#they have to deal with one caffeinated child and another child on a sugar high

[in-tua-deep]

I have this mental image from your double trouble AU that makes me laugh. Baby!Five trying coffee and spitting it out because it’s so bitter. Then staring in horror as older!Five just guzzles the whole pot barely taking time to breathe.

Baby Five sniffed at the cup in front of him with barely disguised suspicion. The rest of the breakfast table were all very obviously watching him without trying to tip him off that they were watching him, which they were all very very bad at. 

Next to him, his older yet identical doppelganger took a mouthful of his own coffee as he scrawled out another series of equations in the notebook in front of him. It was probably the proof that the terrible duo were correct for their internet argument with some professor of mathematics who made some frankly idiotic claims. 

They’d both spent the entire night up, huddled around their laptop on their bed as they took turns frantically typing acerbic comments.

(Both of them did wonder when it would dawn on the rest of the family that both Five’s were still sharing the twin bed, but Five the Elder often found the bed too soft and was more than pleased to sleep on the floor. And they were both waiting for the day they could get a sleep deprived Klaus with the whole ‘there’s a monster under my bed’ ‘there’s a monster in my bed’ trick.)

But the all-nighter was taking a toll, and knowing that his more experienced twin pulled them with far more frequency, Baby Five had innocently asked how he managed it all. In response, Old Five plonked a cup of bitter smelling black coffee in front of him with a shrug. 

Which is where Baby Five was right now, almost reluctant to take a sip because he already knew he would hate it but also not wanting to fall asleep at the table, either. It certainly didn’t help that the family was not subtle about watching him, either.

But whatever. In for a penny in for a pound. It couldn’t be that bad if his twin mainlined the stuff like it was liquid peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches. It was probably an acquired taste or something. So he lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip, grimacing deeply as the taste hit him.

Clearly the face he made was hilarious, since Klaus immediately burst into giggles and half of the others were clearly trying to hide their own stupid little smirks. Baby Five spitefully took another sip but it was somehow even worse the second time, ugh.

But hey, being the center of attention was always a baton that could be passed like a hot potato, so Baby Five turned to his twin and said, with disgust in his voice, “How the fuck can you drink this?”

But Old Five clearly wasn’t willing to play and just took another mouthful of black coffee, shrugging carelessly.

Allison at least was willing to take pity on him. “People put milk and cream in to help with that.” She informed him, helpfully, “Normal people don’t usually like it at paint thinner levels like Five, uh. Like he does.”

Baby Five rolled his eyes, because his siblings always got stuck on how to address them when they were together. It’s not like it was difficult. They were both Five. And if someone needed to specify, they could always just point. Instead he looked at his twin expectantly, silently demanding an explanation.

Old Five shrugged again. “If you dilute it that just means you have to drink more of it.” He said, grimly.

Baby Five took a second to process that, then twisted his entire body around to face his ‘brother’ directly. “You don’t even like it!” He accused, loudly. “You hate it just as much as I do, you just won’t admit it!”

“I ate cockroaches.” Old Five reminded him, as if anyone could ever forget with the secret old man saying it every other conversation. “Coffee isn’t even in my top twenty bad tastes.”

“But you admit it tastes bad!” Baby Five crowed, triumphantly. 

Old Five gave him a look, but Baby Five just raised his eyebrows in a clear challenge. Never one to back down, Old Five downed the remainder of his coffee like a shot and then in a flash of blue jumped over to the coffee pot on the counter.

“You don’t have to get a second cup just to prove a point. I already exposed your secret.” Baby Five pointed out.

“Awful bold of you to assume I was going to fill my cup.” Old Five said, lip curling in something resembling a grin as he lifted the entire coffee pot.

It took a second to realize what was going on. “No.” Baby Five said, horror in his voice.

“Yes.” Old Five shot back, triumphantly, as over the sounds of protests from the rest of the peanut gallery he tipped the coffee pot over his mouth and proceeded to pour it in. No sign of stopping until Diego reached him and managed to grab both him and the coffee pot to wrestle one away from the other since surely that much coffee was not healthy for a thirteen-year-old, and no matter how much Old Five complained about it, he was physically thirteen. 

“You’re disgusting.” Baby Five told his twin, nose wrinkling in disgust as he pushed his own slowly cooling cup of coffee away from him.

Diego managed to wrestle a triumphant Old Five back into his seat.

“I hate you so much.” Baby Five informed him simply.

“You love me.” Old Five shot back, reaching out and snagging Baby Five’s abandoned cup off the table. “Besides, I thought you wanted to know the secret to staying awake.”

Baby Five considered this for a moment, and then shrugged. “Alright. I’m going to go raid Klaus’s pixie stix stash. Sugar trumps caffeine.”

He jumped out in a flash of blue on the tail end of some very loud protests coming from every actual adult at the table and grinned to himself as he swiped up a whole fistful of what was essentially pure sugar. He only had a few minutes before someone made it upstairs to try and stop him, but hey. The run around while chugging sugar would wake him up as nothing else would, right?

It was better than coffee at least.

[cherrynojutsu]

Title: Like Gold

Summary: Sasuke grapples with love and intimacy regarding his developing relationship with Sakura after returning to the village from his journey of redemption. Kind of a character study on Sasuke handling an intimate relationship after dealing with PTSD and survivor’s guilt in solitude for so long. Blank period, canon-compliant, Sasuke-centric, lots of fluff and pining, slowly becomes a smut fest with feelings.

Disclaimer: I did not write Naruto. This is a fan-made piece solely created for entertainment purposes.

Rating: M (eventual nsfw-ness)

AO3 Link - FF.net Link - includes beginning/ending author's notes

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Chapter 4/?: Soothe

Sasuke arrives outside her building shortly before seven in the morning, an ubiquitous aubade sung by birds, polished and practiced for many years, lilting into his ears along the way. The village for the most part is still slowly awakening from its slumber; no merchants in the streets yet, and he only passes a few people here and there as light slowly seeps higher into the sky.

He carefully pushes open the glass door of the exterior portion of her complex, making sure to keep it quiet in case her neighbors are still asleep. As he goes up the stairs, he notices that all of the downstairs tenants’ lights are on, emanating from beneath the trio of entryways. Once he reaches the upper landing, he sees that Sakura’s light is on, too, though her other two neighbors' are not.

The doors of each unit are all painted different colors. Hers is sage green; he hadn’t been able to discern that previously, with the desaturation that night brings.

He's wondering if maybe he should knock to let her know he’s here, but then she emerges a few minutes early, beautiful and bright-eyed and full of life, pale yellow sunshine coating her from the large window with diamond patterning behind him.

She seems pretty awake already; she must be an early riser. She's carrying her tote bag again, and today she wears a dark skirt with a red top, along with a familiar pair of knee-high sandals. She's also wearing a smile, directed upwards at him.

"Good morning, Sasuke-kun," she acknowledges him softly, looking very happy to see him.

"...Morning." He keeps his voice low, because it is still a little hoarse. He tries to memorize her eyes again in the span of seconds before she turns to lock her door behind her.

It's 6:58 by the time they're out the glass door, her leading the way. They take the main road west a few blocks before turning to go north, this time. There are several more buildings that appear residential on her street. One of them has vines creeping up the sides, starting to bud after the warmer spring weather. He notes there is also a bakery on the corner, not open yet, but one that seems like the kind to also sell confections. He wonders if that factored into her apartment selection at all; he remembers she has a sweet tooth.

It is an easy silence they share on the walk there, bird calls lulling in as background noise again. There are more of them now, a more layered song than earlier, with a wider variety of voices filtering in and out.

Sakura leads them to a very small tea shop within five minutes of the hospital; it is quaint and simple, definitely not modern. It is also quite small, with only four or so small tables situated by windows, looking out towards the street. The entire establishment utilizes a spread of cinnamon-colored wood for its surfaces; floors, counters, and the shelving in the back, laden with neatly-labeled teas of several varieties in glass jars. He assumes the larger jars are store stock, with the smaller ones higher up on the shelves being available for purchase for use at home, if one decides they like a particular flavor enough.

He finds he likes the atmosphere. He figured he would. It's not a formal place, but rather one where you retrieve what you've ordered from the counter and can choose whether to stay or go. He supposes that makes sense; it’s closer to the busier part of the village. There appears to be a small area to the left of the counter where one can add cream, sugar, lemon, or honey, though he knows he won't. He vaguely remembers that she used to take lemon and sugar in her tea, and possibly cream, depending on the brew. Honey seems like something Sakura would like, too, now that he’s thinking about it.

He scans the menu briefly upon entering before deciding something hot with caffeine would probably be best. Sencha green tea is usually what he gravitates toward. He also enjoys black tea during cooler weather, and jasmine occasionally, though not often; it had been his mother’s favorite.

Once he orders, he says, "Hers, too," and glances back towards Sakura expectantly. She looks at him with a blush that rivals the color of her hair when she realizes he's offering to pay for hers.

"Oh! Um, lavender matcha. Hot, please."

His lips quirk upwards a little, because that is possibly the most Sakura thing she could have ordered.

It doesn’t take very long until it’s ready, as they’re not busy; they are the only ones there, thus far. He takes a sip while idling by the end of the counter as he watches her add honey and cream into hers, stirring carefully. It is one of the better blends of sencha he’s had, aside from a particular place nestled on the edge of the Land of Mountains, where he’s pretty sure the elderly woman who ran the place harvested the tea straight from her private garden. He had pilgrimaged there a total of five times on his journey, months scattered like the seasons in between.

It was an odd teahouse, more formal than this one and off the beaten path, not near any major landmarks, nor plotted on any map he’d seen before or after. The lady, who had wizened eyes of a crystal clear blue, slightly lighter in hue than Naruto’s, had served the brews in eclectic and sometimes chipped mugs and teacups, from which he had assumed after multiple visits must be a fairly vast collection. The china was different every time, but he had liked the tea itself so much he kept coming back, if he was anywhere near the area. Twice he had been the only customer there, the first two visits occurring during early morning hours, and there was something extremely cathartic about sitting at the table in the far corner, looking out the window as the sun rose higher in the sky until it no longer skimmed the horizon and the mountains in the distance.

The other three visits had occurred during the afternoon, so there had been at least one or two other people present, at those times. He had noticed that third time that other patrons were served out of much different teacups than he was; he had secretly suspected, after that, that the woman tried to match the stoneware from her collection to whatever she saw in her patrons.

There had been a father sitting with his daughter, who had looked to be around six or seven, on his third visit. The father’s teacup had been robust, solid with carved detail that appeared to have been created with something like a miniature chisel, and an earthenware glaze mix of green and russet, strangely looking similar to the color of seaweed. The daughter’s had been a smaller cup, dainty finery of opalescent sky blue, with a similar mother of pearl finish coating the inside. The girl had quickly drained her glass once she realized the inside was pretty, too; she had spent the rest of the time there in awe of its beauty, turning it in the light as her father watched with soft eyes, enjoying his own cup more slowly. Sasuke had thought it must have been an expensive teacup, not necessarily what you’d typically give a child that young, but the girl hadn’t chipped or broken it. Instead, she had been enamored by its beautiful finish, even more enthralled with the inside than she had been with the outside, and had handled it with great care.

He never saw the same cup twice, for him or any other customer there. He had hoped by the third and fourth time that this was a good sign, that it meant progress. Once he figured it out, he wished he’d examined the first two cups, near five months apart, with greater care; he had thought there might have been a lesson there he had missed. His first teacup, from what he remembered, had been rather plain: rounded, no handle, slightly hard to grip, a shiny black glaze with a burnt orange rim. The second time, he’d been served the sencha in another black piece of china, though this one must have been fired differently; there was no glaze at the very bottom of the outer portion of the vessel, bare toasted clay in an oatmeal color. Carved designs on the outer portion of the piece had nearly melted glaze off it, allowing for the viewer to see the true color of the clay body beneath, creating an effect of brushstrokes in the third dimension, rippling out of the darkness. That one had had a chip at the top, but it hadn’t compromised the structural integrity of the piece, and was easily avoided simply by sipping from the undamaged side.

The third cup had taken him off guard in its uniqueness, and is what had caused him to look to the girl and her father. He had analyzed theirs, and then his own cup closely for a long time that day, thinking. Still no handle, but it had been a bit more narrow, as well as taller, easier to grip. The glaze design was fascinating, a thick glossy black base coat overlaid with a strange dissolving mixture of sapphire and indigo. It had reminded him of a night sky in the middle of nowhere, tiny amounts of galaxy blues and violets barely visible to the naked eye in their sheer scope and complexity. The glaze itself also only covered around two thirds of the vessel, at an asymmetrical angle, with the remaining half left unglazed, as if it hadn’t dripped down to be fully covered yet because the artist had liked the way it looked as is.

When he went back for a fourth cup several months later, the lady had given him an entirely too knowing look, and served his tea in a somewhat misshapen mug, this time with a handle. The handle was awkward, too small, and slightly malformed; the mug’s overall shape seemed as though it may have been an artist’s first attempt, shoddily trimmed and uneven in many places. The glaze design itself was mesmerizing, though, something like a gradient this time, shifting from splattering black to sepia to a lighter color, akin to the inside of a water chestnut. It was almost as if the cup had been constructed by a beginner and then drenched in magisterial color by a master. The sencha had tasted just as good from that cup as it had from any of the others, despite the challenge of grasping it with any semblance of comfort.

The last cup had been only a few months ago: well-designed, with a near perfect handle, easy to hold. The foot and interior of the mug was a smoky gray, well-trimmed, but the exterior body of it was a white raku crackle, twisting patterns of scale-like ivory and black outlines, small dots sprinkled in between where the unevenness of the heat must have interfered in the firing process.

When he reached the very bottom of the vessel, having finished his tea, it had been gilded gold, metallic and astonishingly bright, catching the light of the sun coming through the farthest window, where he sat in the corner alone.

He had sat there staring at it for the better portion of an afternoon. It was a peculiar artistic choice.

This sencha is good, too, he thinks as he takes another sip, here with Sakura, also at a table in the farthest corner, looking out another window. Herbaceous, earthy, and light, and in a cup that matches hers. It feels cleansing on his sore throat, corrosion, not too hot but not lukewarm, either; a rather perfect medium between mellow and astringent. It is a nice way to greet the break of day.

“Thank you, Sasuke-kun," she murmurs, after they’ve been seated for a few seconds.

He nods; she’s still flushed as she says it. He can see it better now, in the bright light of the window. He takes another sip, and continues to enjoy looking at her.

“How is yours?” She asks.

“...I like it.” He considers his next words. “You didn’t add lemon.”

Her lips quirk upward, dimple appearing. “It doesn’t go the best with the lavender. They only have this kind on hand for the springtime.” She pauses, then adds, “I still put lemon in pretty much all my tea, otherwise.”

Sasuke inclines his head again, and she takes another sip.

They sit there for a while in a comfortable silence, watching more of the village wake up and people pass by from the window, on their way to work and other responsibilities. There are two small birds across the street, perched on the awning over an apartment building’s entrance. Finches, he deduces by their plumage and size. Perhaps they are looking for a mixture of materials with which to build a nest.

“It’s a good place to just sit and watch, in the morning,” Sakura mentions after a while, still looking out the window contentedly.

“...Is that your favorite thing about it?”

She meets his eyes, then, and smiles. “One of them.”

He looks at her expectantly, so she continues. “The tea itself is good. It’s close to the hospital, and I like... “ Her voice trails off, and she glances over at the station where she added cream and honey, lips still turned upwards. “I like that they don’t overfill the cup; it makes it easier to add what it needs.”

A ghost of a smile overtakes him. Practical, as always.

Sasuke finds himself contemplating what kind of teacup the elderly lady would give Sakura, if he took her there.

XXX

"You're a little on the skinny side for your height, now," Sakura notes as she writes down his information on the form he's given her, stepping off the scale; 163 pounds. "Not unhealthy, necessarily, but you should try to put on some weight."

They are at the hospital, in an exam room this time instead of her office. Her voice has shifted to something more professional, and Sasuke knows he is now with Sakura the clinician, though her affection is still an undercurrent in the way she's looking at him carefully with warm eyes. She’s already measured his height, and has his paperwork from his last physical to compare it to; apparently he’s grown another two inches since then.

He hopes he’s done growing, in that regard. It doesn’t seem likely that she’ll grow any taller; she’s twenty now, and they already have a considerable height difference. He doesn’t know how tall she is, exactly. He must hover over her by at least six or seven inches.

"Okay," He responds, because he trusts her judgment. Being away and mulling on his failures never gave him much of an appetite. Being back in Konoha hasn't much either, so far, but he can try. “How much?”

She looks somewhat surprised that he asked. “160 to 196 pounds is considered a normal range for six feet; I’d start with ten, and then evaluate from there.”

He nods. Her eyes linger on him, as if she’s contemplating saying something more. When she turns to set down her clipboard and grab the cuff typically used to measure blood pressure, he thinks she must have decided against it, whatever it was. He goes to sit in the patient’s chair, familiar with the routine at this point. He's gotten a physical near every year of his life that he’s spent in Konoha.

She sits on the wheeled chair that’s next to the desk, rolling it closer to him. He extends his right arm, and as she carefully adjusts the cuff, she tells him, tone casual, “You’ve got an inch on Naruto, now.”

There is a very stupid and juvenile part of him that takes immense satisfaction in this news, but she doesn’t look like she’s finished speaking yet. He waits for the rest.

She smiles apologetically. “He’s got about fifteen pounds on you, though. There’s some motivation for you.”

He pins her with a pointed stare, unimpressed but also a little amused. Motivation, indeed.

Her expression turns somewhat guilty, now. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. I did his about a month ago; he came back from a mission with a cracked rib, and it needed to be updated.”

She starts increasing the pressure, and he suddenly becomes aware that she is closer to him than before, by the nature of the operation of the equipment. He had become aware of her physical proximity at roughly this point in the exam the last time, too.

He’s thankful it doesn’t seem to affect his blood pressure. “105 over 70; good,” she concludes, before reaching to remove the cuff from his arm. Her fingertips make brief contact with his skin, this time, and he has to fight an urge to shiver, even though they’re warm.

She picks up her pen to input this information in the appropriate slot, then sets it aside and puts away the cuff. When she turns back to him, she says, “Heart rate is next. Hold out your wrist, please.”

He holds out his right arm again, letting his elbow rest on the surface of the desk this time. Both of her hands come to grip his single one, lightly and carefully feeling for his pulse. He tries to hold very still, and to not think about how soft her hands are. He distracts himself by preoccupying his gaze with the clock on the wall behind her. It feels like a very long thirty seconds, though he knows by watching the hand tick that it’s actually not.

She doesn’t vocalize what the number is, just removes her hands finally and reaches for the pen to fill it in on the paper. He wonders if it was elevated.

“Heart and lungs next.” She reaches for the stethoscope, positioning it in her ears before leaning in to listen to his heart first, over his shirt. He looks to the ceiling.

It doesn’t take very long. “Sounds good. Lungs, next.” She gets up and comes around the chair slightly behind him. He shifts to pull the back portion of his shirt up to his shoulder; he remembers this from the last exam, too.

“It’ll be cold; I’m sorry,” she warns gently, before pressing the instrument to his back. She is nothing but professional as she asks him to take a few deep breaths. Routine, and very careful not to touch his skin with anything but the diaphragm of the stethoscope, cool metal.

It feels… different than the last exam. He had been a little on edge during this part, then, too, even though she was nothing but professional then, as well.

He is just… very aware that she is behind him, and that his shirt is pulled up, and she’s listening to him breathe and can see the skin of his back. And that he's kissed her.

The coolness slips away after a short amount of time. “Lung function sounds good.” He pulls his shirt back into place, feeling a faint sense of relief as he does so. She goes back to document her findings on the paperwork.

She then lays the stethoscope back in its appropriate place. Scanning the page, she asks, “Any issues with your hearing?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Sasuke responds. She dips her head in acknowledgement, filling in that box with what he assumes is non-applicable.

“Sense of smell?”

He recalls raspberries and antiseptic. “No.” She fills another box.

“Sinus or lymph node issues?”

He shakes his head.

“I’m assuming you’ve used the Sharingan and Rinnegan since last time, so I’ll look at your eyes towards the end.”

He nods, and she reaches for a light instrument to use to look at his throat, as well as one of the wooden sticks from a glass jar in the corner. “Throat next,” she says, flicking the light on.

He tries not to furrow his brow. He wasn't looking forward to this part.

He opens his mouth for the wood, reedlike and firm against his tongue, and then she’s shining the light in and frowning.

“Say ah, please.”

He complies, feeling quite undignified, though he knows it’s necessary and just part of her job. She removes the stick after a second, setting the flashlight instrument aside, and he closes his mouth.

"Teeth and gums look good, and your tonsils look fine, but your throat looks a little raw. Have you been sick recently?"

"Yes." It is technically the truth, though not in a viral sense.

She looks thoughtful as she’s making a note on her clipboard. “Within the past week?”

He nods. She must see him from the corner of her eye, because then she asks, while still writing, “Any other symptoms? Cough? Does it feel sore?”

“No.” He pauses, then clarifies. “No cough. A little sore. Not bad.”

Verdant eyes flick up to him for a long moment. He feels somewhat guilty; even if he knows the truth, she might be thinking right now that he’s been irresponsible, that he may have given her an illness via kissing.

She breaks eye contact eventually, and sets the pen down, standing to open the uppermost cupboard door in the exam room. His brow furrows, until she’s pulling down a small box that he sees has cough drops in them.

“We only have mixed berry; they’ll be kind of sweet, but it should help. Take a few for later, and put one in now, please.”

Sasuke blinks, and then takes a handful. He puts all but one in his pocket, and then unwraps the one left in his hand, putting it in his mouth, as she asked.

She arches to put the box back in the cupboard, and he forces himself to look elsewhere.

It does feel good on his throat, soothing. “...Thank you,” he says after a few more seconds, as she makes another note on his form.

“You’re welcome,” she replies. Then, back to clinical Sakura. “Any other issues? Abdominal, neurological?”

“No.”

She flips the page. “Infectious disease screening questions are next. Obviously you’ve traveled outside the village in the past 21 days, but have you been outside of Fire Country in that time?”

He thinks. “Rain, about thirteen days ago. Wind, 19 days ago.”

Sakura inclines her head, and writes in the information. He notices she keeps her eyes trained on the questionnaire now. “Have you, to your knowledge, had close contact with a person with measles, mumps, or chickenpox in that time period?”

“No.” She checks the 'no' box.

“Have you, to your knowledge, had close contact with a person or source in that time period for any of the following: botulism, diphtheria, E. coli, encephalitis, hemorrhagic fever, hepatitis, influenza, listeriosis, malaria, meningitis, pneumonia, rabies, severe acute respiratory syndrome, smallpox, or yellow fever?”

“No.” He watches her check several 'no' boxes.

“Have you, to your knowledge, had close contact with a person in that time period who may have exposed you to any sexually transmitted infections?”

He’s glad she’s looking at the paper still, even if that answer is obvious. “No.” She checks several more 'no' boxes.

“And you didn’t have a fever earlier.” She checks another 'no' box. “And sore throat, but no shortness of breath at any point?”

“No.”

“Vomiting or diarrhea?”

“...Vomiting, yes,” he answers honestly. “No to the second.”

She nods, as if she knew that already from looking at his throat. She probably did. She’s good at what she does.

“Any kind of rash?”

“No.”

That’s the last question on the page, so she turns to the next one.

“Next is bloodwork. We’ll do a cholesterol screening, in regards to heart health, and then we’ll also do a general workup and run it for any infectious diseases. I don’t think we’ll find anything if it’s just the vomiting and resulting sore throat, but better safe than sorry.”

She then starts getting out the necessary supplies with which to get a blood sample. It doesn’t take very long; he holds out his right arm again, and Sakura finds the vein easily. “You’ll feel a pinch.” Within sixty seconds it’s over, and she’s pressing and holding the cotton to the dot of red before taping over it, a small pressure dressing.

“Leave that on for a few hours, please,” she advises, and he nods to indicate that he will. She makes quick work of labeling the blood sample, and sets it aside with the clipboard, he assumes for the end of the appointment.

She scribbles in a few more comments on the sheet, he assumes for whoever is running the tests. “Okay, just eyes and arm left. We’ll do eyes first. Any deterioration in vision that you’ve noticed?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll shine the light to check your pupils quick before I use chakra to look at them.” She grabs a different light tool, a penlight, and turns it on, before looking at him expectantly.

He blinks, curious what she’s waiting for, and then she asks softly, “Could you move your hair out of the way, please?”

Oh. He complies, and she shines the light in one eye, moving it slightly and monitoring the progress. She then does the same to his Rinnegan.

“Reactivity is good; no signs of defect.” She sets the penlight back where it belongs, then makes a note in his paperwork indicating that. Then she’s shifting her chair a tiny bit closer, so she can reach his eyes with her hands.

“Do you have a preference, which one I start with?” She asks. He shakes his head. “Okay; I’ll check the right eye first.” She reaches out with her left hand, pressing her thumb above his eye over his eyebrow, and her other four fingers lightly to his temple, just next to his eye socket.

Sasuke tries not to dwell on how close she is again as green chakra drizzles into his ocular system; he keeps his vision trained forward, as he knows he’s supposed to as she examines. There is a freckle on her right ear that he remembers focusing on, the last time; he does this time, too.

Around thirty seconds passes, before she informs him, “I’m going to funnel some chakra into the retina and optic nerve here; there’s some damage.”

He had suspected there might be, though his vision has not suffered; mostly there was just a bit of pain, sometimes. He hasn’t overworked it by any means, but he hasn’t completely abstained from using it since he’d last been healed by her, either. “Okay.”

The flow of her chakra works its way deeper, more of it now. This part has always relaxed him; her chakra really is quite calming, careful and gentle, threading its way behind his eye and wrapping around the nerve.

She works for about five minutes before the chakra starts to let up.

“...There. That should be a little better,” she says before lifting her hand from his right. “Look up, down, please.”

He complies.

“Left to right, now.” He does. “Good. Does it feel okay?”

He nods, meeting her eyes again finally. It feels stronger, no pain. He decides to verbalize that, even though he’s already nodded. “It’s better. Thank you.”

She smiles at him. “Good.” Then she’s detailing whatever she’s supposed to detail in the paperwork, before setting the pen down again.

“Left eye now.”

She repeats the process, frowning again. “There’s some damage here, too. I’ll fix it.”

This time, it takes longer; not quite ten minutes, but fairly close. He tries to focus on the wall behind her.

He had asked her once, when she was healing him following the war, if it used a lot of chakra. She had said not necessarily, but it depended on the level of damage. She also told him that it was moreso a delicate process, requiring careful manipulation, so he has tried not to talk during any healing sessions since.

When her hand finally pulls away, he’s gotten so used to the contact that it feels like a loss.

“Look up, down, please,” she requests again. Then left to right.

“Function looks good. How does it feel?”

“Better. Thank you.”

She smiles at him gently, just Sakura again for a second, before turning back to the form to finish the optical section.

Then, she turns the page. “Arm is last. Could you please roll up your sleeve to your shoulder?” He grabs his empty left sleeve with his right arm and starts shifting it upwards, rolling it so that it stays put once it’s to the top.

She touches the end of what’s left of the limb with careful fingers, soft but steady on marred skin and scar tissue. “I’ll look with chakra in a second, but any redness that you’ve noticed?”

“No.” He shifts his gaze forward, because her fingertips really are softer than he remembers.

“Any areas that occasionally feel warmer than is typical?”

He shakes his head.

“Swelling of any kind?”

“No.”

“Have you been stretching it as instructed?”

He meets her eyes, then. “Yes.” He wants her to know he listens to her recommendations.

Soft jade, and she’s smiling again. She moves her hands away momentarily, and grabs the clipboard with the papers, checking several boxes as he has indicated. He looks back forward.

“Any phantom limb pain?”

“Sometimes.”

“Residual limb pain?”

“...Sometimes.”

Her gaze flicks upward. “If you had to rate it on a scale, one being hardly anything and ten being the worst?”

“...Usually two or three.” He pauses, and she waits. “...Sometimes four or five.”

“How often, for the worst of it?”

He thinks. “Maybe twice or three times a month.” It’s a bit more often than that, but not by a lot.

She notes it on the paper; that must be a normal range. “Alright. I’ll check with chakra, now.” Her fingers come back to his stump, touching more firmly now. Green chakra starts to thread its way in.

Sakura frowns, after a second. “Nerve endings are a little inflamed. I’ll fix it.” The flow of her chakra increases, and he feels almost instant relief; he supposes it still hurt, faintly. Maybe he just got used to it. “Has it hurt in the last day or so?”

“...Late last night.”

She nods, as if that makes sense. “It won’t take too long. Maybe five minutes.”

He inclines his head just barely, not wanting to move while she’s working.

“You should let me know if it hurts again,” she suggests quietly, after a moment. “It doesn’t take much to fix.”

“...Okay.”

There is a comfortable silence for a few minutes as she works. He feels the chakra start to dilute a little towards the end of it.

“I’m going to stop my chakra and manually massage the tissue, now. It should help prolong the effect.”

He feels her chakra dissipate. She has done this to him before, throughout the rehabilitation process following the war; it was more important then, she’d said, to develop tolerance to touch and pressure of the residual limb. It had hurt, the first few times, but later in the healing process, he had secretly enjoyed it; it made it hurt much less, and the process itself felt… nice.

He had privately wondered what it would feel like on his back.

It elicits the same response now, too, kneading fingertips gradually increasing pressure to access deeper tissue, helping to work away pain that has lived there for a while.

"You wear your hair differently now," she comments after an incredibly nice period of time, still pressing tenderly in little circles, though the pressure is starting to taper off now, since they’re getting towards the end of five minutes; that was roughly the time she would do back then. Since there’s no chakra anymore, it must require less of her concentration.

He realizes he hasn’t shifted his hair back into place yet, then. He takes a moment, then responds quietly, furtively, "Most people dislike looking at the Rinnegan."

She doesn’t respond right away; just finishes massaging the end of his stump, then removes her hands to pick up her pen.

"Not me," she murmurs softly as she makes her final notations.

His heart flips in his chest, and he feels his face grow warm. He's glad she's focusing on the forms, so she can't see the effect her words have had.

The lozenge has dissolved fully, and his throat isn't as sore.

XXX

Sasuke goes to the Hokage’s office, after, to see if the dobe is there. He has some time to kill before lunch, and he wants to take him up on his offer to spar at some point, given that his eyes are freshly healed. Now that he knows Sakura’s schedule for the next few days, he can fill the rest of his time with whatever else. He’ll see her tomorrow at four, at the hospital, and then at Ichiraku’s on Saturday, and then for a bit after, too; they still need to confirm an actual time for that with Naruto and Kakashi. He assumes Sunday and Monday must be her days off. If they’re not, she works too much. He’s going to ask her tomorrow, he thinks.

Oddly, he finds only Kakashi in his office.

“Ah, Sasuke. Good morning,” he greets as he walks through the doors.

“...Morning.”

The copy ninja sizes him up with a single eye for a long moment, as if considering what to ask him. Sasuke braces himself.

"You got your physical done."

Sakura had said after the bloodwork was complete, she’d drop off the paperwork for him. "...I did."

"It went well, I assume."

"...It did."

"Wonderful," he says quietly, sounding pensive.

There is a very long pause.

“And the date, with Sakura this morning, before that? That went well, also?”

Sasuke deliberates. There is no teasing lilt to his old sensei's voice this time, just genuine curiosity, so he answers honestly, even though his neck warms and he doesn’t quite appreciate being spied on. “...It did.”

Kakashi gives him one of the widest and most genuine smiles he has ever seen him wear, beneath the mask.

“Wonderful,” the copy ninja says again, this time teeming clearly with pride and meaning.

“...Yeah.” Sasuke agrees, looking anywhere but at him.

Kakashi shuffles a few papers around his desk, and starts talking again, as if Sasuke has not just admitted to something he’s sure their sensei had suspicions about for the better portion of eight years. “Well, Naruto’s not here; I’m assuming that’s who you were looking for. Hinata’s leaving for a mission later today, around one, so I gave him the day off. I kind of assumed he’d use the opportunity to seek you out for a spar in the afternoon, after she leaves. He was going on about it yesterday, along with a Team Seven dinner on Saturday night; sounds like that will be at six.”

Sasuke just blinks, gears turning still; the scroll from yesterday is still on the desk, so he's not sure why he'd grant Naruto another day off so easily.

Kakashi further clarifies, smile shifting into something more sly. “I wouldn’t go over there before a little after one, if I were you.”

His first thought is oh, and he feels rather stupid. His next thought is gross. His old sensei is grinning, as if his reaction amuses him; he must have made some kind of face that belayed his internal thought process.

“Ah, love requited and besotten newlyweds. What a time." Sasuke's neck burns again, because he realizes after a second that the ‘love requited' portion of that is referring to Sakura and himself. Kakashi's moving on, though. "Anyway, now that I’ve given you too much information…” His voice trails off, and he looks at the intricate scroll tucked away at the table beside his desk, where Naruto usually sits. “If you’re not busy and want something to do until lunch, you could take a look at this scroll for me, since Naruto won’t be getting to it today.” He appears to be thinking, then adds. “For all his progress, he can still be less than perceptive, in certain instances. Your assistance could be invaluable, since I’m occupied with other tasks at the moment.”

Sasuke ponders for a bit; he has already read a good portion of the way through his books, and it’ll be a few hours before he needs to eat. It's not lost on him that this involves a level of trust in him on Kakashi's part, as whatever is in the scroll is likely not public knowledge.

He decides it can’t hurt, though he hopes he doesn’t get asked any more questions about Sakura. He makes his way to take Naruto’s seat, opening up the scroll.

He stares at it long and hard, rolling it out on the table to examine it more closely. Kakashi wordlessly grabs the stapler on his desk and sets it on the top end of the parchment, to hold it in place as he further unravels it. It appears to be a cipher, and quite a complicated one.

“...You think Naruto’s going to be able to crack this?” Sasuke questions incredulously, glancing towards his old sensei with his brows furrowed in doubt. His eyes catch as he does so on the framed photograph sitting on his desk; from this angle, the side instead of the front, he can now see that it’s their original Team Seven photo. He hasn't seen it in a long time.

Kakashi chuckles, not looking up from his paperwork. “Not at all, which is why I was helping him with it yesterday. It’s good practice for him, though, and at the very least, it does keep him busy when I don't have anything else for him to do.”

XXX

Sasuke ambles back to his apartment around noon. He made some progress on the cipher, enough that Kakashi said Naruto might actually be able to take it from there. It feels good to be of use.

It also feels good to have something to give the idiot shit over, when he goes to visit him later.

He empties the cough drops from his pocket into one of the cups he bought yesterday, and pops another one into his mouth before he starts getting out ingredients to cook. It feels good on his throat, menthol pleasantly numbing despite the slightly sweet taste. He pours a hefty amount of rice into a pot to start boiling, and then begins slicing carrots and scallions and mushrooms for takikomi gohan. It takes a while to slice with one arm, as holding the vegetables in place with one hand is a challenge, but he manages by summoning a clone. Once he’s done, he slips them in a pan with some salt and dashi stock. He also adds frozen peas before covering it with the lid to simmer.

Once that’s going, he washes his hand, then folds the comforter he had washed and left out to dry this morning, ultimately storing it in the closet. He stirs the vegetable mixture occasionally, after, reading more of his book while he waits for the rice to finish. The one about kenjutsu is more interesting than he thought it would be. He might finish it by the time he sees Sakura tomorrow.

He really hopes he can walk her home again; he hadn’t gotten a chance to kiss her today. She might not want him to, if she thinks he's sick, but somehow he suspects she likely understood it wasn't actual illness. She's good at what she does, and smart.

It’s a simple but savory lunch, a larger portion than he’s accustomed to. He eats all of it, albeit slowly, as he reads.

Uncannily, an abrupt and earsplitting knocking erupts on his door as he puts the last bite in his mouth to chew.

“TEME! Open up!” More incessant knocking. “I’m fucking bored, and Kakashi-sensei gave me the day off! Let’s spar!”

Sasuke rolls his eyes and closes his book before standing to rinse his dish, setting it in the sink to wash later, along with the pot and pan already rinsed and stacked there.

“Alright, dobe. You don’t need to bust down my door.”

He grabs another cough drop and removes the tape and cotton from his arm before he goes. It’s a little tender, but the blood has clotted by now.

[themandhoelorian]

Dincember - December 4: Hot Chocolate

summary: Mando has unique ways of showing his affection for his son, like getting him hyper on too many cups of hot chocolate, but it’s only after a long day of bringing the kid down from his sugar high that you realize Mando has similar ways of showing how much he cares for you.

pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x gn!reader

warnings: a caffeine addiction, sleep deprivation, the smallest sexual innuendo, Din being sweeter than hot chocolate, not super well edited ahaha

word count: 3.2k 

a/n: asdfghkldf this is so so late but this week has been long and exhausting (no this fic was definitely NOT me projecting), and I haven’t had as much time as I’d like to write :/. I’m not even really sure this makes sense, but that’s kind of how my brain works when it’s exhausted, so hopefully on some level that’s accurate ahaha 

***

You never understood the appeal of caf until you joined Mando’s crew. 

The first time someone offered you a cup, that one day you showed up to the tiny mechanic shop of your first job with bags under your eyes, complaining about how little sleep you’d gotten the night before, you thought you’d been handed a steaming cup of motor oil by accident instead. 

The dark liquid felt like lava on the roof of your mouth, leaving the taste of bitter ash on your tongue as you willed sip after sip down your throat. It did pull you out of the sleep-deprived fog, but it was more of a jolt in the opposite direction than a gentle tug, your body shooting into overdrive and hands shaking so intensely you burned your fingers on your soldering iron more times than you could count that day. 

After that, you tried to stay away from caf as much as possible. No matter how little you’d slept the night before, how often you were caught staring blankly at the wall instead of untangling a mess of wires, you always refused when you saw a mug of hellfire coming your way. The acrid taste, the jitters, none of it was worth enduring when you just had to make it to closing before you could go home and sleep away the fatigue. 

But now, your full time job is taking care of a child, and every night is a night with too little sleep. You spend your days trying to wrangle a warm, mischievous demon into compliance instead of just manipulating cold scraps of metal, and the kid doesn’t have “closing hours”- not with how violently he reacts to the notion of bedtime- so there’s never a sweet finish line to look forward to at the end of the day. 

You thought you’d known exhaustion before, felt it heavy on your shoulders those months you worked overtime to make ends meet, but that was light years away from what you feel now. The black hole of sleep consumes you as soon as you get the chance to lie down, and when you inevitably wake to the sound of cries a few hours later, it feels like the weight of the galaxy is crushing your lungs, making it nearly impossible to crawl back out of bed.

So after just a few weeks on the Crest, after that one day when you accidentally dozed off watching the kid play and woke to find him sticking a finger into the barrel of a blaster (thankfully Mando had the sense not to keep his weapons loaded on the ship or Maker, that could’ve ended badly), you bought a caf maker on the next planet and forced yourself to chug a cup every morning since.

The taste still sucks, no matter how much cream you’ve tried mixing in, but it doesn’t make you jittery like it used to, the caffeine just enough to keep you awake, and now you don’t know how you ever took care of the little womp rat without it, especially on the days when Mando returns from his hunts and the child bursts with energy to welcome his father home.

Even if it’s only been a couple days since Mando left, you’d think he’d been gone for months with the way they act at seeing each other again. The kid’s just downright ecstatic, dropping whatever part he’s playing with as soon as he hears the hiss of the hull opening and babbling excitedly as he runs into his father’s arms. He’ll follow Mando’s every move for at least an hour after he’s returned, and sometimes, you have to literally pry him from the beskar so Mando can retreat to the cockpit and set the course to the next planet.

And then there’s Mando. He’ll look stoic as ever as he takes the child into his arms, but you can feel how eager he is to reunite with his son, his affection all but spilling out the sides of his armored chest. He’ll never admit it, of course, you’re not sure he’d even be able to find the words to say it if he wanted to, but he finds other ways to show the kid how much he missed him, how deeply he cares about his little foundling.

More often than not, those methods include spoiling the child to no end, giving into the kid’s every desire and providing him with a few moments of pure, unrestrained joy. And more often than not, you’re left with the not-so-simple task of dealing with the consequences of giving the child his every wish, easing him down from the euphoric high and re-establishing that he absolutely cannot expect that kind of indulgence with anyone but his father.

Like one time, Mando stayed awake with him all night long, conceding five more minutes every time the kid whined when he was told it was time for bed. Five minutes quickly turned into hours as they watched the bright mosaic of hyperspace go by, the kid so happy to just sit in Mando’s lap while he spoke in the soothing tones of his people’s tongue. You were only able to pull the child from his father’s arms in the early hours of the morning, all three of you only half conscious at that point, and you spent several cycles trying to get the kid (and yourself) back on a normal sleep schedule.

Or like today, when Mando returned this morning while it was still dark outside, and you woke to the smell of cocoa and peppermint what felt like mere minutes after you’d fallen asleep. When you finally pulled yourself from the bunk, you found Mando sitting next to the child as they sipped on steaming liquid, his helmet tilted back just enough for him to bring the mug to his lips. 

He made the kid hot chocolate, you realized from the way the child threw back his bowl so quickly he left milky brown splotches on his face. Of course. Mando had made a habit of bringing sweets back for his son after he’d once gotten his hands on a chocolate bar you’d splurged on in the market, nearly bouncing off the walls with glee as he devoured the entire thing in seconds. That was a memorable day for all of you: the kid found his new favorite snack, Mando found another way to indulge the child, and you found out that when the kid has sugar in his system, you need caf more than water to survive the day.

So it’s no surprise that several hours and a couple more servings of hot chocolate later, long after Mando’s gone to the cockpit to fly to the next planet, you’re chasing the tiny ball of energy around the hull, running on nothing but an unhealthy amount of caf mixed with a little bit of spite, worried you might collapse before the sugar-fueled monster falls asleep.

You have half a mind to be mad at Mando for getting the kid so hyped up on the decadent drink and inevitably making your job that much harder, but you can’t get the image of them together this morning out of your head, Mando dabbing the mess from the child’s face as giggles bubbled from his tiny mouth. The memory’s shaded with the golden haze of dawn, like those dreams that feel warm and familiar, and you can feel your heart swell re-imagining that moment of perfect bliss, father and son so content just to be with each other and the sweetness in their cups.

And oh, you know you could never be upset at Mando for indulging the kid, creating those little pockets of warmth in a life filled mostly by cold, dead space, no matter how much more work it makes for you. Not when you know that he savors those moments as much as the child, that the days he’s back with his son are the only times he doesn’t have to be tough and menacing and deadly, the Crest the only place he doesn’t have to armor up his feelings just as much as his body.

You’re willing to reign in the kid, be the tough one on the ship, if it means Mando can show his son the softness that lies beneath the beskar, tuck away the sharp edges when he holds the little green menace in his lap. You’re willing to lose weeks of sleep course-correcting after each indulgence if it means he can let the honey of his love ooze thick and messy before he’s off to the next quarry and has to lock his affection behind iron walls again. You’re even willing to drink all the caf in the galaxy, let cup after cup burn bitter down your throat, if it means he can have a moment of peace sipping hot chocolate with his son at the break of dawn. 

You’re more than willing, happy even, to do all that and more for him, especially if it means you can catch glimpses of the man behind the guise of “Mando” in the process, a man whose heart you’ve found yourself wondering more and more about lately, wondering if it might one day beat strong and steady for you the same way it does for the kid.

So no, you’re not mad at Mando, not in the slightest. It’s more that right now you’re worried you might not be physically able to do those things for him, the shorter than usual night of sleep catching up with you faster than you can fight it off with caf. You’re pretty sure it stopped working after your third cup anyway, the additional caffeine just making you dizzy and no more energized, and you don’t know how much longer you can keep up with the child’s pace. You’ve played peekaboo and thrown around his favorite silver ball and even tried to show him how to rewire an old generator (not that you had any luck with that), and he still hasn’t crashed from his sugar high. 

You have no idea what else to do to keep the child busy, and Maker, you’re just so kriffing tired right now, so you’ve resorted to leaning against the door of the weapons closet, floating in that hazy space on the brink of consciousness, using what little of your energy remains to make sure he at least won’t get his hands on a blaster again. 

You’re not even completely sure what the kid’s doing right now, just know he’s somewhere on the other side of the hull, and you can only hope that Mando doesn’t come down here and find you and the kid like this. The last thing you want to do is make him worry, doubt how much you care about his son’s well being, but it’s like he can feel your exhaustion radiating through the ship because the next thing you know, the heavy echoes of his boots fill the hull as he descends the ladder from the cockpit. 

You will yourself to sit up straighter as you hear his footsteps getting louder, locate the child before Mando can, but your body is working on a little bit of a lag, and by the time you actually open your eyes, Mando’s walking past you, the child snoring softly in his arms.

Of course he fell asleep as soon as you took eyes off of him, the little monster.

Mando doesn’t say anything as he tucks the child into his makeshift bed before striding back to the other side of the hull, and some faraway part of your brain tells you to explain yourself or apologize or say kriffing anything at this point, but the inky gravity of sleep is pulling you in deeper with each passing moment, and you can’t be bothered to speak when your eyes are threatening to droop shut again. 

They must have at some point because you don’t remember seeing Mando approach you, but somehow he’s in front of you now, holding a mug out in front of your face. Maker, you must’ve drifted off, long enough for him to decide you needed some help staying awake and make you a cup of caf, and as you reach for it instinctively, bringing the cup to your lips in the trained motion, you can’t decide if it’s just as a thoughtful gesture or a thinly veiled warning for you to actually do your job.

You hum as the warm liquid coats your tongue, deliciously silky and slightly sweet, and it’s only when you swallow, the milky substance gliding down your throat, that you realize-

“This isn’t caf,” you mumble, looking up from the mug to meet Mando’s gaze.

“I never said it was.”

You just stare at him wordlessly, trying to figure out why he made you hot chocolate when it’s not going to make you any more functional. You have no idea how long you sit there thinking, too far gone to even understand the concept of time right now, but it must be a while because he breaks the silence first with a sigh.

“Cyar’ika, you have to stop drinking that crap. It’s not good for you.”

“Need it,” you respond, almost too quickly considering how long it took you to answer him before. Apparently the only thing you can understand in this groggy fog is your caf addiction. “Gonna fall asleep if not.”

“You’re about to anyway. Come on, you need to sleep.”

For some reason you giggle at that, unable to stop the laughter rising through your chest. He’s right, of course, but it just seems so damn funny right now that Mando, who has told you he rarely sleeps when he’s away, who you’ve never seen rest for more than an hour at a time, is telling you that you’re the one that needs sleep.

“You sleep even less than me, Mando. You can’t talk,” you accuse.

He jerks his helmet back in something like disbelief, and you can’t stop yourself from giggling again.

“Well I’m not the one falling asleep on the floor right now,” he counters.

“That’s fair,” you admit. You take a few more sips of the hot chocolate, closing your eyes in pleasure as the warmth floods your veins. Maybe it’s just because you’re so used to the sharp bite of caf, but the sugary drink feels so good, like something comforting and familiar though you can’t quite place your finger on where you recognize it from. It’s almost like you’re wrapped up in the thickest blanket or, even better, by strong arms as you’re lulled to sleep, and you’re not sure that’s what you were thinking of, but you realize that’s exactly what you want right now. 

And then your stupid, half-conscious brain decides to ask for it in the worst way possible.

“How about this, I’ll sleep if you sleep with me.”

You only catch how kriffing suggestive it sounds as the words come tumbling out of your mouth, but then all at once, you’re utterly aware of how much you’ve been embarrassing yourself. First getting caught falling asleep on the job and then accidentally making a very blunt pass at your boss, and Maker, you’re just a whole ass mess today aren’t you? Suddenly you feel very awake, your eyes going wide as you stumble over your words trying to backtrack as quickly as possible.

“Oh stars, I didn’t mean sleep with me, that’s definitely not what I, well, not that I wouldn’t…no, I just- I do need sleep but so do you, even if you’re not actually falling asleep right now, so I was just gonna say that we should both-”

But then your rambling is cut off by a chuckle coming from the modulator, his voice light and playful in a way you’ve never heard before.

If you weren’t so kriffing worried about what he was thinking about you right now, you might’ve thought it was the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard.

“I know what you meant, cyar’ika,” he says. 

Oh, thank Maker, you think, waves of something like relief washing warm over your body. You’re not quite sure how he can understand what it is you want when you can’t even articulate it yourself, but your brain is still too foggy to care, deciding it doesn’t really matter how he knows you so well, just that he does.

Mando eases the mug from your hands, the worn leather of his gloves brushing lightly over your knuckles. You whine in protest as he steals the liquid comfort from your fingers, but it’s quickly replaced by his hands wrapping around yours to help you off the ground.

“I’ll make you more tomorrow,” he assures you, his voice as velvety as the drink he just took from your grasp. “But now, we need to sleep.”

We, not you. 

You barely catch the distinction as he leads you to the bunk while his thumb rubs soothing circles on your lower back, but it just leaves you even more confused in your sleepy daze. You didn’t think he was actually going to entertain your suggestion, even if he did take it in the more innocent way, and when you crawl into the bunk and he doesn’t follow, you think maybe you just misheard him.

But as you close your eyes, your exhaustion starting to pull you away from reality again, you hear the clang of metal on metal behind you, and a gentle tap on your calf halts your descent into the stillness of sleep as Mando climbs into the bunk next to you.

It’s only after he shuts the door, when your body is pressed to his so you both fit in the tiny space, that you realize he’s taken his armor off, the first time he’s ever done so in front of you. You can’t see him at all in the darkness of the bunk, you’re not sure you could even open your eyes again at this point anyway, but even in your delirium you can grasp the weight of how vulnerable he’s making himself right now, letting you run your fingers lazily across the tight muscles of his bicep and rest your head against his broad chest.

And once again, you’re overcome by the feeling of something pleasant and vaguely familiar, your heart swelling the same way it did when you first saw Mando and the child this morning, the same warmth in your veins as the first sip of hot chocolate. You couldn’t quite place it before, but for some reason, as you listen to the way his heart beats strong and steady against you, you think you finally recognize it, the way Mando’s been making you feel all day, the reason he knew exactly what you needed before you could even realize it yourself.

It’s just a hazy flash in the moment before the black hole of sleep finally consumes you, an inkling of a breakthrough you may or not remember tomorrow, but you think this feeling, the acrid taste of caf replaced by smooth chocolate on your tongue, a strong body turned soft as it’s molded to yours, has a four letter name you thought you and Mando only saved for the child.

Maybe that’s why you’re learning to use it for each other too.

[blushing-starker]

Anon asked for alpha Peter and omega Tony for a baby announcement. Thank you to the wonderful @vaguekiwi for motivating me and sharing her thoughts on the story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did, anon.

"Tony, Tony? Are you up? It's 7:30am already, you have a meeting with Miss Potts in forty minutes. Tony?"

Soft hands curl into already silver hair, scratching at the strands in an attempt to wake him up gently. Butterfly kisses on a cold nape, a ridiculously hot nose nuzzling everywhere. Peter knows scenting the billionaire is basically the only way one can ensure a calm morning.

Not today. And not for the next few months either.

He loves his husband, appreciates the nearly romantic demeanor, he does. But "unless you have a cup of coffee for me, there is no way in hell i am gonna leave this bed. your child has kept me up with nausea the entire night. I wanna hurl my guts out more than that time Rhodes found Dad's liquor cabinet. please, tell me you have coffee."

"..." Tony is severely displeased by the fact he can read Peter like a book even with half his mind shut off because fine, he's right and dammit all.

"I want that weird drink you make. The one with milk, cinnamon and chunks of brownie. And French toast with waffles. No jam, not too much butter, as much sugar as possible. Now, go before I scream at you for having the only dick that could get a hormone fucked forty something omega pregnant. "

The kid scrambles from bed, practically face plants with all the covers tangling long legs and yup, this is the person that the universe designated as his soulmate. Because Tony Stark can never have a partner with a reasonable, normal amount of enthusiasm, stamina and a sense of balance.

That sounds like he's ungrateful, he's not. But it turns out being three months pregnant gives him plenty of perspective to peer at life in a whole new way that does not include caffeine, alcohol or sex.

Would he kill and die for this amazing human being that makes Tony's heart race no matter the day, that inspires him to be a better version of himself? Yes, no questions asked. No hesitation and no regret.

Would he clobber Peter for doing the impossible and technically causing Tony incredible discomfort on a daily basis thanks to what his doctors can only assume is a superhuman baby he already loves and adores more than life itself? Also yes.

Things aren't mutually exclusive in this household.

Pep, bless her, has yet to find out about their future mini Parker so there's been no respite on the whole 'running a multi billion dollar industry ' thing. And yeah, while it's not exactly easy, he can focus on other things and not fall into a panicky state of mind — because him? A father? Of a super baby? Tony Stark, infamous playboy with a hedonistic streak, a dad?

Just thinking along those lines makes shame and self doubt slither over a metallic plate. Working, dealing with innovative scientists, crafting the new world of tomorrow, guaranteeing the safety of their planet, shapeshifting into a role model, a mentor (for the interns and school kids he visits, not Peter, of course, thank God they left that dynamic ages ago), loyal friend, reluctant errand boy (fuck the assholes in charge of the Accords), great husband, good man, it all distracts a fearful child from thinking, what if I turn into Howard?

"I couldn't find brownies, so cookies it is! Aunt May had a few boxes sent in when I told her work was keeping you on your feet all the time. Said it'd be a good idea to snack along the day in case you��" Peter freezes, tenses with a not-so-narrow back held ramrod straight. Oh, his husband brought him breakfast in bed.

How could he ever think to clobber such a nice, wonderful—

"Your scent is odd."

"Yeah, well fuck you too then."

Five seconds of silence.

"I'm bringing you one cup of coffee and the hormone pills."

" Yup, that's a great idea. "

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

Tony’s mumbo jumbo with self loathing is firmly put on the back burner after inhaling a delicious breakfast and chugging that one glorious cup of coffee. Until they go to the bathroom and he sees himself in the mirror.

"We gotta tell them."

"You said you wanted to wait a while before saying anything."

Peter strips, ducks into the warm shower, lets out a pleased little sigh and Tony wants to rip his fingernails off. Is it bad, having sex while pregnant? No! The doctors, every single one of them, said it's a perfectly normal thing to do. It'd be bad if they didn't have sex because Tony, thanks to his crazy hormone production, needs the extra attention for his body to understand this is a happy process that shouldn't include sad pheromones or stressed out moments. Will Peter put him out of his misery and allow a quickie in the mornings? No.

"Take more than five minutes in that shower and I'm joining you."

Listen, he grew up in the 80's and 90's, Tony wasn't immune to peer pressure. Did he cave and eventually do so many squat competitions with Rhodey his butt turned into a duck's butt? There's no evidence, he's made sure, but yes. And Starks have always turned out to be beautiful, doesn't matter your gender or age. Finding a companion for the night has never been a problem for anyone in his family tree.

That, and his work as Iron Man has kept him — well, not ripped like Cap, certainly not as lean and (God help him) athletic as Peter, but fit. Sturdy. Firm. Solid. (Peter once muttered the words 'daddy-like' in regards to his body and he nearly choked on water.)

The passage of time has made him a bit slower, dusted once black hair with, as his husband says, stardust and the corners of his eyes now show how much time Tony spends laughing or frowning. All in all, he looks fucking spectacular for his age and experience as a villain-punching-bag. Thing is, he has a belly. A bump. A curve where it was once, well. Less curvy. Is it a problem for Peter? Nope, as acknowledged every time his alpha tackles him if he so much as looks oddly in the mirror. Is it a problem for him? He'll get back to you on that.

The point is, there's a belly when just a few months ago there wasn't such a pronounced belly. It's great, of course. Proof their child is growing steadily and Tony's body is adjusting to it accordingly. A small part of him, the omega part he actually lets live, is fascinated and proud. He's doing that, Tony's the one growing a human being, creating life out of nothing in his own body. That child, although not the only physical embodiment of their relationship, is a result of his love for Peter. Of how much his husband loves him. They love each other so much they're gonna start another family together. That chokes him up a bit, reminds him how grateful he is for Peter and for the other Avengers. If they hadn't been so accepting of his status, would he have ever considered going through with this?

Anyway, he's not gonna start sobbing this early in the morning when there's no alcohol involved. It's fantastic seeing his child develop, good, warm and fuzzy feelings, yada yada yada, it's also not very easy to hide. And Tony...Tony wanted to hide it from his family because.

Because Peter hasn't been the only partner in all his life that has wondered about a future with a white picket fence. Because when he was Peter's age, in his goddamn prime, a doctor, ten doctors, all the doctors told him the same thing, smashed his dream into a million pieces. Tony was nearly infertile. There was a one in a million chances of him getting pregnant. If he did, they couldn't be sure his body would be able to maintain two hearts. And then the cave happened.

So yeah. It happened to his cousins, his aunt, a few uncles, his grandmother. Tony would do a baby announcement, but only the second that baby was outside of him and safely in his arms. Now there are still several months left and nothing certain. But time is a bitch and beginning to show the world, maybe those extra pounds aren't from eating the Parker's amazing breakfasts.

"Tony, you know I don't wanna risk-" Losing control of my strength. They've been together long enough that Tony can see quite clearly between the lines.

"Hurting us, yeah, I know, I understand. I'm getting too wide, we're gonna have to tell them or Natasha will take one look at me and whoops, impromptu announcement from someone else. It's a miracle she was out on those missions when we found out." Thank God for renegade troops.

He's still looking at himself in the mirror when Peter comes out, barely dries up and slides behind him. His husband is slightly taller now, can easily hook a curved jaw on Tony's shoulder to peer at the image they make. Contrasts, he supposes, have always enthralled Tony. The study of light and shadow. Variations of the same basic components. Where his body is aging, showing signs of wear and tear, Peter's is evolving into something beautiful, majestic. Silver hair, chestnut brown. Scarred canvas, silky smooth and sunkissed skin. Soft, fragile curves, chiseled lines that deserve to be revered more than Michelangelo’s David. But their eyes, their eyes are equally tired.

“We can tell them if you want, have dinner together and just, just say it. Like that -”

“No. It's our kid, we're not gonna act like it's ripping off a band aid. This is special, unique. Dinner is good. Fantastic, actually. Wait for dessert, and announce it. “ Peter comes ever closer, wraps arms that could carry the world around him and how did he get so lucky?

They've lied to each other in the past. Mostly in the beginning, when they were too worried about hurting their new relationship to show their desires and wants. Tony didn't explain the Training Wheels Protocol. Peter tried to fight high level crime on his own. Things got hard to understand, like being in the right place at the wrong time. Puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit together, an extra inch of space prohibiting them from seeing all the possibilities that the truth could bring. They were walking the same path, just in parallel lines that never crossed.

But then he'd been rejected, thrown away and able to realize how fucking stupid it was to let Peter go when being near the kid, it felt like finally breathing after residing in the deep end of a pool for a thousand years. So Tony ran after him one day, crashed into his AP English class, half assed an excuse for the baffled teacher, yanked Peter out of the room and proceeded to have the best make out session of his life with his back against the kid's locker. And now they don't lie, ever.

Which is why it's so hard to accept Peter's, “You're beautiful, Tony. The handsomest man I've ever seen in my life. I loved you before, I love you now, I'll love you forever, Anthony Stark. You carrying our kid doesn't change that, how could it, Tony? It's going to be ok. The three of us will be ok and I won't stop thanking whoever decided I'd get to marry my wet dream.”

Scorching kisses trace his pulse point slowly, sharp nails start dragging against a too thin shirt, but it's the fact that Peter hasn't looked away from him, is confidently holding his gaze through the glass, that makes Tony shudder and stop breathing.

The bathroom is flooded with pheromones, cinnamon and honey assaulting an unprepared billionaire, and he'll die if they stay like this, can't function properly, brain switching gears, trying valiantly to remember baseball stats, past wounds, May's cooking because Peter's gonna wreck his sanity if those hands keep winding down, if those lips don't stop unraveling him like a Christmas present.

“If I'd known you'd get this handsy and romantic, I would have complained about how I look earlier." It's a gasp, half murmur, half plea as Peter grins at him shamelessly. “I know it's rude and wrong and sexist, but I like comforting my omega, acting like a stereotypical alpha. Makes me feel like I'm doing my job of making you happy. “

He quirks an eyebrow, is glad Peter can be comfortable enough to take the reins every once in a while. “You're telling me that assuring me I'm still drop dead gorgeous, “ his husband snorts, nips at Tony's shoulder for that quip, “ makes you horny because you feel like an alpha comforting, and I quote, ‘your omega’? “

Peter reverts back to the shy teenager who could barely ask a girl out to the homecoming dance, ducks his head into Tony’s neck with a blush quickly spreading over damp skin. “Well, I've got news for you, sweetheart. Your wet dream also thoroughly enjoys it so you better break tradition and have sex with me to remind me I'm the hottest man you've ever seen. "

He's actually serious about this, his self esteem hasn't exactly been, you know, the best and Tony's mood always improves significantly after playing around in bed with Peter. Besides, it's a sign of trust. Peter won't hurt him or their child, will be able to hold back his strength. He always does.

Listen, it's not exactly moral, but he has more than enough problems to go ahead and analyze his attraction and dependency on Peter while pregnant.

“So, I can distract you from your bad thoughts by acting sort of possessive and taking you to bed? " Oh, he adores when his husband is afraid of showing a new side of himself and asks for permission ever so sweetly.

“Babe, if you don't, I'll kick you out of the apartment. Give me possessive Peter Parker any day you want, like I'm gonna complain about a gorgeous, brilliant twenty something year old all over me. Now what's it gonna be, alpha dear, bathroom or bedroom? I wouldn't mind the tile but, oh God, I forgot you could pick me up." Tony clings to broad shoulders, can't help but laugh because aren't they a pair?

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

After having what he's sure was the best sex of his life, Tony stumbles out of the bedroom with torn clothes, a dazed look in his eyes and several bruises blossoming around his neck. Peter's halfway out the doorway when Tony whistles, makes sure all their family is paying attention, blurts out, “Peter and I are having a kid. I'm pregnant, woohoo, it's great, it's amazing, save your congratulations for later. We'll do a proper thing soon, if anyone interrupts and they're not dying, I'll kill you myself. See you in a few hours, " and yanks him back in while Friday activates Sock on the Doorknob Protocol.

Rhodey and Nat clink glasses while waiting on the others to pay up on their bets regarding Tony and Peter's odd behavior.

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

Later, much later, like, two days later, they have a proper dinner with their family in the tower. There are balloons and streamers, cake and ice cream, warm hugs and gentle cheek kisses, subtle tears and full on weeping (Happy had to borrow a box of Kleenex), pictures and videos and a pile of gifts taller than Tony.

The most important thing, though, is that the A.I recorded the reaction after Clint asked about baby names. He's grateful they went to the doctor before tonight. The visit revealed a treasure Tony thought he'd never have. Now it's time to reveal it to their pack.

His husband snuggles up to him, is so ecstatic the whole dining room smells like cinnamon and honey, like joyous love he'll never get enough of. Tony grins at him, curls their hands together and repeats the same thing over and over again in his head.

It'll be ok. They'll be ok. If the universe keeps giving Tony the greatest gifts he could ever want, maybe it's time he stopped looking at the horse's mouth. That's how it goes, right? Right.

He turns to look at Peter, loves him so much it aches, feels tiny feet pressing against his stomach. Guesses he's not the only one smitten with this incredible human being.

“We were thinking Marie,” Peter smiles at him, eyes lit up and lovely.

Tony is never going to forget this moment, this warmth in his chest.

“And Benjamin Parker-Stark.”

Their family loses their shit and both Friday and Karen have ample proof.

(@puppypeter look, omega tones! @tonystarkisaslut thank you so much for allowing me to use the prompt board! I am still accepting prompts! Although I can't guarantee getting them ready within a few days, I'll try to finish them on the one week mark depending on how long the fic is!)

[lovelylogans]

honey, you’re familiar (like my mirror)

see other chapters, notes, and warnings here!

chapter one: qualia

qualia: in philosophy and certain models of psychology, qualia are defined as individual instances of subjective, conscious experience. philosopher and cognitive scientist daniel dennett once suggested that qualia was "an unfamiliar term for something that could not be more familiar to each of us: the ways things seem to us.”

JANUS

Janus almost always develops a headache when he has to deal with the latest idiot intern at the firm, but this headache is beyond the pale. Then again, so is this intern. He has never met a uni student that is more destined to become an obnoxiously vocal Tory. It’s like someone granted a novel about Etonian history his wish to become a real boy.

“Out,” he bellows at the intern who has been attempting to stick himself to Janus's side, unable to pick up on the fact that his repeated mentions of his father, you know, the chancellor of the high court, is doing the opposite of impressing everyone around him. 

This intern—Janus is going to make it a point to never remember his name now—has probably never been yelled at in his life. He gives Janus a very offended look, sniffs, and retreats from Janus's office, likely to bother whatever barrister he hasn’t yet told about the blatant nepotism that has gotten him into their office.

Janus puts his elbows on the table and pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing slowly in and out. Though the intern has certainly exacerbated the headache at hand, he’s had the headache since he inexplicably woke up at four in the morning. 

He’s taken paracetamol, he’s tried hydrating, and drinking caffeine, and rubbing his temples, and even wearing the blue light glasses Key swears by, but there’s been no luck. His head’s throbbing just as badly now as it did when he woke up from a dream about a strange American wearing a pale brown cardigan and a pink tie.

The man had gone pale and sweaty as if he was ill, leaning back against air, clutching at nothing, like he’d hoped to find someone’s hand to hold, but despite the pain he seemed to be in, he’d stared straight at Janus, beaming and wide-eyed. 

“I see them,” the man had whispered. He’d opened his free arm as if to offer a hug. “Oh, they’re beautiful. You’re beautiful, my dear. My darling.”

You’re beautiful, my dear, my darling…

Janus rubs at his forehead. If he’d been so beautiful and dear and darling, he would have appreciated being left without this migraine as the price of the compliment.

“You,” he barks at the nearest intern walking by his office—a mousy little thing, a girl who’s swimming in a cardigan that makes his eyes throb with a familiarity he can’t recognize—“I’ll let you assist on this case if you get me a tea with two sugars, right now.”

She perks up. “Really?”

“Right now,” he thunders, and the girl practically squeaks before she heads for the building’s refectory with its in-house café.

Janus tries his hardest not to smile to himself, really he does, but the best part of intern season is scaring the interns. What is he supposed to do, not revel in their suffering?

He’s about to reach for his smartphone resting on his desk when he feels a buzz against his sternum.

He pauses, glances toward the door, before he swivels around his desk chair and opens a lower cabinet as if he’s searching for a file; instead, he reaches into his innermost breast pocket to pull out his other phone. This one is a good deal cheaper than the one resting on the table; that is by design.

He glances at the window to double-check the reflections, that no one is watching him—they aren’t—before he unlocks the phone and looks at the message.

K: jazza, you found anything yet?

Janus scowls at the phone. Honestly.

J: Do you want to get arrested, Key? Because rushing this job is how you get arrested.

K: aint that the reason ur a big fancy barrister in the first place

J: Do they want to put up the rush fee?

He turns back to his desk and manages to get some actual, legal, non-shady work done before the phone buzzes.

K: no.

If pixels could look sullen, these ones do.

J: Then tell them to put up or shut up.

A pause.

J: And don’t text me for inane little updates during actual people’s work hours again. You are specifically only to contact me during these hours for emergencies.

He shuts off the phone and tucks it into his breast pocket again before Key can respond. The nerve of some people. He’ll do the work, fine, but people needed to realize they’d get what they paid for. For the information that Key’s clientele wants him to retrieve, they’ll have to put up quite a bit more cash for him to move at anything beyond a snail’s pace.

A knock at the door. Janus gives the girl his most imperious look. 

“Here you are, sir,” she says, handing over one insulated to-go mug, keeping another one in her hands. 

“Yes, fine, fine,” he says, taking it. “What’s your name again?”

“Emma, sir.”

“Emma,” he repeats. He takes a sip of the tea.

Or, he expects to take a sip of tea. What he gets is a mouthful of coffee. 

Very good coffee, very high-quality coffee, but coffee, and lukewarm at that. He pulls a face instinctively.

“What did you get me?”

Emma immediately looks petrified. “Tea with two sugars, sir?”

Janus frowns at her, then examines the side, where the tea option is ticked off. If they’ve managed to mess up the order, at least they’d given him the good-quality stuff, even if it did taste like it had been sitting on a desk for an hour. He takes another cautious sip.

Tea. Sweetened, hot tea, fresh from the café.

He’s never had a headache this bad before. So maybe he doesn’t know that headaches this bad can mess with his sense of smell. And temperature. Now that he thinks of it, he is feeling really quite hot, even though the building’s air conditioning is blasting.

“...Very good,” he says slowly, and then proceeds to nudge a perilously tall stack of manila files toward her. “Read the top one so you can get reacquainted with the case.”

Emma takes the file immediately, and, just for a moment, just for barely a flash, Janus could swear he’d seen someone walking in the hall in their pajamas and bunny slippers in the reflection of his office windows.

He looks at it more directly.

No. It’s just Emma’s reflection and his. Janus's office, furnished in dark woods and leather desk chairs, his fine suit, the damningly recognizable birthmark and scar splashed across his face.

Janus frowns at himself in the window, turns away, and reaches for his own manila file.

VIRGIL

Getting off the plane from America to South Africa is always an experiment in temperature adjustment. 

He takes off his hoodie in between the shuffle of getting off the plane to going to the baggage claim, tying it around his waist, leaving him just in a purple t-shirt and his ripped jeans. 

It doesn’t help that he’s got a headache that’s absolutely killing him.

By the time he gets there, his baggage is already waiting at the side of a woman with her hair wrapped in a scarf, her glasses resting low on her nose; they look new, and it makes Virgil’s chest hurt—what else has he missed since he’s been across the world?

Virgil’s mother, Andisiwe, beams at him. “Virgil!”

“I’ve missed you, Mama,” he says in Xhosa because ever since he was a child jetting back and forth for school breaks she’s been worried about him losing his mother tongue. 

She laughs, hugging him tight and warm, and he wraps his arms around her in kind, closing his eyes tight. This is the longest he’s been from her since he was born. She’d been in America to teach for a year and a half at Johns Hopkins when she’d met his father, and then Virgil happened. 

He couldn’t have gone back to South Africa with her, a black woman with a mixed-race child, not during apartheid. His white father had had to bring him home to his white wife, and white children, and initiate what would eventually become a long, messy divorce.

But he doesn’t like to think about that, and he won’t, not today, not when he’s finally back here. He’s missed her, and Pretoria, and his jacarandas, and his grandmother’s recipe for coconut pitha, and umngqusho, and proper, African coffee more than he can say.

All he’d drunk in the States was tea because he didn’t want to be reminded of home; he can taste it lingering in the back of his throat, even now.

“Or should I say, Doctor Virgil Wright-Nkosi,” she says, beaming at him wide, and Virgil ducks his head, grinning even through how awkward he feels. 

“I’m a doctor of botany, it’s not the same as you,” or Dad, he tacks on in his mind, taking his suitcase and gesturing her ahead of him; she trades him with a to-go cup of coffee, which he sips eagerly. It’s such a perfect taste of home that he doesn’t even care that it’s lukewarm.

“Quite right,” she says, leading their way through the airport. “Ph.D. is different from an M.D., I’m thrilled my employer has taught you so excellently in your undergrad—”

Virgil laughs, again, but his foot slips on the smooth airport tile, and he looks down instinctively, and his breath catches in his throat, laughter dying in his mouth, freezing where he stands, because if he takes one more step he is going to die he is going to die he is going to fucking die—

There’s this tight feeling across his chest like a band and suddenly he’s not looking down at clean airport tile but he’s looking down at a yawning expanse of air between himself and the ground at least three stories up and he’s standing on a thin metal bar and if he keeps moving he’s going to fall he’s going to die

“Virgil?”

Virgil looks toward his mother, breath seized in his throat, and—

And he’s at the airport again. Bustling crowds, pinging PA system, his mother, a hand reaching toward him in concern.

“Virgil, are you all right?”

Virgil swallows once, twice, squeezes his eyes shut, and shakes his head to clear it; he opens them again.

Airport. His mom. The crowd. And, just a flash, weaving in and out of the people, there’s a big man with tattoos, and he’s wearing bunny slippers. It’s strange enough that it manages to shake him out of it better than any physical gesture could.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice sounds strained to his own ears. “Yeah. Um—jet lag, I think.”

Andisiwe surveys him, before she nods, once, decisively.

“Finish that coffee,” she says. “You know how much worse it’ll get if you let yourself fall asleep now.”

Virgil takes a long pull from his cup—bitter, dark, African coffee. Home. He’s home.

Jet lag, he tells himself. Jet lag, and that weird dream you had on the plane. That’s all this is.

REMUS

“The fucking rat bastard bitch-ass sorry shit-stain of a cunt,” Remus pants to himself, as quietly as he can when he’s heaving for breath and sprinting along the forest floor. Remus wasn’t particularly athletic in the first place—one doesn’t really become a horror author if they’re a star athlete, do they?—but when one is running for their life, things like “stitches in my side” and “is that blood I taste in the back of my mouth” kind of take a back seat to things like, you know, continued survival.

Remus nearly trips over a vine, which he verbally abuses for a few hundred more feet, (“fucking useless pieces of shit fucking—”) before he manages to slip and stumble into the shelter of something like a cave. He checks it—as much as he likes wildlife mauling other people, in theory, it kind of goes against this whole survival thing if he wanders into a cave only to get his throat ripped out by a bobcat.

As he casts back the hood of his jacket and mops his brow of sweat, looking back and forth to ensure he hasn’t been tracked, and his heart rate returns to something like normal, turns his mind back to Miguel fucking Contreras. 

That fucking bastard was lucky he was dead, and even so, Remus might go back and dig up his freshly-turned grave with nothing but his own two fucking hands and he’d gladly break a hundred of his fingers and turn his knuckles into right-angled wrongness just to reach in there and grab his rotting corpse and wring his neck to kill him again.

He didn’t even kill him the first time, that’s the unbearable thing! He’d wanted to kill him and someone swooped in and did it before Remus ever could!

Remus spits on the ground, furious, and even more furious that everything with him is so vital he can’t risk destroying any of it in a rage—his clothes, his last couple testosterone pills, a burner phone he’d stolen off someone who reminded him of his own wretched abuela a couple cities back and kept shut off ever since. She’d been yelling at some homeless kids trying to get some pesos for a goddamn meal, though, so Remus felt as if he’d performed a public service by making her day worse.

He’d managed to snatch her purse and empty it out, too. The kids got a meal, Remus got a meal, everyone won.

Remus chances a peek around the forest once again, just to ensure he hasn’t been tailed, and—

He shrinks back into the cave at the sight of a large man jogging by. He’s very big, very tall, very tattooed, and very confused, by the looks of it. Like he’s sleep-walked miles into the forest and now doesn’t know his way back.

The man pivots on his foot, walks out of Remus's view behind a tree, and doesn’t resume walking again.

Remus's eyes narrow. He tenses his muscles, ready to start sprinting again, but that man had looked rather big and strong, and therefore much more decisively athletic than Remus.

But minutes pass, and the man doesn’t emerge again.

Remus creeps out, just enough to see past the tree, and—

No. The man is gone.

Anyone else might think that they were losing it. Anyone else might think that they were going crazy.

Remis is fully aware that he’s crazy, though, so he shrugs and returns his attention to sorting through his bag, except—

His fingers run through the money he has, and they aren’t pesos anymore. Remus frowns at the sight of the money, holding it up to the meager light to see it.

There definitely isn’t an old white lady on pesos usually.

“The fuck?”

“Erm.”

Remus whips his head around, very suddenly aware that he isn’t in a cave anymore.

He’s in an apartment. A swanky apartment. The air conditioning is blasting—Remus hasn’t been in air-conditioned surroundings for so long, and he nearly melts under the feel of it, cooling the sweat coating his face, running down his back.

A white man lowers his glasses down his nose and frowns at Remus. The way his mouth moves twists up the scar on the side of the face. He’s holding up a handful of pesos.

“Well, first of all, I really need to send a note so they improve security around this place,” the man says in an undertone. Then, “second of all, if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to need those pounds to pay for my takeaway.”

Remus stares.

“I’ve ordered Indian food to my office,” he continues, “and I’d think that they’d prefer the national currency in exchange for my food. I’ve been craving samosas something awful.”

Samosas do sound good. Any food sounds good, Remus thinks, as his stomach growls with envy. 

Remus slowly extends his handful of the old white lady money. The white man places the pesos into Remus's hand, taking his money back at the same time.

“Much obliged,” the white man says and disappears. 

Remus blinks down at his handful of pesos, then looks around. No more air conditioning, or swanky office, or promise of takeout. 

He shakes his head.

“If I hadn’t lost it before,” he mutters aloud and goes back to counting his money.

Well. It’s not like Remus's brain is any great loss.

LOGAN

Logan gives a cursory peek through the telescope and grumbles, pulling back and rubbing his forehead. Fantastic. On top of this untimely migraine, his equipment has decided to throw a tantrum, too.

He’s known technology can be fiddly even in the best of conditions. He’s known that cold can adversely affect equipment. And yet, for some reason, it is still constantly frustrating when it does happen. Which in turn is frustrating; he should expect cold conditions to interfere with any equipment that he uses for his space research. He’s in Antarctica. 

Logan makes effort to simply narrow his eyes at the telescope before him, fiddling with the lens. He has half a mind to ask it there, will you behave now? but considering it is simply scientific equipment, it will not answer. Therefore, there is no reason to speak.

Logan rubs his forehead again, and, for the brief moment before his hand obscures his eyes, he sees a flash of something.

Logan squints, lowering his hand. But no, he decides; he just sees snow, rock, the local wildlife. 

But for a moment he could have sworn, while he was looking out at the sea, that he’d seen a large, tattooed man looking out at the sea, too.

No, he decides. It couldn’t have possibly been; this headache, coupled with the general brightness of the world right now, is making him see things.

There is no way he’d just seen, in the midst of an Antarctic island, a large, tattooed man in pajamas and bunny slippers.

ROMAN

Fuck if it’s not early, but fuck if he’s not having a blast.

“Do we wanna run it one more time?!” Roman hollers down from the catwalks.

“I should’ve known better than to give you a fly scene,” María says ruefully. Roman blows down kisses from where he’s strapped in, harness tight across his chest, the camera crew looking dutifully to María to see what the verdict is.

A long pause. She sighs and waves a hand. “Set up for the close-up landing!”

Roman whoops to himself, shifting on his own two feet. He never gets to do stunts, much less stunts like this. All his movies are machismo, punching people and firing guns, and sure, this one is full of all that, but at least this time he gets to spend a day flying around on wires like he’s a superhero.

Which is ironic, considering he’d started his career in movies as a stuntman. But now his pretty face is too high-market-value to risk it doing the thing he’s been trained to do.

But whatever! Today he gets to fly around! Today he gets to throw himself into saying his lines! Today he gets to throw himself into his script and his acting and his costars! 

Today he gets to spend it on set and not lying in bed taken down by this godawful migraine and scrolling through his phone with his heart in his throat to see if there are any developments in the news! 

Today he gets to tell Sasha all about the day he’s had in his usual bright and happy voice! It’s a great day!

Roman shuffles on his feet, waiting for the “action!” to be called when he hears the tell-tale rumbling shriek of a plane flying overhead, and Roman bites back a sigh; that’s going to delay the shoot of the scene for sure while they wait on that, so Roman slumps, looking for something to occupy either his hands or his brain with, but then—

“Quiet on set!” María barks. 

“We aren’t going to hold for the plane?” Roman asks, confused.

“What plane?” María says.

“I thought—” Roman says, and frowns; from where he is in the catwalks, he can’t exactly look up and see the sky, but even then the angle of sound seems wrong; it’s like he’s walking past an airfield, planes taking off and landing all at once.

“Never mind,” Roman calls down weakly. “Thought I heard something, must have been tech stuff.”

María looks up at him, eyes narrowed briefly before she shrugs, and repeats, “Quiet on set!”

Roman shakes out his shoulders, intent on getting into the mind of Pablo Márquez, and out of his own.

⁂

Roman’s got an icepack under his shoulder and on his forehead, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

Okay, so, maybe he got a bit too into it today. Whatever. It’s not his fault he’s stuck with a killer migraine, and it’s definitely not his fault that the person who fastened his harness clearly didn’t know what he was talking about; you’d think that now he was the big star, people would be more cautious with him than they were when he was a stuntman, but what does Roman know? He’s just the pretty face.

But whatever. He’s got a breather for a while as his costar shoots a few scenes with her supposed father (a twist of the movie is that her father is not, in fact, her father) and so he’s taking the time to sit and relax.

He’s going to relax.

Really.

...oh, who is he kidding. Roman immediately rolls to grab his phone from where he’d set it on the minuscule table in his trailer, and loads the page to El Universal.

He’s got the search down to a science, really. He starts with the wider, more professional news sources—ergo El Universal—and then gradually meanders his way down, through the magazines, then the tabloids, then the blogs dedicated to the writings of R.J. Duke.

When he’s really desperate, he checks Twitter.

He turns out to be really desperate every day, though. 

He isn’t really sure how not to be desperate when one’s brother is on the run for committing murder.

He definitely isn’t sure how not to be desperate when one’s brother is only revealed to not be his brother under a thin guise that someone might find out any minute.

He absolutely isn’t sure how not to be desperate when any day now, someone will crack it, and they’ll raid his apartment to see if Roman was hiding him (Roman would absolutely hide him if Remus would just come to him) and ask him questions, and how is Roman supposed to respond when they ask him if Remus would be capable of murder, no? Fucking obviously Remus would be capable of murder.

And the thing is, he is desperate. He’s desperate to get news of how Remus is doing, where on earth Remus is, if he’s okay.

And then he wonders what kind of person he is, to be so willing to set aside that his brother might have killed someone. He’d like to think that he’d do the right thing and turn Remus in, but he is also sure that he absolutely wouldn’t.

But the question is, does Remus know that? Does Remus know that Roman would throw everything, everything—his fame, his fancy apartment, his money—just to be sure that Remus was safe, that Remus was with him?

They’d been so entrenched in their petty disagreements over the years that Roman isn’t sure that Remus does.

The thought that his brother might not know Roman loves him is a thousand times more painful than this headache will be.

Remus is his brother. His twin brother, the only person in the world who understands Roman; for all their differences, for all their disagreements, he and Remus have always understood each other. They’ve always been on a wavelength no one else has, in sync and in step with each other. They’d even been born at exactly the same time, by virtue of their mother’s c-section. 

How is Roman meant to just set that aside?!

So he lies on the couch in his trailer, scrolling obsessively through a Twitter search of his brother’s pen name and his legal name and his actual name, eyebrows drawn together further and further.

He’s so lost in chasing down clues, he doesn’t even notice the large, pajama-clad man appearing in his trailer and disappearing again, between five blinks of the eye.

PATTON

The view in front of Patton is crystalline and beautiful, dark gray rock and snow a blindingly clear shade of white and the ocean, constantly shifting between deep, lovely blue and bottle-green depths; ice, and rock, and the sun glinting off the sea and the snow, so bright that it almost hurts to look at it. 

It’s so lovely that Patton would gladly spend all day looking at it, if not for the deep chill working its way into his bones as if he’s been here for months instead of minutes. Which is kind of confusing, but he doesn’t think his flannel pajamas and bunny slippers probably don’t make the cut of approved winter gear, so that might be it.

And also the part where Patton went to bed in his apartment in Auckland because of his blindingly bad migraine, and he has woken up in some wintry wasteland. That part’s kind of confusing him, too.

There’s a particularly sharp gust of wind, and Patton squints, turning his face away and lifting his hand. The breeze lessens, and Patton lowers his hand.

He’s in an office.

A nice office, the kind with hardwood floors that would click under his feet if he weren’t wearing slippers and the big, floor-to-ceiling windows that speaks of a recent, expensive renovation, a door ajar. He walks forward to peek into it—

—and finds himself looking inside of a cramped little trailer, a man flung out dramatically on the couch, one arm over his forehead, not able to cover the anguish on his face, and the other scrolling through his phone.

He takes a step forward, and just like before, without any sense of transition, just one blink and he’s not in a trailer anymore, he’s outside, standing at the foot of a mountain stretching for forever above him, moving quickly on his feet, jogging alongside a hooded man sprinting down a barely-worn path—

He takes a step forward, and his foot lands on the carpet.

“Goodness,” a man says, with a familiar, amused tone. “You’ve been walking quite far, haven’t you?”

Patton looks up to see a man—the parent he’d thought he’d seen yesterday. He’s in the same cardigan and dress shirt, looking rather rumpled, but his tie has, at least, been loosened from around his throat. The lights are off, the only light filtering weakly through the windows. The man is lying down in his bed, looking pale and sickly.

The room would look quite depressing if not for the laptop blaring a cartoon—an American one Patton doesn’t know—and various assorted cartoon art and sculptures as clutter around the room. His duvet has a subtle pattern that Patton, after tilting his head, looks a bit like gemstones.

“...I think so,” Patton says cautiously. “But it doesn’t feel like it.”

“No, it never does,” the man says, smiling. “Even when you’ve walked halfway ‘round the world.”

For lack of anything to say—other than who are you, what’s happening to me, what on earth is going on—Patton keeps quiet.

“I like your tattoos,” the man continues.

“Oh, thank you,” Patton says, twisting his arms so that the cardiganed man can see them, swelling with pride. They are a big part of his culture, his history, himself, after all. “They’re tā moko.”

“Tā moko,” the man repeats as if committing it to memory.

“I’m Māori,” Patton adds because he can place the accent now—American. And, well, nothing against Americans, it’s just that he isn’t sure how much the average American knows about the indigenous populations of other continents.

“Indigenous to,” the man says, and his eyes narrow for a moment. “New Zealand, right?”

Patton nods to the man, before he says, “Where am I?”

“Oh, excuse my manners, please sit down,” the man says, gesturing to an empty spot on his comfy-looking bed. Patton sits. It is comfy.

“I’m just so excited, you see, I’ve spent most of the past day recovering, so you’re the first one I’ve met. I’d expect you to be recovering, too, this is either a fortunately-timed fluke or you seem to be getting the hang of this very fast. Doesn’t your head hurt?”

“Terribly,” Patton admits, then, “First of who?” 

Before the man can answer his question, his brain flashes with images from today—an airport, dark catwalks, a yawning cliff face, that fancy-schmancy office. 

“Well,” the man says. “I’m Dr. Emile Picani.” 

For whatever reason, it feels like he should have known that name already; his name slips into Patton’s mind like a key turning a long-forgotten lock.

“And,” the man continues, “you’re technically wherever your body is now.”

“Auckland.”

“Auckland,” he repeats. “Patton the Māori from Auckland. Oh, how wonderful, I don’t think I know any of our kind anywhere near Australia or New Zealand yet.”

“Our,” Patton says, and his brow wrinkles. “Our kind?”

“Patton, my darling,” Emile says warmly, leaning forward to put a hand on Patton’s. “Have you been walking around in other places? Feeling things that aren’t there, seeing people that aren’t there?”

“Yes,” Patton says.

“Those would be your cluster,” Emile says, and the word buries itself deep in Patton’s heart with an aggressively radiating kind of warmth, instantaneously fond, like he’s loved them all along but just now realized it. My cluster. It may as well be my family, that’s how much love he feels. 

“Your body is in Auckland, still, but right now, your mind? You’re visiting me in Florida.”

Patton can’t help but smile a little. “I’ve never been outside of New Zealand before.”

Emile smiles back at him, warm and comforting, and it feels just as familiar as looking at the face of his father.

“Patton, dear, you are no longer just you.”

REMY

Remy turns from where he’s making a mug of green tea to see that he’s in Emile’s room.

“Babe,” Remy says, reflexive, before he sees the look on Emile’s face; and he understands immediately.

“Fuck, are they still here?”

Emile, still smiling, shakes his head just a touch regretfully. “You just missed him.”

That piques Remy’s attention. “Him? You’ve got a son?”

“He’s not technically my son,” Emile says bashfully; they swap, effortless after so long, and Emile takes a sip of Remy’s green tea using Remy’s hands, Remy’s ] mouth. Remy takes that time to use Emile’s body to settle more comfortably in the bed, and he places a cool, wet washcloth across Emile’s forehead.

They swap back without losing a beat; this rhythm between them has existed for a decade, Emile’s psychic birth isn’t about to trip them up. Sure, it looks different to him than it does to Emile; right now, to Remy, it’s like Emile’s curled up in his Nicean apartment, just at home in France as he is in Florida. To Emile, he knows, it’s like Remy’s appeared in his bedroom, oddly dressed for the Florida spring.

“Your psychic son, then,” Remy teases, then it clicks. “Wait, you’ve seen one of them already? How long did it take one of us to see Harley after the activation—?”

Emile waves a hand in a so-so type gesture. “Linny saw Dalisay and she kind of served as a mentor for her, didn’t she? That was the closest to a non-cluster visit that we got.”

“And that was after three days or so,” Remy muses. “Hm.”

“Yeah,” Emile agrees. “I dunno if it’s a fluke or if Patton’s just really well-adapted for this life.”

“Patton,” Remy repeats. 

Honestly, he isn’t really sure how to handle this; the closest he could get to preparing for his boyfriend’s psychic birth is googling things about being a stepdad, and that’s not even slightly close to what’s actually happening. Bonding with the stepkids can only really happen if Emile’s lucked into a cluster with a Frenchman, Frenchwoman, Frenchperson, whichever.

Emile quirks a brow at him, knowing what he’s about to ask. “New Zealander.”

“Fuck,” Remy says. “No in-cluster education for Patton, then. Do we know anyone there, baby?”

“I’d have to check with the Archipelago, and, well,” Emile says, gesturing vaguely to himself; he’s laid out in bed, and, with the washcloth on his forehead, he really does look quite ill. Out-of-cluster visiting might be too much of a strain right now.

Remy frowns, taking the washcloth in hand and gently dabbing Emile’s forehead.

“Tell me about him?”

Emile beams.

“Oh, Remy, he’s wonderful. Simply fantastic! He’s Māori—indigenous population—and he’s got all these interesting tattoos. I’ve been researching, look,” Emile says, tilting his phone so that Remy can see.

Remy takes it. He sees swirling designs, up and down arms and legs, neatly segmented lines filled with various patterns, a few portraits of tattooed faces.

“—the tattoos themselves have a really interesting history, but I have a lot of reading to do when it comes to the Māori population itself. I've already tried to put a few books on hold at the university library.”

“What’s he like?”

“Big, tall,” Emile says, gesturing vaguely with a hand where the top of Patton’s head would compare with his own. “It’s late there, or early, I think, he was still in pajamas. Bunny slippers.”

Remy smiles at that, knowing for a fact that Emile’s wearing his knee-high muppet socks. “Takes after you, then.”

“Maybe,” Emile admits, then, “oh, all right, probably. We have a lot in common, at least, even if we don’t have any solid evidence on if cluster parents influence the traits of their cluster.”

“Influence, schminfluence,” Remy says.

“But he seems very nice, very polite. Wasn’t too shaken by appearing in America.”

Emile’s brow creases.

“I think he needs a cluster,” Emile says, very quiet. “I think he needs them badly.”

Remy isn’t sure what to say to that, so he puts a hand on Emile’s cheek, attempting to check his temperature.

“Harley should have given us the equivalent of psychic sex-ed,” Remy mutters irritably. Emile’s skin, always soft, is warmer than Remy would like.

Emile yawns. “Not gonna disagree with you there.”

Remy tugs up Emile’s blankets to tuck him in. Emile smiles up at him, a little bashful, a lot sleepy.

“Cuddles?” Emile mumbles, holding out his arms, entreating.

And, well. What is Remy gonna do, not cuddle his incredibly adorable boyfriend recovering from psychic birth?

[tonystarkbingo]

TSB Mark IV Week 14 Roundup!

We have our January Discord Party coming up this weekend!  Make sure to stop by to grab this month’s party favor by the lovely Monobuu, and to set a goal so you can earn your goal badge.

Title: Anthony, It’s Two in the Morning Collaborator: tinydragontony Card Number: 4005 Link: AO3 Square Filled: A3 - Free Ship: FrostIron Rating: G Major Tags: Fluff, Zoomies Summary: It's way too early for this. Word Count: 412

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Title: Stay Still, My Love, And I Will Fix You Collaborator: Nicnac Card Number: 4048 Link: AO3 Square Filled: T3 - Stay Still Ship: IronWidow Rating: Mature Major Tags: angst, injury, pain, hurt/comfort, blood Summary: Nat gets injured on a mission and Tony has to perform emergency medical procedures to keep her alive until the real medics arrive. Word Count: 2165

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Title: Smooch Collaborator: hereandnowwearealive Card Number: 4085 Link: Tumblr Square Filled: S1 - Nose Kiss Ship: Pepperony Rating: G Major Tags: Art Summary: An image of Tony kissing Pepper on the nose Word Count: N/A

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Title: Show Me the World Collaborator: camichats Card Number: 4049 Link: AO3 Square Filled: K1 - Sugar/Caffeine High Ship: Peter Quill/Gamora/Tony Stark Rating: Gen Major Tags: N/A Summary: Tony gets turned into a kid. Gamora figures that between her and Peter, they can take care of him until he changes back.  Word Count: 1242

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Title: understated, overwhelming Collaborator: peachy Card Number: 4017 Link: AO3 Square Filled: K4 - Story Format: Nonlinear Ship: Stony Rating: G Major Tags: Fluff, established relationship, domesticity Summary: Just five quiet moments of affection between Steve and Tony. Word Count: 1286

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Title: Missed Call Collaborator: Dracusfyre Card Number: 4032 Link: AO3 Square Filled: S5 - Writing Format: Email/Chat Log Ship: WinterIron Rating: T Major Tags: Established Relationship, Kidnapped Tony Stark, Epistolary, Kidnapped Bucky Barnes Summary: Missed Call: Capsicle (3)    Missed Call: Honeybear (8)    Missed Call: Natasha (2)    Voicemails: 6    Unread text messages: 19    Tony and Bucky's first vacation together goes very wrong. Word Count: 909

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Title: (Give Me A) Reason to Live Collaborator: Dracusfyre Card Number: 4032 Link: AO3 Square Filled: T3 - Convenience Store Ship: WinterIron Rating: G Major Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Getting Together, BAMF Tony Stark, Mutual Pining, Domestic Fluff Summary: After fleeing Hydra, James and Tony found a fragile peace, living together and striking at Hydra from the shadows. Until the news that Captain America has been found forces them out of hiding to face their fears head-on. Word Count: 1521

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Title: I die with variety viii Collaborator: Simi Card Number: 4066 Link: AO3 Square Filled: R2 - Tony Stark/Natasha Romanoff Ship: IronHusbands Rating: Explicit Major Tags: major character death, immortality in a way but it will end at some time, explicit sexual content, deaths in various, graphic circumstances, violence, alcohol poisoning, alcohol-related death, domestic violence. Summary: The first time that Tony dies, he is four and he’s building his very first circuit board from scratch. He’s connecting the finished product to the multimeter to check the voltage, the current and resistance, when a lead slips, a shock ricochets up through his spine, and he sees black.He’s on his back, when his eyes flutter open, and he’s staring up at the ceiling. He gets up, frowning, rubbing at his eyes, and then, he sees the frayed wire on the end of the multimeter.Huh, he thinks and moves on almost immediately. Word Count: 32,368

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Title: your lips, your hips, they’re mine Collaborator: Simi Card Number: 4066 Link: AO3 Square Filled: S1 - Bruce Banner Ship: IronHusbands Rating: Explicit Major Tags: de-aging, twink Tony, explicit sexual content. Summary: Jim doesn’t actually find out much beforehand.All he gets is a message on his phone, saying, Come quick, there’s an emergency.He’s a little pissed, honestly, that they would try and gatekeep when there’s a fucking emergency, but he flies to the tower, with his lungs in his throat, because he’s terrified that someone, one of the Avengers, is going to come out of the penthouse to tell him that Tony’s dead, that he died fighting a fucking jacuzzi monster or something, and Jim’s going to have to deal with the aftermath, with this whole which is suddenly devoid of light and laughter and love and heat because Tony’s dead.When he lands on the tarmac outside the penthouse, JARVIS begins removing his armour for him, like Jim knows that he does for Tony.The armour disappears into the innards of the tower, but always at quick reach if either Jim or Tony want it.“Good afternoon, Colonel Rhodes,” JARVIS says, pleasantly, when he enters the blissfully air-conditioned penthouse.He breathes a sigh of relief, because he knows that JARVIS wouldn’t have that happy tenor to his voice if something had gone wrong, if Tony was hurt or dead and lying somewhere. Word Count: 7100

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Title: Better Collaborator: Becca Card Number: 4029 Link: AO3 Square Filled: K5 - Endgame Fix-it Ship: Peter & Tony, background Stuckony Rating: Teen Major Tags: Major Character Death, Temporary Character Death Summary: And then Peter is silently telling Karen to block his microphone so no one can hear him. He kneels in front of Tony, says, “Karen, can you get FRIDAY to release Tony’s gauntlet,” and she must understand what he means, and FRIDAY must understand, because when Peter picks up Tony’s right hand, his gauntlet slides off easily and it fits on Peter’s hand perfectly. “I should’ve been better,” he whispers, and then he snaps. Word Count: 2132

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Title: [Podfic] FUBAR'd Collaborator: Juulna Card Number: 4065 Link: AO3 Squares Filled: Chapter 4, R2 - De-Aged!Tony Chapter 5, K1 - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder Ship: pre-Stony Rating: Mature Major Tags: Graphic Depictions Of Violence,  Gen or Pre-Slash, Possibly Pre-Slash, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Past Child Abuse, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Red Room (Marvel), Torture, Past Torture, Protective Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes & Winter Soldier are Different Personalities, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Unhappy Ending, of a sort, Kidnapping, Pining, Pining Bucky Barnes, Pining Tony Stark, Pining Steve Rogers, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Tony Stark, BAMF Steve Rogers, BAMF Natasha Romanov, BAMF Bruce Banner, BAMF Clint Barton, Platonic Cuddling, Mutual Pining, Team as Family, Team Feels, Protective Team, Team Bonding, Howard Stark’s A+ Parenting, Maria Stark’s A+ Parenting, Eventual Relationships, Found Family, Families of Choice, Alternate Universe, De-aged AU, Obadiah Stane is a Creepy Creeper, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Disabled Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Deaf Steve Rogers, (partially), Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Magic-Users, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 1.5-2 Hours, Podficced with Permission, Gift Work, But also for Bingos since I may as well xD Summary: The Winter Soldier - "Asset" - and James "Bucky" Barnes are on the run, from Hydra, from The Avengers... Mostly from that little blond punk that wants to "rescue" Bucky. An accidental run-in with magic leaves the Avengers team de-aged. Now what?

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Title: The Gods of Culinary Chaos - Chapter 2 Collaborator: BennyBatch Card Number: 4005 Link: AO3 Square Filled: K5 - anger issues Ship: FrostIron Rating: Teen Major Tags: culinary au, loki is an asshole, tony is a pastry chef Summary: Odin decides it's time Loki finds another outlet for his chaotic energies and figures the royal kitchen is as good a place as any. Thankfully the pastry chef seems to agree. Word Count: 7476

[wonderlustlucas]

soonie, doongie, dori, & john - lee minho

⇢ prompt “Why did you steal a fish? You don’t even take care of yourself let alone a fish.”—a prompt from @the-moon-dust-writings​ ⇢ pairing minho x female reader ⇢ word count 4.4k ⇢ genre fluff ⇢ warnings lots of cat interaction. if u don’t have a cat you may be confused. mega fluff. that’s it. ⇢ summary Sharing an apartment with Lee Minho has been an adventure since day one. Plus, you got a best friend and three fur children out of the deal. But when a heavy realization hits you the same morning Minho has an accident at the pet store, it seems as if it’s only a matter of time before John shoots Cupid’s arrow and paves the way for a happy ending.—friends to lovers!au ⇢ a/n bear with me on this one, it’s kind of slow in the beginning. this is the first i’ve written in ages. i feel like i’ve forgotten how to english. also i did as much research as i could find to try & figure out the genders of minnie’s cats hopefully theyre right jsfajkhkjf. also i watched a lot of vids of minho for this & it rlly made me realize how much i love him & how soft i am for him & it seems as if my bias list is unstable now

From her curled-up position in between your legs, Dori’s ears twitch up in attention at the sound of the front door swinging open and closed from across the apartment. She has grown a lot since Minho first brought her home, you notice when she finally lifts her tiny head to listen to the footsteps past your bedroom door, jade eyes blinking tiredly at you in post-nap dreariness. Excited, she pushes herself up to arch her back in a long stretch before she abandons the warmth of your bed to greet Minho. Pouting, you watch as Soonie ditches you as well, hopping off from his perch looking out the window to follow the younger kitten.

“Oh well,” you mutter to none other than Doongie who stays by your side, white mittened paws tucked snugly under her chest that rumbles with a purr when you reach over to scratch the soft fur behind her ear, “I still have you.” You can practically feel Minho’s jealousy radiating from behind the door when only two out of his three children go to see him— not that this is new.

It has been this way since you moved in together nearly two years ago. Due to increasing international interest for your university at the end of each year, not every incoming freshman was guaranteed a dorm room. It just so happened Minho and you were two unlucky victims of such a shortage. By chance, you had met at an open house only seven months prior and so, not even knowing whether he was frantically searching for an apartment like yourself, you reached out to him with an offer your parents helped scrap up.

Minho was uncertain at first. First, he was not prepared to start university living with a girl. It wasn’t that he did not like girls; he simply grew up expecting to meet his forever “bro” in his dorm room. In addition to this, he was an only child and imagined living with a female only child could end up causing him some great distress.

Secondly, while the pros outweighed the cons for the most part, he was more than disappointed that the apartment was in a more… domestic part of town. Yes, the rent was cheaper than the apartments closer to campus. Yes, he would be able to have a car now and yes, the apartment really was more than sustainable for two kids, but it was all these things and more because it was not an area where sleaze balls sunk their talons into desperate students looking for a place to live. And so, this basically meant that the two of you were close to the only students in the area.

And last but not least: there was only one bathroom. Enough said.

But what eventually won him over was the fact that the apartment was pet friendly, which meant he could bring Soonie and Doongie (and Dori, eventually) with him. It was for this reason he finally agreed to share the apartment with you before he lost the opportunity and you asked someone else.

It couldn’t be that bad, right? Afterall, you seemed nice enough at the open house and you did go out of your way to ask him in the first place to live with you. And he was right. In fact, it was not bad at all. You were more than nice, generally not concerned with specifics other than the agreement that Wednesday was grocery shopping day together, Friday was cleaning day, and that you washed your own dishes. Minho did not mind those three simple promises because he found getting to be your friend easy and your roommate his favorite part of his day.

What he did mind, however, was the fact that Doongie instantly took a liking to you. “This isn’t fair,” he complained only your third day together after searching for said feline and finding her cozied up with you on the sofa, “how can she betray me like this?”

His possessiveness humored you, to say the least. “What can I say? She just likes me better. You’ve bored her, Minnie.” He grimaced at the nickname and your bold statement. You were just bluffing—there’s no way Doongie would choose you over him after all these years, right?

Wrong. After freshman year flew by and the two of you agreed to stick together for a second year due to how dependent you had become on one another, he suddenly brought home Dori to ‘fill the void Doongie left in my heart,’ he exaggerated. “Wow, is Soonie not enough for you? You make him sound so unimportant. Maybe I’ll steal him too,” you had replied, grinning from your spot in bed when he narrowed his eyes at you.

“I thought you’d be mad I brought a kitten home,” Minho admitted from the doorway, ignoring what you said and holding said tabby against his chest with one arm. He’s so cute, you admired for hardly a second, reaching for your iced tea on your bed side table and shrugging to him, “You know I don’t care, you’re the one who pays the vet bills. Bring all the cats you want; the more, the merrier,” you said, taking a sip and blinking at him lethargically.

For a moment he was quiet, processing your words before, “If we get married it would be our vet bills.”

You nearly choked on a mouthful of tea. Married? You took a moment to collect yourself and your thoughts. “Minho, if your plan is to marry me, you’ve done a terrible job at getting that message across.”

“Damn, what can I do?” He asked, sulking.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, grinning at him behind warm cheeks, “you can start by getting your ass over here so I can see this new kitty and discuss our wedding theme.”

And that’s just how things were; you, Minho, Soonie, Doongie, and Dori.

Or so you thought.

Past the hum of your ceiling fan and the purring coming from Doongie like an engine, for a minute or so you listen to Minho sing, “I want to see my little boy,” from Vine to presumably Soonie at least four times, followed by a loud thud, a high-pitched screech (not from a cat), a door slamming closed, and then the pipes moaning like a horror movie as the shower is turned on. Unfazed by the chain of events as this kind of chaos was something you have come to accept living with Minho, you shrug off all the noises you heard and opt instead to regretfully roll over until you meet the edge of the mattress.

Once you manage to tumble out of bed and stretch good enough to make your legs shake, Doongie lets out unamused meow now that her own personal space heater and pillow has moved.

It’s you. You’re the personal space heater pillow.

“Whaaaat,” you reply, grabbing a pair of cotton shorts from a drawer and glancing back at her. With ears drawn flat, Doongie follows your movements with a cold glare. “I’m sorry,” you coo, falling for her manipulation and bending back over the mattress to envelope her in a hug of sorts and cover her muzzle in kisses. When she starts struggling to get away from your grip, beginning to meow loudly and pushing your arm away with her paws, you pull away and scratch the base of her tail as she stands to stretch.

Shimmying the shorts up your legs with an unnecessary amount of effort exerted, you at last exit your room for the day, grabbing your phone from where it sat charging on the bed side table on the way. Padding barefoot down the brief hallway, you realize with a shiver when you reach the tiny dining room table how unreasonably freezing it is in the apartment. Minho must have not raised the thermostat this morning after lowering it to sleep.

Instead of fixing the problem, you reach for Minho’s orange university sweatshirt draped over one of the chairs and pull it over your head. At your feet, Doongie weaves between your legs, dragging the side of her face against your shins and she does not stop mewing until you bend down to gather her into your arms so that her front paws dangle over your shoulder. “So needy, you are,” you grumble, blowing her tail away when she threatens to swat your mouth and making way for the kitchen where coffee calls your name.

Minho must have made enough for the both of you as there is still another cup or two left in the pot, you realize with a smile, reaching up into the cabinet for a mug and pouring yourself a cup. Doongie leaps off your shoulder when you open the refrigerator for creamer, joining Soonie and Dori who sit poised like statues along the kitchen’s pony wall.

Stirring in cream and sugar, you wait until the color softens to a lighter shade of brown before unwrapping the flakey chocolate croissant Minho bought you yesterday and taking a seat at the table. Humming to yourself, you shift to cross your legs on the chair while taking slow sips of your coffee, heart beginning to thump faster in your chest.

And it’s not from the caffeine now making its way through your system.

This is too good. Life is too good, and you should not feel at such peace at twenty years old. You should not be having such a casual morning, drinking coffee Minho made for you, eating a croissant Minho bought you, wearing a sweatshirt Minho left hanging around, having a staring contest with the cats Minho brought into your life, listening to Minho sing in the shower one room over. Minho.

You slowly set your mug down with a newfound epiphany flashing like a billboard in your brain. Of course, you always knew Minho was the most special person in your life recently, your best friend really, and that you loved him. You probably would not have lived with him for this long if you didn’t. But since when were you in love with him?

You shake your head and take a hefty mouthful, hoping to wash away such troublesome thoughts. You’ll get over it. It’s just a crush. On the boy you live with. And spend all your time with.

“Oh boy, what are we gonna do now?” You ask the three felines who have abandoned studying you to stare down like hawks at the table, ears raised in curiosity. You follow their gaze, squinting in hope to better your vision when you see the fluttering tail of a fish as it swims within its tiny plastic cup. Blinking once, twice, and on the third you finally reach over and grab the container, bringing it closer to inspect and yep, that most certainly is a betta fish staring back at you.

Setting it atop the refrigerator where the cats can’t get to it, you stuff the rest of breakfast into your mouth and dump what’s left of your coffee into the sink before marching to the bathroom, swinging the door open without so much as a knock. He yelps from behind the shower curtain and you mentally thank God you did not barge in to find him butt naked in front of the mirror.

“Lee Minho, care to explain why there was a fish on the kitchen table?” You bark, crossing your arms and leaning against the sink for when he pops his head outside of the curtain.

“First of all, you could have knocked,” he starts, looking to the floor when you glare at him, “and I, um, I stole it.” You sigh in defeat, dragging your hands down your face when he disappears back into the shower. “Minho, why did you steal a fish? You don’t even take care of yourself let alone a fish.”

“That just isn’t true. I am fully capable of taking care of myself and my children. And I didn’t mean to steal it,” he retorts, turning off the water and you watch as he slips an arm out to slap around in search of his towel. “How the fuck do you accidentally steal something, Minho? And did you not think I would see it eventually?” You huff, exasperated.

“You see, I went to go pick up cat food and I dropped my phone where all the betta fish in cups are and when I went to pick it up the bag hit a cup and it fell and then the lid popped off and then there was water everywhere and the fish was just flopping around so I panicked and put it back in and then ran to get water from a fish tank and I thought I would get in trouble so I just ran out since no one saw me,” Minho rambles without taking a breather, whisking open the shower curtain and stepping out as he does so, towel snug around his waist and cheeks glowing pink from both embarrassment and the aftermath of a hot shower. You sigh for a third time, moving out of his way when he makes way for the cabinet and opting to sit on the toilet.

“Did you even get the cat food, then?”

“No, I just ran. With the fish.”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you grumble, “You’re an idiot.”

“But I’m your idiot,” he grins, dragging a cotton round over his face with toner. You send him a warning glare. “Well,” you click your tongue, hypnotized as he combs out his hair and by how unfairly ethereal he looks post-shower, “we should probably go to a different pet store to get cat food. And we need to get a nice fish tank and food.”

He raises a brow, surprised with how nonchalant you are, and moves to stand in front of where you sit so he can tilt your face up with his index finger tucked under your chin. “Are you mad?” He asks.

It’s not fair, really, the way he asks such a question after making you feel so vulnerable under his touch and proximity, heart racing a mile a minute. Really, you should be mad. But when it comes to Minho, you cannot find it in yourself to be. This is just how things are with him.

“No, I’m not mad,” you smile reassuringly, leaning into his touch and you both seem to forget for a moment that you are nothing more than friends when his hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb ever so slightly brushing over your warm skin as he beams down at you, “just amazed as usual at how stupid you are.”

“Hey!” He steps back at this, running his fingers through his damp hair and shaking out the strands. “I’m not stupid.”

“Yeah, and Doongie likes you more than me.”

“It sucks we have a fish now. I was thinking about getting a guinea pig or something soon. Maybe even a rabbit,” you announce, leaning over with Minho to peer into the guinea pig enclosure. His giggle reverberates throughout the entire store and you cannot help but grin in return, even though he has scared all the little critters back into their huts. With nothing left to coo over, you grab his hand and tug him toward the fish care.

“Where are we going to keep… him? What’s his name? Do we even know if it’s a him?” Your question turns into three, stopping in an aisle full of different tanks and small décor pieces to go inside.

“I’m pretty sure it’s a dude. I think they only sell males in that section anyway. I’ll check if he has a dick when we get home though,” when you look over, he’s smirking as if he just said the funniest thing ever and you have to hold back your laughter. “Yeah, you do that, Minho. I’m sure you’ll be real successful.”

“We can probably just put him on the desk. I’ll move all my shit and he can just go next to my laptop,” he continues, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder as you look over the different tank options. It makes it hard to concentrate with him so close. “I mean— yeah. Yeah. That works,” you stutter, swallowing past the sudden lump in your throat and quickly scanning over the tanks one more time, “we should get this one. Is that okay?” You move closer to said tank, hoping he would let go when you reach out to grab the box but when he doesn’t, your heart seems to beat so erratically in your chest that you think it might fly out. Why, all of a sudden, are there butterflies—no, lions—in your chest when he is around you when there weren’t before? When did this happen?

“Minho. We can cuddle at home. I just want to get what we need and leave,” you whine, trying to pry his fingers apart from where they are linked above your hips, leaving your skin tingling even under his sweatshirt. He huffs, detaching himself from your frame. “Fine. But we’re gonna get home and you’re gonna say ‘Wait, we have to take care of the fish’ first and by the time we’re done, you’ll fall asleep before we even have a movie on,” Minho grumbles, taking the box you shove into his hands and trailing after you.

You gasp, pointing an accusing fake plant in his direction, “No, you fat head. You’re always the first to fall asleep. You just like to blame it on me.” He continues to grumble under his breath while you grab a bag of pebbles, fish food, and water conditioner, finally able to breathe now that he isn’t clinging to you.

“Come on, stinky. I don’t want you to start crying on me,” you grin, wishing you could hold his hand but alas, you did not think of grabbing a basket on your way in. His face brightens up with a smile anyway, and he follows you the rest of the way right at your side.

“So, you never gave him a name. What’s it gonna be?” You ask, nearly unhinging your jaw to take a bite of the Big Mac Minho begged you to order after making fun of you the whole ride home for never having one. You stopped at McDonald’s just to appease him. You look to the fish, surprised yourself over how pleasant his quiet presence is, especially with his emerald and sapphire scales that reflect and glow iridescent in the light.

“Mm,” he hums, chewing on his own hamburger and watching the fish in thought, “I think… I think John.”

You blink at him now, setting your food down. “John?”

“John.”

“Why… why John? Why not Nemo or something?” You ask, eyeing him curiously and gnawing on the straw to your soda.

“Dunno. He just looks like a John,” Minho explains, giggling cutely and looking back up to you with stars in his eyes. It feels like liquid adrenaline is being injected right into your bloodstream when you lock eyes, and looking into Minho’s cat-like eyes feels like looking into the sun for too long—it almost burns, instead, there is an entire zoo in your chest. But it feels good. You almost wish he did not stop giggling so you could giggle with him. Instead, you have found yourself lost in him, every ounce of breath stolen from your lungs.

“Are… are you going to actually take a sip of that?” He giggles again, glancing to the soda straw dug awkwardly into your bottom lip.

Your cheeks flush hot pink, stomach sinking heavily and you cannot find your voice. Clearing your throat, you look away as you begin to hyperventilate and stand up abruptly to grab John’s fish tank from the table and walk across the room toward the desk.

“___? You alright?” He asks, worry lacing his tone and you wince when you hear him push his chair in. “Y-Yeah. I’m fine,” you laugh breathlessly, placing John down and adjusting the tank so it sits catty-cornered next to Minho’s laptop.

“No, you’re not.” He is quick, you’ll give him that. In the blink of an eye he is at your side, grabbing you by the hips and spinning you to face him. Here we go again, you hiss at yourself to snap out of it, clenching your fists at your sides simply due to how overwhelmed you feel. How incapable you are to forget how you have been feeling and brush it under the rug.

“Why’d you get all googly eyes on me over there?” Minho questions, grinning like a madman when he brings his hands up to cup your face and squish your cheeks together. “And why are your cheeks all hot?” You gasp, defensive, and press your hands over his, “M’not.”

He drops his voice to a whisper, leaning in closer so his breath fans over your face, “Is that how I make you feel, ___?”

You blink at him, all the color draining from your face and you must look ridiculous right now, jutting your lips out in a pout as he continues pressing your cheeks together. And what can you say now that he has caught you? Lie? “No,” is all you quip, staring at him, practically begging for mercy. No more questions. Just a ‘goodnight’ and off to your room for the night.

“Hmm,” he hums, pondering for a moment, before grinning once more, “I have an idea.” Oh no, you do not like the sound of that. Minho? Having ideas? Bad. This thought progressively resonates louder in your mind the closer he gets, this is bad, this is bad, this is really bad. It just so happens that a whimper on behalf of your sanity escapes you the same moment his grip on your face eases and he moves his hands to rest below your ears, thumbs caressing your cheeks before his lips brush yours.

His lips are warm and taste… salty? The fries, you realize, before his tongue pressing to the seam of your lips obliterates every thought. The worries leading up to this moment evaporate like a summer shower on a hot car and, of course, you part your lips and grant him access. Drunk on endorphins, your brain seems to light itself on fire and warmth spreads throughout your entire body, your only desire to touch him, to stand up higher and to hold his cheek the way he holds yours.

His fingers run down your spine, pulling you closer until there is no space left between you and you can feel the beating of his heart against your chest. A kiss like this is a beginning, a promise of so much more. “___,” he whispers slowly when he pulls away, prolonging each letter as if to savor them. You smile, heart fluttering at his voice as you lean forward and bury your face into his chest, overwhelmed with relief and desire and worry and giddiness.

“___,” Minho repeats, running his hands up and down over your arms, calming you down before reaching your shoulders and pulling you back, “how did that make you feel?”

“You— what?” Is all you manage, searching his face for a trace of mirth, and yet you find none. In fact, he himself seems relieved, the corners of his mouth quirked up and his eyes bright and dark all at once like the midnight sky. He grins, laughing a little and stroking the baby hairs around your face with his finger. “I like when you wear my stuff,” he says, tugging at the collar of his sweatshirt you still wear.

“Um, I— thanks?” You laugh nervously, heartbeat beginning to skyrocket once more when he reaches for your arms and maneuvers them to hug around his waist. You hum, confused, but content nonetheless and link your hands together. He instantly presses closer, tipping your chin up, “I know you always say I flirt with everyone, but I don’t know how you haven’t realized by now I only want to flirt with you. It’s been you since Doongie chose you. I can’t even get you out of my head, imagine how hard it is living with you, not able to kiss you and do all the cute shit I know we would love.”

He what now? You blink up at him, more than bewildered, “Wait, are you trying t—”

“Yes,” he interjects, not even giving you a chance to finish, “whatever you’re thinking, yes. I’m confessing, or whatever. So let’s cut to the point. Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

Your brain stutters for a moment and every part of you goes on pause while your thoughts catch up. Girlfriend? Well, of fucking course you want to be his girlfriend, but how have you been misreading all of him for so long? “God, I’m an idiot, aren’t I?” You mutter instead, slapping the palm of your hand to your forehead and his giggles ring throughout the room.

“How many languages do I have to get through for that to translate into a ‘yes?’” Minho cackles, prying your hand away to return it around his waist. When you look up at him, you feel as if you may cry, so instead you opt to laugh with him in order to dodge the waterworks. “Yes, of course that means yes. It’s always been a yes, stupid.”

“Hey, you’re the stupid one. Seriously, have you seen us today? We’re so coupley already, literally nothing is changing,” Minho chuckles, walking you backward until you comfortably fall back on the sofa together, “except now,” he pauses, settling himself above you and bringing his face up to yours once more, “I can kiss you wheneeever I want.”

And he does just that; peppering your face, your lips and cheeks and nose with kisses until he has made you a giggling mess, writhing beneath him until he finally stops, sharing a mingled breath with you. “Is it too early to say the ‘L’ word?” Minho whispers, tracing your upper lip with his thumb. You smile, kissing the pad of his finger before, “No. I already know I love you, Minnie. I’m more than in love with you.”

His smile is one of happiness growing, much as a spring flower opens. “Heh. I like this. I love you too,” he answers, finally returning to kiss you in a way that is slow and soft and comforting in ways words cannot describe. And then he pulls back with a gasp.

“I forgot the cat food.”

[dragons-bones]

ALL OF THEM ANSWER ALL OF THEM I MUST KNOW

*rolls up sleeves* ALL RIGHT HERE WE GO

OTP Questions: Aymeric de Borel & Synnove Greywolfe

1. Who likes to nuzzle their head into their partner’s chest?

Synnove! As anyone who personally knows her can tell you, in private she’s a huge cuddlebug, and when she’s tired enough, “public” isn’t a good enough excuse to not. When she’s feeling particularly cruddy, she’ll mash her face into Aymeric’s chest and attempt to pull a reverse chest-burster. Just. Aggressive snuggling. Cuddle me damnit.

Aymeric loves it, of course, and will wrap his arms around her tightly and prop his chin on her head.

2. How many and what colors are the blankets they like to snuggle in?

To the surprise of absolutely no one, blue and green feature a lot in their choice of bedclothes, but there’s also black, white, grey, and one really old lavender throw that’s so old it looks grey but is ridiculously soft. Aymeric and Synnove will fight over who gets that one.

If they’re going for a good ol’ fashioned couch fort snuggle, the answer to “how many” is “all of them.” Couch fort construction requires as many blankets as possible, and then of course you have to line your nest until everything is soft and cloudlike.

On their actual bed, there’s usually one very heavy down comforter with a few blankets on top (Borel Manor) or just the comforter (Synnove’s house in La Noscea). As the carbuncles frequently join the cuddle pile on the bed, and Ivar is a miniature furnace by himself, you don’t need as many blankets as you think to sleep comfortably.

3. Who runs up and hugs their partner and who stands arms wide open to catch their partner?

Synnove is the former and Aymeric the latter for sure. And Synnove is legging it, and she isn’t slowing down. Aymeric, thankfully, may not look like it, but is in fact built like a brick wall (he’s a tank, he’s got muscles, fight me), so he only stumbles one step back before he’s swinging Synnove around and they’re both laughing like a huge pair of dorks.

4. Who would be more likely to get matching scarves for themselves and their partner?

Honestly, both of them. They’re that couple. Synnove probably goes to Aunt Angharad for a set of blue scarves, Aymeric goes to Heron for green ones. Aunt Angharad and Heron meet up for tea and exchange exasperated “they are adorable and disgusting” looks while Rereha gags in the background to disguise the fact she is internally blubbering over how cute they are.

Angharad adds wolves to the blue scarves, Heron adds the Borel crest to the green ones. Yes, Synnove and Aymeric are mutually delighted and regularly rotate which ones they use, even when work keeps them apart.

5. Would they much rather go on a romantic date or a laid back date? Explain why.

Laid back. Synnove is a Warrior of Light and Vice Chair of the Arcanists’ Guild Aetherophysics Department, Aymeric is Lord Commander of the Temple Knights and Lord Speaker of the House of Lords of Ishgard. They are workaholics, but even they recognize when they’re approaching burnout (or at least, their friends do, and lock them out of their offices). Romantic dates are fun, but laid back ones are much less stressful, and if one or both of them accidentally end up dozing off, it’s less likely to mean the food burns.

6. Who still gets butterflies after years of dating?

Oh, please, what a silly question, both of them! As @stars-bleed-hearts-shine once put it, I write them as Gomez and Morticia Addams! I commissioned ART of them as such! Alternatively, they are also Rick O’Connell and Evelyn Carnahan.

Basically: ridiculously, stupidly in love with one another no matter how many years go by.

7. Who is the one who makes their partner laugh so much that their face hurts?

Synnove is usually the one making Aymeric lose it, even (or especially) when she isn’t trying. The sheer nonsense she experiences in both academia and regularly saving the world is literally unbelievable. Then you add in five carbuncles, with the two youngest ones bound and determined to break physics every other day which has forced Synnove to start rolling with the punches or be stuck in a perpetual Blue Screen of Death.

Aymeric might not entirely understand all of Synnove’s aetherophysics babble when she really gets going, but he can appreciate her exasperation.

8. How would each of them explain how they met?

@aethernoise since she slid this into my inbox, too. :D

I don’t think either of them would call it love at first sight, though both will certainly admit they were attracted to one another. And neither would really call the whole situation favorable circumstances: it was a political meeting and Aymeric was essentially having to parrot the official party line for Ishgard right before having to spin things around to get Ishgard favors from the Scions. Aymeric is very much of the opinion that it wasn’t the best first impression, and he’s sometimes surprised Synnove still reacted so well to his overtures of friendship (and then romance).

Synnove, however, had worked for the Guild for over a decade by that point, serving as an assessor for just as long. She is well familiar with having to espouse the official stance of her city-state, despite her own feelings. She’s still surprised the fact that Galette single-handedly wiping out the dessert buffet wasn’t off-putting! How was it at all cute that she could enforce good manners on her child?

(Honestly, what sealed the deal for them both was the competence thing. During the matter with the heretics, both well-acquitted themselves and, well. Competence is sexy. So’s martial prowess for both Ishgardians and Ala Mhigans. The pretty face was just a bonus.)

9. Who accidentally drinks too much caffeine and who has to deal with their partner bouncing off the walls?

Aymeric is the one who drinks too much caffeine. You would think it would be Synnove, but she’s an academic subsisting off Death Wish coffee: the amount of caffeine she consumes is how she’s able to function normally, she literally cannot consume too much. It is not physically possibly for her.

Aymeric, however, is typically a tea drinker. He forgot to ask which blend Synnove had put in the thermocoil boilmaster that morning. He was Not Prepared for Death Wish.

Synnove, thankfully, had years of managing Galette on a sugar high. Admittedly she grumbled Galette was easier because if it was really bad, she could launch the carbuncle out into the harbor and have her expend all that excess energy in a nice big explosion, but the house was definitely never that clean or the garden well-weeded ever again.

10. Where is a special place they hold close to their hearts? Why is it special?

There’s this little secluded cabin right on the beach south of Costa del Sol that the owner rents out to wealthy individuals who don’t want to deal with Master Gegeruju at his resort. Rereha’s parents basically have it booked for a solid two moons in late summer every year, and Rereha and her sisters will coordinate when they stay.

Shortly after the Dragonsong War ended and Aymeric was installed as the Lord Speaker, the Squad, Lucia, and Handeloup conspired and basically forcibly evicted Aymeric and Synnove from their offices and forced them to take at least a sennight’s vacation. (Start small, was their thinking.) Heron slapped ferry tickets into Synnove hands and said, “Boat leaves at the first bell past noon, you’re going to the cabin, your bags are at the docks, now leave.”

So their very first vacation was spent at that little cabin and its private pier, occasionally traveling up to Costa del Sol for supplies or for someone else to make lunch or dinner, and then wandering back, and just…existing. No duties, no meetings, just peace and quiet and the chance to relax. Afterwards, they put themselves on the renter’s list, and they typically go in winter when there’s a lull and the Coerthan everwinter gets worse. They have a lot of happy memories there.

[vixipa3682-blog]

Loneliness May Be Your BFF

Solitude is a formidable driver that comes with life for at least some people. "Take it with a pinch of salt." Yes, I have been taking it for a long time with a high amount of salt, sugar and caffeine. Solitude is a state in which there is nothing to look forward to and no one to put your hands on, all this and more. What can I write about loneliness that I have not written before? Also Look: http://kelispitt.wikidot.com/blog:1

Loneliness level

I think loneliness in school is like our level. You've probably been a single child with very few friends and wonder why? You shared lunch, exchanged gifts, kindly returned, but your number of friends fell short of three categories. If you can't make friends at a school where you miss your birthday parties and you don't invite anyone, this is the easiest place to make friends, this is the beginning of the first phase of loneliness.

The first stage where you talk with puppets and fictional characters more than oxygen and blood-stained samples. The steps are likely to be easier for fairy tales to solve, Barbie dolls and Tiara take control and you sleep peacefully over them.

intermediate level

A deal breaker for the life of a teenager or teenager. It shapes the type of personality you will inherit for the rest of your life. Well, it seems over the top, you can fix it in the mail but it's like hitting the jackpot. No, not everyone will make a mark.

When the teenage years are filled with self-doubt, caution and apathy, symptoms of middle-age loneliness emerge. There is a need to create tireless balance, urge to accept, and insanity to put a true veil on another person is the culprit. Real friends have not arisen yet and by then the fairy tale and puppets seem unrealistic.

When language slows down and expressing opinions becomes an exhausting practice, loneliness is your usual pairing for life, if I dare say it.

BFF Stage

This is probably not the right word to associate with loneliness as there are millions of people who strive to get better every day and find a cure for their plight. Don't pay attention to me, though, loneliness can be a mutually accepted friend in your life. The sound of silence can soothe you and no one around can become ideal.

You can still find that particular person, but the level of acceptance provides a measure. Recognizing that loneliness is not a disease and there are many things that one can achieve if achieved alone.

Read, write, pamper and prioritize yourself. Talk to dirty people, talk to walls, laugh at yourself or better yet, put a smile on a toothless face. That laughter will steal your heart, I promise you. That sweet selfish spirit will put a great source in your crotch and brighten your one-time simple simplicity.

warning notice

Working on anything is always a welcome occupation. Do not refuse to include anyone else in your life, considering your loneliness as your best friend. Positive development is always good. Work on your personality every day and when you are strong enough you can say hello to positive extensions and plug-ins. Always remember, however, when no one was on your behalf, there was loneliness, such as BFF.

[witchofapollo]

A Rant That Has Been Sitting on my Desk for a While

Sorry, this is going to be kinda a long ranting post. I haven’t been on the past few days because I needed that time to really decide if I was going to post this or not, let alone what I wanted to say. I try my best to avoid drama in the witchblr community. I pride myself in that. It is not fair to me nor my followers to indulge in negativity. Also, I just really hate making people upset. BTW, there are mentions of abuse and rape in this.

Some people here really be trying to read what is not in my posts instead of what is actually in them. Before you read further, please know that I am not referring to all of y’all. I love my followers who indulge in my content.

Of course most things are not universal. I know that Santeria uses animal blood in practices. I know that people with certain disorders are not able to do some witchy things in the way mainstream witchcraft dictates and that makes them no less of a witch. I know that some people work 18 hour days with multiple jobs, live paycheck to paycheck, have more prioritized things to deal with, or feel that it is dangerous to practice in your household at that time, or don’t have the spoons to practice as much as they want. 

I do my best to include every possible scenario for as many people as possible. I try to incorporate low-cost items and alternatives for those who are not able to do certain movements during the spell. Witchcraft is something that should be enjoyed or practiced by anyone who wants to no matter race, religion, or health.

I’ve gotten several messages in my inbox over some of my posts being ablest, inconsiderate, or an attack. It’s probably because I don’t feel the need to include a giant list of my illnesses or ethnicity in my description, though I am not judging or talking down on those who do. It just isn’t something I see as relevant for my blog. But for those who are wondering, I am half-Filipina and half-german. I suffer from (all diagnosed) Bipolar 2, General Anxiety, PTSD, Asthma, acute chronic bronchitis, hypoglycemia, nerve damage, permanent back muscle damage due to volleyball, severe insomnia (I have to take high-dose prescription sleep pills), a severe allergy to a lot of things (such as tannin, caffeine, hyacinth, and ranch) and psoriasis. I survived poverty, child abuse, severe depression, bullying, being kicked out my house as a child, a suicide attempt, the time when I was having panic attacks every single day, passing out randomly due to low blood sugar, getting hit by a car, being stalked, beating the shit out of my friend’s ex-boyfriend for raping her and yelled at the teachers until they agreed to put school on lock-down when he shows up in the parking lot again, an abusive boyfriend, consistent flashbacks which still happen regularly, and, most recently, losing what little family I had left to death after caring for them full time as they died before my eyes. There is literally no place for me to go back to. If I lose my fiance, I will nowhere to go. I need to take a lot of medication each day to ensure that I am able to function in any way possible. I have a service animal. I’m only 22. I didn’t even start treatment until 2 years ago. I’m honestly proud of myself for making it this far with all that has happened and I am still able to be high-functioning.

I didn’t share this information with anyone because I didn’t want it to seem that I thought that I am better than others or know better that others because of that fact. I don’t want to seem like I want pity or attention. It is an important part of who I am, but it is not all I am. It is not fair to y’all to dump my emotional baggage on y’all. I am the happiest I have ever been in my life right now and I channel that into this blog, my job, another blog that I mod, and all my other hobbies. After everything I listed above, I just want to live my life to the fullest as much as humanly possible and then maybe a little more.

I really don’t just pull my posts out of my ass. I have a set schedule. I read from my witchy books every other day. I purposefully read different perspectives. Most of them I either buy or download. I talk to people regularly to ask about their perspective or experiences. My own experiences also play a part. I don’t see it as a chore. It truly is something I love doing and am passionate about.

I make all these reference posts, spells, sigils, and tarot readings because I love sharing my knowledge with those who are new to the craft. My goal is not to become the most popular witchblr blog or become a renown witch known throughout the community, or to even re-write what is already known to be my specific beliefs. My goal is to help make practicing witchcraft less painful, less expensive, and less confusing. There are several people who are not able to have the resources that I have when it comes to studying the craft, whether it be because they are in the broom closet still, don’t have the money to purchase the reference books, or even when there are no resources available in their area. I was privileged to be able to secretly practice since I was 12. I was privileged to be able to check out those resources at my local library. I am privileged to have a fiance who is beyond supportive of my craft. I just want to use this to help people. My big project is a free PDF beginner guide to witchcraft as well as one for intermediate and difficult witchcraft. And I absolutely love coming home from work everyday to work on it.

I’m a very open person and sharing my challenges doesn’t make me uncomfortable; I actually usually refer to it as my tragic anime backstory. But it just kinda sucks that I have to share it in the first place to establish credibility.

[kyoko0001]

私に薬の主人を呼んではいけない Chapter 01

SMUT ALERT!! 

Fai doesn't think the term 'drug lord' is an accurate description for his line of work. Of course, it's hard to explain exactly what it is you do when you find out that your Tinder crush is a officer at the Tokyo police department. Modern Day AU. KuroFai. Mentions of other CLAMP ships here and there. Full list of warnings at the beginning of each chapter.

Chapter 01 available here or click the read more link! 

Fai Fluorite was on his third large, triple chocolate caramel latte with 2 shots of expresso, and he wasn't even half way though his night yet. He had two more clubs to visit and a meeting with his Guatemalan importer to get though before he had to head to the Neko no me Café and start the ovens.

It took every ounce of his self-motivation to eat the grilled cheese his assistant, Syaoran, had so kindly acquired for him. It was easy to ignore the food while he balanced the books of Fenikkusu though. The once familiar task took frustratingly long…

Normally this particular establishment ran smoothly, but with Oruha out on maternity leave he had to spend a maddening amount of time keeping things moving. Don't get him wrong, he was happy for her—she had been trying for a child for so long after all—and he wanted her to have as much time off as she needed.

But—

He would be much happier with her back in her office where she belonged. There was just no substitute for someone who had been running this club for him for the last 8 years. She knew this place better then him naturally.

"Please eat a few more bites Fai-sama." Syaoran was frowning at him from the other side of the ornate cherry wood desk and the blond tugged his cheeks into a too cheery smile as he looked up from his work.

"I swear I'll finish it." His tone was purposefully cheerful, but he didn't quite manage to bring the smile to his eyes.

His assistant didn't look as though he was buying it today, and he wasn't sure if he currently had the energy to tug the muscles in his face any tighter.

Syaoran gave a defeated sigh—He could be such a smart kid sometimes.

Fai had every intention of sticking to his usual diet of pure sugar, caffeine and various other stimulants for the rest of the night. He would probably eat some blueberries at the café… Toyo had mentioned that the last shipment was deliciously ripe.

Keeping his body running when he couldn't sleep more than three or four hours a night was a delicate balancing act. Carbs and fat would make him sluggish and he couldn't afford that so early in the night. He had probably already hit his calorie goal anyways with the sugar packed lattes.

A greasy grilled cheese wasn't going to do him any good. Even if it was from the little dinner across the street and one of his favorite foods.

"Can you go run to the backroom and grab the inventory list for me?" Fai looked back down at the spreadsheet he was updating. Better to keep Syaoran busy then letting him fret over silly things like his lunch.

The teen nodded and pulled the door open just wide enough to slip through. After a year of working as the blonde's assistant he knew when to take a hint, and left quickly to give his boss some space.

The loud sound of the music rushed into the quite office like a tsunami despite his efforts, causing the blond to scowl. As soon as the door swung closed again the noise faded back down to a more tolerable level and Fai stood while grabbing the now cold sandwich off the plate. He had a hot minute before Syaoran would return—but better safe than sorry… Fai headed towards the employee restroom for some extra privacy.

Locking the door, he tore sizable chunks of the sandwich off and tossed them in the toilet. Flushing away the evidence, he sighed and washed the greasy residue off his fingers and dried his hands quickly.

Now to the next line of business.

If he was going to get though the rest of this night, he was going to need a pick me up.

It had been that kind of week unfortunately.

Or rather… That kind of month…

Year?

The blond wasn't entirely sure.

Fai pulled his cell phone out of the inner pocket of his dark blue Brioni suit jacket and set it on the sink. Digging a little deeper he found what he was looking for—a dime bag with just enough 'help' to get him though the rest of the night.

Lazily, he tapped some of the powder onto the shining porcelain of the sink. With practiced grace he shaped two identical lines with his visa. The only cash he carried was for the soul purpose snorting his snow, and he made quick work of twirling up his lucky ¥10,000 note.

Two deep breaths later and Fai was tilting his head back and closed his eyes while he sucked in a few deep breaths. What little discomfort he felt was quickly forgotten and the blonde used a damp paper towel to wipe down the side of the sink and slid the baggie back into his inner breast pocket.

He would need to do a lot more to get any sort of rush—but those lines would serve to make him feel a little more human.

He had been doing this on and off for years—and though he was sure his body would thank him for a brake form the illicit substances—he couldn't deal with it now. There were too many things that needed his attention. This shit was way better then caffeine that was for sure.

Once he was feeling a little more like himself, he leaned against the porcelain counter top and unlocked his phone.

The second line of break business was making sure there was nothing urgent that needed his attention. His people had his cell and knew that he was available at all hours should they need him.

No urgent texts, so there was nothing that needed his immediate attention. One of his bouncers had needed a few stiches after breaking up a bar brawl and Fai set a reminder to take care of the doctor bills and send him a card.

Emails for this week's accounting were coming in and he would add them to the books while he waited for Yuukito and Touya to show up for their opening shift this morning…

He added that to his calendar as well and sighed before hitting the home button. Between meeting with the troublesome supplier, one of his managers being out, and trying to get the months end accounting done he was going to lose his mind.

Absentmindedly he opened Tinder and started looking though the messages he had been ignoring for the last few hours. Maybe a good lay would help relax him enough to actually be able to sleep tonight…

Fai didn't have high standards and he had probably slept with half the men in Tokyo by now. Well… Half the gay ones at least. The blonde didn't care what line of work they were in—what they were majoring in—if they were vegan—liked beer or whatever else hipsters drank these days—what exotic vacations they took.

He just wanted them tall, with a strong shoulders, a killer body, and big cock. He didn't do clingy, long term, or batshit ether.

Fai already had money, nice cars, and a big house. He didn't need someone to take care of him—just get him off. As long as their kinks weren't anything too crazy, Fai was usually down to party.

It was nearing 10. Not too late to arrange something if he moved his schedule around. The blond scrolled though his open chats with a frown…

To clingy—To skinny—to short—to nosey…

Honestly with over nine million people in Tokyo the options were pretty shitty.

Back to the drawing board…

Backing out he started to sift through pictures of singles.

He never bothered to read anyone's profile and he sent the same messages to all of his matches.

Currently out on the town.

Would love to meet for a drink if you're not busy?

He made sure to include a few kissy faces and heart eye emojis and switched back to his email. It was Friday night so chances were good someone might take him up on his offer. If he didn't get a response soon, he was going to have to keep an eye out in the next club for a tipsy Mr. Tall dark and handsome that wasn't too far gone to keep his cock up.

He preferred his partners to be sober. They were usually better at actually getting the job done when they weren't too drunk to see strait.

Fai sighed rather loudly as the first responses started trickling in and read though them with disinterest. A few busy—a few too-forward responses including images of rather unimpressive genitalia—and hello!

My shift ends in two hours.

Still going to be out?

What were his chances that the hot one worked late? Fai smirked and sent back a thumbs up.

Where we meeting?

The blonde checked his calendar. He would be at Kyuden.

This club was on the tamer side—it had only opened two years ago and had surprisingly attracted an older crowed. Business men and single 30 something's who had money frequented the joint.

To cater to the more mature taste they usually had live local bands, or comedians preforming. It suited a more distinguished crowed better than thumping music and flashing lights the university students enjoyed. Fai rather liked Kyuden for that reason. Yuto kept it well managed so he didn't have to visit often—but they were looking to remodel the VIP area and Fai needed to approve the budget.

More privet rooms were needed—and more discreet seating.

Fai not only made sure that they had the largest selection of top shelf liquor in all of Tokyo, but at this joint he also staffed an impressive array of ladies to cater to the single gentlemen's needs.

So—like most of his establishments—it was walking the line of not quite legal.

It was far from a gay bar—but it didn't chase that crowd off ether. The could fuck quick in dirty in one of the more privet booths—and Fai could see firsthand the issues with the current layout.

Kyuden?

He received a response almost immediately.

See you then.

Perfect.

Fai slipped his phone in his pocket and turned to look in the mirror. He splashed his face with cold water and toweled his hands dry before heading back out to the office. Syaoran—the sweet thing that he was—had returned with not only the ledgers but also what looked to be another coffee for him.

"Thanks, Syao." Fai winked at him and accepted the folder as well as the warm paper cup that smelled like heaven.

"No problem."

Hiring this kid was honestly one of the best decisions he had ever made. Syaoran had started out as one of Fai's 'boys.'

Syaoran was not cut out for moving goods though— but he had needed a job. Fai had taken pity on him and hired the kid as his assistant. It turned out that he was a hard worker and had good taste in coffee, so it worked out for both of them.

He always seemed to know when Fai needed a refill on his latte, a Redbull, or shot of tequila.

The blonde had been though a lot of assistants over the years—that particular skill was a rare talent that Fai greatly appreciated.

Poor thing had made the unfortunate mistake of getting his girlfriend pregnant when they were still in high school, and regrettably, he had been forced to drop out to support them. There little son Tsubasa was too cute and Fai had a soft spot for kids. Syaoran was an honorable little knuckle head—so Fai had also hired his honey to work at his café during the day as a server.

Sakura was ditzy and clumsy, but she made up for that with her kind heart.

The blond sat back down in front of his macbook to focus on what he was supposed to be doing in the first place. His little hit early was doing its job and he powered though the last of the book keeping faster than originally planned.

They had made a profit. He always did—but the numbers were still lower than they had been before Oruha had left a month ago. It wasn't as though the staff had forgotten how to do their jobs—they were simply slacking since there manager was not there to ride them on their duties.

It peeved him… But made him appreciate the hard work of his managers. He wouldn't be able to run his business if it wasn't for their hard work… He couldn't do this for each one of his 22 clubs. Even if he never slept, he wouldn't have enough time to oversee all of the little details.

The blonde made a note to give each one of the managers a bonus. Keeping them happy and right where they were was paramount to making sure no additional responsibilities feel onto his plate.

Fai felt his eyes getting heavy again, his concentration didn't last long. He managed to discreetly excuse himself to the bathroom again and took another bump before he and Syaoran headed out to meet the distributer.

His McLaren 570s was in the parking garage across the street in his reserved spot. Syaoran rode shot gun and Fai put the top down as they pulled out onto the busy street.

Tokyo always had traffic—and after navigating those packed streets for 18 years—he knew the quickest ways to get around town.

They were meeting at one of his warehouses in the industrial district. As soon as they exited downtown, the traffic thankfully died down enough to actually feel some wind in their hair as he cruised the artificially lit streets in a comfortable silence. He pulled up with time to spare and double parked in front of the building.

During the day this place served as a clothing Wearhouse. Fai owned the property and rented it out to some exporter who sold cheap clothing online to rich foreigners. They got the space for cheap and Fai used it after hours for his own needs.

It worked out perfectly as a place to transfer goods, and as far as his intel went, the police had no idea. He switched it up every few weeks whether they were suspicious or not though. He hadn't had a meeting in this particular building in a little over a year.

Two of his enforcers were already waiting for him. Syaoran followed close behind him as they got out of the car and slowly approached Kusanagi and Seshiro. Both were dressed in their usual uniform. Black skin-tight tee and black jeans that served to make their muscles look even more impressive.

Too bad both men were spoken for. Seshiro was currently engaged to one of Fai's managers and Kusanagi had himself a cute little wife at home.

"Evening Sir." The men said in unison and Fai grinned at them.

"Have our guests arrived?"

He didn't expect any trouble. Even outside of Japan the exporters he worked with knew what happened when you crossed him.

If they tried it? Well the night would be a little interesting then now wouldn't it?

"No sir. Fuuma is with them in rout. Traffic." Seshiro returned his smile before opening the door to the Wearhouse.

That was all good and well. Fai could live without being the one fashionably late this time.

The blonde entered with his assistant following close behind him. They made themselves comfortable in one of the offices and waited. Syaoran made some tea and Fai checked his phone.

Kanoe, the manager of Kurōbā had texted him to inform him that one of the bartenders had quite mid shift. They were handling it for now but were going to need to get a decent replacement asap to handle the 4th floor bar.

He had a few promising resumes waiting for a spot, so Fai sent back a text that she needed to set up a meeting with him to go over them to find a suitable replacement. He accepted the meeting request that came in moments later.

Tomorrow at 5pm was early for him… but if she was short staffed, he could do it. Okoku brought in a good amount of money for him and if they had to shut down an entire floor, his pocket book would notice.

Now that that was settled Fai moved on to the next line of business… He opened a text from his step dad praying that it wasn't bad news.

It wasn't that he didn't get along with Taishukuten—not now that he was an adult at least. They just didn't talk unless it was about Ashura. If his stepdad hadn't married Fai's adoptive father, and had simply remained his law partner? Fai would probably avoid him.

After stepping in as a step parent and being put though the ringer by both he and his twin from the time they were first going through the emotional, hormonal, train wreck that was middle school? The feeling of polite annoyance was mutual.

Needless to say—the only time he got a message from the man was when something was wrong.

A picture of his father and… a cat?

Awe.

They had gone out.

How sweet.

Fai sent back a few hearts. He couldn't tell where they were from the background, but he was glad that Taishakuten had gotten Ashura out of the house. Since the accident his adoptive father had a tendency to stay cooped up in doors more often than not.

Fai saved the photo to his phone and set it as his wall paper. There were too few happy moments in his life recently. He like to have reminders of why he did all of this garbage to begin with.

Tapping the home button, he smiled at the new photo one more time before checking his tinder messages. Nothing else from—oh what was his name?

Kurogane?

Well at least his name matched his serious profile picture.

Fai looked through the few photo's the man had attached to his profile and smirked. He hoped Kurogane was as handsome in person as he was in these pictures.

One of him wearing a traditional Hakama was particularly charming. He must be into some sort of martial art—which hopefully meant he was in wonderful shape.

Fai smirked thinking about taking body shots off a well-toned stomach… Maybe this Kuro would be up for some less traditional fun tonight. It might not be the best idea seeing as he would still have work to finish tonight… but it was tempting.

If they clicked Fai thought he might chance an evening off to have some much-needed naughty relaxation in an actual bed. Maybe a ritzy hotel with a jacuzzi and bottle service in the room?

He could tie Kuro-hottie to the headboard and lick whip cream off his most sensitive areas?

"Is something wrong Fai-sama?" Syaoran came back into the office carrying a small tray with two cups of steaming tea—green tea of course—and pulled him out of his fantasies.

"No. I decided to meet someone tonight at Kyuden for a drink." Fai turned the phone so that Syaoran could see the photo of Kuro in his sexy hakama. "Cute ne?"

"If you say so Fai-sama." Syaoran laughed awkwardly and the blonde found himself chuckling.

This poor kid knew way too much about his sex life… Fai was severely allergic to long term commitment but had an obnoxious need for human contact. This caused and interesting predicament that played out in a near constant steam of short flings and one-night stands.

In the last 10 years his longest relationship had lasted a whopping 4 months and ended with him leaving his date at fancy eatery in Paris when they had dropped the L-bomb.

"If you wanted to call it an early night, I wouldn't be mad. I'll have Kusanagi give you a ride home after we finish up here?" The blonde offered with an innocent smile.

As much as he loved having his assistant to vet his phone calls and get him lattes, he didn't need the poor thing waiting around while he got plowed in a semi-privet booth by his date.

He paid him handsomely—but not enough for that.

"Yeah. The baby has a cold and I know Sakura-chan is exhausted from staying up with him." Fai frowned at that. It was that time of year he supposed… But why hadn't Syaoran mentioned it earlier?

"Why don't you have Sakura take the day off tomorrow too? I'll toss her an extra vacation day, so you guys can all take a day to rest." Fai was always lenient when it came to things like this. Surely Syaoran knew all he needed to do was ask and his boss would send him home?

"Are you sure that's ok Fai-sama?" the brunet didn't like to accept charity—the fact that he didn't out right refuse showed just how stressful having sick baby really was. He couldn't relate—probably would never have children—but he had spent enough time around their little tot at the café to know he was a handful when he felt under the weather.

"Yes." Fai confirmed.

Before his assistant had a chance to say anything further Seshiro knocked on the door of the office. Fai sipped his tea as he entered into the cramped room and closed the door behind himself.

Looking out the large window that overlooked the main floor Fai could see that the new distributer was waiting very patiently for them. He had brought a man and a woman with him—it wasn't unusual—normally distributers were accompanied by bodyguards like Fai's enforcers—but not always.

It was ether a show of faith.

Or over confidence.

Only time would tell.

"Are you ready Sir?" Seshiro didn't seem overly concerned.

Must not have found anything alarming on them during the pat down.

Wordlessly Fai stood, and they made their way out of the office. Fai had pulled a serene, emotionless mask onto his face and walked with Syaoran and Seshiro behind him, head held high, eyes blasé.

This was a well-choreographed dance. He had a reputation to maintain after all. It had taken a few years to prefect this particular act, but it had served him well so far.

He wasn't Fai Fluorite—the friendly neighborhood drug ring leader. He was Fai Fluorite—the slightly off his rocker, smiley psychopath that wouldn't think twice about ordering a hit on you or your entire family if you crossed him.

Once he was just close enough to see the individual hairs on the man's head, he offered a pleasant smile. "Its nice to meet you in person Mr. Reed."

Fei Wang Reed did not seem pleased to see Fai. This meeting was to set boundaries after all—and no one liked to be scolded.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Fluorite." Fai could tell that he was forcing a calm tone as he spoke—he could see the anger in his eyes.

Good.

He may have just climbed to the top of the food chain in South America—but he was in Fai's house now.

His guests had to play by the rules.

His rules.

Tokyo was a big market after all. Sure—finding a new supplier for coke would be annoying. The stuff he had gotten from Fei Wang Reed's predecessor had been top grade, and Fai's boys had been able to cut and move the stuff faster than he could import it.

This last shipment? Low quality and full of cheap and slightly hazardous additives.

Since Cocaine was the drug of choice of his most wealthy clientele—he was not happy.

He was a drug lord sure—but he wasn't going to lower his standards and start selling low quality, possibly harmful shit to his customers just because he had gotten ripped off. He had built his business on his integrity after all.

"I'm trust you received my return shipment?" Fai made sure that his face was a perfect expression of disinterest. His tone apathetic.

Fai had sent the cheap shit back, along with an invitation to discuss their future business relationship.

"I apologize for the misunderstanding." Reed offered. He didn't shift under Fai's gaze.

He was a ballsy one alright.

Ballsy enough to send a response stating that they had tried to provide him with a service by sending him 'precut' product so that he would be able to get it to his customers sooner.

Right.

"And I trust that you have ensured this shipment is what were accustomed to receiving form your office?" If it wasn't, Fai was going to have to teach him a lesson… He would very much prefer that Fei Wang Reed followed his warnings.

"See for yourself." Reed tilted his head to Kusanagi who held out a small sample baggy to Fai.

He had been doing this a long time—and had picked up a few tricks over the years. The first rule of dealing with someone like Fei Wang Reed was assuming they were trying to off you.

It was pretty much the ultimate goal in the business he was in. Currently Fai was the ring leader of the drug trade in the Tokyo metropolitan aria—taking him out would be a big step up for someone like Reed. The respect he would earn from accomplishing such a task would be more them enough to ensure at least a few years of control.

"Syaoran. Please bring that table over here." The blonde motioned to one of the folding tables that was set up against the far wall. Reeds eyes narrowed—no doubt offended—but the blonde didn't care.

His assistant complied quickly. Fai dumped half the powder on to the table and used his Palladium Visa to slide it into one long line. Fai fished out his lucky ¥10,000 note and made quick work of rolling it up and handing it to Fei Wang Reed.

"Cheers!" Fai chimed.

Reed was glaring daggers at him as he accepted the note. Fai didn't buy for one second that this man didn't sample his own products—so he was ether seriously offended—or about to snort his own poison.

He bent, and Fai watched him finish the line in one go before straitening and tipping his head back—snuffing his nose loudly.

So that was a no on the poison then…

Fai pinched the edges of the dime bag between his index finger and thumb forcing the plastic to pucker open. It smelled fine… looked good… apparently not laced with poison…

Fei Wang Reed had apparently come here in the hopes of saving a client. For now, at least.

"Much better than the last shipment." Fai offered, but Reed continued scowling at him.

He would buy enough from the man to smooth his ego over the next year no doubt. Business was business after all. Nothing soothed a bruised ego like regular orders totaling over 50 thousand dollars.

"I am glad that it is up to your standards." Fei Wang Reed managed to keep his tone even, but the blonde could tell that he was seething.

"Yes. Sorry to drag you all the way out to Tokyo for this meeting. I'm sure you understand the importance that were on the same page however." Fai turned and started to walk towards the entrance of the warehouse. "Fuuma will take you to your hotel room. We should grab dinner before you head home."

Reed didn't answer, and Fai didn't look back to see his look of annoyance as he strolled casually out of the building. Seshiro and Fuuma would be keeping a close eye on him for the remainder of his stay.

Kusanagi and Syaoran followed after him. As soon as the door closed Fai heard his assistant let out the breath he had been holding. Even after 6 months he still wasn't used to the tense situations that came with negotiating price and purity.

Poor kid.

Kusanagi had joined him after he had left the military and was not so easily shaken. He placed a reassuring hand on the teens shoulder as soon as they were out of the building. "Once Fai gets outta here I'll take ya home. Give your nerves a brake."

Fai smiled kindly at both of them and checked the time. "Have a good night you two. I'll see you both soon ok?"

"You heading straight to Kyuden then?" Syaoran grabbed his bag out of the passenger seat of his boss's car. He dug out a small can that he offered to the blond.

Just what he needed—more caffeine.

Fai accepted the red bull. He opened the can and sipped it before answering. "Then to Akai Shiro and finally Neko no me Café."

"Please make sure to go home and rest Fai-sama." Syaoran's face was worried as Fai finished off the last of the energy drink and crumpled the can in between his hands before tossing it in a nearby garbage bin.

"I will."

He wouldn't.

Fai wasn't jittery—he existed in a state of perpetual exhaustion these days. His insomnia didn't seem to think he needed any sleep between working 18-20 hours at a time though. He would probably just go home and toss and turn between short naps.

He refused to admit that his poor diet, lack of exercise, coke habit, and the excessive amounts of caffeine he consumed on a regular basis had anything to do with it.

Hopefully Kuro-handsome would tire him out though.

Fai got into his car and backed out of the parking lot slowly. It was almost midnight and the lateness of the hour did nothing to unclog the constantly overcrowded streets.

The drive was tedious, but Fai didn't mind. He did his best thinking when he was stuck in traffic anyways. He ended up putting the top back up on the Mclaren and blasting the music.

There was a lot for him to think about. The café was doing well for only being open for a year—and a food critic was going to by tomorrow to write an article about them. He had to do the prep work for Toya so he could really wow him or her.

The good press might bring in enough new clients to fund the opening of a second café… Yuuko, his personal attorney and impromptu life coach, had warned him to keep the funds for the Neko no me Café completely separate from the rest of his affairs, as it was the only joint that had nothing shady going on.

He was building his safety net should things go south with his more lucrative clubs.

In reality he was hoping that he could eventually manage his expenses with the café's profits alone and sell off the riskier side of his business to be done with the madness of it all. The novelty had worn off years ago and he was getting to old to deal with the constant power struggles, and import/distribution issues anymore.

It was affecting his mental health drastically.

His family was starting to notice… Ask questions… it was all becoming so terribly complicated.

When he had first dropped out of college to deal, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would probably end up this way. Even the best of them did. It was a hard field to be in… But he couldn't help hoping that maybe there could be more to his life then working 100-hour weeks.

Fai sighed loudly as he pulled in front of Kyuden and tossed the key fob at the bouncer. There was no line outside the door like most of the clubs he owned—Kyuden was slower. There VIP tables were booked up most nights though and even with less foot traffic, Yuto pulled in a nice profit for him.

They sold more skin then booze here.

The blonde pushed the heavy wooden door open and smiled kindly at the hostess who greeted him. She knew who he was. They all did.

"I have someone important meeting me here for a drink soon. His name is Kurogane. I'll be at my usual table." Fai flashed her the profile picture and she gave him a knowing smile and nodded—making a note of his name on her list.

With that taken care of Fai headed in through to the main bar and headed straight up the stairs to the balconied VIP section. Yuto had been behind the bar mixing drinks for an older couple but nodded his acknowledgement before continuing what he was doing.

The most privet booth had been reserved for him when he had announced that he would be stopping by to talk budgets tonight. It worked well for a privet conversation about finances, as well as some hot and haughty alone time with his date.

Hopefully he wasn't shy.

Fai took out his phone and sent a quick message to Kuro-muscles.

I got us a booth.

Let the hostess know you're here to meet me.

she will bring you back.

While he waited Fai ordered a black coffee and stood to refamiliarize himself with the layout of the upper level of the club. There wasn't much unused space to work with… but they could probably move some things around to suit the guests needs better.

As it was—most of the tables had a wonderful view of the stage down below—but no view of the other patrons. That seating was rather limited however… only so much room.

The blond rubbed his temples and checked his phone again.

Be there in 5.

Fai finished of his coffee and double checked his appearance in front facing camera of his phone. The waitress swung by and collected the empty mug and left two drink menus in its place—and he was left watching the entrance of the club impatiently.

True to his word. Kuro-sexy arrived in five-ish minutes.

Dear god was he tall.

Kurogane towered over the hostess who had been just a few inches shorten then himself in her heels. He looked uninterested as she flashed him a flirtatious smile and Fai was left smirking as he followed her though the main bar and up the stairs.

He made himself look busy by checking his phone as they made the rest of the trip to the far end of the VIP section. He could hear his heavy footfalls as they approached but didn't look up from what he was doing just yet.

He didn't want to look thirsty—even if he was.

Kuro-hunk didn't need to know how desperate he was. It would probably be a huge turn off.

"Here you are sir. The waitress will be by shortly to take your order." As they were trained to do, the hostess bowed deeply and Kurogane thanked her before sliding into the circular booth next to the blond, Leaving a respectful amount of space between them.

She left them be, and only then did Fai look up from his phone to flash his most dazzling smile. "Thanks for agreeing to meet me on such short notice."

"Yeah." Kurogane was looking him over carefully and Fai just continued to smile. He knew he was exotic looking compared to your average person here. He had been born overseas after all.

Maybe Kuro-broad had a fetish for blondes?

"Something wrong?" He kept his voice purposefully sweet and tilted his head slightly to the side.

"Not really. You normally dress like that?" The raven-haired man's voice was deep. Wonderfully deep.

Fai glanced down at his outfit. Yes—yes, he did. He was almost always dressed in a three-piece suit.

"Work cloths." He confirmed and Kurogane nodded. Still watching him with piecing crimson eyes.

Fai hadn't noticed his eyes in his profile picture, but they were stunning.

There was another long silence between them and Fai was starting to wonder if something was amiss? Something in his teeth?

He was hot, but for Christ sake. You would think he had sprouted a second head with the way Kurogane was scrutinizing him.

"I don't mean to be rude—" the tanned man finally spoke. "—and don't get me wrong I think you're… You're fucking beautiful. But why the fuck are you, of all people on a hookup app?"

Oh?

Fai smiled. That was not the first time he had been asked this on a date before. Especially if they saw him pull up in one of his expensive cars—or when he ordered the most expensive menu items.

He made a point not to allude to being well off financially before he met someone the first time. It attracted the wrong crowd.

"Trying to find out what's wrong with me?" the blond gave a mischievous smirk, his nose wrinkling with amusement at the younger man's words.

"Tch. Pretty fucking much." Kurogane finally glanced over the menu and Fai shook his head slowly.

Such a potty mouth.

"I'm an emotional wreck who works 80+ hour weeks and I'm in desperate need of a good orgasm for my sanity." Fai deadpanned, and those crimson eyes locked with his own.

He saw the younger man's ears tinge red at his directness.

Ugh. How freaking cute.

"What about you Kuro-handsome… Why is someone so—" Fai gestured vaguely in the man's general direction and smirked. "—surely you must have gentlemen such as myself—well you know." The blond winked, and the blush spread to the taller man's cheeks.

Oh god. Why was he so cute?

"Same, minus the emotional wreck part. I moved here and I'm working late shifts so it's hard to meet people… And my name is Kurogane." Kuro-proper set the menu aside and the waitress took that as her que to interrupt them for their order.

"Let Yuto know I'll have his recommended scotch. Neat please—" Fai looked at his companion and cooed. "And this handsome gentleman here will have—?"

The red spread further on his cheeks still and he swore he saw Kurogane's eyebrow twitch. "Masumi sake."

The woman nodded politely—used to Fai's flirtatious behavior with his 'guests.' She retreated to retrieve their drinks leaving him to continue to smile at the seemingly grumpy man if front of him.

"So, you just moved to Tokyo?" Fai said to break the silence.

Normally there was a hand down his pants by now and a few hikies on his neck. It seemed as though his companion was ether shy, or unhappy about something.

That was ok—he knew he had a tendency to intimidate people—younger men especially. They could chitchat till Kuro-cutie was comfortable.

"I moved here about a month ago from a smaller town just outside of Tokyo." Kurogane seemed to settle from his earlier embarrassment. He was still handsome even when he wasn't trying to hide his awkwardness, so Fai wouldn't complain.

"I see. And how do you like it so far?" Fai had met more than a few new arrivals to Tokyo since had started whoring his way through Tinder almost two years ago. A few university students—some art enthusiasts—young business man—they all had their reasons.

"I hate it. The rents expensive and there are way too many people. Its dirty and its always loud." Fai blinked a few times.

He wasn't wrong.

The blonde chuckled at that answer though. Kurogane really was no nonsense and Fai liked it.

"So, what brought you to Tokyo then if you dislike it so much?" The blonde had lived here his entire life, so he was used to the hustle and bustle of big city life—he knew it was off putting to some.

"Work. I'm hoping I don't have to stay for long." Well that was that Fai supposed—Tokyo wasn't for everyone—and it meant that Kuro-cranky wasn't looking for love.

Excellent.

"You have an accent. Were you born here?" Kurogane asked when Fai didn't immediately respond to his earlier statement. He was staring at his body again—the blonde's suit was well tailored but in the darkness of the room it would be hard to tell what he had going on under the layers of fabric.

"No. I was born overseas. My father adopted me when I was little. This has been my home for the last 29 years."

A lot had happened in 29 years…

"Shit. How old are you?"

Fai was sure that out of the sparse information that he had included on his profile he had at least provided the fact that he was into boys and his age… that's all the information there was about him…

"I'm 33."

"Damn. I thought that was a typo. You sure as hell don't look 33." It was Fai's turn to laugh uncomfortably.

He was fine with an age gap for something like this. They were both consenting adults—and seemingly attracted to each other. Anyway, he actually preferred his partners younger then himself. He would rather play the roll of sugar daddy vs. sugar baby with the people he dated.

No matter how casual the relationship, or who toped whom.

"I'll take that as a compliment I suppose."

Kurogane's checks flushed again and he scrubbed at his face roughly with both of his hands.

"—I didn't mean— you're fine. I didn't mean to make you think there was anything wrong with that. It ah—just surprised me is all." Those crimson eyes fell to stare at his tanned hands and Fai tried not to grin too widely.

Kuro-shy was adorable. He shouldn't tease him too badly else he may scare him off.

"You've never done anything like this before have you?" the blonde chanced reaching his hand out to place it over the younger mans in an attempt to comfort him.

He didn't flinch at the platonic touch. That was good right?

"This is the first time I've actually met someone off tinder in person." Kurogane admitted.

No wonder he was so nervous.

"Well there is a first time for everything. We aren't going to do anything you don't 100% agree to. We can just have a drink and talk if you want?" Fai really wanted to get his clothes off and ride his dick until he saw stars. But only if Kurogane wanted to pound him till he couldn't walk right.

Fai had enough people trying to get in his pants without having to pressure his date into sex.

"Its not… Fuck. It's not like that ok?" the raven-haired man seemed to get even more flustered and Fai's amusement tuned to confusion.

What the hell was it then?

Tonight was not supposed to be this complicated.

"I'm not some sniffling virgin-" Kurogane locked eyes with Fai and glared hard. "You're just… not what I'm used to. That's not a bad thing I just don't… want to do the wrong thing."

"Oh." Fai said.

Not what he was expecting? What was he expecting then?

"Are you pleasantly surprised or moderately disappointed Kuro-muscle?" Fai offered in a teasing tone as the waitress brought there drinks back to them. Fai thanked her for the both of them and took a nice log sip of his scotch.

"Both. You're hot as fuck but annoying as hell. And my name is Kurogane." His companion sipped his sake and watched Fai with sharp eyes.

"Whaa? Kuro-meanie thinks I'm annoying? I was only concerned for your feelings…" he said a little too loudly in a whining pout.

"Are you some kind of idiot or something? Ku-ro-ga-ne." those red eyes were glaring sharper still and Fai chuckled. They were almost sharp enough to cut paper.

It shouldn't be so much fun to get a rise out of him.

"Kuro-tan?"

"Kuro-gane. It's not that hard." His eyebrow was twitching now, and Fai had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold back his grin.

"Kuro-pii?" the blond said innocently and sipped his drink again.

"Jesus Christ…" the younger man rubbed at his temple. "Say it with me. Kuro—"

"Kuro—" Fai chimed happily.

"—Gane." He repeated the second half of his name slowly. "Kuro—gane." Spoken with extra emphasis on the 'gane' part.

"Kuro-myuu?" Fai offered. He swore he could see a bit of his dates soul die as those words left his lips.

"Fuck me…." Kurogane was looking at him in disbelief. The blond wasn't sure if he actually thought him incapable of speaking his name properly, or if he knew the older man was pushing his buttons on purpose.

The fact that it was hard to tell was gloriously amusing.

Had no one ever teased this poor guy in his life? Fai was having far too much fun doing it now.

"Gladly." He made sure to keep his expression as neutral as possible while the younger man's face flushed beat red.

"Shut up!" Kuro-bashful huffed and looked away and Fai raised a single, impeccably manicured eyebrow at him. "You're a fucking weirdo you know that! That's what's wrong with you!"

Fai simply sipped his scotch and swished the earthy liquid around in his mouth, before swallowing it.

There was way more wrong with him then they had time to discuss—so he settled for continuing to tease his new friend mercilessly.

"I think I know what you meant by me not being what you expected."

Those red eyes flashed back to look over at him again and the blond gave a devilish smirk.

He thought about what he was going to say next carefully. He wanted to see those tanned cheeks blush dark enough that Kurogane looked like a delectably embarrassed tomato.

"You saw my picture and imagined a shy little blonde foreigner clinging onto you and blushing like a meek little bottom didn't know?" Fai always attracted that type.

He could play innocent if he was feeling it—but he had done things that would make your mother roll in her grave.

Kurogane seemed suddenly petrified by Fai's words as he continued to speak in a singsong tone. "Then you met me and realized I'm older then you and more experienced. I'm definitely not meek—I am not the one who has been blushing tonight—and you start to wonder how things would work out if we had sex right?"

Kurogane remained silent and Fai leaned in close enough to whisper hotly in his ear. "You're totally freaked out that your aroused right now—even though it might mean taking it up the ass from a pretty blond foreigner. Right Kuro-honey?"

"Shut—Shut up." Kuro-manly pushed Fai roughly away and the blond burst into a fit of giggles.

It was so much fun teasing Kurogane that it should be illegal…

"I don't see what's so fucking funny here blondie." The look of pure shame induced hatred was just too much and Fai covered his mouth with one of his hands in an attempt to get himself under control.

"I'm right aren't I?"

"I swear to god blondie if you don't shut the fuck up right now, I'm going to make you regret it."

Fai took another sip of his liquor. The distinct harsh taste helped distract him as he tried to think of what could put his potential lover at ease. When the last of the giggles had wiggled free of his throat, he slid closer to Kuro-baby again, so that their thighs were touching.

"I'm flattered that you think I'm so attractive you would let me fuck you Kuro-sexy." Fai drew out his words seductively and nipped at his junior's neck playfully. "But I have never had any desire to top anyone—definitely not someone as—" Fai sucked slowly on his neck this time. "—impressively tall and broad as yourself."

Kurogane shivered. Fai didn't know if was from sheer arousal or relief at knowing he wouldn't being trying anything too different tonight. Both were likely seeing the massive hard on bulging rather obviously in the man's jeans.

"I could perhaps be convinced to bend you the table and make you my bitch—But only if you beg me of course." Fai added as he looked up at Kurogane though heavy lashes.

"You're a fucking bastard you know what?" Fai yelped as he felt a muscular arm slide around his waist and pulled him close so that he was pressed firmly against Kurogane's hot body.

God he was big.

"You're not the first to tell me. It's not a secret." Fai sighed as his date ran a hand all the way up his side—applying just enough pressure to tickle through the layers of fabric—right to his neck, callused fingers brushing the sensitive skin in a surprisingly gentle manner.

Kurogane used his free hand to sip his sake and Fai was suddenly aware of just how horny he really was from just those chaste touches.

He hoped he didn't embarrass himself…

The waitress returned with a tray carrying another neat scotch and Masumi sake. She set both of them on the table—along with a suspicious number of napkins—and pulled the curtain that covered the entrance of the booth closed.

Kurogane looked confused and Fai used the opportunity to crawl into his lap—swinging his leg into position so that he and his date were nose to nose.

Fai didn't want to explain to him why there were privacy curtains on the booths—or that the waitress had closed the curtain because there flirting was probably catching other patron's attention. That would just ruin the mood.

Instead he closed the distance between their lips and kissed him sweetly. Fai would let Kurogane take the lead for how he wanted this to go. If that would make his lover more comfortable, Fai would roll with it. he relaxed into the taller man's chest and simply enjoyed as his senses as took his partner in.

Kuro-koi was warm. His skin felt hot against Fai's chilly fingers as he trailed them up and down his strong arms. He smelled clean—like aftershave and fresh laundry—and his lips were flavored with the sake he had been sipping.

All in all, he was intoxicating.

Kurogane seemed to get the picture and brought one hand up to tangle in the blonde's soft hair and used the other to lift his ass and scooch their bodies even closer, so that the smaller of the two had to crane his neck to keep their lips connected in the heated smooch.

Fai couldn't help the soft sighs he was making as Kuro-chi massaged his scalp and ran his fingers though his short locks while they kissed. The younger seemed to notice his fondness for that particular action and so continued to so even after their kiss broke.

The hand that had previously been on his ass started to loosen Fai's tie and the smaller man was biting his bottom lip while he watched Kurogane pull the decorative fabric fee and let it hang around his shoulders loosely. Next was the vest—but this required two hands—and Fai gave a disappointed whine as the he worked the layers of his clothing free.

Fai shivered from a combination of cool air of the room touching his previously covered skin, and his lover's hot hands ghosting over the sensitive flesh as he slowly worked the buttons of his dress shirt free.

His gaze had stayed transfixed on Kurogane's hands while they finished their task. The blonde considered what those hands would look like rubbing up and down his chest, and over the sensitive skin if his thighs.

An involuntary soft moan escaped his lips and he closed his eyes to picture it further as the younger continued to carefully undo each and every button with care. Fai didn't know it was because his hands were so big that he had a hard time with the little buttons—or if he was savoring the moment.

He didn't care ether way. He was enjoying himself.

Eventually the last button came free and Fai heard Kurogane growl as all three layers of his clothing were push off his small frame at once. Suit coat, vest, and dress shirt sliding to the floor underneath the table, forgotten.

"Shit." Kurogane leaned back and looked down at him. Fai was panting as he was observed though half lidded, hungry crimson eyes.

"Shit." he repeated as those hot hands were hesitantly placed on either side of the blonde's torso—just above the hem of his pants—and Kurogane bit his lip as he slowly ran them up and his naked skin, leaving goose flesh in his wake.

"Thank you?" Fai smiled at him and Kuro-swear at least had the decency to look slightly embarrassed at his language.

"Beautiful." He corrected, and it was Fai's turn to flush.

He had been called beautiful before—usually by woman with perhaps a handful of men offering those words to him—but never in the middle of sex with a Greek god of a man looking at his body like he was thanksgiving dinner.

Fai shuttered and closed his eyes. His entire body was feeling hot—he wasn't used to his skin being this sensitive but the raven haired man's feather light touches were driving him crazy.

He couldn't remember the last time he had had sex this good—and they hadn't even gotten to the actual fucking part yet.

This was not his usual quick and dirty hook up he got off tinder, and he didn't know if that was a good thing or not. Normal there was a few minutes of sloppy kissing before Fai got pushed against a wall, or bent over a table, and fucked hard and fast. Occasionally it ended with him getting sucked off if he needed a little extra help to finish…

No one had ever freaking worshiped his body with hungry eyes like Kurogane was currently doing. He had bent forward and was currently swirling his tongue around one of Fai's nipples while his finger gently massaged the other, alternating between rubbing the areola and pinching the tender skin between his thumb and index finger.

Applying just enough pressure to make Fai squirm his hips in the younger man's lap. He was acutely aware that this was not the most privet of setting and the blond mentally kicked himself for not finding them a better place to continue.

Fai wanted his lover very naked right now. Naked and on top of him—inside of him.

He didn't want to focus all of his attention on being quite—he wanted to scream in pleasure and curse his lover for making him feel so undone.

Not in the middle of his club though—definitely not in front of his employees. To ensure he didn't draw too much attention to himself, Fai was coving his mouth with one of his hands—his other fisting into Kuro-tease's tee-shirt.

All of these sensations were too much but in a wonderfully, overwhelmingly, delicious way that made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

Kind of like when you went to chiropractor—and their adjustments just hurt so fucking right.

Fai tugged particularly hard at Kurogane's tee and the younger stopped his intoxicating little nips and kisses to look at Fai.

"Do you uh… really wanna…?" Kurogane ground his erection against Fai's ass as if to finish the unspoken question and Fai whimpered and nodded his head quickly.

He was sure he was going to die after all of that teasing. He needed release.

"You wanna do it… here? I don't have any lube or a condo—" Fai silenced him with a sloppy kiss.

"Fuck the lube just use spit." Fai ground their hips together and Kurogane growled at the contact.

"And the condom?"

Fai would defiantly prefer it if they didn't use one—but now was not the time to push that issue. While he only ever used protection when his partner requested, he always came prepared.

"Wallet." His words came out in a breathy sigh while he shifted to regain the black leather Dunhill wallet. He retrieved the shiny metal wrapper and handed it to Kurogane before tossing his wallet back on the table.

To his surprise—the taller man set it aside and those hot hands run up his sides again and pulled Fai forward and the taller man kissed his way down the blonde's neck. Every move he made was smooth, paced, thoroughly deliberate, and it was intoxicating.

Kurogane ran those hot hands back down his sides, dragging his nails lightly across the smooth pail skin, then up his back. Massaging small circles in the tight muscles as he went. Fai was left again gripping uselessly onto his cloths and shifting his hips back and forth to create an enticing friction.

Eventually with enough quite whines Kurogane kissed his lips a little more roughly and reached for the blonde's belt. The buckle came loose with a little work and Fai shifted onto his knees so that he was eye level with his lover.

Their position was unfortunately awkward considering their tight quarters and the inconvenience of clothing. Fai didn't want to get completely naked in public like this… that wasn't a good call.

Again, he mentally kicked himself for not planning this better.

Kuro-crafty seemed to be content to make it work and Fai didn't question him when he was presented with three very large fingers. The blonde gave his best sultry look as sucked them with a little more force then needed.

Kurogane watched him with famished eyes—Fai hoped that he was thinking about what it would be like to have him sucking someplace a little more pleasant. His mind wondered back to his earlier musings about whip cream and a little rope and he moaned a little too loudly.

It was a much more—vivid—picture from the taller man's lap.

There was no need for fantasies when he had the real thing in front of him right now though.

Once he had meticulously coated Kurogane's fingers with saliva he closed his eyes and tried to relax as he felt that same hand slide down the back of his slacks. Kurogane probed at his entrance while nipping and kissing his way down Fai's neck and the overwhelming sensation of the hot breath puffing against his skin, and the gentle pressure of those slick fingers made him squirm.

The feeling of wanting to crawl out of his skin was back and his own breath of coming out in airy gasps before there had even been any penetration at all. At this rate he was going to cum—and that was embarrassing.

He wasn't used to someone being able to make his body react this way.

The first finger entered his body smoothly and Fai leaned forward to burry his face in the crook of Kurogane's neck to muffle his moan when he crooked it just right. The blonde swore he could hear a satisfied smirk in the younger man's next low growl.

Fai could only assume what he looked like right now. On his knees hovering above Kurogane's lap—ass out—leaning forward with arms wrapped around strong shoulders.

Sure, he could ruin the picture that his lover seemed so pleased with if he wanted to. That didn't sound like very much fun—so Fai let Kurogane continue to lead their little dance for now and closed his eyes to enjoy the feeling of strong fingers slowly stretching him.

A second finger was added and the taller mans free hand moved to tug down the front of Fai's boxers to free his arousal. His entire body shivered as Kurogane touched his cock just like he had been touching the rest of him.

Who would have thought him such a fucking tease?

Fai loved it.

A little more pressure was applied as Kurogane was smoothly running a closed fist up and down his length while the third finger was added. Fai had taken to kissing and sucking at Kuro-koi's thick neck and bit him rather roughly as he hit that bundle of nerves that threatened to put Fai over the edge.

"I take it—" Kurogane brushed it again while swiping his thumb over the head of the blonde's cock. "—that's the spot?"

"If you keep that up, I'm going to—"

"Do it." Kurogane massaged his prostate with a little more pressure and quickened the pace of his other hand and Fai unwrapped his arms and leaned his weight back so that he could kiss his lover.

"What about?" his eyes flickered down to the painfully obvious hard on in the younger man's jeans.

"Don't worry about that right now. I want to see you cum." Kurogane's voice came out in a low growl that caused Fai to shudder again.

"And is Kuro-sama usually such a gracious lover or do you just like to watch?" Fai leaned back into the raven haired man's touches, encouraging him to increase the pressure a smidge more.

He didn't answer—but Fai could assume from the way those eyes were watched the smaller man's hips moving provocatively—that he may have found a cute kink.

He could defiantly get into this.

Fai sucking in a deep breath though his nose and held it for a moment, in an attempt to get better control of the tingling in his cock. Not yet—this was too good to end yet.

The blonde made a show of using a single finger to tilt Kurogane's chin up, forcing their eyes to meet, before using the other hand to drag up his own torso. As he had expected—those crimson eyes locked in on what he was doing to himself.

Fai left a frustrated pout on his face while he closed his eyes and tiled his head back. With his own hand he traced up his sensitive side, traced over his protruding collar bones, ran them over his own erect nipples.

It felt nice—almost as nice as when Kurogane had done it for him earlier.

It must have looked nice too because he felt the younger man shift below him and sigh. The grip on the blonde's dick was firmer, and he was jerking him off faster now—matching the way he was moving his fingers.

Fai was bracing himself against the tanned man with a hand on his very warm, very broad chest. Said hand fisted in to the fabric, nails digging into his skin as Fai was hit with a sudden waive of pleasure that he wasn't expecting.

He came hard, back arching in an impressive show of flexibility as he covered his breathy gasps with his hand. Streams of sticky, hot cum shot out of him as he felt his member jolt.

Kurogane didn't seem to mind the mess that had spattered his clothing and continued to move his hands as his lover orgasmed.

When the last of pleasurable spasms washed over Fai's body the raven-haired man withdrew his fingers and reached for the napkins the waitress had so kindly provided them and started to wipe away the mess.

The blonde tugged his slacks up a little higher, so he wasn't as exposed, and shifted to sit next to him. Fai sipped his scotch and tried to think just how he was going to pay this little scamp back for that.

He hadn't expected this to take as long as it was—but this wasn't an unpleasant surprise by any means.

Slowly he leaned down to grab his clothing that was currently rumpled by Kurogane's feet and tossed them to the other side of the booth before sliding down to take their place.

"Hey, you don't have to—" Kurogane gave him a surprised look.

"I want to." Fai cut him off and placed his delicate hands on the man's belt buckle—pausing for permission.

Kurogane gave a nod and watched with wrapped interest as Fai turned his attention to the pesky cloths that was hiding his prize. He had popped more than a few belts in his day—and Fai was marveling and the younger man's impressive manhood within seconds.

The blonde licked at the impressive amount of precum that had collected at the head of his dates cock and concluded that Kuro-myuu had been enjoying himself with his earlier teasing. It was the blondes turn to make his partner squirm now though—and given their sizable age difference—he had a lot more experience doing just that.

Swirling his tongue around the head he slid both of his hands up under the hem of the dark shirt that was marring his perfect view of Kuro-love's no doubt impressive stomach.

And what a sight it was.

He was definitely going to need a night to admire this body in all its glory.

Fai took more of his lover into his mouth and sucked hard. Smirking around his cock, the blonde's blue eyes flickered up to see Kurogane's face, and he was not disappointed. Those red eyes were still watching him—only instead of being heavy with hunger—they were half lidded with need.

Good.

Fai closed his eyes and relaxed his throat and impressed himself by taking the entirety of his date manhood. Humming softly, he opened his eyes again and felt Kuro-wan twitch when their gaze met again.

Fai felt heat rushing back down between his own legs and he reached a hand down to slide inside of his own boxers.

Leaning his head back the blond applied just enough pressure with his lips to get his first moan. Kurogane raised a hand to tangle into his short locks and watched as Fai swished his tongue over the tip.

"Kuro-chan tastes good." He purred and felt the fingers in his hair tighten uncomfortably.

"It's Kurogane damm—Fuck…" Fai cut him off by sucking hard on the head of his penis and giving him an innocent look before closing his eyes and bobbing his head up and down.

It continued on like that. The older man earned quite a few moans and curses from the younger any time he would glace up or make a show of what he was doing. Fai could feel Kurogane getting close a few times—his cock was twitching with need—and he made sure to switch things up enough to keep this little game going for as long as he could.

He had been in the middle of deep throating his lover when he felt a tug at his hair. His eyes flickered up to see the taller man motion for him to come up with his free hand.

Slightly disappointed at not getting to show off the rest of his oral skills with the big finally, he climbed up from under the table.

He was letting Kuro-handsome be the boss. He had to remember.

Fai settled in the booth next to the raven-haired man and relished in the feeling off Kurogane's hands on his cool cheeks as he kissed him roughly.

"Not that that wasn't fucking amazing…" he let his words trail off and he kissed Fai more insistently. "I just really wanted to fuck you."

"By all means Kuro-chan." Fai cooed.

That had been the ultimate go of all of this hadn't it?

The blonde could tell that his date was much more excited now then he had been at the beginning of their little necking session. His hands moved with fervor as he tugged him into position and Fai found himself on his knees—hands gripping the top of the high back booth while his partner wracked hands over his body and kissed his neck.

He had already cum once tonight, but he was more than ready for round two.

He could here Kurogane opening the condom and adjusted his own clothing so that his lover would have better access to where he needed to be.

Fai held his breath as Kurogane slowly entered him—one of those hot hands on his left hip—the other on his right shoulder.

The blonde winced a little—Kurogane was definitely well endowed and prelubricated condom or no—it would unquestionably be more comfortable if they had come a little better equipped.

His discomfort was quickly forgotten when Kurogane reached around and grabbed his throbbing cock, however. After a few seconds of adjustment time—he set a brutally brilliant rhythm for them that had Fai breathless.

Was it possible to be addicted to a sensation? Because Fai was sure no other feeling in the world was quite like the feeling of Kurogane fucking him in this booth.

They were both exceedingly careful to stay quite—for Fai that meant again covering his mouth with one hand while he tried to hang onto the back of the booth with the other. Between his own muffles sighs and whimpers he could here Kurogane legitimately growling as he thrusted into him and it was honestly the most erotic thing that had ever happened to him.

Fai came shockingly fast and was sure his eyes were rolling into the back of his head from the hot waves of pleaser that were slamming into him with every thrust. Kurgoane followed not long after and the blonde found himself grinning as he came with a stream of curse words whispered under his breath.

Oh yes… this had been just what Fai needed.

Kurogane pulled out carefully and handed Fai a few of the napkins before cleaning himself up. Fai hadn't expected to be pulled back into his dates lap after they had finished—and he especially didn't expect to get a soft kiss on the neck and his drink handed to him.

"You're awfully sweet Kuro-puu." Normally Fai wouldn't tolerate such affections after a hookup—but he was starting to get tired and Kurogane was really very comfortable.

Besides they still had drinks to finish.

"Not really. What do you expect me to do? Zip my jeans and ditch after I just fucked you?" Kurogane sipped his sake and Fai rolled his eyes.

Yes. That is usually how these things went.

"That's normally close to how it goes. If I didn't know any better, I would think you had a crush on me." Fai leaned his head on his dates strong shoulders and yawned.

He was going to need to find somewhere privet to refresh soon.

"Fuck that. You're hot but I can tell your fucking insane."

Fai snorted. Good observation kid.

"You're not wrong there Kuro-woof." Fai tipped his head back and finished off the rest of his drink. He could vaguely here his stepfather scolding him in the back of his mind for not savoring the flavor of such an expensive scotch – but Fai only drank the stuff because he liked how it smelled. Besides the sooner they finished there drinks the sooner he could go top up.

"It's Kurogane you freak." The taller man fallowed suit and knocked back the rest of his drink. "Hey, you know where the bathroom is here? I gotta clean up a bit."

The blonde's eyes flickered to his soiled clothing and frowned. Yeah—that would be for the best.

"Sure. Just a sec ok?" Fai grabbed his own clothing and quickly buttoned up his dress shirt, tucking it in and fixing his belt in an attempt to look a little less sex rumpled. He didn't think he was pulling it off, and draped his vest, tie, and jacket over his arm and stood.

Kurogane watched him lazily and followed him out of the booth. Fai was reminded of his date's glorious height and smirked as he led them though the winding booths, back down the stairs, and past the door that very clearly read 'employees only.'

"Hey, is it ok if were back here?" Kurogane looked around curiously as Fai led him past the store room, back past the brake room, and into the employee bathroom.

"I work here silly." Fai winked at him, holding the door open for the younger man.

"You seriously screwed someone at your job? Your boss is cool with that?" Kurogane entered the room and looked at himself in the mirror. The dried cum on his shirt and pants stood out against his black clothing.

Whoops.

Fai didn't answer as he followed him in and started to fix his own clothing. The lighting was dim enough in the club that no one would notice. The light provided from the street lamps weren't much better, so it wasn't the end of the world.

"What are you doing after this?" Kurogane asked as he used a damp paper towel to try and get some of the evidence washed away.

"Going back to work." Fai made quick work of redressing. This wasn't the first time he had had to salvage a wrinkled outfit—wouldn't be the last.

"Fuck. Good luck with that." Kurogane gave up and tossed the paper towel in the trash and turned to lean against the sink and watch him.

"I take it your nightly excursions are over Kuro-tan?" Fai tightened his tie and pulled out his cell phone.

Ugh. He was starting to regret sending Syaoran home…

"Yeah."

The blonde ignored the text messages and emails that had flooded in since his arrival at Kyuden and went to his contacts. Opening up a blank card he handed his phone to his date and smiled.

"If you don't mind Kuro-cutie." Kurogane took his phone and gingerly entered his name and number into his phone and handed it back. "Thank you sir."

The blond stepped close to the taller man and pressed his back against Kurogane's chest. Lifting his phone up above both of there heads he gave a dazzling smile and cooed. "Say Cheeses Kuro-scowl!"

Of course—Kurogane didn't comply and instead of a selfie with two gentlemen smiling happily in a post sex glow—they ended up with one man smiling in a post sex glow, and one glaring so hard one would expect the camera to shatter.

And wasn't that perfect?

"Whaa! Look how cute we are?" Fai teased as he set the photo as Kurogane's contact picture. He also sent it to the younger man, so he would have the blonde's number.

"You are such a fucking weirdo." Kurogane growled at him but checked his phone as soon as the message came though non the less.

"Yes—but I am a hot weirdo." The blonde reminded before turning to lead them both back out to the main room of the club.

Fai tossed his cc on the bar as they passed Yuto and walked Kurogane back out to the street. "I ordered you an Uber."

"you didn't need to do that or pay for the drink you know?" the raven-haired man sighed and glared daggers at him.

"What's the point of seeing and older man if they don't pick up the tab?" The blonde teased and Kurogane gave him a slightly scandalized look.

"Hey! That's not what this was about!" Fai laughed. Kurogane was practically stomping his feet in frustration.

Luckily for the younger man, the cab pulled up and Fai graciously opened the back door for him.

Once the cab had pulled away Fai went back inside—he just had to get though the rest of the night… He could do this.

[merrillbekker1-blog]

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[webcricket]

Looking Glass

Chapter 5 - An Olive Branch

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 3088

Summary: Impromptu peace talks commence between the reader and Castiel just in time for the return of the Winchesters.

Miss a chapter? Have a Masterlist Link!

Sat at the kitchen bench with a mug of room temperature black brew on the table before him – untouched, but within reach of his fingertips where he first placed it upon sitting – Castiel stares without seeing at the local section of a Lebanon Times newspaper he found in the library so old the color of the paper borders on the pale yellow of ripening corn.

There’s a scout troop featured; a motley crew of pre-teens forever frozen in photograph form cleaning up a park on a sunny spring Sunday to celebrate Earth Day. The same jaundiced pig-tailed child – designated as Cindy M. of Kansas City, Brownie Troop 271 in byline – has been fishing with outstretched fingers for a castoff Styrofoam cup beneath a hedge for the past two hours. The report doesn’t indicate that the piece of litter ever made the short jaunt into the garbage bag clutched in her other hand that she drags behind where she poses in stooped smiling perpetuity for the picture – another of life’s unanswered mysteries; not that Cas is currently pondering said mystery.

The angel’s ears perk to the sound of your barefoot heels plodding in the hallway in gradual but steady approach. Evidently you’ve finished your investigation of the premises or, determining an escape attempt is impossible, given up. In either case, he hopes you didn’t find something more lethally effective than kitchen stuffs, brute bare-handed force, or unbarred emotion coincidentally thrumming an inner nerve of truth to wound him with; every such angelically injurious object he is aware of in the bunker is under lock and key excepting his personal blade.

There’s a chance he overlooked an unknown item in a dusty storage bin that you succeeded in unearthing in your explorations; it would be consistent with his luck – good fortune demarcated by a fundamental lack thereof. It would also be consistent with his epically bad week – an already rough run of ill fate since his expulsion from the Empty exacerbated by Lucifer’s continued liberty, the resurrection, rescue, and subsequent high-tailing from commitment to creation of his brother Gabriel, an unnerving run-in with Naomi, the angel agent of much of his enduring grief, and then learning that Heaven is one or two celestial lights gone dark removed from permanent and catastrophic foreclosure; and, of course, there’s the latest complication of you.

In an effort to appear unruffled given your imminent arrival, he readjusts his posture; straightening his sloping spine and, for reasons of unacknowledged self-conscious impulsivity, the skewed knot of his tie, he redoubles his blind examination of the newspaper. The resulting effect lends itself to one of a spring coiled to maximum tension ready to fly off at the slightest disturbance. He flips the page with an exaggerated rustle to prove his utter indifference to your presence when you halt at the entryway and hesitate to crossover the door jamb to descend the two steps into the space he occupies.

Hyperaware, you freeze in suspense of animation to observe the scene like a bird cornered after tumbling down a chimney and emerging indoors without the familiar freedom of the sky in sight. His similarly caged reaction fascinates you considering you’re the one trapped in an underground maze with locked exits and disorientated by the kidnapping slash plummet down a rabbit hole into an alternate universe; that is, if he’s to be believed – and it’s still a big if according to your muddled wits. At least the lark about being in a bunker appears to hold up under thorough examination.

In a preening motion, you brush the pad of your thumb over the glossy slip of a photo you discovered and hid in the roll of the oversized sweatshirt sleeve encasing your right wrist; you’ll soon see if his story stands up to closer scrutiny. You allow the angel has every reason to be edgy; you’ve physically assailed him – granted without any lasting consequences – twice. For all he knows, the third time’s the charm. You decide his increasing unease with each confrontation does lend a linear sense of credibility to the reality of the situation.

The bitter aroma of burned coffee tickles your nose. The coffee maker ceased percolating the beverage some time ago; left on, it has boiled down the liquid into pure caffeine concentrate. The heady result smells like welcome lucidity after your wanderings and ferries your feet of their own volition down the stairs and to the counter. You help yourself to a mug of the stuff. Gripping the heat radiant porcelain between your palms, lips pursed to blow a cooling breath across the russet shimmering surface, you recommence watching the wary angel.

Sensing your protracted silent stare, he makes a grand gesture of flicking to a new page and folding it in half with a noisier-than-necessary shake to examine with great interest through a narrowed gaze an advert at the bottom for a law firm boasting attorneys specializing in personal, automotive, and work-site injury related litigation – seems convincingly relevant given the prevailing impasse between you two.

You clear your throat just to be sure he knows you know you have his surreptitious attention despite the display to the contrary.

If it’s possible – and evidently it is possible – he stiffens further. Still, he maintains the charade of ignoring you.

You liked him better when he was playing considerate host to your starring role as ungrateful violence-prone guest. This – this total impassivity – lacks definition; it’s missing sharp edges for you to remonstrate bodily and emotionally against. It simply won’t do.

“So, I’m guessing it was you that healed me?” you ask the loaded question as though you’re two acquaintances making small talk. Bringing the mug’s rim to your mouth, you suck a small sip and swirl the acrid swill over your tongue; it wants sugar, but you’re simultaneously certain no amount of sweetness could save it.

“That depends,” he answers without tearing his squint from the faded newsprint in order to deliberately avoid fully engaging you in whatever verbal skirmish you’re trying to instigate.

“On?” Since he refuses to grace you with a gaze, you aim the query at the back of his head; his hair explodes from his scalp in an unruly collection of loose chestnut curls – not a Nazi-esque grease-tamed coif indicative of extreme control issues.

“On whether or not my answering affirmatively will aggravate you.” There it is – the steel of sharpened blade you want lashes out in the form of spoken sass; the gloves, so-to-speak, are off.

Recollecting the black leather gloved fingers of the other one of him, you cringe at the metaphor conjured by your mind and swallow the chafing memory along with a second sip of God-awful coffee. In comparison to the interactions with your arson-aficionado interrogator, this angelic iteration is positively charming. It’s the first time the two of them seem separate entities to you. There’s something distinctly softer about the seraph in front of you – the blunt of benevolence, rather than thorny malevolence, gilding his halo.

You round the table and drop onto the opposite bench into his lowered line of sight. Propping your elbows on the top, you extend a hand to rudely swat the paper out of his grasp. “Since when do angels care about how humans feel?”

He lifts his eyes to meet yours; a degree of doneness dulls the blue.

You can’t tell if he’s done specifically dealing with you, or just generally done.

The besieged intake of his breath is audible. He holds the lungful of air, mouth thin and tense, reluctant to offer any explanation for you to twist around as a weapon to stab into him in wordy retribution. Finally, mostly to dissuade your skeptical stare and his resultant discomfort, he grumbles, “I don’t want to quarrel with you. Your mind, it’s . . . in a very fragile state.”

“I feel fine,” you fib to armor your weakness. Abandoning your mug, inclining backward, you slide your arms to encircle your sides and shrug. Forget the fatigue – your brain feels like it’s being drawn and quartered through your ears with a winch. Any effrontery on your part at this point is a bluff, but you’ve learned the difference between life and death often relies on the lie.

“You’re not fine.” In a reverse of your retreating body language, he sets his elbows on the table and leans forward, tone scolding. “You nearly died. You need to take it easy. I can’t help you recover if you insist on acting so . . . combative. This may come as a stark surprise to you, but as long as you aren’t suffering physically in a manner I can mend, the persistence of your foul mood is the least pressing of my concerns. There are more important matters at hand.”

He’s not wrong; and if you’re not mistaken, he’s expressed a continued – impatient, yet nonetheless there – concern for your well-being despite his frustration. He’s unlike any angel you’ve ever encountered. You glower at him for a lengthy minute. Somewhere thirty seconds or so into the hushed trade of glares you decide to accept the roundabout articulated truce he offered. You give yourself a superfluous thirty additional seconds to change your mind, but it seems set on a conciliatory course for the moment. You reach out to retrieve your coffee and muse into the liquid before drinking a gulp. “You don’t talk like an angel.”

Mouth relaxing into soft pink pout, he assents to the cordial shift of atmosphere implied in the statement. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was an observation,” you correct, filtering another swig of brown sludge through your teeth. “What you said before, about me not being from this world – it’s true?”

“It’s true.” He bobs his chin once.

You admire the scruff of beard shadowing his strong jaw; he’s remarkably handsome when he isn’t a monster trying to massacre you from the inside out. Shy of the superficial attraction, you avert your eyes to the neglected newspaper at center of the table. “And Michael, he’s trying to destroy this world, too?”

“You heard my conversation with Dean.” It’s not as though he made any effort to cover it up standing directly outside the door you were barricaded behind.

Your pupils widen with a surge of fear when you look up at him. “You said it was safe here. Nowhere Michael wants to be is safe.”

A slouch curves his spine as he sinks back into the chair. “Then I suppose, strictly speaking, that makes it less safe here than I initially suggested.”

Hugging your arms to your chest to subdue a rising shiver, your fingertips touch the photograph you found. The angel passes your provisional litmus test thus far, but your curiosity remains unabated; and it’s a distraction from the shattered illusion of safety. You withdraw the photo from the confines of the sleeve’s fabric, place it on the table, and slide it toward him with your pointer finger. “That’s you, Bobby Singer, Ellen and Jo, and the other two men I don’t know.”

You met Bobby Singer once, and immediately you understood him to be a rightfully paranoid man who doesn’t surround himself with, as he likes to say, ‘Idjits!’ He’s supposed to be in Dayton where you were headed before this detour. And Ellen and Jo are no different; dauntless women, at least the last you heard of them, daring a bid to cross the wastelands of Texas to breach the wall south of the states with a band of survivors in search of elusive safety. If they associated with this angel – and they did according to the pictorial evidence – you want to know the reason.

Cas slants his neck to better peer at the picture although he knows the details well – it’s the black and white snapshot commemorating the night before the day he joined Bobby, Ellen, Jo, and the brothers to confront the devil to prevent this world’s apocalypse; the day he chose humanity’s cause over Heaven – over himself. He gathers you must have found the keepsake in the top drawer of his desk – one of only a few mementos he saves. Catching the corner of the photo, he spins it and glides it nearer. Unlike the mystery of Cindy M. of Kansas City and her discarded cup, there’s no guessing at the fate of the people frozen there in time; a minute wistful smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“How do you know them? Have you been to my world before? Who are the other men?” Biting your lower lip, you stop yourself at three successive rapid-fire questions; you have many more.

The smile fades from his expression; his blues, sheened with sadness, rise to regard you. “Many of the same entities, human and angel, inhabit both worlds. These two men you don’t know, they’re the brothers Sam and Dean Winchester. We know destiny didn’t deign for them to exist in your world. But in this one, they stopped the apocalypse from happening.”

“And Bobby, Ellen, and Jo?”

“I think of them as friends. I like to think they felt the same comradery. Brave and selfless souls all.” Eyes darting down, he taps each of their anxiously smiling faces in turn. “They played their parts, courageous to the last.”

“Played. So they’re-”

He looks up, cutting you off with the straightforward location of their mortal souls. “In Heaven.” He doesn’t add the, ‘For now, for as long as Heaven is able to hold itself together.’

In the requisite respectful interlude of a quiet few seconds to honor the memory of the dearly departed, it occurs to you that if there were more than one of all of them, then there may be another of you in this world; and if there’s a you, then perhaps there’s the family you lost in yours. With this nascent knowledge of the possibility you could see your loved ones again, you begin to comprehend why the angel and his friends so adamantly want to keep you contained here in the bunker; and also, why you must get out.

Noticing the intense interest of the angel’s eyes tracing the contemplative lines of your features, you deflect the thought lest he eavesdrop. “Why do you keep the photograph then? You’re an angel, you could see them anytime you like.”

He looks at his lap, self-conscious of the personal query – he never really considered the why of saving the photo; it seemed then and seems now natural to him to retain it. “I suppose you’d call it sentimentality,” he redirects, defaulting to the reason a human would hoard such an article.

Undeterred, captivated by an angel exhibiting flashes of actual emotion, especially genuine empathy for and affectionate attachment to humans, you reformulate. “And what would you call it?”

Weaving his fingers together, he snorts lightly through his nose – this time the small emergent smile is a disingenuous sardonic spasm of lip to mask manifest pain; you’ve touched upon another nerve, and one still raw judging by his reaction. “I’ve been told it’s an inherent weakness,” he mutters.

“Now you sound like an angel.” The statement is an impulse you instantly regret – an instinct to inflict pain upon this exposed and vulnerable piece of him like he hurt you. Only, it wasn’t this him.

“I am an angel.” His voice is an indignant rasped whisper; his wounded affect accentuated by a dim of hurt hazing his eyes. It’s a conflicting sentiment – an angel who appreciates not being likened to his kin in mannerism and yet nonetheless fiercely identifies as one of them.

The contradiction piques your curiosity. You want, no, need to know the honest reason a billion odd year old being hangs on to this specific sliver of his history. “You’re avoiding answering me,” you pry, “why do you keep it? You.”

His thick lashes shutter as he looks inward. He sighs, “Perhaps to remind me of the choice I made then.”

“What choice was that?”

“I chose the path of free will – to decide for myself what is right and not have destiny dictated to me by others.”

“And what did you decide is right?”

After a leaden pause, his eyes blink open and settle on you – they shine an impossibly vibrant blue to your mute color adjusted vision; you’re sure even the summer sky of your distant sweltering memories never shone so clear and endless. His reply is earnest – honest. “I’m still trying to determine the answer,” he confesses. It’s a deep-seated insecurity he has never told another soul – something he has been afraid to admit aloud, something he maybe didn’t fathom himself until you asked him why and pried the answer through the regret-reinforced ramparts shielding his heart.

You sense the significance of the admission and in return gift him the one thing about yourself that in revelation might hold equally substantial meaning for him. “Y/N.”

“What?”

“My name,” you repeat, “it’s Y/N.” It’s an apology, too, for your earlier antics.

The angel’s pensive expression floods with a lightness of realization. He gets it – you’re proposing a fresh start. You’ve met now on a common ground; laying bare a patchwork of jagged scars and bloody wounds alike, you’ve uncovered two drifters, equally lost in their respective worlds searching for something good in the bad. Hoping – still hoping it exists.

A subtle smile quirks his cheek. “My friends call me-”

“Cas!” Dean’s well-timed shout resounds from the kitchen threshold. He tilts his head politely toward you in toothy grinned greeting. “Hey sweetheart!” Wagging a finger between you and the angel, the grin broadens on his freckled face. “Well, isn’t this cozy. Nice civilized tea for two and not a meat cleaver in sight.” He winks a jewel of glinting green at Cas. “I told you apologies work wonders, didn’t I?”

Sam looms over Dean’s shoulder and furnishes you with a curt nod as he lumbers past his brother. “Glad to see you up and about. Cas was pretty worried there about whether or not you’d ever wake up at all. We all felt terrible having to leave you here alone – you find my notes?”

Dean mutters something unintelligible under his breath about stupid freaking notes and wanders over to the fridge, visibly relieved to find it stocked with beer.

You eye the anomalous angel – pretty worried, indeed.  A smile eases into the curves and creases of your mouth as he makes the formal introductions.

“Sam, Dean, this is Y/N.” His blues alight on your marveling gaze. “Y/N, these are the Winchesters.”

Next: Ch. 6 - Healing Touch

[frozenfallenuniverse]

Cracks in the Wall

Its ya boy, tired child looking for job. Its been a while since I posted a story but Lavi won the last poll (landslide even). Next story will be about the first time samger and Meiyo meet but I hope you enjoy this one!

Most planeswalkers would have servants, assistants or little creatures to help them with work. Not me, the most overworked walker that I know off. Now, I could spawn a large amount of spotters to try to help but without any form of appendages to write with or mouths to speak with, they wouldn’t get far. You would think I’d have some sort of plan for this but it seems as though my forward thinking is complete and utter-

“Lavi? I can never tell if you can hear me on this. The job is done. What’s next?” The voice came through one of the many spotters that floated about my room like palm-sized dust mites. Based on both the feminine, almost siren like, voice and the spotter’s form being extremely similar to a goldfish, it seemed to be Nozari. Thank god. I sat at my desk and the fish spotter floated atop the desk to eye level. It bounded in front of my face as I rested it inside of my hands.

“Well, step one is getting off the plane but if you’ve already done that, I’ll send you a bit of money within a few days. Your next job is finding a certain planeswalker. His title is the Immortal and he was last spotted on Tarkir. Quite tall, probably missing some skin at this point, hard to miss.”

“Tarkir? Can’t say I’ve heard of that…”

“Wonderful. It's a terrible plane. Tons of dragons, lots of fire, lightning, poison and many things that don’t like merfolk or would assume you are an overgrown bass that has learned to walk on two feet.”

“Why am I being sent there exactly?”A sigh followed her question and her voice was full of disdainful annoyance. Not that out of the ordinary for her to be entirely honest.

“I can send Alexander if you prefer.” She made a gagging sound, presumably nodded and signed off. Not a second too soon, if you ask me. Her and Alexander were some of my assistants. Well, I say assistants but they are more like mercenaries. I pay them coin, they find concerning planeswalkers and deal with them. Nozari is non-lethal and Alexander is… Alexander. Now I can hopefully make some headway on these papers-

“Lavi~ Guess who’s here to do some fun stuff today!” A masculine yet flamboyant voice that sounded like wet paint being thrown across a canvas came from the main hall. Another spotter, this one with the same colors as bird who live in paradise, came close and it seemed to be one of my least favorite generals. I tossed on robes that seemed ill-suited to the current heat and stepped out of my mess of a study.

The window blinds were half-closed, letting fragments of the sunrise come through. Songbird calls mixed with footsteps filled the wide hallway as I trotted to the main hall. The man, who has already decided to redecorate one of the walls of the room, was wearing fluorescent clothing, that had the closest description as a rainbow that vomited on a tailor’s workshop, and hair the color of dying fall leaves. The painting, if you could really call his art style ‘painting’, was a horrendous rendition of two merfolk and a high-class woman messing about in his latest experiment. The closest thing to a greeting that we exchanged was a half-nod and a sigh from myself.

“To what do I owe the pleasure today, Rotek?” I only just realized that I sounded like a sick frog that cannibalized a smaller one. Hopefully, he doesn’t mind if a spotter ran about to fetch a glass of water for me. Without even turning to face me, he spoke like I was an audience of twenty.

“The experiment went wonderfully! There were no major deaths. Three walkers came in and they all left. Two seemed quite normal and the third seemed a bit…” He dabbed his brush on the regal looking doodle, that was partially on my artwork. My new artwork. It cost close to three weeks of work. Wonderful. The sound of shattering glass from the direction of where I sent the spotter made this conversation all the better. My hand was reaching for the bridge of my nose as I spoke.

“Did you get names or are you here to showboat?” I could feel my eyes rolling into the back of my skull as I spoke. Rotek might be useful for his knowledge and magic but his… artistic freedoms made things like diplomacy, discussions and basic talking like pulling teeth. He spun on his heels, tossing a letter from his breast pocket at my flailing arms. Barely caught it as well. Why do people throw so many things at me. They know I can’t catch.

“I know your whole deal is peace and the prevention of disasters so think of this as an invitation to my next art piece.” His voice was much more somber now, almost sad to speak of the thing that gave him the most passion. I tore open the note and flipped it out, skimming across it. In large bolded letters, it said ‘The Destruction of Ravnica. Performed by an elder dragon. Watch as I paint the final moments of the most populated plane of the multiverse.’ Several of the spotters floated around the note, desperate to get so much as a glance at it. With a soft breath, the note became blank and wasted away in my grasp.

“You’re helping someone destroy a plane!” I spoke with the anger of a dragon that was woken by a farmer after sleeping for millennia. The heat on my face most likely made me look like a tomato, or a pyromancer. Same thing really.

“Capitalising on what will happen, really. I can’t stop it nor can any of the others. I’d suggest you get your friends to help evacuate or, more likely, work with some of the walkers there. No reason for that many sparks to be extinguished.” He had no enjoyment in his voice. His brush was thrown to the floor, spilling paint across the tiles. His artwork was melting off as well. I need to control my temper better.

“Fine. Keep this a secret from the other generals then. No reason to get Ice or Shadow excited about a plane dying.” My hand was glued to my nose bridge and a thumping sensation was deepening in my temples. Rotek patted me on the shoulder and disappeared with a rainbow light following his exit. My disappointment is immeasurable and my day is now ruined, suffice to say.

The normal rhythm I kept with my steps become erratic and the space around me shifted, warped and fragments came out of focus. I heard stories that something like this would happen but I was hoping, no, praying they were just rumors. What used to be a wall became a time-worn veranda with ivy growths burgeoning beneath the posts. Several spotters floated towards me with concerned visages. The goldfish led the pack and I dragged it by the tail to my desk. A haze came over the eye that took up most of its body and I decided to speak first.

“Nozari, forget the other mission. Find Alexander. I need to talk to you both.” My words were rushed. Something was welling up in my throat and a sickness flooded my stomach. The floater I sent, what felt like years ago, returned with a bottle of sparkling cherry juice. It took hardly any seconds to drink several fingers worth.

“What? What about the immortal? I’m not gonna abandon this mission!”

“The Immortal can wait. It's not like he’ll die anytime soon!” Some papers became dotted with droplets from the neck of the bottle. I cursed under my breath. That’s even more things to fix.

“Shouldn’t I just come there? Why can’t you say it now? I have plans later you know! I finally found a cute dress that fit!” She did mention something about a cute girl earlier. Explains why she’s been more relaxed recently. Or anxious. I think both is the answer. She’s a bit more of a mess than me.

“You bring yourself and Alexander here after your plans then. I won’t force you to do your job but keep in mind: you swore to help me protect planes and right now, I think your possible lover would understand a canceling.” The strangest thing about Nozari’s knowledge of languages was that she could be annoyed in all of them and curse like a sailor in most of them. They all sound beautiful as well. Perhaps merfolk have- Introspection into the different races of the multiverse can wait after the problem is fixed.

“Fine! I’ll be there tomorrow with the problem child! You owe me something other than money for canceling this date though!”

“Would a pearl necklace suffice? An associate got fresh batch of chocolate ones during a trip to Ixalan.”

“Oh dear Kosi. Its that bad?”

“Horrendous is a better term in my opinion.” The faked joyfulness I spoke with seemed like a different flavor of sarcasm and she noticed.

“Any idea where he is?” My silence was more than enough of an answer. With a groan, she hung up. Well, hung up is the wrong word. She smacked the spotter on her end which ended its transmission. They are small but quite durable. I think that’s her favorite way to end our little talks.  Fifty times ended in that way now. Anyway.

My hands were already massaging my skull. The droning in the back of my mind was a voracious woodpecker that just ended a fast. A growling came from the sick that slept in my stomach. This is the worst day of my life. And I almost died! To be fair, who hasn’t really. Planeswalkers are strange. The drink helped to an extent so, I couldn’t blame the situation on a lack of caffeine or sugar. Sleep was always an excuse but I don’t wish to sound like a broken record. I need food. A distraction. Something.

Knocking came from the door. A rarity would be an understatement. Something that no one has ever done before would be more fitting. I creaked open the door, whose rusted screeching made the throbbing of my skull even worse, and saw the chubby, blonde hair-framed face of Lisbeth greeting me.

“You alright, hun? Rotek said to leave you alone but you’re a bit looking pale.” Her smile was the only warm part about her. Her clothing and personality were normally cold but around me and some of the other generals, she acted like a concerned mother. Why did Rotek even talk to her? I thought fire and ice don’t mix. I fake coughed a bit to make it seem I was stable.

“Everything is fine. If you bought anything, leave it at the door. I’m busy.” I said with clear irritation in my voice. It seems the frog in my throat became an annoyed toad at this point. She chuckled a bit and dropped a basket of what smelled like mouth watering baked bread. She said something along the lines of ‘call me when you’re better’ but the migraine become worse from the scent of the bread. Why does she always bring me food?

It did not take long for me to drag the basket into my room and for me to greedily devour every baked snack she provided. My stomach seemed to be resting but the migraine and anxiety continued to fester. The walls around me slowly began to dissipate, turning into white gold light before me. I finally got off my floor, tightened some heavy duty boots on and began walking to the door. If a plane was to be destroyed, I wanted to learn all I could about it before then. Perhaps. I’ll even find a distraction while I’m there.

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Dimensions | Chapter Three

CHECK OUT THE STORY FROM THE START

THE AIR at Noonan’s was always filled with a slight hint of cinnamon. It was a bakery, and Beca Mitchell didn’t doubt the warm feeling that hit the core of her stomach every single time the bell above the door chimed in welcoming.

She had been coming here since she was younger- it was on the corner of the street Barden resided in. Half of the time it was filled to the brink with employees trying to kickstart their days- or students from the local high school that wanted to kill some time and some free wi-fi.

Today was a Monday, Beca’s face still aching in an ugly yellowed bruise, her lip no longer tasting like a coppery mix of blood and mint. It had only been two days and her body was slowly recovering from her little run in. It still ached- still burned and chided each time she did decide to push herself past the loft this weekend.

She needed this coffee. Beca wasn’t the sugar and creamer type of girl, she could take the black tarry liquid right off the burner and chug it until her throat burned and stomach grumbled in protest. But right now- that very scent of caffeine was so enticing that her mouth was instantly filled with saliva.

Beca’s phone buzzed haphazardly in her pocket as she leaned heavily against the side of the wall- waiting for the sound of her name being called throughout the café. She wanted to press ignore, not wanting to deal with whatever text lay on the other end.

Dr. Conrad[8:17AM]

Hey Short Stack, Amy is out tonight so the two of us are going to take to the town.

Beca[8:18AM]

Oh, God. It’s Thursday, can’t I nap on a perfectly good Thursday night?

Dr. Conrad[8:20AM]

Not a chance. See you tonight.

She let out a groan as her name was called out, causing her to shove her phone into her pocket as she smiled at the young barista behind the counter. Despite being around all that coffee, the woman looked dead inside. The brunette felt her pain and gave her a sympathetic look before thanking her and turning towards the door.

Beca froze, her heart in her throat as she pressed the edge of the plastic lid to her lips. She was mid-sip when she caught a glance at a certain Red Head by the windows. She was busy shoving half of a cinnamon bun into her mouth. Even with the morning just peaking through the horizon she wore a smile. Her deep blue eyes catching Beca’s as she parted her lips slightly, lifting an eyebrow towards Beca.

Her feet felt like cement. It would be rude to walk out of Noonan’s without saying hi, or at least share a bit of conversation with the excitable woman who was beaming at her from across the room. Beca eventually swallowed her resolve, along with the bitter taste her coffee let behind.

“Callie, right?” She asked, giving the girl a playful glimmer. The girl scoffed loudly and shook her head, wiping the edge of her lip with her thumb, getting the bit of icing and cinnamon away from the corner of her lip.

“That woman hates me,” She said, running a hand through her hair as she gestured for Beca to sit down. The smaller girl eyed her, but eventually pulled the other chair out, lowering herself into it with caution. Chloe seemed to respond well to the action, pushing the rest of the sticky cinnamon bun to the side with a gracious grin at the sudden company.

“That woman hates everyone,” Beca said. It wasn’t necessarily untrue. Gail Abernathy was interested in proving herself. She didn’t just give manners and respect to anyone that flashed their expression at her. You had to prove yourself to gain some type of kindness from the blonde woman who built an empire out of nothing.

“She doesn’t seem to hate you,” Chloe said with a bit of spark as she pointed the edge of her fork Beca’s way, waving it around a bit.

“Oh, trust me, she does.” She brunette leaned back in her seat, taking a cautious drink of her coffee. It burned against her throat and filled her lungs with a thick heat. “Gail just realized that it was easier to have me on her side than against her.”

Beca made an odd face as another wave of sweet icing and spices hit her senses. She was the one that was so used to drinking black coffee that was way too bitter for her own good. She had a feeling that Chloe would dump whole cups of sugar into the hot beverage until they formed rough ropes at the bottom of the mug.

“How do you eat that this early in the morning?” She asked, scrunching up her nose.

“Easy,” Chloe shrugged her shoulders with a toothy grin as she popped the last bit of pastry into her mouth “I’m an alien.”

THE YOUNG woman leaned back heavily in her chair, letting the springs creak and groan against her added weight as her eyelids began to grow heavy. It didn’t matter how many cups of coffee she had downed- the day was still dragging along.

Her main focus was on the string that was laced around her fingers. It was a large strand that she had pulled from the hem of her regular black t-shirt. She wasn’t worried about the two pieces of fabric falling apart- not when she had a million other shirts like it. Instead- she practiced a game she remembered learning as a child. Cat’s cradle.

Beca’s stare was desolate as she glanced at the intricate weaving of a tiny thread against pale skin. It reminded her of an obstacle course created by supervillains before the main hero could get to that precious artifact- the one to stop world hunger, or finally shut off a desolate machine that could destroy the world.

Jessica yawned beside her, a little whimper escaping the girls pink drawn lips as she leaned her head against the side of her hand- eyes drooping themselves. It was a boring day- one filled with watching security camera’s and making sure everyone who walked through the front door had their badges.

Usually, Beca wouldn’t bother herself with this kind of thing- but with Flo taking a leave of absence for the next few weeks to handle some family matters, and Ashley not bothering to get her flu shot this year, she was shit out of luck. Of course, she had more than a couple of people on her team- but none willing enough to actually sit through this torture.

“Stick your hand through here,” Beca mumbled, shifting in the leather chair before she was at the very end, she had scooted close enough that she could smell the lavender coming off of her counterpart.

“What?” Jessica finally shot a deep hazel stare towards her boss- the very boss that had her tongue sticking slightly past her lips in an attempt to focus more clearly. She did that sometimes- the badass who could somehow look like a lost puppy in a matter of moments. Still, the taller blonde cocked her head to the side.

“Stick your hand in the middle of this thing,” Beca said without breaking concentration, she used to do this type of thing all the time as a kid. If she had strung her cards right then she could untangle the thread in one swift movement, even with Jess’s wrist in the middle of it.

The blonde took her bottom lip between her teeth to stifle a laugh at her boss’s slack expression. She stuck her hand out, slowly working her fingers through the middle of the little obstacle course before staring at the woman with curiosity.

“Don’t cut off my circulation, Mitchell.” She mumbled with a bit of malice, but mostly bewilderment.  The brunette gave a curt nod as she made one shift yank- a light grunt moving through Beca as her fingers became tangled in the very thread she had pulled.

Jessica drew in a breath as she deadpanned next to her counterpart- utterly annoyed at the woman for playing cat’s cradle in the middle of a work day- especially if she didn’t exactly know how to execute the maneuver.

“Am I interrupting something?” A deep voice filled the air, a stranger at that. Beca’s breath caught in her throat as she pulled back completely, struggling to untangle herself from Jessica as the woman struggled to stifle a laugh. Instead, she bit her bottom lip and rubbed her stinging hands on her knees.

Beca’s gaze flashed up to the man who was standing on the other edge of the counter- a goofy grin on his face as he adjusted the black leather strap of his over the shoulder bag. He wore a pale blue button-down that clashed with chocolate brown eyes and an edging grin.

“No um, not at all-“Beca stood, “And you are?”

This man didn’t dawn a badge. Beca didn’t care if he looked charming and harmless- he was still a stranger that had walked past the double paned glass doors and into the base floor of Barden’s offices. That made her walls spring up almost instantly- a sharp chill moving through her.  

“Jesse Swanson,” He smirked, sticking out a hand with confidence. “I was told to come see a Beca Mitchell about a badge and an office.”

He was beaming, if not struggling to stay upright. Even though she had just met this man, she knew he was clumsy- clumsy enough to mess with the dark camera strung around his neck and the prints tucked under his arm.

“Oh, you’re that photographer guy!” Jessica said excitedly, her lips parting as Beca turned her head and gave the girl a curved eyebrow. She sunk into her seat nervously but still turned her attention back to Jesse. “Is it true, you know Superman?”

He blew a puff of breath out of his nose as he gave her a charming smirk. Something told Beca that he was always this playful with his words. “I’ve taken his picture a few times. He’s posed for a few of them.”

“Whoa, that is so cool” Jessica gasped, mouth agape. Beca wrapped her touch around the plastic badge that showed a chiseled jaw of Jesse himself. She cleared her throat, lifting the picture ID up.

She cleared her throat. “Anyway, I’ll show you to your office, Mr. Swanson.”

He faltered at the serious tone she took, stepping from behind the desk as she didn’t wait for him to catch his thoughts. Instead, she kept walking, shoes echoing against the quiet lobby as Jessica leaned back in her chair once more and started to pay attention to the monitors again.

They walked past a silver set of elevators until they reached the other end of the lobby, two more elevators were carved into stone as she turned and shoved her hands into her pockets. “These are the staff elevators. You can use these, and the stairs, but never that front elevator up there. That is reserved for Gail, and Gail only.”

“Gail?” Jesse pushed the button to the lift, letting a blue light reflecting off the floor.

“Gail Abernathy,” Beca lifted her eyebrows with a slight smirk. “The woman who hired you?”

“Oh, she didn’t hire me,” He said, “I don’t know who did… all I know is that I was asked to show up at Barden. I don’t even live in National City, but I traded it all for an office with a view.”

“Daring,” She said as the elevator dinged, opening up to its silver interior as she let Jesse press his back against the side wall, staring Beca down. She wasn’t dressed like a normal security guard- instead, she dawned dark jeans and a black V-neck. Her own badge was clipped to a belt loop as she stood with slack. “What about your old job?”

“I was freelancing,” he explained carefully “Not a PI or anything like that but being Superman’s right-hand guy is okay when you don’t actually live in Metropolis. He kind of pushed me to take the job.”  

“Right,” Beca deadpanned, still with an amused expression on her face as she stared at the slowly climbing numbers.

“That’s the second time you’ve done that.”

“Done what?”

“Haven’t reacted.”

She stared his way, knitting her eyebrows together as she parted her lips. She didn’t exactly know how to respond to his words, not when he stared at her expectantly. He had a wonderment in golden eyes that could only be described as childish but innocent.

“Do people usually swoon when you talk about the man in red and blue spandex?”

Instead of waiting for an answer Beca exited the elevator, turning around to see if Jesse was following her. He was. She walked past most of the employees sitting at those obnoxious glass desks, not looking up at the sound of the doors opening and closing. This place, the pit, was always fuming with reporters and editors trying to do the best that they could to please Gail. To keep the news flowing.

Chloe glanced up from her own desk, meeting midnight blue eyes with a small smile as Beca returned it- knowing that the girl had memos to send, a lot of work to get through. She bit the edge of her pen between her lips. She was chewing on it, eyebrows creasing.

Beca pulled open a glass door to one of the offices- it was empty but was different from the other ones. There was a large table, and places to hand new prints- and in fact, a very good view from the windows that pressed against the far wall.  

“Holy shit,” Jesse said, leaning his prints up against the wall as he looked around in awe.

Beca stood back, smiling at the aloof expression on Jesse’s face. “An office with a view.”

[fumpkins]

Does coffee really stunt kids' growth?

One reason coffee isn’t usually given to kids may be the widely held belief that the caffeinated beverage can stunt children’s growth. But is there any truth to this idea?

The answer is a resounding “no”: There’s no evidence that coffee or caffeine stunts childhood growth and development. 

Instead, a person’s height is largely governed by other factors. For example, hundreds of genes so far identified are thought to be responsible for approximately 16% of a person’s adult height. 

Related: Can carrots give you night vision?

A child’s general health also plays a role. For example, repeated infection during infancy can slow nutritional uptake and bone growth, as shown by a number of different studies. Moreover, whether a child has access to important dietary needs, such as milk, during their early years also influences height, as does the mother’s diet during pregnancy, according to research in the journal Nutrition Research Reviews. 

So, why do some people still believe that coffee can stunt a child’s growth? 

No one really knows, but there are a couple of theories. In the 1980s, several studies suggested that regular coffee drinkers were at an increased risk of osteoporosis because caffeine can lead to increased calcium excretion (although the effect was small). If caffeine was capable of weakening bones then it was conceivable that higher consumption in childhood would lead to shorter stature. However, it turned out that there was another variable at play: Coffee drinkers also tended to consume less milk, a major source of calcium. In other words, it likely was not the coffee, but rather the insufficient calcium, causing the problem. Moreover, later research has found no link between osteoporosis and coffee consumption, according to Harvard Health Publishing.

Another idea is that many studies have linked caffeine consumption with both positive and negative health effects, only contributing to the confusion.

“There have been so many epidemiological studies of coffee, indicating harm or good, that it is confusing,” said science writer Mark Pendergast, author of “Uncommon Grounds: The History of Coffee and How It Transformed Our World” (Basic Books, 2019). 

Another theory, favored by Duane Mellor a dietitian at Aston University in the United Kingdom, is that the myth stems from the recommendation that pregnant women limit their caffeine consumption because some research has linked a fetus’s exposure to caffeine with a higher risk of spontaneous miscarriage. These studies, however, are limited by small sample sizes. The evidence is inconclusive at the moment, so health groups such as the World Health Organization now advise pregnant women to limit (but not necessarily completely avoid) caffeine consumption to reduce the possible risk of pregnancy loss and low birth weight in infants.

“That’s where we’ve got this idea of growth and caffeine, but the biology of a fetus and how it gets its nutrients pushed through a placenta is so different from a free-living individual,” Mellor said. “The metabolisms are different, too. You can’t draw parallels.” 

Related: Does sugar make kids hyper?

So, the science is clear: Coffee doesn’t stunt kids’ growth. In fact, it’s probably healthier for your child to quaff a weak cup of joe than a sugary, tooth-rotting soda, said Mellor. 

“A weak coffee probably isn’t a big deal,” Mellor told Live Science. “Some of the bitter notes in coffees are shared by vegetables, and you might even see a benefit in getting them [kids] used to those flavors. Obviously, you wouldn’t want to give them a strong coffee, but really I’d be more concerned about sweet drinks.” 

But Mellor doesn’t advise giving your toddler a double espresso every morning, either. And for good reason: Moderation is key. Caffeine can cause increased anxiety, high blood pressure and acid reflux, and it can also interfere with sleep, according to Johns Hopkins Medicine. Caffeine from coffee can also cause these issues in adults, of course. But children have smaller bodies, so the same amounts of caffeine can have more pronounced effects in them, also according to Johns Hopkins Medicine. For that reason, the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends young children abstain and adolescents limit their coffee drinking. 

Despite the evidence, this coffee myth likely isn’t going away anytime soon.

“The widespread myth that it stunts your growth isn’t going to completely die out,” Pendergast told Live Science. “Once a health myth enters our culture, it is very difficult to eradicate it.” 

Originally published on Live Science.

New post published on: https://livescience.tech/2021/03/28/does-coffee-really-stunt-kids-growth/