You get off the couch and saunter over, making sure to grin widely as you wrap your arms around his shoulders. You pull him down for a kiss.

Shouto resists your pull as he instead presses a kiss to your temple. “I really do, huh?” You groan in sadness as his hands sit below your ribcage. He was doing this on purpose. Shouto only held his hand to your ribcage when photos were being taken. He never wanted to be bombarded with asks about his personal life with you, and it always seemed to be a focal interest to most people.

“Kiss me,” You whisper as you step even closer to Shouto. Your body pressed against his so there was no space in between you. “Like you’ll never get to kiss me again.”

Shouto rolls his eyes as your exaggerations, but he brings his lips back to yours. You may not be cold anymore, but his warm lips against your own send a fire heating in your face. His kiss is slow, languid, smooth.

A shaky breath leaves your mouth as the kiss deepens. His hands gently placed above the curves of your ass. Your hands move from around his neck to his chest, gripping your sweatshirt as he holds you close. The friction of your kiss keeping you warm.

You shift your weight up, rising to the balls of your feet as the kiss slowly picks up. Pants exchanged in each other's mouths as you both try breathing normally. Failing miserably as the sweetness in the kiss is overwhelming.

Your hands shift again to his hair. Your fingers twisting within his wet locks. The shakey moan that is devoured by you instantly sparking the timbers within your veins. You press forcefully into him, and you can feel his hands tightening their hold on your back. His hands stretching below your ass to hoist you up.

The kiss never stops. Lips exchanging a secret language as Shouto walks you to the room. Both your eyes closed shut tightly, no one wanting this moment to be over.

Breathless, he sets you on the bed, and you open your eyes to see Shouto removing your sweatshirt. His muscles rippling from the movement and the fire in your belly begins to burn away, he was so damn beautiful. You move to sit on your knees, intercepting Shouto before he can climb on top of you. Your thumb traces the outline of his scar, and Shouto freezes. As he always does when you do so.

Three people in the world have touched his scar. His mother, his father, and you. He stills as you concentrate your attention on his burn. The red skin feeling like leather against your thumb. So Shouto flutters his eyes closed as you lean forward and press your lips to his scar. The gentle kiss enveloping his heart in almost unrecognizable emotion.

You pull away and tug him onto the bed. Neither one of you speaking as you pull off his bottoms and underwear. “Would you do something?” You ask him. Your eyes looking at his semi-hard member, and he nods silently. Shouto would do anything for you. “Lay back and touch yourself. I want to watch.” You whisper.

The words are a typically a command, Shouto, after all, has used it against you before, but the way you look into his eyes... it makes him believe it’s something so much more. He nods his head as his hand goes to grasp himself, and his back rests against your pillows. A shaky gasp escapes his lips as his hand slowly begins moving up and down. The movements against his shaft alongside the way you’re staring at him seemingly lost, yet so in love makes Shouto tremble.

His tongue licks his lips as he imagines your guys the first time. The gentle way you introduced him to sex, and his hand tightened against his dick. Shouto closed his eyes as his hand began pumping harder, his other hand moving to roll the tip of his head with his thumb. He shudders at the feeling. His pre-cum beading out slowly. 

Shouto thinks of you, your smile, your laugh. The way you made him truly believe he was going to live a happy life because you were here with him. So, he gasps your name as his hips involuntarily buck against his hand.

Pants and groans leave his throat as his hand moves along his shaft, he aches for it to be you squeezing along him, but he was doing this for you! But the tentative hand that stops his, makes Shouto open his eyes. Your staring at him, your cheeks flushed, your eyes clouded with love as he notices that you’ve stripped to your underwear.

Shouto wastes no time to drag you over, his hands slipping your underwear away as he rolls on top of you. “I love you,” He whispers.

Tears well in your eyes as you laugh, your head nodding. “I love you too, so so much.” You cry as he kisses away your tears.

“Are you ready?” Shouto asks you, and you nod shifting on the pillows for a better position for the both of you.

Shouto slowly enters you, his hand steading your hips for the easiest entrance. You pant harshly as his wide girth still overwhelms you. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Shoucchan...” You whisper as Shouto nods against your shoulder.

You’re overwhelming tight around him.

Slowly, Shouto moves in you. His hips snapping back and forward slowly. Breathless moans leaving your lips as you come to meet him with every thrust.

Your cries drive Shouto wild as they’re all done without his name.

“Say my name,” Shouto begs, wishing for that small praise from you. Your walls were quickly getting him to his orgasm.

You don’t disappoint as his name is cried softly from your lips.

“Louder.”

“Oh my god, yes, Shouto!” You splutter as you legs begin shaking underneath him.

Shouto can feel your walls contracting against him, over and over, the rate increasing until finally! Your back arches off the bed and Shouto grunts, his own orgasm hitting seconds after.

He falls on top of you, and your hands roam his naked back.

“I love you.” You whisper as you press a kiss to his sweaty forehead.

“I love you more,” Shouto says as he kisses your collarbone.

Even as the rain rolls on, the love between the two of you is something that will never be replaced.

[yunggumii]

after reading your rules can i please have a scenario with asahi with reader braiding his hair while they’re just relaxing! tons of fluff and maybe some short nsfw ;) hehe thank you so much but you don’t have to if you don’t want to 💓

ofc !! i feel like asahi is such an underrated character and needs more love (;´д｀) #moreloveforazumane

smells like lavender

azumane x gn!reader

summary: you take care of your exhausted boyfriend after a long, late-night practice

includes: fluff, light cursing, and sexual references

wc: 1.229K

scenario below the cut

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The water was torrid as it filled up the tub, its steam rising from the surface; your boyfriend Azumane was at practice all day and you figured that once he got home he would be exhausted and sweaty, ergo you decided to start a bath for him. The aroma of the lavender scented essential oil permeated the washroom as it infused itself with the water’s vapor. Suddenly, you hear the familiar sound of the front door unlocking.

“Welcome home, babe~” you greet Asumane with a cordial smile, “How did practice go?”

“Hey, Y/N. Practice was good, Coach worked us pretty hard tonight.” He let out a spent sigh, leaning against the wall for support as he removed his shoes, “I can already feel my muscles stiffening.”

“Aw, you poor thing.” you say with a sympathetic frown, “Good thing I have a bath waiting for you! Hopefully that’ll help relax you a bit.”

Asahi lifts his head, his unfeigned expression warming your heart, “You’re so thoughtful, Y/N. I really appreciate that.” He places his lips upon your forehead, pecking it softly as he brings you in for a hug.

“I love you.”

You giggle, inhaling deeply before you speak, “I love you too, but you really need to bathe.”

Azumane chuckles, releasing you from his embrace, “Alright, alright. Let’s go.” You take his hand in yours, leading him into the bathroom; the air was marginally humid when you entered since the majority of the steam leaked through the bottom threshold, but the water was still hot. The both of you stripped, tossing your clothes into a hamper and grabbing the soaps and towels and placing them near the edge of the tub. You dip your foot in, the warmth of the water enveloping your form as you submerged.

“Wow, this feels nice.” You say as a prolonged sigh slips from your mouth; Asahi steps in, causing the water’s level to rise a bit. He groans, his back resting against the wall of the tub.

“Yeah, smells nice too. Is this lavender?” he asks.

You nod your head, a small yet proud smile spreads across your face, “Mhm!”

“Good choice. It’s very calming.” he says, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

“I figured you’d say that.” You say with a giggle as you bring your body closer to him.

“Okay, let’s clean you up!”

Asahi lets out a grunt as you grab onto his arm, pulling him upright, “We’ll start with washing your hair.” You cup your hands beneath the surface and lift them above his head, letting the water flow as you pour. Reaching for the bottle of shampoo, you pop open the cap and let the soap ooze onto your hand. A low moan fell from his lips as you pressed your fingers into his scalp, spreading the suds throughout his locks.

“You must be enjoying this, hmm?” You say with a chuckle. Asahi adored having his hair played with; whether you were brushing it, styling it, or pulling it—his hair was a total weak spot and doing anything to it never ceased to arouse him.

“Hell yeah, I am.” he replies.

“Good~” you say as tug on his hair playfully, eliciting another moan from him.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to toy with him more; to tease him while he’s drained of his energy and can’t resist, but you knew that moment wouldn’t last long—his posture seemed to slouch the longer he sat in the warm water. You rinse the shampoo from his hair, the bubbles sliding down his form and onto the surface of the water. “Time to wash your body!” You say, grabbing the body wash and drizzling the soap on a loofah. You circled the mesh-ball around his chest, then his stomach; dragging it over his defined abs. As you splash the suds from his body, you feel his hands grip your wrists gingerly.

“I know I said it already, but I really do appreciate this.” His words were candid and you could tell; Asahi was the type of person to show his gratitude frequently, regardless if it was on the court, or at home and no matter how small the favor was.

You grin ear to ear, bringing your hands to cup his face, “I appreciate you giving me the opportunity, babe~”

He places his lips on yours, smiling into the kiss, “Thank you, Y/N.”

You hum in response, pulling away slowly to speak, “Let’s get out of the tub how, okay?”

Azumane nods his head and reaches for the towels, passing the first one to you. The both of you step out of the tub, the water dripping off your bodies as you stand on the mat. Suddenly, a shiver shoots down your spine, causing goosebumps to rise on your arms and legs.

“I’m freezing.” You say between clattering teeth. The cold air struck the uncovered parts of your body as you left the bathroom.

“Here.” Azumane says as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer to his warm body—he smelled like the lavender oil. You both enter the bedroom and get dressed; Azumane sports a pair of black running shorts, his underwear peaking above the waist band, while you wore a pair of grey sweatpants and one of his many stolen sweatshirts. You jump onto the bed, burrowing yourself underneath the comforter as Asumane dries off his hair. He tosses the towel into the hamper and pulls out a brush from the dresser’s drawer, running it through his dampened locks.

“Ooh, ooh! Can I braid your hair?” You ask, peaking your head up from the mountain of blankets.

Azumane chuckles, “Of course.” He sits at the edge of the bed, his back facing you as you scoot forward. You grab hold of his wet hair, separating them into three, even sections. You begin to weave the hair, overlapping them continuously until you finally get into a rhythm; it’s slow at first, but the more you braid, the faster your pace gets. You tie the end with a rubber band, letting the finished braid fall limp against his back. Azumane reached his hand behind his head, running it over the braid, “Woah, this braid is really good! There aren’t any stray pieces hanging loose.”

You smile proudly, placing your hands on your hips, “Well, I am the best braider ever, so it makes sense~”

He spins his body around, facing you.

“You’re so cute.” He says as he playfully ruffles your hair. He kisses your cheek before making his way to the top of the bed. He pats the spot next to him, signaling for you to lay next to him. You comply, crawling over and laying your head on his chest. He wraps his arm around you, placing his hand on your hip. You could hear the slow beating of his heart. With a smile on your face, you speak, “I love you, Azumane.”

He squeezes your waist, placing his lips upon the top of your head.

“I love you too. Sweet dreams, Y/N~”

You yawned, the melatonin flowing through your bloodstream. You don’t remember being this tired since just a moment ago, you were full of energy; but allas, the heaviness of your eyelids begin to weigh them down until they finally closed—your sight consumed by the still darkness of slumber as you drift off to sleep.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

taglist✨: @j3lly0gre @imagine-bakery @vventure @hq-cuties @blobbyx2blobfish @baby-boy-taichi @gulfwanq @poppirocks @xiorrawrites

if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist, just ask ★彡

[xperiwrites]

Horsepower

When they were told that Jaskier was moving their meeting to another location and that he was ‘sending a ride’ they didn’t think that ride would be the Witcher.

“I... can take the bus?” they offered, shuffling further from the curb—further from the sleek metallic grey Porche idling there, and the eerie yellow eyes of the Witcher inside.

His face didn’t change, looking at them through the open passenger window.

The doors audibly unlocked. They flinched.

“O-or I could, yeah, I’ll just...” Words died under the Witcher’s glare, their mouth unaccountably dry.

They got into the car.

“Hmm.”

The Witcher waited long enough for them to buckle in before pulling seamlessly back into traffic, the engine nearly silent—the sound of the window seamlessly sliding back up into place almost seemed loud in comparison. There was no music playing. They held their bag to their chest, phone in hand, and glanced at their deeply, deeply intimidating driver—when something in the back caught their eye. A slight—shine.

Suspended in what were clearly specially made straps across the back two seats were a pair of swords.

Actual, death dealing swords, of the sort that a Witcher would (of course) have at hand and not at all like the props one sees on television. The aura about them promised death and dismemberment; there was a weight to their existence, like years of having to be sluiced free of blood and other vital fluids had given them malevolent life.

It felt much like suddenly realizing you were in a car with a barely restrained Barghest.

A creature, one might note, that they only knew about due to the song Jaskier made detailing their utter defeat at the hands of his Witcher.

A hard knot caught somewhere in their throat as they looked at the rather distinctive silver and steel swords very clearly suspended for easy access... and they very slowly turned back to the front, clearing their throat. They fingered at the little fluffy charm hanging from their phone; tried to think hard on the fact that this was the same Witcher who sent pictures of cute things to Jaskier. Sent smiley faces with a colon-parentheses like a grandparent who’d soon ask what the eggplant emoji was for. Tried very hard not to think about the follow up pictures.

dead now. smiley face.

Stop thinking about it.

“So,” they shook their head to banish the though, “Um... Nice car?” Their voice was startlingly loud in the quiet car.

“Hmm.”

Well that sounded... a bit like agreement. Maybe? It also sounded like shut up, kind of, but the next words were already out of their mouth.

“It’s a... uh, Porsche? A rather nice one, too, one of the newer models? Kind of, um...” They swallowed again, didn’t know how to finish saying kind of not what I imagined you driving, as it was a tad impolite. It also didn’t actually get across that they could only barely get past the idea that the Witcher traveled any other way than by horse by conceding that perhaps,

Sometimes,

The man travelled by bear. Maybe. Or maybe by way of a cart pulled by an arrangement of monsters—well, perhaps a Porsche isn’t so hard to imagine anyway—

“I know horses.” Their eyes snapped to the Witcher’s face, rambling thoughts interrupted. “This is a car.”

The man really did have a voice like an avalanche, didn’t he?

It took a moment for the words to break through the brief terror of having the man actually speak to them, and a moment longer for the two separate statements to connect.

So... the Witcher didn’t know about cars? Had a fancy car like this one and didn’t... their thought trailed into nothing, eyes drifting down to the rather hard-worn grey hooded sweatshirt and perhaps equally hard worn jeans.

The grey of the sweatshirt hinted in a somewhat terrible way that it might have at one point been white. The jeans bluntly showed off a history of blood-and-other splatter that over the years refused to be washed out.

They remembered Jaskier complaining that the Witcher wouldn’t wear anything other than black steel toed boots, and would wear said boots until they could not be worn any longer.

He had a rather plain black shirt on, too, one that made the shining silver of his Witcher Medallion stand out all the more. He certainly didn’t dress like he’d buy a Porsche, and they knew Jaskier had little to no interest in cars.

“Ah. Right.”

They nodded once and faced forward once more, face settling somewhat grimly.

So the Witcher has stolen a car. They knew laws bent in all sorts of ways for monster hunters, Witchers in particular. They still ran through what to do should the media try to come at Jaskier for his felonious paramour, what a PR nightmare—

Mmnh

They—they hadn’t heard... what? Wait.

Mmnh

It came again over the cars speakers, breathless and moaning and just at the cusp of guttural and—

Mmnh

And very obviously Jaskiers voice.

They kept their (very wide) eyes forward, face heating when, after another minute, another notification came through the cars speakers. Mmnh

They dared a glance, and saw a very small uptick at the corner of the Witchers mouth.

What the fuck.

The car came to a stop, was turned off, and the doors unlocked. They barely reacted to having those swords in the back coming very close don’tkillme when the Witcher clicked something from the harness and pulled them between the seats, hauling himself out of the car while they were still fumbling with the door handle.

Their face still felt very hot as they followed the Witcher into a surprisingly packed cafe, the people crowding at the door making way for the Witcher—as anyone would, they think, trying not to stare at the twin swords strapped to his back. He just... carries them around... all the time?

The reason for the crowd soon became obvious—Jaskier was at centre stage at the back of the cafe surrounded by a group of people with instruments. His hands are moving, animated, as he discussed something with them. Hanging above the low stage was a rather small sign:

OPEN MIC MONDAYS

(And Sundays)

All Welcome

BYOM

Of course.

There was something else printed below it but they were too far to read it—they hurried forward, squeezing around a couple who had moved back into the space the Witcher had left through the crowd, rushing to catch up.

They could see Jaskier’s head turn as the Witcher got closer, as if he could somehow sense his presence—saw the way his whole face lit up at the sight of him, eyes yet again impossibly fond for this large, gruff... man.

“Ah, Geralt! Ah, you’ve found my unfailing manager! Did you get my texts?”

Their face flushed anew at the reminder when they saw the Witcher’s head tilt, and the people surrounding the singer all took a small step back. Jaskier’s smile took a teasing edge to it as he strolled forward, hopping off the short stage (more of a step, really) to sidle close enough to hook his arm around the Witchers waist.

“Oh, none of that, darling, you know you can’t bring Roach around with you everywhere. Besides,” Jaskier’s other hand trailed up the Witchers chest to cup the back of his neck. “She would have been bored to tears waiting for us here, unable to hear my dulcet tones, and you know I couldn’t resist bring your own music—this is practically my origin story!”

They looked again at the sign now that they were closer and saw that the smaller text was that exactly—and, despite Jaskier’s rising fame, they hadn’t yet managed to convince their attention hungry singer that he didn’t need to participate in every ‘open mic’ that he found.

A quick glance around saw quite a few people sporting various articles of autographed clothing, clutching autographed napkins. They saw one person proudly showing off the black ink of their autographed clavicle; it was loud in the cafe, but they were almost certain they’d heard the word tattoo thrown around, which, really.

They shook their head and cleared their throat, grabbing attention from where the two were gazing intensely (the Witcher) and adoringly (Jaskier) at each other. It was easier to be relaxed around the Witcher with Jaskier around.

“So this is why we can’t have a meeting at a nice, quiet venue?”

Jaskier smiled winningly, what they internally named his ‘won’t I look lovely on a poster’ smile, and leaned further into the Witchers chest. The other man didn’t so much as sway.

“Well, the fine operators of this lovely cafe have so graciously allowed us use of one of their private rooms—ordinarily,” he said, leaning in closer, “only allowed for special occasions and for those pre-paying for a business lunch! Well, if a meeting with my manager isn’t both a special occasion and a business lunch, then what do I know?”

“Hmm.”

“Ohoho, now, now,” Jaskier’s head snapped back toward the Witcher, grinning widely and stroking the back of his fingers against the other mans stubble. The other man leaned into the caress, and Jaskier shifted to cupping his face oh so gently. “I’m sure there’s no need for any of that, dearest. They were also lovely enough to allow us use of the room for as long as we’d like today at no charge...” Jaskier turned back to them and winked. “...With lunch.”

They expected it was likely due to the increased patronage brought in by having Jaskier singing at their cafe, and the possibility of yet more after their meeting was done, but decided to keep this observation private.

Jaskier turned back to the Witcher, head tilted, and they were struck by the fact that there wasn’t actually a large height difference between the two; it only seemed that way due to the Witcher’s rather large, hulking presence. Muscles like that could make anyone seem small.

It was interesting seeing how gently he rested those brutal hands against his singer’s slight waist, trailing up and down his ribs, fingers soft against the fabric of his shirt.

“Now as for you, my dear, would you like to stay for my meeting or head out? Ah,” Jaskier tilted his head, and they couldn’t see what changed in the Witchers expression but it made Jaskier look smug. “See, I thought as much, so I had the foresight to ask for something made to go.”

And, see, this was why they were certain right from when they first met that Jaskier was destined for the limelight—because the man made a grand gesture, unwrapping himself from the Witcher, and a woman wearing an apron with the cafe’s logo on it appeared with a steaming to-go cup and a small paper bag. The man had an impeccable sense of dramatic flair and excellent timing.

“Why thank you, Lee,” he nodded with a short, courtly bow and a wink that had her smiling, before handing off the two to the stone-faced Witcher. They thought that was that, but then Jaskier was slipping his fingers through his belt loops, and tugging him closer—that the Witcher went, and easily, was what had their eyebrows rising.

“Now, I’ve fed and caffeinated you now give me a kiss and be on your way.”

They flushed when the Witcher grinned and leaned down so slowly to do just that, earning some hooting from those about the room and some drum pounding from those still on the stage, and had to look away when the kiss went on a little longer than perhaps necessary—

They finally parted, a small smile on the Witchers face surprisingly soft when he leaned down to press one, two more small kisses that had Jaskier leaning in to give one more of his own.

It was a flushed and beaming Jaskier who linked arms with them, glancing after the Witcher as he left, calling farewell to those who protested when it was clear the man wasn’t going onstage for another set...

Because that’s what they’d witnessed the man do again and again, singing and playing and then circling the crowd for a break before going up, again and again until either the venue was closing or, in places with alcohol, until he’d had enough to drink to keep him from making it back to the stage again.

But then, they’d also witnessed in such a situation that Jaskier would simply continue to sing or play from wherever he had landed, be it bar, barstool, table, or floor, and go on further still.

The room that they went to was bright and welcoming, the seats comfortable, and admittedly a nicer place for their meeting than where they’d initially planned. They’d been in contact with a few agents with a variety of contracts and shows that they think would be of interest for Jaskier.

They managed to get through quite a few of them, some of the staff from the cafe bringing in pre-cut artisanal sandwiches, hand sized quiches, a display of fruit cut bite-sized, and finishing with a small bowl each of something chilled and creamy with a drizzle of maple syrup. They’d each gotten through two drinks, too—Jaskier having apparently already given their order before their meeting—before sticking to water.

Hmm

“Ah,” Jaskier held up one finger, phone no longer face down on the table, “one moment.”

“You know,” they can’t keep from saying, watching Jaskier beam at his phone and type through what looks like a novel’s worth of emoji’s. “The Witcher... he didn’t... read your texts in the car...”

“Oh, d’you like the car?” Jaskier finished typing and settled his elbow on the table, chin set against his fist. “His rust bucket of a car got crushed when he was going after some Royal Wyvern—he was grumbling about it since even he’s aware that he can’t just bring Roach about with him everywhere, despite what he said earlier—

They frowned, head tilting. Despite what he said...?

“...And he was going to pick out any car without doing any research as to how dependable it is, and really, imagine if he’s out and about and his car breaks down and there’s no Roach to be found and then where will he be? So I looked up ‘reliable cars 2019’—”

“Reliable cars 2019?? You—”

“Well of course I’m not going to look up ‘reliable cars 2020’ it’s hardly been any time at all, they could go to shit after six months and we wouldn’t know it, so it was lucky that there were results with that search since we got the first one that popped up!”

“You... you chose to buy the first car when searching reliable cars 2019?” The conversation had gotten away from them

“Of course!” Jaskier lounged back in his chair and popped a grape in his mouth. “I’m not going to choose the second, right? He still has another car for when he needs to go off-roading, obviously, but we call this his ‘city car’ and it’s a, uh, oh shoot what’s it called...”

They couldn’t do more than stare while their singer scrolled through something in his phone, top lip caught between his teeth. “Just give me a moment, I just e-mailed the dealers to have one ready for Geralt, and he insisted on paying in cash, so...

“Ah, here it is, so It’s a 9-1-1 Carrera, um, por-shee—oh! Porsche! Well, well, well,” he looked up from his phone looking mightily impressed with himself. “I accidentally chose a fancy car, huh? You know, there are some words you only ever read and then don’t know how to say aloud until you google it or have someone correct you, but no one ever thinks about the words you’ve heard and said aloud but haven’t seen written out and—oh,” he cut himself off, “ooh!”

His eyes had gone wide, white visible all the way around those marketable blue eyes and mouth forming a perfect O.

“Oooh,” he said again, “I see, the texts, he never checks his texts in the car and complains about it because he can check his texts with Roach since she drives but you,” he says, one hand flat on the table and the other now pointed and being shaken in their direction, “you wanted to say—his ringtone! Oh, no, and it’s, and it’s connected to the car—oh I’m, pff, I’m sorry, you—

Jaskier broke off laughing, one hand raking back through his hair and somehow they are unsurprised to not see a lick of shame or embarrassment on his face. Well, they thought, wry, at least he knows about it.

“You know,” Jaskier manages to get out when his laughter finally dwindles, “this is probably why he told me not to text, but, you know when I changed his ringtone I didn’t quite expect that you’d have to listen to my sex voice with surround sound speakers?” He gave a shrug, smile still curling about his mouth, what can you do?

“Well,” they said, “I guess it’s alright if you didn’t expect it, hmm?” And at least they hadn’t ridden in a stolen car...

They shook their head, then paused. Asked,

“So... you were the one who changed the ringtone?”

Jaskier smiled and leaned back, satisfaction in every line of his body.

“Oh, yes.”

--

(part 2 of @doodled93 and my Witcher short series (p1: Get A Text From Your Witcher ao3 link)

[razmahdaz-art]

A Second Chance For More. Chapter 8

More super Shimada Bros, and Casual Hanzo is here! Woo! My Boy! Also a genuinely touching moment that felt great to write. This ain’t over, obviously. Next chapter may be the last? Possibly? Stay tuned to find out. :3

    Hanzo did exactly as Angela instructed. Strict bed rest for the following few days, using a wheelchair to get around the base and not stressing his leg muscles to much. And just as she said, he was walking before he knew it. She had given him a temporary pair of legs to use until Torbjorn was back to make him permanent sets of casual and battle prosthetics. It was a bit of an adjustment, since the ones he were using for the mean time were significantly lighter than the ones he had. But soon enough, he was back to walking, running, and even exercising with his new legs. It was a good feeling, a literal and figurative weight, being lifted off his body.

    But this wasn’t the only change he had gone through. As soon as he was able to walk and get around by himself again, he was in and out of town in the following days, finishing those ‘errands’ he said he would be getting done.

    First thing he did was get a haircut. After all, he hadn’t gotten a proper one in maybe a year, and he was sick of his same old long hair that was completely terrible to maintain. He went to a small shop to get it done and was oblivious to what he exactly wanted. He could go short again, like when he was working for his father’s business, or he could simply get a trim and dye the greys. It took him a while until he finally decided to go with something new. He wasn’t one for quick or brash decisions, but considering that he was changing a few things, might as well try something new. After he sat in the chair for what seemed like hours, feeling an electric razor brush against his scalp and his hair being pulled in multiple directions so every angle could be taken care of, his chair was turned back towards the mirror and he barely recognized himself. A clean and well cut undercut, all greys in his hair disappeared. The remaining hair was laid flat against the one side of his head and as soon as he left the salon, he pulled the still long hair back into a small, tight bun, an unruly strand of his bangs remaining free to hang in his face.

    Second, was some new clothes. This was easy for him, since he wasn’t going to change his regular style too much. He really just needed clothes to help get him through the harsher winter than he was used to. Hanamura never got large amounts of snow, and if was to visit Genji in Nepal, he thought it may be a great idea to get warmer clothes than the ones he had. And new shoes, since the ones he wore over his old legs were a size or two larger than his new ones. He just grabbed what he needed, snow boots and some regular tennis shoes were really all he needed right now, and warmer jackets, jeans that could hold layers under them, and some undershirts.

    The last thing was a bit of a quick decision. He was about to leave and return to the base until he saw small tattoo and piercing shop. At first, he didn’t think twice about, just thinking ‘maybe later’, but then the thought of ‘What would Genji say?’ crept its way into his head. He already had a small hole in his ear from when he was young and dumb, caused by stolen alcohol and his brothers promise to pay for the earring and piercing itself. What would be wrong with one more? Temptation won, and he walked in the shop.

    “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!” Genji shouted, watching his brother walk off the air lift in a completely new outfit, a silver barbell in the bridge of his nose, and his hair practically gone. Hanzo fixed the duffle bag on his back as his brother gripped his shoulders with as much force as a snake biting into its prey. Hanzo himself just seemed to chuckle at his brothers reaction. “WHAT...JUST...WHY?” He seemed to ask, not fully believing that his was his older, stuck up, does math for fun, brother.

    “I’ve changed a lot this year. I just thought it was time for something new,” Hanzo said, his hands gripping his brother’s arms in a similar way. Genji still seemed surprised and shocked at what he was seeing, but a shit eating grin crept across his face. He let go of his older sibling and he started escorting him towards a room that was close to his. “Alright, Mr. Mid-life-crisis. Anything else i should know about? Did you get a tramp stamp or buy a car?” Genji asked a bit sarcastically. Hanzo simply just rolled his eyes, before stopping in their tracks. The other looked somewhat confused when he started to roll up one of his pants legs. And in place of the harsh, cold, bulky metal that made up his lower leg was a thinner, leaner and cleaner model. Genji covered his mouth in surprise, before realizing something. He was about to shout again, but didn’t knowing there were others around.

    “You little bitch! That’s why you didn’t text me a few days ago!” He muttered, making Hanzo laugh again. He pulled his pants leg down again before standing straight with a smirk on his face, standing to meet his brothers gaze. “Perhaps,” He said smugly. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve stayed behind,” Genji said, seemingly a bit disappointed by the fact that his brother had kept these quite major changes from him. Hanzo put his hand on his younger brothers shoulder, and gave the most caring smile he could. “Because. I wished to surprise you,” He said in a kind tone. It perked Genji up, a smile returning to his scarred face. His hand moved to his brothers, resting metal on flesh.

    “Is that some way of telling me you didn’t get me a Christmas present?” He joked, earning a laugh from his older sibling. He retracted his hand and stuck it into his jacket’s pocket, smirking a bit before he spoke. “Again. Perhaps,” Hanzo stated calmly as they continued walking the hall to where Hanzo would be staying, sharing light hearted conversations the way there. They had finally reached the small guest room, Genji opening the door and letting his brother see the surroundings. It was an adequately sized room, but was almost completely barren besides the bed, a small closet, a bedside table and some incense that were ready to burned upon it. “There are extra blankets in the closet, since it gets to be 40 below outside,” Genji informed, leaning in the doorway. “I’ll leave you to your business. I’ll be with Zenyatta in the main meditation temple if you need to find me. If not, I'll be back in a few hours,” He said, patting his brother on the shoulder. Hanzo nodded and began to place his things on the floor and wherever he felt like they could be without being in the way or looking like a mess. Genji was just about to leave, before turning back to speak a final time.

    “Thank you for coming Anija. It means more than you’d think,” He said. Hanzo just looked up at his brother with a warm smile. “I’m happy to be here. After all, it’s the first family Christmas in over a decade,” he replied just before his brother left. He thought he saw Genji’s eyes turn a bit red, as if he was tearing up.

    The night came and it came quickly. Hanzo had settled himself into the room quite quickly, putting his bow under the bed (one could always be prepared) and the duffle bag with his clothes in it inside the closet. He doubted he’d be around long enough for it to be better to actually hang his clothes. He did have time to go see Genji once he was done, but decided that he just wanted to stay in his room for a while, exploring his new surroundings. While he was putting his bow under the bed, he found a small box of dusty books that seemly haven't been touched in months. He rummaged through a few of them, some texts and teachings from the monks that he now shared space with, some were old legends and stories that seemed to come up from India. He only found one book that he could read, a very old tale taking place in the 1920’s America about rich lovers and their quarrels. It wasn’t quite what Hanzo would normally read, but since it was his only option, he sat on his bed with his legs crossed and started to read. It wasn’t great, but for how old it was, it wasn’t terrible.

He was already half way through the book when his brother walked in, without knocking. ‘Some things never change,’ Hanzo thought, watching his brother come in. He was wearing clothes, a thick and oversized sweatshirt and jeans. His hands were behind his back and he walked towards his brother smiling. “What’d ya find?” He asked, peering over a bit to see the semi tattered book in his brothers lap. Hanzo held up the cover to show his brother. “Found it under the bed. It was the only thing i could read, so, might as well,” He said, folding the corner of a page to mark his place before he closed the book and put it on the nightstand. “It isn’t great. Decent at best,” he commented, stretching his back a bit. It wasn’t until now he realized he was hunched over almost the entire time he was reading. Genji sat on the edge of the bed, his hands remaining out of site. “Glad to see you weren’t bored,” He said with a smile.

“So...Even if you didn’t get me a present, i did manage to nab you one,” Genji said. His hands finally came out from behind him revealing a small package that didn’t seem to be wrapped as well as it could. “You don’t have to open it now, but if you wish you may.” Hanzo took the gift and held it in his hands. Of course, he had gotten his brother something, but he hadn’t expected anything in return. It was two days till Christmas was actually upon them, but he was very tempted to open the gift. Hanzo set the present aside and got up to go to the closet before digging around in his duffle bag. He was a tad relieved when he saw his wrapping wasn’t completely wrinkled or tattered. He brought it over to his bed and handed it to his brother who seemed a bit suspicious of what he was handed. He ran his hand over the neat and clean wrapping, attempting to guess what the neat box could hold.

“What did you get me?” He asked, looking at Hanzo with a curious gaze. “A gift,” Hanzo answered with a smirk. “Did you expect me to tell you?” He asked with a small chuckle, picking up his own present. “Worth a shot,” Genji replied with a huff. They sat there for a few moments, looking at their respective gifts, debating whether or not to wait. Silence filled the air and they looked at each other as if both agreeing to not wait until Christmas day to open the gifts.

Hanzo carefully started to peel the wrapping away while his brother was practically shredding his. It didn’t take long to see what they had received. He held in his hand a brand new, darker coloured and shiny new sake bottle, made of stainless steel. With it came a bottle of very expensive sake that Hanzo hadn’t drunken in years. An old favorite that he used to exclusively drink in his younger days. As far as he knew, you could only get this in a few stores in Japan, meaning Genji had either hid this from him for who knows how long, or made a stop to Japan on his way to Nepal. He smiled as he turned the bottle over and over in his hand, seeing a small engraving in the bottom. Words in traditional Japanese spelling.

‘To the best older brother one could ask for.’ Hanzo smiled at the lettering, his thumb running over the small grooves that made up the text. He looked up to thank his brother, but was met with a face of shock and tear filled eyes.

Genji had been staring at his gift for quite a few moments. In his hands was a black, minimalistic frame that held a long forgotten picture. Standing side by side, in training gear and in the old Shimada Castle garden was a young and quite happy looking pair of siblings. Genji’s thumb ran over the face of the shorter person in the picture. The other’s arm was wrapped around his shoulder and the pair were just smiling for the photo, unaware of the coming years. Genji looked up at his brother, who just gave him the same warm smile as the young man in the picture. Before Hanzo could even speak or thank his brother for his gift, Genji had both arms around him, bringing him into a more than tight hug. He was taken off guard quickly, but he soon returned the hug.

“How...How did you…,” Genji stuttered, his voice wavering. “As it turns out, our old home isn’t as well protected as it once was. A few missions ago, when we went back to Hanamura, i snuck into some storage areas and found it. I assumed you would have wanted it,” He answered, his hand running across his younger brothers back in an attempt to soothe him. He himself was feeling a bit teary when he saw how much it meant to his brother. “It was the last picture we were in together. I couldn’t just leave it,” He added.

They stayed still for a minute or so, and Genji backed away. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, before returning to look at the picture. “God...Compared to your gift, mine is terrible,” He said, the pair chuckling a small bit. But Hanzo picked up the bottle and turned it over in his hand once more. “No, It is wonderful. Thank you, Genji. It means a lot,” He said, finally giving thanks for his gift. Genji took a deep breath and set the frame in his lap, still a bit shaky. “And thank you. I’d never imagine that i’d see this ever again,” he said gratefully. Hanzo picked up the bottle of sake and thought for a moment before holding it up and beginning to open it.

“Would you like some?” He offered as he finally got the glass bottle open. Genji smiled a bit and nodded. “That’d be nice right about now,” He said, crumpling up the wrapping paper and tossed it to the side so it was out of sight.

They drank for a small while, barely talking as they did. They eventually moved towards the window sill, sitting in the large opening together, like they had done when they were kids. They passed the sake bottle back and forth (after Hanzo had filled up his new bottle and stashed it for later) while they looked up at the clear, starry night sky. Genji would occasionally check and tap at his phone, but it was very infrequent. He smiled a bit as he his phone screen illuminated his face. “You really should’ve given Jesse your number,” He said bluntly. Hanzo’s head almost panicked a bit when his brother said it, but he kept his cool when he went to respond. “Why?” He simply asked. “He keeps texting me and asking about you, like how you’re doing and junk,” He answered, putting his phone in his sweatshirt pocket. He was passed the bottle and he took a small sip, thinking about cutting himself off for the night.

Hanzo just let out a hum, not really sure what to say or if he should say anything. It was endearing to know Jesse was inquiring about him, and it made him wonder about the other. “I’m glad that you two have figured things out. Makes me happy to see my best friend and brother get along,” Genji said, bringing Hanzo back from his own thoughts. He smiled a bit, happy that they had made amends. “You’re not the only one,” Hanzo replied taking the bottle back and closing it. He set it to the side and continued to look out towards the mountainous scenery and dark sky dotted with distant stars. Genji did the same, his leg dangling from the sill and almost touching the small roofing just a few feet below them. It was quiet, serine, and Hanzo felt like finally, just maybe, he’d redeemed himself after months of trying to mend things.

And maybe with it, he’d gotten a little bit more.