#I am worn thin and exhausted and I blame you.

[kavehater]

If things keep going wrong like this I’ll soon become like the xiao-less people in 2021 ;-;

[beanghostprincess]

Heeeeeyyyyyyy boooooooooo~

Have you read anything by Stereden? I am OBSESSED and INSPIRED okay it is AMAZING I love

So yeah.

Those works I spired me into making my own lil AU - Haki is a matter of will. It's an innate thing in all living beings, everyone has Haki, but you have to train to be able to control or sharpen it, and some are born with a special ability to IMPOSE IT ON OTHERS. Roger was among those.

Haki could be boiled down to soul energy.

((Shamelessly dropping another special interest with my one piece ideas mwahahah so evil))

Some of the theories regarding ghosts or repetitive cycles of hauntings is due to the amount of emotional energy affixed to a person or place, OR by the will of the person remaining. If one who died had a strong enough Will to Continue Existing, then it's theorized that they could either remain or pass between the veil.

Roger had v strong Conquerors Haki. He had the Voice of All Things, too.

He was sick and dying and so he chose what he thought was best to act as the end of his time. But I do NOT doubt for a single second that when he was up there on that platform that he could tell Shanks and Buggy were exhausted, scared, hurt, grief stricken and alone.

Where was the rest of his crew? Why wasn't Rayleigh with them? Why hadn't Crocus treated those wounds on theirs? Why was Buggy so worn thin, like a live wire, and why did his little Red feel so hollow and empty? What in the seven Seas happened to his kids?!

He's too weak to break out. The best he can do with misdirect attention from them as best he can. The best he can do is send his haki out to wrap around them, a blanket, armor, whatever they needed bc he'd do it, he'd do it all for them, thise are his kids and he loves them and he pours ever single bit of that love into it.

Roger dies on that platform, but he's still there.

He bears witness to the way the crew meets back up not even an hour after his head hit the cobblestone ground, and he is seething as he watches Rayleigh officially disband the crew. He is frothing when Buggy, voice shaking and thin and pale and everything Roger refused to let the child be ever again, asks through tears, "what do we do now?"

And Rayleigh, face blank, just responds with, "go back to what you were doing, kid. You survived this long."

And Roger is furious, is livid, is terrified and angry and hurt and-

One of the nearby lanterns explodes.

The crew shoots looks that direction, and Roger thinks they might just see him, but nobody reacts beyond his kids blinking hard a few times before looking away. And Oh. Oh, That Is Odd.

Roger is a pirate, a Captain, is deadDeadDeadDeadOhFuckHeIsDead- but he's a selfish man at his core. He has made peace with that.

He watches over Shanks and Buggy, sometimes goes to check on Rouge and her growing little bump. He winds up baring witness to the events of Baterilla, and he is furious beyond reason by the Marines. But he is there to see Rouge's last breath and Ace's first, and hebwatches Garp take his child, just as requested, and he holds his wife in his arms as she joins him in this odd limbo.

They both bare witness, hand in hand, as Shanks and Buggy fight tears, panic attacks, and unfiltered rage as they help dig graves and mourn the losses of innocent lives, and Roger aches when they keep a meticulous count. Rouge cries with every friend and family member she sees lowered into the earth, but she is still trying, futile as it is, to wipe away Buggy's and Shanks' tears, hands gently on their backs and heads and cheeks. She has never met them, not personally, but Roger had told her so much, and these boys are hers as well, hers to love and protect and adore.

The pirate king and his wife, his queen, keep watch over their children, trying to give comfort where they could, protection in any way they can manage.

Roger aches with Ace's hatred. He understands, he'd never blame him for it, but it hurts and he may hate Garp's choices a little more with each glimpse into the situation.

For a long while, things are fine, are normal, make a routine. Three years in, there is a change.

A pulse ripples along the world, jarring and sudden, like a cacophonous drum beat. As quickly as it comes, it goes. Roger and Rouge exchange glances. None of the living have reacted.

They meet Luffy not long after.

His tiny body thrums with energy, heart an odd but not harmful pace and Roger Knows.

He never thought he'd get to see this.

Luffy is still so small, so tiny, but he is loved, so much so.

And, the couple learns, he is the epicenter of so much by way of Fate.

He goes on to become so much to so many, a friend/son to Shanks, a person of interest to Buggy, a brother to Ace, and Roger is cackling over having five whole sons as soon as the cups clink together, much to Rouge's amusement.

Just. Roger ((and Rouge)) watching over their children.

Occasionally even being VISIBLE to others in times of high energy.

Alvida seeing Roger sitting on the edge of Buggy's bed when he spikes dangerous fevers.

Benn seeing Rouge brush Shanks' hair back when he gets blackout drunk after a particularly hard time.

Dadan seeing both parents soothe a sobbing little baby when she was still so new to this parenting thing, and never breathing a word of it.

Chopper occassionally getting glimpses of a giant of a man and a powerful looking woman whe Luffy is badly injured, both gently offering him comfort or standing guard.

Koala occasionally sees strangers in the base when Sabo is sick or hurt or has nightmares.

Whitebeard nearly chokes when he sees Roger sitting next to his son on his deck, smiling fondly at the newly snoring young man and patting his head gently.

Nobody breathes a word of any of this, not for a good long while because stranger things have happened. And besides...

It's good to know the kids are being looked out for.

Oh damn. Okay. I've never really been into ghost stuff and things like this, but this is so cool??? Honestly, turning it into soul energy makes it so interesting. They're there to look out for them and keep an eye on them and it's such a beautiful concept!!! <3

[elysianslove]

heaven on your lips; matsukawa smau

synopsis; he finds refuge in that no matter what, you will always come back to him. he finds refuge in that he’s the sole reason for your pleasure and happiness. whether that be from the sidelines, or from within the four walls of your home, in the confines of your bedroom. no matter what, you’re his, and he’s yours, even if neither of you seem to notice it.

pairings; matsukawa issei x fwb!reader

genre; fluff, smut, humor

warnings; cursing and inappropriate language. nsfw and suggestive themes.

note; i am so excited to post this holy crap. if there are grammar or spelling mistakes pls just ignore my brain is fried :( 

masterlist  |  previous , chapter eighteen , next

issei remembers the day the two of you had decided on your arrangement, clearly too. maybe it’s because, looking back now, it’s the first real clue on the consequences.

this had been maybe the third (or had it been fourth) time either of you you had woken up naked in each other’s beds, limbs tangled and muscles sore from their exhaustion. you’d been half asleep in his arms, eyes barely open, cheek pressed to his chest and arm slung across his torso. only minutes ago were you fixated on his phone’s screen, but after the night’s strenuous activities, and the warmth and comfort issei was radiating, so soothing, calming, safe, it was hard not to easily lose focus and fall into a deep slumber.

if he’d noticed, he wouldn’t have nudged you awake. but he hadn’t, so he’d lifted his shoulder, shaking you awake slightly as he locked his phone, tossing it across his bed. 

“why’d you wake me?” you’d sleepily asked, slowly lifting yourself up. a red splotch had appeared on your cheek and jaw, from having pressed against his skin for too long, and, unable to resist, he’d reached out and poked at it cheekily. he remembers you grabbing at his finger, rolling your eyes as you’d threatened to bite him.

as he’d watched you sat up, brushing your hair back and trying to smooth it over, he’d asked you. now, he realizes, it hadn’t been the right question. at the time, of course it was. he liked the way you fit against him so perfectly, the way nobody had ever felt as good as you, how responsive you were to him, the way everything felt so electric. it had been summer, the weather outside obvious on the way your skin glimmers from not just where you’d been beneath him. the summer after graduation, where uncertainty was at its highest. commitment was scary in every way, and so were big decisions. both of you already had the responsibility of your future on your shoulders. his suggestion had been perfect for your situation.

“do you wanna keep doing this?”

if only he’d had the courage to take it further. fate had spelled it out for him, handed it to him on a silver platter. you were his past, his present, and so obviously, his future. and yet, he’d hesitated. he’d faltered, stuttered, wavered, and then he’d had to watch you belong to another man for a night, and for however long it was meant to.

“that’s an— amazing idea,” you’d gasped. “why didn’t we think of that last time?”

he’d laughed lightly, welcoming you easily into his embrace as you’d leaned forward, hovering your lips above his as you had added, “or the time before that?” before kissing him lightly, crawling closer to him. “or the time before that?” you had repeated, kissing him again, sleep having completely worn off. he’d helped you onto his lap, your skin feeling so pretty and perfect against his large hands as he’d kneaded and massaged your waist and hips, pulling you even closer to him.

and now, as he locks his car, walking to your front door, he somehow feels you upon his lips.

the memory is frustrating, and he’s reminded awfully of the things he’d do to kiss you again. even if he hadn’t noticed and recognized it then, it had been nothing short of heaven. 

heels in your hand, a just freshly used lipstick tube in the other, you rush towards the door when the bell rings loud, praying that it’s not an unexpected guest and one of your boys instead

“coming!” you call out loudly, placing the lipstick aside and finally opening the door. at the sight of issei on the other side, you relax, sighing lightly.

“can’t say i haven’t seen you this relieved to see me before,” he teases, smirking familiarly down at you. even after ending it, he still manages to slip in a sex joke or two— you can’t say you blame him.

you roll your eyes, still managing to smile lightly as you step aside, allowing him to enter. his figure now properly illuminating, you’re able to fully take him in. it’s unsurprising that he looks good; issei’s always managed to effortlessly look put together, even in the most casual of clothes. but maybe it’s because he’s not in casual clothes that you feel a yearning for him you haven’t had since he’d been naked in your bed over a month back. he’s dressed in black on black, a button up and slacks. the button up’s sleeves are rolled up to his mid forearms, and on his wrist are two leather bands. but most importantly, on his fingers are a multitude of rings, silver and black, thick and thin, accentuating just how nice his hands really are.

“a blazer would’ve been too much, hm?” he interrupts your staring, cracking his knuckles lightly.

“like you own one,” you joke, smiling tauntingly as you lead the way to your living room.

laughing loudly, he follows you as you make your way to the couch, sitting down and placing your heels by your feet. but just as you’re about to grab at one of the heels, he beats you to it, lifting it up, before tapping at your knee. “let me,” he offers, outstretching a hand expectedly.

raising a brow, you observe him carefully. but because this is issei, it’s issei, you don’t think twice as you lift your leg over his lap, letting his hands brush against your ankle as he fits the heel on. “wow, ‘sei, didn’t think you’re down this bad,” you laugh, lifting your other leg up to let him put your other heel on. he rolls his eyes at your words, smiling softly. as he secures it, you lift a hand to his shoulder, adding, “thank you.”

“no, thank you, for flashing me,” he says, finger reaching out for your dress’s strap, hooking through it and lifting it over your shoulder. you hold back a shiver when his finger brushes against your skin. 

you spare a glance down, scoffing as you reply, “you’ve seen worse.”

“you mean better,” he corrects you, and you stifle a laugh, shaking your head as you fix yourself up, fumbling with your hair and dress and accessories. “what are you stressing so much about? you look gorgeous.”

your hands falter slightly at his words, and you smile softly at him, relaxing. “so you meant what you said?”

“when have i ever not?”

the doorbell rings again.

slowly, but surely, your home starts to fill with people. right after issei had been makki, iwaizumi, and oikawa, but not long after had the karasuno third years — and some past first and second years too, including a certain, lively, ginger boy — arrived. it’s a surprise seeing hinata slightly taller now, and he jokes that it won’t be long before he’s surpassing everyone in the room.

you spend the time between that and when the next people arrive catching up with everyone, learning what they’ve been up to. it’s a lot less awkward than you’d imagined, and you easily fall into comfortable talk, and  soon a lighthearted atmosphere builds.

when semi first sees you, he smiles, softly. he grabs at your hand and twirls you around, telling you that you look so pretty, dove. the nickname as always, makes your heart flutter in your chest, but just like the last time you’d been with him, it also aches. terribly so.

it’s eleven thirty when your home is properly flooded with people, half an hour away from midnight. someone had taken the liberty of dimming the lights slightly, and everyone had long since gotten comfortable. as you glance at the couch occupied by a couple making out — you’re barely able to identify their figures among the other people that crowd around them and the darkness that surrounds the couple — and at the drinks and foods scattered across the room, you realize just how much of a pain this’ll be to clean up.

thankfully, you have four extremely athletic boys as your backbone. it’s the only thing that keeps your mind at ease when you watch someone’s drink spill all over them and on the floor.

you’re pulled out of your thoughts, both literally and figuratively, when a familiar redhead grips at your wrist— a now bald redhead?

“tendō? oh my god, you shaved your hair!” you’re practically yelling over the loud music booming through the house — please, do not let the cops raid this party — eyes wide at the man before you.

he laughs loudly, eyes closing and head thrown back, before he rubs his hand over his hair, or what’s left of it. “ya like it, huh?” he asks loudly, beaming down at you.

you nod excitedly, gripping at his hands tightly. “i actually really do. suits you,” you chuckle.

he laughs again, replying with a heartfelt thank you, holding onto you just as eagerly as he adds, “come on, let’s dance, pretty girl.”

by the time the countdown is nearly about to start, you’d been roped into dancing with tendō and kuroo, whose friend bokuto had jumped in the middle of it all. makki’s easily drawn to vibes like these, so, unexpectedly, you’d found him by your side immediately. bursting with adrenaline and slightly overwhelmed, you’d pulled kiyoko and any other girls you had come across into the small dance circle you and the rest had created. unsurprisingly, kiyoko’s an incredible dancer. it’s freeing and intoxicating, the way you’re able to let loose, to be so carefree, inhibitions mostly lost. 

you’re breathless and sweaty as everyone eventually groups and pairs off aside, hair pulled up and out of your face to air yourself out slightly. the room is buzzing with excitement as the last minutes before midnight pass, drinks in hand and cheers prepared.

issei finds you exactly sixty seconds before midnight.

you’re walking in the opposite direction, but his hand latches onto your wrist, turning you around. when you spot and recognize him before you, you beam, walking closer to him.

“hey,” you greet him, smiling warmly. his expression only slightly mirrors yours, laced more with worry than you, and more than you’d ever seen on him, and when his hand leaves your wrist, it only finds your hand instead. but you don’t pull away at it. you let him test the waters, his hand shakily slipping into yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

near you, someone calls out the thirty second mark.

“i have to tell you something.”

he’s a lot closer now, his grip on your hand tightening, almost as if nervously, your confusion growing.

“right now?” you wonder, watching as he nods.

the twenty second mark is yelled out from someone that sounds an awful lot like oikawa.

“right now,” he replies. “it should have been a long time ago though.”

your brows furrow, and you cock your head slightly, stepping closer to him. “you can tell me anything,” you promise him, reassuring. you squeeze your hand in his, urging another smile on your face as his eyes meet yours. 

“anything?”

you nod encouragingly, almost feeling the time tick by. the room starts to feel smaller. 

“nobody could ever compare,” he starts, just as someone calls out the ten second mark. your eyes search for meaning in his, but you’re clueless. the countdown begins, from ten to nine to eight, and he continues, “nobody.”

“issei—“

“— four, three, two!—“

“i love you.”

“—HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

and then he kisses you.

end note; 🦋🦋🦋 enjoy this while it lasts loves <3 

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[dizzydancingdreamer]

Be Here | The Mikaelson Boys

Hey lovelies! You ever just take a year to write a part two? Well, thanks to @hellotvshowtrash 's writing challenge I have finally written the second part to Come Back. I straight up just sat down and wrote this in less then two hours. The muses have blessed me and said Elijah Mikaelson reunion fic or nothing. I am not stupid-- I will not deny them. Shoutout to Lottie (@imdreamingwiththestars) for making me miss these boys <3

Description: Elijah was dead and now he's not, stand-alone sequel to Come Back

Pairing: The Mikaelson Boys x Fem!Reader, Mainly Elijah

Prompt: "What was it like to die?"

Warnings: rushed writing, mentions of depression

Word count: 2k

Tags: Soft Angst and then Fluff

It’s been two years— well, almost two years. One year, eight months, and seventeen days. But who’s counting, right? Certainly not you. Certainly you wouldn’t be stupid enough to honestly believe that he’s coming back. Even after the promises. His promises and their promises— it doesn’t matter. Both mean nothing. You don’t blame them but you would be naive to believe them.

Still, you keep count— just in case. There’s no harm in that, right? Two years— one year, eight months, and seventeen days— without Elijah Mikaelson. Your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach, your throat closing like it’s been only a few hours. Maybe there’s a little bit of harm.

You press your face harder into the sweater curled under your head. It doesn’t smell like him anymore— there’s no cinnamon left, none of his at least. None of the sugary vanilla that used to encase her like a NOLA bakery. Only traces of Kol’s nutty cinnamon blend— he must’ve snuck in here last night at some point. Both him and Klaus occasionally do. You don’t blame them for that either— you don’t have a monopoly on missing Elijah Mikaelson.

Slipping out of his sheets is harder than you would admit if either of the brothers were to ask you. It’s not like they’re warm or anything— they’re just as ice cold as the rest of the room— but they’re his and the thought of going the rest of the day without them just doesn’t appeal to you the way it should. Voices flit up the stairs but you don’t strain hard enough to make out the words. You could if you wanted to but there’s no point— you don’t care anymore. Not about trivial things— not about talking. You only do it when you have to these days.

The trek across the room to the door takes what feels like an hour. In reality you’re sure it’s only seconds but, well, this time you aren’t counting so who knows— maybe it did take you an hour. Sun is filtering past the curtains now, painting a stripe through the dim room and across the oak floor. An hour. You pause beside his dresser, debating going in to dig out a new hoodie. You haven’t taken a new one in about three months but your stash is running sparse. It’s not a hard decision, pushing past the dresser and leaving it untouched— you’ll need it more later.

In the hallway things feel different. You can’t put your finger on what it is exactly. There’s a slight shift in the atmosphere and a little more of a kick to the energy in the compound. It feels alive— like everything is humming. The hair on the back of your neck raises instinctively, the answer on your tongue but not quite forming. It’s probably nothing— you haven’t slept in two weeks. It’s probably exhaustion. You’re a vampire but you’re not impervious to sleep deprivation. Time marches on whether or not you acknowledge it— whether or not you reject it. You’ve learned that the hard way.

It’s why you keep padding towards your room, feet soft on the hardwood, trying desperately not to draw the attention of whoever’s in the kitchen. The electric charge in the air follows you to your bedroom, increasing ten-fold when you cross the threshold and halting your advance. You haven’t been in here in weeks but for some reason it feels like everything’s been disturbed. Not in a noticeable way— there’s still a thin layer of dust over everything— but something’s off. Your stomach rolls as you glance around at your things, the pressure building as your neck tingles. You could honestly just fucking scream.

Still, you push further, braving the sudden unknown of your room with a burst of stamina you haven’t felt in months. Breaching the doorway feels like being sucked into a new planet, one unrecognizable and dangerous. Thankfully you don’t need oxygen because you’re pretty sure there’s none in your room. Your chest is tight— heavy— and you make quick work of changing into a new pair of shorts and a Rolling Stones t-shirt that’s been hanging untouched in your closet for at least a year. You haven’t been afraid of it, per say, but you certainly weren’t ready to wear it. Today feels like the day though.

It isn’t until you go to sit on the bed, not bothering to even try to balance as you put your socks on, that you’re finally rewarded with a clue that you may not be as crazy as you feel. It’s warm— the bed is warm. Not the whole bed— because yes, you do reach out to check— only the part you happen to sit on. It’s warm like someone was just sitting here minutes ago and you spring up as quickly as you went down, closing your eyes and pulling in as much air from the room as possible. You’re getting to the bottom of this now. When the air reaches your nose some of the pieces begin to click together—

Cinnamon.

Only a faint trace of it but still your chest jumps— is it— no don’t be stupid it couldn’t be. You thump a hand against your chest to clear the feeling as you force your legs to carry you out the door. You realize too late that you only have one sock, your bare foot pressing against the cold wood of the staircase, but you’re too far and too determined to go back now. You’ve got to find Kol and you have a pretty good idea you know where he is.

Sugar wafts to your nose as you press towards the kitchen, mixed with a touch of citrus— Klaus must’ve picked up your favourite pastries. As you reach the door voices flit stronger to your ears. You can make out Klaus’ hushed tone but not his words, followed by a comment from Kol that you can’t decipher. Good, they’re both here.

The kitchen is by far the brightest room you’ve ventured into in months, the countertops gleaming so bright you have to squint, throwing a hand over your brows. When you blink, clearing the glare however, you notice something peculiar— no pastries. You could have sworn you just smelled them—

“Love, you’re awake.” There’s a whoosh of air followed by two hands on your face and the lingering scent of honey shampoo.

You smile weakly up at Klaus, shrugging. “Was never really asleep.”

Another pair of hands wrap around your stomach, pulling you into a nutmeg chest, lips finding your head. “That’s not healthy, darling. How long’s it been now?”

Shrugging again— this time at Kol— you let your eyes wander the kitchen, nose wrinkling at the heady sugar scent. “Two weeks, give or take.”

You can’t locate the source— but, then again, you can’t see past Klaus’s worried eyes. You watch as he tosses a look behind your head, presumably at Kol. When you roll your head back though you find that his brother’s brown eyes aren’t meeting his stare but are also tilted behind him. You chest jumps again, the air thickening, energy coursing through you— what the hell is going on?

You push away from the boys, arms crossing over your chest as you turn to the source of whatever’s got the compound disrupted this morning. Opening your mouth, you go to make a snarky remark— or to scream, you aren’t sure— but when you finally see it all that comes out is a soundless gush of air. All words are lost as your eyes drag over the back of a familiar brunette head, passing down a muscled back and over sweatpants you haven’t seen worn in years. One year, eight months, and seventeen days. It’s all you can do to poke your tongue out of your mouth, sweeping it over your dry mouth and tasting sugar.

There’s just no way.

You take a step backwards, back slamming into one of the brothers but unable to tear your eyes away from the figure long enough to see who. “What— what’s happening?”

Always the noble one, Elijah Mikaelson doesn’t keep you waiting, whirling on his feet, a box of pancake mix in his hands. “Couldn’t have waited ten more minutes, baby?”

You’re not alive but for a moment it feels like your heart stops as you drink in the man in front of you. Brown hair, brown eyes, stubble on his jaw the same as the day he died. Your vision clouds over, tears tugging at the corners of your eyes but you refuse to blink them away. You’re not risking clearing a vision this clear.

You take a tentative step forward, afraid that if you move too quickly the mirage might evaporate. “Elijah?”

“Hey baby.”

If your dead heart stopped upon seeing his silhouette then it restarts when he passes you the familiar, crooked smile that you fell in love with all those decades ago— the same one you’ve been longing for since the day he left you.

Fuck tiptoeing.

You’re across the room in record time, your hair flying behind you as you launch yourself into his arms, praying to whoever will listen that your body hits something solid. There’s a muted thud followed by his arms wrapping around you— his physical, cinnamon sugar scented arms. At his reciprocated touch you finally let yourself sob. You can’t remember the last time you actually let yourself cry but you are now and it’s finally out of relief.

Your hands attack his face, palms deranged and fingers haphazardly dragging across his neck and jaw and scalp. Your shoulders are shaking, tears hot against your face and pooling over your lips but you refuse to look away from his gaze. He looks just as wild as you feel, brown eyes ticking rapidly over your features. It’s all you can do to smash your mouth against his, crying through the kiss before laughing because he still tastes like your Elijah. Like cinnamon buns and sweetness.

“This can’t be real— you’re dead. I saw you die!” You sob against his lips.

He presses his mouth back just as hard, hands digging against your skin and clawing at his band t-shirt. You reciprocate by squeezing your thighs harder around his hips, pressing your body as close to his as you can get. It’s not enough but you feel like you can finally breathe again when you crush your arms around his shoulders.

“I know—” he finally murmurs into your mouth— “but I’m here. Right here.”

You pull away, hands still carding through his soft hair, pulling at the damp strands. “‘Lijah you were dead— I— I thought you weren’t coming—”

Your chest feels heavy again but he’s quick to move, cutting your destructive train of thought with his cinnamon and honey lips. You don’t mind— he could do anything right now and you would still cling to him like your life depends on it. Kissing him has been at the top of your list for two years now— you’re not going to refuse. One of his hands lowers, hooking around your thigh and tugging you higher up his body. You’re not the only one whose life depends on staying as connected as possible.

“It’s real— I’m real. I promised you, baby. I’m back— I promise I’m back.”

Just like that you’re back to giggling against his mouth, arms anchored behind his neck. Soon your head is falling back, the euphoria rolling through your body like nothing you’ve ever felt before. You would never wish for him— for any of them— to leave you again but this feeling makes every gruelling day worth it. He’s back. As if to prove it his lips find your neck, kissing over your skin feverishly.

After a few moments of soaking in the attention of the resurrected man you finally pull yourself together enough to attempt a true conversation like a respectable woman.

“What was it like to die?”

He chuckles against your skin, shaking his head, his lips never leaving you. “I’ll tell you later— there are a few matters we need to sort out first baby, starting with getting you out of that fucking t-shirt. It’s been too long.”

Who are you kidding— he’s right and you hum your agreement, lips searching for his, desperate once more—

“One year, eight months, and seventeen days too long.”

[deja-you]

domestic tranquility

m. de lafayette x reader

summary: a collection of intimate scenes from the L/n Administration, or the ‘what if’ ending to foreign affairs.

word count: 4.3k

author’s note: i hope this makes up for the ending of foreign affairs :) also a special thank you to @astralaffairs​ because she is my inspiration and she took the time to help edit this and i just love her in general

masterlist | foreign affairs

“Lafayette, will you marry me?”

The other line was silent, and you almost thought he had hung up on you.

“Hello?”

“I’m sorry, I must’ve heard you wrong. I could have sworn you just asked me to marry you.”

“I did.”

You could hear him suck in a deep breath. “Chèrie, I don’t understand.”

“Lafayette, I know this is a lot to ask. I’m going to run for president. I’m the perfect candidate, I really am. I’m what America needs right now.”

“Of course you are. Where do I come into this?”

“My staff has run some numbers. I do a lot better in the polls if I’m in a committed relationship. But the problem is, I’m not in a committed relationship.”

“You want to lie to the press and tell them we’re married?”

“I don’t want to lie to them. I’m asking you to marry me. It wouldn’t be a lie.”

“Huh.”

“You can say no. I know this is a lot to ask. It’s crazy, reall—”

“Okay.”

“What?”

“Let’s get married.”

Your jaw hung open. “Just like that, you’re on board?”

“You should be president, chèrie. I want to help you any way I can.”

“Are you sure about this? This isn’t something to be taken lightly.”

“Believe me, I’m taking this very seriously. I’m going to get on the next plane to New York. We’ll talk about this in person.”

You opened your mouth to say something else, but you found yourself at a loss for words. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon,” he repeated. “Let’s get married.”

You were in Iowa.

For some reason you had to come to godforsaken Iowa to become president. You didn’t think about how stupid corn was. You couldn’t think about it, just in case it somehow slipped out and you then alienated all the voters in Iowa. But you really didn’t care.

What you did care about was the sight of your French husband (it still felt strange to call him that) contentedly eating away at a cob of corn. A strange contrast to the sight of him smoking cigarettes and drinking a diabolo menthe at a Parisian café, but he looked just at home at the Iowa State Fair as he did in France.

His eyes lit up when he saw you, and he gestured for you to join him. Pasting on a smile, you made your way over to him and a series of photographers followed after you.

“Chèrie, have you tried this? It is amazing. This is the best corn I have ever had,” he said, waving around the corn on the cob animatedly while he spoke. The photographers were eating it up, and the corn on the cob vendor was smiling proudly.

You were absolutely bewildered by just how magnetizing he was. People loved him just for eating corn. You couldn’t even blame them, because you knew just how infectious his smile was when he was genuinely happy.

This marked your first official outing as a couple on the campaign trail since you had married Lafayette. If you were honest, you had been nervous about the whole ordeal, but the second Lafayette sent you that easygoing look, you relaxed.

When you were close enough, his hand found yours and he was quick to intertwine your fingers together. This was where the real and unreal collided. His genuine smile and unharnessed affection met your faltering remembrance that this wasn’t the loving marriage it looked like. It was serving its purpose at this exact moment.

You counted each time the camera flashed to take a picture of you and Lafayette walking hand in hand. You could see the headlines on tomorrow’s papers, and you could see Lafayette’s grinning face. A political marriage certainly wasn’t traditional or morally acceptable, but there were real issues that needed to be tackled. You had plans to reform the health care system and the economy. If Lafayette helped you achieve a platform where you could really make a difference, who cared if you bent a few social constructs?

Besides, it gave you the opportunity to reconnect with an old… friend.

“You really like corn?” You asked him quietly.

Lafayette sent a disarming smile to the photographers, and leaned in very closer to whisper in your ear, “I can’t stand corn. Get me out of Iowa.”

You didn’t hide your laugh, and the photographers quickly shot a few more photos of the two of you being a cute couple. Lafayette really didn’t like the corn? You had been so convinced his smile was real. You were beginning to think you couldn’t tell the difference between what was fake and what was real.

There was some kind of external force that wanted you and Lafayette to end up together.

You were sure of this, because you had expelled him from your life multiple times by now. The memory of him leaving you on the sidewalk in D.C. felt like it was just yesterday, but now you were back in his arms. And it felt so natural.

So yes, there was something pulling the two of you together. You didn’t want to call it fate. You didn’t really believe in that. It had to be something stronger. There was something tugging at your heart telling you it was choice, but you didn’t want to believe that, either. Your fingers gripped his suit a little tighter in an attempt to ground yourself.

This was good. This was nice, you thought as you swayed back and forth. There were thousands of eyes trained on you, and millions watching you from home on their TVs. The thought that so many people were watching you right now was daunting, but it was nothing that you weren’t used to at this point. You were the Leader of the Free World. The President of the United States.

You could hear a few cameras click, and you flashed a disarming smile in their direction. A well-known singer was crooning out the words to a slow, melodic version of Stand by Me. Your husband squeezed your hip lightly, causing you to look up at him while he absently swayed with you.

He grinned when you met his gaze and softly whispered, “relax a little. This is your moment. Enjoy it. You’ve earned it.”

Your stiff smile melted into a genuine one and you gave him a small nod. He was right, you did deserve this. The road to the White House had been one paved with blood, sweat, and tears, and you still hadn’t stepped foot in the building yet. A few more balls, and then you could finally move into your new home for the next four to eight years. But you had earned it.

The last year and a half had been the craziest 18 months of your life, and you knew it wasn’t about to get easier anytime soon. But this was good. This was nice. You didn’t have to worry about any political opponents or Supreme Court appointments right now. All you had to do was dance leisurely with your attractive husband.

“What are your thoughts on my seeking out a second term?” you asked quietly on the ride back to the White House.

There were a few more balls that you and Lafayette had attended, staying only long enough to share a dance or two with the press before heading to the next event. It had been a non-stop day; the inaugural address in the morning and the inaugural balls in the evening, and everything in between had successfully worn you thin. Lafayette had been at your side all day, and you could tell that he was exhausted as well.

“Ma chèrie, you were just sworn in. How can you already be thinking about re-election?” Lafayette yawned, slumping back against the seat with his bowtie undone and hanging lazily around his neck.

You laughed softly and shook your head from side to side. “It’s you I’m concerned about.”

“Hm?”

You shifted in your seat to look him in the eye. “You agreed to marry me so I could win the Presidency. I told you that we would only have to stay married while I was in the White House. So what are your thoughts on eight years instead of four?”

“Are you kidding me, Y/n?” Lafayette asked incredulously.

You pursed your lips and raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“You’re running for a second term. And I’m going to be by your side through it all. That is, if you still want to be President after dealing with Congress for four years.”

This solicited a laugh from you. He paused before he continued. The pause was the space between you and him, between the Earth and the Sun and everything in between. A hesitancy for the desperation of being wanted and the interval for not knowing if that was what he wanted.

“And of course, if you still want me by your side in four years.”

You tilted your head to the side and smiled at him. “Of course I’ll still want you by my side. We made a promise. For better or for worse.”

Lafayette took your hand in his and raised it to his lips. “For better or for worse.”

Somehow you found the time to sit down and watch a movie in the White House movie theater. 

Lafayette chooses some sort of action movie, you can’t even remember the title of the film and you decide that it’s not important.

You’ve invited some close friends to join you for the night. The Hamiltons (of course), your chief of staff, Nathan Hale, and his partner, and a few other White House senior staffers. All people you would trust with your life and your secrets.

You know Alex’s suspected for a while that you and Lafayette got married for political reasons. He’s a real politician, so he’s one of the few who have actually considered that marriage could be an ambitious political move. A heartless speculation, yes, but he isn’t exactly wrong. You consider that he’s mentioned the idea to Eliza, but you’ve given them no confirmation on the subject.

Nathan knows you better than you know yourself after working for you for all these years. And he knows about your history with Lafayette. He may have been the one to plant the idea in your head of calling Lafayette up before you ran for office, but you’ve never officially explained to him the truth about your relationship. You don’t need to.

The point is, most people in this room know both you and Lafayette completely. And you trust everyone in this room completely. Even if they did find out the truth, it wouldn’t matter. You know your secret would be safe. Knowing all this, you begin to wonder who you’re trying to convince that your marriage is real.

It has to be someone. You’re not throwing your arms around his shoulders and pulling him close for your own benefit. Lafayette isn’t getting you a bag of popcorn and placing a kiss to your cheek for any other reason than because he really wants to sell this marriage. 

You have to be putting on this performance for someone, because if not, that would mean you’re shooting Lafayette loving looks for no other reason except for the fact that you want to. And that can’t be right. Quid est veritas?

You’re given relief from the thoughts turning around and around and around in your head when the lights turn down low. You take your seat beside Lafayette (something in you tells you that your place has always been beside him). The movie starts playing and you relax for the first time since before you were sworn in as president (was that nearly a year ago?). 

You don’t know if it’s because there’s something therapeutic about watching a fictional President having to deal with fictional problems, or if it’s relaxing because Lafayette has pulled you to his side and his hand absently runs through your hair. You decide it’s both.

“Are you tired?” Lafayette whispers in your ear quietly about halfway through the movie.

You are tired, but you insist on whispering back a no. He doesn’t believe you. Lafayette turns his head and presses his forehead against yours. The movie is forgotten in the background, you have his complete attention.

“Close your eyes,” he says softly. “Get some rest. I’ve got you.”

You want to kiss him. You’re so close to him now, all you would have to do is tilt your head just slightly to the right. If you kiss him now, you can say you were just trying to sell the relationship. To the maybe five people in the (dark) room who weren’t even paying attention to you, and even if they were none of them were about to report to the press that they thought your marriage was a sham. It’s not a good excuse, but you’re still considering it.

You don’t consider it any further; you don’t get to. A bit of light comes flooding into the movie theater, and you hear some hushed voices at the entrance.

“Madam President?”

Regretfully, you untangle your limbs from Lafayette’s and sit up. A White House staffer gives you an apologetic look and explains that there’s been a situation. You don’t look back at Lafayette because you know you’d be met with a look of disappointment. Instead, you make a light joke to the audience about never getting a break and they all laugh politely and urge you to go take care of the matter at hand.

You recall the 25th amendment while you’re leaving the theater, and you try to recall what the succession of the presidency really means. What is the Vice President doing tonight? You’re too busy thinking about what it would feel like to have your husband’s arms wrapped around you once more to think about whatever situation had arisen, did that make you unfit for office? Could someone else just take over for one night so you could spend the evening with Lafayette?

“You stayed up?”

You didn’t know what time it was – didn’t need to – but it was late. You had spent the entire day flying back from meetings in Germany, and then more meetings on the plane. You were exhausted, your staff was exhausted, so by the time you got back to the residency you were certain that you were the only one on the planet who was still awake.

“Didn’t want you to be alone.” Lafayette is still awake.

He looks tired, and you know he’s beyond tired. No doubt his schedule has been filled all day, and the both of you have to be up – four hours? That’s hardly enough sleep to function properly. And yet Lafayette has sacrificed his sleep because he didn’t want you to be alone.

Not that you would have been alone. You had planned on entering the residency quietly and sliding into bed beside him after you changed into sweats. You would let his rhythmic breathing lull you to sleep, and you’d hardly feel alone. But you’d be lying if you said his consciousness wasn’t a comforting presence to you.

“How was Germany?” He yawns.

You’re in a hurry to change out of your suit because the soft comforter of the bed is calling your name. You hardly process his words, murmuring some practiced, diplomatic response. He says he wishes he could’ve come with you, and you tell him you understand why he couldn’t this time. Next time, you say.

“You shouldn’t have stayed up for me,” you tell him once you’re comfortably situated in your favorite pair of sweats.

“For you? I was waiting up for the Vice President. Jay and I had a little rendez-vous planned for tonight, you just got back early.” His grin is tired, but there’s still a playful twinkle in his eye.

You sit beside him on the bed, giving him a little shove and rolling your eyes. “If you had said Secretary Hamilton, I might’ve believed you.”

He leans on you slightly, his head resting on top of yours. “Secretary Hamilton?”

“Mmhmm,” you say quietly. “The two of you have far too much chemistry.”

“Ma chèrie.” He lifts his head off yours just enough to turn to face you, and two of his fingers move your head so you’re facing each other. There’s only one bedside lamp turned on right now, and he’s taking this moment to memorize the lines of your face and the exact shade of your eyes. “You know you’re the only one for me.”

You realize you don’t love him in the way you used to. Not in a bad way, you haven’t stopped loving him. It’s just different this time. It’s honest and real, which is a bit ironic, because the foundations of your marriage were anything but truthful.

You’re polite, so your smile often is fake. He’s real. Right in front of you, right beside you. Every night. There’s something about his mercy and selflessness that you are in love with. He’s teaching you what it really means to be human. Even if you didn’t love him for that, you are so covered in him you wouldn’t know what else to be.

Whatever bravery you had stored up for debating political adversaries or promoting your most radical ideas suddenly possessed you, and you felt yourself leaning forward and pressing your lips against his. In the privacy of your shared residency. With no one around to see.

It’s almost like something breaks in him, if just for a moment. Maybe it’s the sleeplessness that’s slowing eroding away at his brain. Maybe he’s like you, and he’s also been wanting this for longer than he’s willing to admit, but he doesn’t hesitate, he just melts into you.

Your head feels foggy, you can’t really think, all you know is that this feels good. It’s the kind of intoxicating feeling that reminds you of the first time you kissed him, but you remind yourself that nothing is like the first time. You don’t love him in the way you used to. It’s different. Better.

“Don’t run for re-election.”

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. Well, usually he would, but right now he isn’t looking at you. His eyes are memorizing the stitches on your coat, refusing to look at your eyes or your lips or your hands. You recognized the emotions swirling from his heart up to his lips. Shame.

Lafayette had never been anything but supportive when it came to your political career, so hearing him ask you not to run for re-election was a shocker. He loves supporting you. You know it’s out of a place of deep regret and desperation that Lafayette would ever even broach the subject. But he’s desperate now. You can tell.

You take his face in your hands – reaching out for anything good. You’d like to take the moment to just be here with him, but you’ve never been given enough time for that. It hurts him to look at you, but eventually he does.

“What?” You ask him softly. You know you heard him correctly, but you feel the need to prompt him into an explanation.

“I know it’s not my decision. And if you decide that you are going to run for re-election, we’ll put the matter to rest. We can pretend this conversation never happened,” he says sincerely. Lafayette takes a deep breath as if the next part will be difficult for him to articulate. You know that is. “Don’t run for re-election.”

He’s firmer in his request this time. Yes, the shame is still there, but it’s an underlying tone beneath his pure tenderness.

Lafayette’s never asked much from you. When you asked him to marry you, he hardly asked any questions. You know he would do whatever it is you asked of him at any time, so when he asks you not to run for re-election, you already know your answer without him having to explain himself. If this is what he wants, you’ll do it for him.

But you are still the president of the United States. You have a responsibility to your party, the government, and Americans as a whole. After accomplishing all you have in the last four years, it won’t be easy to walk away from the presidency without a reason. No, you don’t deserve a reason from Lafayette – you don’t even need one, if you are being honest – but you can at least pretend to be hesitant when it comes to leaving the Nation’s highest office.

“Why don’t you want me running for re-election?” you ask.

“Because I love you.” He says it like it’s the most simple and straightforward answer he can think of.

You can’t help but smile. “And I love you. But what does that have to do with me not running for re-election?”

“I know you love me. But there’s some part of me that will always think – as long as we’re in the public eye – that you only love me for appearances. That this is only love for the cameras—”

“Laf, it’s not. I promise I love you.”

“I know you do. But I’m always going to wonder. If it’s fake. If it just feels like love because of the atmosphere. For the past four years I’ve had to live with the gnawing fear that you wouldn’t love me outside of the White House. It would kill me if I had to live like this for another four years.”

Your voice is softer when you speak again. “You once told me you’d stay with me if I wanted to run for re-election. You said for better or for worse.”

“I know. That was years ago. That was when I thought you would only stay married to me while we were in the White House. That was when I thought a fake marriage would be enough for me.”

“Laf—”

“Ma chèrie, I want a life with you. One that isn’t just for show. I want to love you because I love you, not because it will help with your polling numbers.” There’s a deliberate determination between his words. He’s nervous. “I love you so much, and I can’t stand the idea of anyone having reason to think it’s anything less than love.”

The Oval Office is golden.

Well, technically, it’s more of a beige with a vibrant blue carpet in the middle of the room displaying the presidential seal. But in the low light of the December afternoon, the room is filled with a golden glow.

You’ve always known you were going to make history, but to actually be history is something altogether new for you. In another month, the drapes in the Oval Office and the furniture would all be replaced with whatever furniture the next president saw fit. It would be too easy for the white house staff to clean out the White House of any trace of you, but maybe if you were lucky you’d be mentioned in a footnote in a textbook somewhere.

It’s not like you are one to make rash choices. The decision of stepping down from office came after long and meticulous thought on the subject. You are more certain that you made the right decision more and more each day, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have your doubts every now and then.

“Am I interrupting anything?” Lafayette knows you better than you know yourself. He can tell by the blank look on your face while you read through a thick file that no, he’s not interrupting anything.

“It’s strange that I can say no,” you sigh softly. “I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t busy. But apparently people don’t care about a lame duck when there’s a shiny new President-Elect.”

He crosses the room and leans against the desk. Lafayette gently tugs your hand up to his lips and presses a delicate kiss against your knuckles. It’s gentle and timid, as if everything about this relationship depends on this small act of affection. You’ve noticed that Lafayette has been more reserved lately, almost like he feels guilty for asking such a heavy favor of you.

“Have I ever told you that you’re my favorite president?” It’s hardly a question and mostly an answer.

You smile, and he can’t help but think about how beautiful you are. He thinks you get more beautiful every day, although he can’t figure out how that’s possible.

“Your favorite? You like me better than President Washington?”

Lafayette hums softly and pulls you out of your seat, lifting you up onto the desk. He stands between your legs, hands resting gently on your hips. His gaze falls from your eyes to your lips, then back up to your eyes, and finally says, “you’re easier on the eyes.”

You laugh – Lafayette swears it’s lyrical – and press a kiss to his cheek. “That’s good to hear. How has the house hunting been going?”

His eyes visibly brighten. “I think I’ve found the place.”

“Is that right?”

“Mmhmm. It’s this piece of property in upstate New York. The drive to the city isn’t so far, and the estate. I just know you’re going to love it.”

You could sense the excitement emanating off of him. “Am I?”

Lafayette nods. “Chèrie, you have to see this place. It has a beautiful kitchen for me to cook in. A balcony – I know you love balconies. A few acres so one day our kids—”

“Our kids?”

His eyes widen as he quickly realizes his mistake. “I—well… yeah? I know we haven’t talked about this. I always pictured us with kids, but if that’s not what you want, I can respect that. We don’t need to have kids, I promise that you are already more than enough for me.”

You bring a hand to cup his face, your thumb softly moving across his cheek as you just hold him. “Lafayette, I want a family with you. I want a future with you. I want forever with you. I love you.”

He brings your lips to his, and for the first time, you’re not worried about it being the last time.

I’m just going to add foreign affairs taglist here :)

@fanfic-addict-98 @wordvomit-foryourmind @farihafangirls @actuallyanita @cubedtriangle @katierpblogg @ballerinafairyprincess @dannighost @ateliefloresdaprimavera @lexylovesfandoms @dovesgrangers @a-hopeless-fan @biafbunny @hermionie-is-my-queen @zeelmol @oi-itsemily @itsjube @someinsanefangirl @awkward-walking-potato @lu123sworld @exorcisms-with-elmo @ohsoverykeri-blog @lizzzaaaaaaaaaaa @poetnstuff @nyxie75 @roxanne2020 @luckyfriesss

[mythicamagic]

As usual... I can never just choose one... soo here are my top choices you choose one. Lol

1. Are you flirting with me?” “You finally noticed?

2. The worst thing is, that even after all of that, I’m still in love with you.

3.that ship has sailed. i’ve had my one great love already

4. we’re just…friends.” “friends don’t do this type of shit!

5. Did you just slap my ass?” / “Actually, I firmly grasped it.” 

Why did I decide 2 of the hurt/sad/angst.. idk.. i suppose im glutton for punishment. Dont hurt me too bad if you choose to do one of them myth.

Decided to do a part two for - this ask. 

I chose;  The worst thing is, that even after all of that, I’m still in love with you.

---

The air felt crisp and clean, biting at Kagome's cheeks as she wound her scarf tighter around her neck. Winter markets were so much fun. The vast array of cute little items on display made warmth light up her chest, even as the candy and children's toys reminded her of a certain fox she'd left behind in the past.

Kagome smiled at Ayumi as she prattled on about something or other.

She shouldn't feel guilty. Shippo had barely visited the village in the last year she'd been there. Everyone had moved on. Including herself, somewhat. She'd been so wrapped up in her whirlwind romance with a certain Daiyoukai- the feudal era had been irreparably damaged as a home for her the second they'd broken up.

But she missed her friends. Dearly.

She shook herself. It was too late to go back on her choice now. The well had sealed shut for good.

Ayumi stopped to grab some hot chocolate from a street vendor, allowing Kagome a moment to warm her hands, rubbing them together.

Snowflakes gently danced about like powdered sugar, kissing Kagome's face as she turned- almost bumping face-first into a muscular chest. Fresh scents of wild forests and thunderstorms filled her nose, and she stiffened.

He smells the same.

Kagome bit the inside of her cheek, blue eyes narrowing. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

"Haven't the faintest idea of what you mean," he arranged his features into mild innocence, which was near impossible due to his smiling eyes.

"Riiight," she muttered, wishing Ayumi would hurry up.

Sesshoumaru gazed down at her, a pink gift bag in hand. Kagome grit her teeth, hating that she wondered who it was meant for.

"I did not intend to run into you here, before you accuse me of anything," his silky voice caressed her hearing once more. It sounded so lulling, designed to draw her back in. "Did you take my gift home with you or did you throw it away?" he asked, deceptively casually.

"Home. But don't think that means anything- it's not the plant's fault you're trying to worm your way back into my life."

The Daiyouki smiled to himself, obviously absurdly pleased. He began pursuing the street vendor's items right beside her, gazing at children's toys with a touch of gentleness in his steady gaze. Kagome was prepared to ignore him- until he leaned down, breath fanning 'accidentally' over her cheek as he picked up a doll and straightened.

"Do you remember Rin? And the other children-"

"Don't," Kagome said, unable to move away. She hated the thrumming of her skin so much. The way it cried out. Hated him.

Her skin flared alive, body humming with hunger. Like a shot of adrenalin to the heart, Kagome dipped her chin into her scarf to try and mask her escalating breathing due to his proximity. When they'd had sex- so many years ago- it hadn't been like human lovemaking.

He'd wired new pathways within her system via his youki. Sometimes she felt like it still lived inside her, having made a home for itself. They hadn't mated, but she felt irreversibly changed by it.

Kagome made a faint noise, squeezing her eyes shut.

Resist him-

"Kagome?"

Oh thank God.

"Ayumi, let's go," she said abruptly, facing her friend with an urgent look in her eyes.

Ayumi tilted her head slightly, eyeing Sesshoumaru curiously. "A-alright?"

"You do not need to leave," he turned, exuding a magnanimous air. "I am the one who intruded on your time, please continue," he gestured to the market, ensnaring Kagome's gaze with his own. Unblinking, unable to hide his more animalistic habits even after so many years.

"I hope to see you some other time when my presence does not disturb you," he said softly, walking away.

---

When entering work that Saturday, Kagome could already sense the buzz in the air. Someone had generously donated some priceless artefacts to their museum. The previously undiscovered finds that shaken everyone due to their rarity and mint condition. No one could stop talking about it.

Kagome's blood ran cold the second the items in question were described to her. Pushing through the crowd that had gathered, she stared in horror at the display case.

Itching for a fight, she immediately stormed to his office downtown, opening the door to reception and letting herself in. "Is Sesshoumaru here?" she burst, stopping in front of the secretary's desk.

"Mr Taisho?" the woman blinked, obviously thrown by the petite, angry miko currently glaring at her and using his name so informally. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No. Just tell him Kagome is here."

She was let into his office soon enough, trying to keep a lid on her crackling reiki. Sesshoumaru glanced up from his computer. "Miko? What a pleasant surprise."

Kagome slammed an article atop his desk. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped.

He raised a brow, briefly flicking his attention to the contents. A photo of red and white silks, coupled with polished spiked armour sat in a display unit. "Something wrong? It was just a donation, given in good faith."

"Donated to my workplace!" Kagome seethed, groaning and burying her face in her hands. "Don't you realise I'm going to have to see your things now every day? I've worn those clothes! I've slept in them as pyjamas! Are you trying to mess with me because you want me back?"

"That's a little dramatic, dear one, I'm not trying to 'mess with you.' It was just a donation," he rose from his seat, face inches from hers. "And if I wanted to romance you, I'd go about it much differently."

"Don't 'dear one' me," she snapped. "You could've donated that stuff years ago- or to a different museum. But no, you had to give it to mine."

"My gift was not meant to distress you, but," he rounded the table slowly, fingers dragging over the wood. "It does make me worry, seeing you so worn thin. Is something else going on? Separate from...us?"

Kagome stiffened, avoiding eye contact. Things with her boyfriend had been strained as of late, and the Daiyoukai's sudden appearance back into her life wasn't helping matters.

"There is no 'us.' I'm frustrated and exhausted, that's all. Don't make things even more complicated by asking about that stuff."

Sesshoumaru lingered close, and Kagome didn't shy away. The one person she couldn't bear to be near was also the only being who could offer some semblance of comfort to her due to his familiarity.

"This one meant to give you something," reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a business card, handing it over. Kagome immediately froze, staring at the name. "You miss him," Sesshoumaru murmured. "The kit lives in Kyoto now with his wife and children. Call him."

Tears pricked her eyes, and Kagome bowed her head. Full lips crumpled into a wobbly line.

"If there is something I regret more than our parting, it is that you felt compelled to leave. The fault lies with me."

Shaking her head, a saddened laugh bubbled up her throat. "It was my decision to break up, and it was my decision to leave the Feudal Era. Don't...blame yourself for that part."

"You did not do anything wrong," a long-fingered hand reached out, blunt nails losing their glamour. Sharp claws stroked dark curling hair back from her neck. Kagome's breathing hitched. "When we were together- you did not do anything wrong. We were both so young. It was foolish of me to act as I did, but I think it is now... that we are in the right place for something more."

Kagome shivered, body warming to him. Intuitively, the brush of fingers on her neck made her foolishly anticipate a kiss- sorely disappointed when it didn't come. "I'm not," she forced herself to say. Seeing the disappointment darken his brown eyes, she sighed. "I miss you," Kagome admitted quietly, turning away to escape from his touch. "I miss how... we were. I'm terrified of that, though. I was...under the impression we'd be together. Permanently. Then you had to go and tell me you needed 'pure' heirs to continue the family bloodline."

She laughed bitterly, loosely holding her arms. "The worst thing is, that even after all of that, I'm still in love with you."

"You are frightened that I will hurt you again."

Kagome nodded mutely. She then forced a giggle, giving a weak smile. "Besides, you may not like me as I am now. I'm more jaded than before."

"I like what I see very much," moving closer once more as though experiencing a gravitational pull, he stopped inches away. "I have missed you too," he muttered quietly, genuinely. She could feel him inhale her scent through her hair. "Very much."

Her mouth suddenly became dry. "I'm with Natsuki-"

"Leave him," a rush of passion entered his voice as Sesshoumaru swept closer, backing her into the desk. The wood dug into her thighs, their hips meeting. "This one is not interested in being 'the other man' in an affair. Nor am I interested in watching you remain with someone less than ideal," he snorted, resting his hand over her wrist and grazing his thumb over it.

"Y-you don't know anything about it!"

"I could smell your scent. It was not bright and cheerful even before I re-entered your life the other day. His feels...murky on you. Unhappy."

Kagome swallowed thickly, glancing away. "Observant as ever," she admitted softly.

"Or perhaps you did a poor job of hiding it," backing off a little- he rested his hip next to hers beside the desk, remaining near but barely touching. And yet everything felt so close. "You've changed. But you're still the same at your core, miko," hot breath fanned over her neck, teeth ghosting over the shell of her ear. "If you permitted me, I would not be reckless with your heart again, as I was in my youth."

Her palms traitorously slid up, sliding over firm muscles- running across his chest. He felt warm. His heart was beating fast. Was he nervous? Such a thing sounded impossible.

She bit her lip, secretly longing for the sensation of silks under her hands again instead of the modern cotton of his shirt.

"I don't know that I believe you," Kagome met his gaze, rewarded with the golden glow of his eyes instead of human brown.

"I've gotta go," she said reluctantly, forcing herself to pull away. "I need to be at work."

"Very well," he hummed, unmoving. "But if you...need something. You know where to find me."

He sounded almost desperate for an excuse to talk with her. Giving a curt nod, she let herself out of his office with a long breath, shaking her head. Sesshoumaru's static youki haunted her steps for the remainder of the day.

[janekfan]

OH another prompt... saw this one post about jon probably not doing well with waking up in unfamiliar places what with having been kidnapped so many times and having so much trauma with that and like what if he forgets where he is when he wakes up in the safe house and/or at upton house? bc that would be. disorienting and upsetting and scary huh!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27517015

Staring wide-eyed up at an unfamiliar ceiling, Jon felt a kind of fear for he’d not experienced in a while having gotten sadistically used to being the most powerful being in a hellscape of his own making. He forced himself to hold still, unconsciously reaching out for abilities he no longer possessed in an effort to create a sense of safety.

Upton House.

Blindspot.

Right.

Right.

Martin was beside him, deeply asleep, and with considerable effort, Jon matched his slow, even breathing, the fingers of his scarred hand twisted into the filthy shirt he’d been traveling in above where his heart was doing its level best to painfully beat straight through his breastbone. Ever since his various kidnappings, waking up in strange places with no memory of how he came to be there inspired absolute panic until he could parse out the information. But he was here. In this realm buried in another realm where he couldn’t See. And Martin was here. Exhaustion rolled over him, a heavy, turbulent surf dragging him back out into the deep, and Jon turned onto his side to press against Martin’s soft warmth.

“Jon, Jon! What’s wrong?” This time it took solid minutes, scrabbling both for and against Martin, remembering that he was here, somewhere and that meant he was safe, desperate for his solid comfort and reassurance, terrified of the same hands keeping him in the bed. Keeping him from clawing at his own skin in his attempt to get out, out, out, away, away, away. Keeping him from escape! “Jon!” Back arching off the mattress, Jon attempted to twist out of grasping fingers trying to hold him down.

Wrists caught, held together in one hand, another brushing back sweaty curls. Soft words, soft touch, soft noise, soft. All soft.

All Martin.

Filling up his vision. Filling every sense up with him. With Martin. Only Martin.

“I, I...where. Where are we...?” He went lax, exhausted. Confused. Concerned when a crease appeared between Martin’s brows.

“You don’t remember?” A thumb traced his cheek, almost absently.

“N’n’no? Have. Are.”

“Hush, take a breath.”

Upton House.

Blindspot.

“I can’t See here.” Concrete thought was slippery, like trying to hold a handful of the fog that spread over the heath in the early mornings at the safe house.

Jon didn’t recognize this place. A strange light filtering through the windows illuminated Martin’s unconscious form next to him and his throat closed in panic and fear. How did they get here? Who had them? With more effort than it should have taken (had they been drugged? Is that why everything was so loose?) Jon forced himself up on trembling arms, trying not to wake Martin until he was certain of what was going on. Quietly, he slid from beneath clean silk sheets, reaching for the information needed to fill in all the empty spaces as he made his way across the lavish room.

None of this made any sense. But when he tried to dig deeper, to reach for the threads drifting further and further out of his reach, pain lanced through his head. It didn’t stop him from reaching again, probing, worrying at the blank like one would tongue at a loose tooth. It hurt. He had to. He needed to get Martin out of here before--

“Jon-love?”

“Martin...I, I.”

“What’s wrong?” Nothing? Was there nothing wrong? Martin didn’t seem worried but maybe he didn’t know how insidious the entities could be. Had they been tricked?

“Wh’where are we?” An emotion he couldn’t identify flickered over Martin’s face and distantly Jon wondered if they’d had this conversation before. It felt familiar? Like a faded dream or nightmare or memory. “Are we safe?”

“We’re safe.” Placating. So something was wrong. Was this even Martin? Was this a trick? Again, Jon reached for the bank of knowledge just out of his reach, dropping to his knees with the effort and the agony boring into his very self. Not?Martin stepped forward and Jon threw out a palm.

“No! NO! Stay back!”

“Jon?”

“I don’t. I can’t remember. I can’t See.” Shaking, wrapping himself up in cold, bony arms, he wanted Martin. “I. How do I know it’s you?” Voice quivering, tears dripped hot and fast from his chin.

“Oh, oh darling.”

“Who took me? Us. Us?” Martin? made no attempt to move forward or convince him, just lowered himself to the floor, patient. “Are we. Am I?”

“We’re safe.” And how could he believe that when he couldn’t Know? How could he trust his eyes when he knew the Stranger could take people and make them theirs. Take like it took Sasha.

“Who took me, u’us?? Who?”

“No one, love.”

“But I. I.” Jon crept forward, almost subconsciously zeroing in on what he needed more than anything, small and slight in his oversized clothes, Martin’s clothes. “Why don’t I remember?” His voice broke around a sob.

“I don’t know. Come here, darling, come here.” Jon let himself fall into a familiar embrace. This had to be Martin. It had to be. He wouldn’t be able to handle anything else.

“Love, you’re human here, or at least have human needs. Please, have a lie down with me.” Shaking his head, Jon let his entire aching self lean against Martin. They were in the garden, a peaceful spot that quelled the claustrophobia, and he hadn’t slept in days preferring to wander the corridors the whole night long wondering if the glimpses of Annabelle were real or imagined and not really sure it mattered. Anything to escape that sliver of time between waking and awake where he forgot how they came to be here and why.

“I. I don’t...I forget. It’s. Martin.” With a helpless whine, Jon rubbed his face against the clean wool of his well-worn jumper, eyes burning with the lack of proper rest. “Don’feel well.”

“I know,” Martin pressed a short series of lingering kisses among his curls “Come on, let’s have a bit of a kip, hm?”

“No. Stay here.” Pulling up his legs, Jon tucked his bare feet beneath him, pushing his way under Martin’s arm, dragging it around him and hoping to pin them both there. “Stay.”

“Okay, okay.”

Jon woke alone.

With lashes heavy and lined with lead, stomach churning, head pounding, pounding, pounding in his temples to the cadence of his hammering pulse. Swallowing, it was through force of will that he kept quiet when he stood, stumbling over uneven, quicksand tile to press an ear to the door, closing his eyes to listen over the rush of blood sighing through his veins. Despite hearing nothing beyond the room, Jon was too much a coward to try the ornate handle, deciding instead to sequester himself in the bathroom. The porcelain of the tub was cold through the thin fabric of the clothes he found himself in, where it pressed against his bare skin as he curled up close and covered his face with both hands.

It was then he let the tears come, shaking fit to fly apart and relying on that age old belief that if he couldn’t see the monsters then they couldn’t see him either. He would hide here, safe and small and no one would find him. No one could hurt him or touch him or take his skin or burn or cut or hit or slice or yell or blame him if he was here alone with only his muffled and keening cries for company.

“Jon?” He froze, naked toes curling, biting down hard on his thumb and ignoring the sharp hot pain in his hip where he was forcing the joint far past what it wanted. “Jon?” It was a trick. It had to be. They, they wanted him to let down his guard so he’d offer himself up like he’d offered himself to Magnus but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of beguiling him again. The knob turned and he held his breath. Waiting. Martin’s voice louder now for its proximity. “You don’t have to be afraid, love.” The gilded shower curtain was drawn. Jon tasted blood, like old flatware, metallic and bitter and flooding his tongue. With care, Martin climbed into the tub to sit across from him, leaning forward to cup his face in his palms before lowering Jon’s hands with his own, thumbs tracing little circles over the backs of each. It wasn’t long before his cheek was pillowed on Martin’s soft stomach, sore fingers tucked up under his chin.

“I didn’t r’remember.” Murmuring in response to Martin burying kisses in his curls.

“That’s alright.”

Inconsolable, Jon let Martin hold him, so off balance he couldn’t help but let the tears slip in silence over his skin. He didn’t understand why he was so afraid, even with Martin right here. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being kept here even though there was little evidence other than his poor muddled memory.

“It’s alright, love. It’s alright. I’m here. We’re safe. Remember?” Maybe he would. He did sometimes after a while and would flush with embarrassment and shame at his ridiculous behavior.

“No, no, I, where are we, Martin?” He didn’t want to be here anymore. He didn’t want to be like this.

“Together, darling.” He tugged him closer until the whole room narrowed to only him. “We’re together.”

[dalgonachan]

New Year's Resolution

pairing: Joshua x reader genre: new year, angst (if you squint), fluff warnings: alcohol use, fireworks prompt: a countdown to midnight at the balcony has you reflecting on the past year. joshua joins you to make some last minute resolutions. word count: 1146 a/n: happy birthday joshua!! and also a happy new year to everybody!! 🎉🎉🎉

Only fourteen minutes left until the clock struck midnight. From the balcony of your condo unit, you admired how the festive atmosphere made the city lights seem like they were glowing brighter. Everyone was anticipating the new year and it was already beginning to get quite loud. Through the thin walls, you could hear your neighbors next door blasting music, but you could barely recognize any of the songs from all the racket they were making.

To say you were annoyed was false. You were genuinely glad they were enjoying New Year's Eve just as everyone should be doing. So much positive energy and excitement were in the air, but you could not bring yourself to at least feel a tad bit of these emotions. The fact that other people were in the mood to celebrate made you feel jealous. This year was about to pass, yet you were still stuck living in it. So much could have been done to make the most out of it, but unfortunately there was just never enough time.

The door to the balcony slides open and Joshua leaves the warm comfort of your unit to step into the cold night air. In one hand he held a bottle of Sangria while the other held two wine glasses. He sets the crystalware down on the hanging table and pours a drink for each of you, filling up only until half. After sealing the cap back onto the bottle, he hands you your glass and you thank him with a smile. You swirl the liquid around and lift the rim up to your nose, relishing the rich aroma before taking a sip as Joshua does the same.

"The neighbors sure are rowdy for another successful revolution around the Sun party." He jokes and you chuckle.

"Tell me about it." You roll your eyes then shake your head. "If they keep this up, we probably won't get to hear the fireworks."

A loud clatter of metal on the floor startles the both of you and is soon followed by someone getting scolded for having clumsy fingers. Not that it was important, but it cuts your conversation short as you helplessly eavesdrop to the argument going on.

That was what things have been like between you for the last twelve months—short and awkward. Work was always in the way, making you busy with your own personal lives separately. Joshua's schedules were already hectic to begin with that there were nights he would return home worn out and exhausted. Due to this, many of your dates had to be called off. When he grew even busier with work and came home much later, he would walk into your unit and find you still waiting for him. The sight of you fast asleep on the table across his food which had already gone cold wracked him with guilt. Sadly, things did not get any better from there.

One night, he opened the door to the sight of his cold dinner sitting idly on the tabletop. The chair you usually sat on was empty and a green sticky note was attached to the side of his mug. He plucked it off from the ceramic surface and read the words written on it.

"Warm up the food in the microwave for 45 seconds. Sorry I couldn't wait anymore. I'm really sleepy zzz. Goodnight. I love you."

A small smile ghosted on his face as he sighed. Walking into your shared bedroom, he finds your peacefully sleeping figure under the sheets and comes closer to kiss the top of your head. After that, he changed out of his work clothes to do as you instructed in the note. Weeks later, you woke up to mornings wherein Joshua would no longer bother to eat his food. You threw away the untouched leftovers from the night before.

"Maybe I should come up with a New Year's resolution." You say with a faraway look in your eyes. "I'm going to make sure I'm always awake when you come home so that dinner isn't lonely for you."

Joshua giggles, admiring your innocent determination. If someone were to blame for the lack of quality time in your relationship, clearly he was the one at fault. However, your heart was overflowing with love and forgiveness that you held nothing against him.

"My New Year's resolution is to develop better time management skills." He said hopefully. "I've been so focused on work all year, I barely got to focus on us. I'm sorry."

You shake your head and gently place a hand on his arm as a gesture of reassurance. "I understand how busy you are and I'm fine with it. What's important to me is that you eat and rest well. As long as you make sure to take care of yourself, there is no problem."

"But it makes me miss you a lot." Joshua frowns, intertwining his fingers with yours. "I don't think I've hugged or kissed you enough this year. I rarely got to say 'good morning' and 'good night', not even an 'I love you' everyday. That's just the bare minimum and I couldn't even do it!"

With a roll of your eyes, you set the wine glass down and envelope Joshua in a bone-crushing hug.

"Stop being so cheesy, you dork." You playfully scold before pecking him on the cheek. "I love you. Do you feel better now?"

"Hey, I'm being honest." He said, looking at you right in the eyes. "I really want to make up for all the dates we cancelled. This year, I'm going to take you out on more and better dates."

The way he says it with so much conviction makes your heart speed up. Delight replaces the pensive mood you were feeling and the anticipation for New Year suddenly kicks in.

"I'm really looking forward to it." You say, beaming brightly at your boyfriend who mirrors your expression with his adorable crescent-shaped eye smile.

"You know what? Why don't we go to Lotte World for our anniversary?" He suggests and you gasp excitedly like a child.

"Oh my god, yes! Last time I've been there I was like elev—"

A bunch of exploding fireworks light up the sky with pretty colors as you hear a chorus of people yelling "Happy New Year!". You check your phone for the time and the clock reads "12:00 AM". Turning to look at Joshua, you greet him a happy new year who greets you back despite your voices being drowned out by all the noise. Just then, he kisses you full on the lips as more fireworks continue to erupt in the background.

When the kiss breaks, even with all the commotion, he swears he hears you whisper, "I wish for more moments like this for the both of us." to which he responds with "Me too."

[petri808]

Sanjou no Ai

click to read from beginning

Bakudeku Au fic, final chapter

For the first few months of their new arrangement, the mated pair settled into a routine of sorts. Almost every night, the okami would return to the Shrine after nightfall and spend it with Izuku, but always left before the sun peaked over the horizon the following morning. It was okay for the time being since now Katsuki could take his time in re-educating the kitsune on the ways of a yokai. And there was so much that Izuku had no clue about. Until now, he only had the scant information left by the previous shrine keeper and the instinctual sides he couldn’t avoid. But even those had not gone without question because he didn’t always understand why he felt the way he felt or did the things he did. For instance, he thought he was ‘born’ to live a life in the shrine, but that wasn’t true at all. The god created them for purposes, such as the okami to protect the wolves and forest, the kitsune too had a similar role. Then at some point when the current shrine was built upon the mountain, the kitsune yokai pledged to help the humans. Generations later left the likes of Izuku in a role he didn’t even know why it existed but performed faithfully… until now.

The information left him semi-torn about his life. Should he continue to honor that treaty and stay at the shrine, or give into his instincts and become a free protector of the forest? It shouldn’t be such a difficult choice, but what brought on the anxiety fell more into could he do it? Could he learn to fend for himself? It was an internal battle that’s been raging from before he and Katsuki mated, but now took center stage. Of course, the okami assured his mate that he wouldn’t be alone. As the alpha it was his responsibility to provide for and protect his omega, especially if the kitsune became pregnant. And besides, Izuku needed to give himself more credit for his strength. Katsuki pointed out how the man had risked his life to save an injured wolf, did that not show how strong or brave he could be when needed? Izuku had no argument against such a statement.

Still, that didn’t calm his mind, if anything, new thoughts would come for Izuku to mill over. Okay fine, maybe he would be okay for himself, but what about with the pups Katsuki mentioned. He’d have to worry about protecting their lives. A family was just another topic he was trying to wrap his brain around. Like first off, they were both canines but not the same species. Again, it was the okami who reminded the kitsune of magic, that they don’t operate under the same laws of nature. Which didn’t really explain much at all, so he simply put it aside instead of continuing the conversation. Next, if they were to desire a family, Izuku definitely would need to leave the shrine. Katsuki wasn’t pressing him over the topic, but maybe it was those omegan features kicking in that made the kitsune think about it. Like some hormonal drive to reproduce because he certainly never felt such instincts before!

One night after another mellow round of love making, they lay there cuddled in Izuku’s bed.

“Kacchan,” the kitsune whispered with hesitation in his tone. “Why haven’t I become pregnant considering how often we do this?”

“Where the hell did this question come from?”

“I know it’s random… but, oh, I don’t know, it’s just something I been wondering about for a few weeks now.”

Katsuki’s turned Izuku around to face him. “If you really must know. I’ve been using magic to sterilize my seed because I know you’re not ready.”

That answer made the kitsune a little irritated. Shouldn’t such a decision be made by both of them, together?! Regardless of if he was ready or not. “That’s not fair.” Izuku pouted.

“Oh, and you saying you are? You know full well you cannot be working here and get pregnant. Look, you should be happy that I’m not pressuring you to leave this place immediately and take your place in my nest where you belong.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Izuku whimpered in toil.

Katsuki was digging down deep not to lose his patience right now, but after months of waiting could anyone blame him? He took a deep breath to control himself from growling. “I know you’re scared of being away from here, but I don’t know how many more ways I can say it, you don’t have to be. I’ll take care of you and our family when we have one. You just need to decide between the shrine and me.”

“Decide right now?”

“No. Now you sleep,” Katsuki bundled the kitsune against his body preferring to end the night for now and deal with it later. “But you will need to do it soon.”

But Izuku was no fool and could sense the irritation in his mate. He could tell Katsuki was just holding back from lashing out. “You’re not mad at me… are you?”

“I’m trying not to be. So, go to sleep.”

Izuku’s voice lowered, quivering in tone. “I know you just picked me because I’m the only yokai around, and I’m okay with that. I’m just sorry I’m so weak.”

That was the last straw. Izuku’s self-defeating aura and sadness was oozing out and pissing him off! Even though the alpha within him felt pained, it wasn’t enough to change Katsuki’s mind. He sat up with teeth partially bared and speaking through a gritted tone. “That’s bullshit! I could’ve left the area and found someone else if I’d wanted to! I told you, I picked you because I liked what I saw. Yeah, you ain’t physically strong like me, but you have your own strength, a kind of strength I’d never possess, and if you can’t recognize that, then… Argh! You need to figure shit out! The okami leapt to his feet. “I’m going home! When you’re ready to make a damn decision. You know where to find me!”

“Kacchan!” Izuku cried out as his mate transformed and bounded out of the dwelling, but it was too late. He’d screwed up big time all because he was such a weak fool! How did Katsuki ever see a strength in him? Where was it? Just look at him, he was small, skinny, and always nervous of making a mistake. His mate was right. He couldn’t see whatever it was that Katsuki saw in him.

Izuku curled up into a ball and pulled the blanket over his body as he wept openly. The omegan part of him was in so much pain… it called out for its mate, cried at the loss… oh, it hurt so much! Kami, it felt like someone had ripped his heart right out of his chest and stomped it into the ground. He’d never felt so much pain before and even though physically there was nothing wrong, his entire body was suffering. It ached, every bone, every fiber of his being a wave of numbness and throbbing all mixed together. This must be the bond, Izuku realized. Until now their bond had given nothing but pleasure and now it burned like the hottest fire from the sun.

“Kacchan…” he whimpered into the silent night air. The darkness consumed him inside and out. What to do… what to do… he needed Katsuki to breathe, to live or a broken bond would surely kill him.

He didn’t know at what point he’d fallen asleep, maybe from pure exhaustion, but the next thing Izuku knew he could see light filtering though the blanket. Morning had arrived and with it an absolutely shocking pain, twice the level of anguish as the night before. His mind was reeling, so fogged over from all the turmoil that he could barely move, barely function. “Kacchan!” He screamed out! Ready or not, it couldn’t go on like this. For all his fears and anxieties, the only thing he knew for certain, bond or not, was he needed Katsuki. He loved Katsuki. And so right then and there Izuku knew what he needed to do. It physically hurt to get up, but Izuku did his best to dress himself and stumble into the shrine. All these months he’d hidden any sign of changes. Now it was time to come clean. He couldn’t stay.

The priests were already up and about doing their daily chores like usual. So, while remaining cordial despite his slow, pained movements, Izuku searched for the elder to speak with. Elder priest Toshinori was a kind and caring man, over 80 years old by Izuku’s estimation and had been at this shrine for close to 60 years. Izuku cared a lot about the elder, like a surrogate grandfather figure who was always ready with wise words and guidance for any seeking it out. But he could tell this man’s younger years were hard and laborious. Though thin and aged now, his sinewy tanned skin and worn hands were a testament to a hard upbringing. Izuku often wondered if this is why Toshinori was wiser than many of the others that had passed through these grounds over the centuries. Many priests came from relatively stable but lower-ranking homes who wouldn’t see such a poor upbringing. This man lived and came with experiences to guide his beliefs in a wiser way.

He found the elder in the sanctum reading.

“Mr. Toshinori.”

“Ah, Izuku,” the man looked up from his book. “I was wondering when you might come to me.”

Izuku sat down in front of the man bowing low. “Mr. Toshinori, I don’t know how to say this properly, but I must leave the shrine.”

“I know, and I understand.”

“Wait, how did you know?!” Izuku sat up straight in confusion. “I-I was sure I’d hidden the okami well.”

Toshinori smiled. “For a time, you did, but I sensed changes in you, positive changes. You hid them well, but a sparkle in your eye as you looked at the forest, at times just a pause in your routine as you were deep in thought, smiling to yourself. I knew something was happening to you and I must say it was nice to see you so happy.”

Tears were gathering in Izuku’s eyes at how understanding the priest was being. The internal struggle slowly lessened inside. “I am,” the smile broke free. “He makes me feel so alive, but I’m torn to leave the shrine and everyone here.”

“Young Izuku, it is natural to leave the nest when it is time. This shrine is all you know, and the world can be a very scary place, but it is also part of life to go out into and find your true meaning.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“In a way,” the man chuckled. “Your kind has served and protected this shrine well for a long time but at the expense of losing your very nature.”

“But I want to continue protecting this shrine! I love this place! I love this forest!”

The man leaned forward with a serious expression. “Izuku, would it be too impossible to achieve from outside of the shrine?”

Izuku quieted in thought for a moment before responding. “No, I suppose not.”

“Then the answer is you can still protect what you love and be with whom you love at the same time.”

“I… I never thought of it that way…” ‘Like how Katsuki had protected the offerings…’ “I can do that!” Izuku bowed again to the priest. “Thank you, Mr. Toshinori! I promise, I’ll still help at the shrine, but I will live in the forest from now on.”

Toshinori placed a hand on Izuku’s bowed head. “I trust you will, young Izuku. And do bring your family around someday, I’d like to meet them before I die.”

Izuku looked up with a blush. “O-Okay, I will!”

The air rushing past his face felt exhilarating in his kitsune form. It had been a while since he’d used the full fox body, but ever since he’d consciously made the decision to go to Katsuki, all the pain relaxed, and he wanted to find his mate as quickly as possible. Izuku couldn’t explain what this newly realized sense of freedom felt like, all he knew is he felt lighter. It might take some time to get used to it after being on such a regimented schedule all his life, but it was simply amazing.

He rushed straight for Katsuki’s den hoping his mate would be there, sending out his scent ahead as a calling card. Oh, how he wanted to just snuggle into the Okami’s thick beautiful fur! ‘Please be there!’ Izuku crooned and whined as the pull of their bond grew stronger and stronger. Katsuki must be close! His body could sense it, feel it as he arrived at the entrance to the cave. “Kacchan!” Izuku called out. Movement up ahead was picked up quickly by the kitsunes sensitivity’s hearing.

Finally, the large form of a wolf stood at the apex of the cavern and tunnel, and the happy tears Izuku had been holding back broke free. It was his mate. Soothing energy flowed out from the okami and wrapped the kitsune in a welcoming embrace.

Izuku whined and pressed forward into the okami’s welcoming embrace. “Kacchan, I’m home!”

[todoscript]

Corps-à-Corps [ 1 ]

Parts | one ; two

Corps-à-Corps (“body-to-body”): the action of two fencers coming into bodily contact with each other that is deemed an illegal move 

Genre | Sports AU. Slow Burn. Angst. Fluff. Future Smut.

Pairing | Fencer!Todoroki Shouto x Fencer!Reader

Words | 10.7K+

Warnings | Pining. Mild cursing. Characters are aged up. Insecurities and expectations. Research was done in order to accurately convey the action of the sport in this fic as I am not a fencer. Whole fic will be two parts.

Author’s Notes | Oh wow, 10k words. I was debating whether or not to just write the entire story in one go and post everything together, but at the speed I’m going, along with my assignments harassing me in the background, I decided to upload as a two-shot. Also please read the ending author’s notes when you’re done!

Also a special thank you to @sadistiks​ @natsuosfairy​ and @pat-writes-stuff​ for being my beta readers! <3

The thought of being late to your very first practice at the fencing academy you’ve admitted to is nothing short of an insult to your former coach, who was the one who recommended you in the first place.

You tell yourself this, yet here you are, running as if your life depends on it. Ragged breaths are ripping from your throat, accompanied by the slick sweat dotting the skin of your temples and a pair of lungs positively burning through every arduous step you compel yourself to tussle through.

“Dammit, why’d I have to be late today?!” you groan through gritted teeth, glancing at the map in your hand to verify the correct path forward to the Tokyo Fencing Center. As you clutch the strap of the duffel bag hanging off your shoulder, you seethe over your lack of time management skills, knowing full well you can’t blame anyone for this disorganization but yourself.

You persevere through, despite the dizzying heat flushing your skin and the fatigue piling in your body, awarded with the fencing center coming into view. You grant yourself only a second of rest before you’re rushing forward again. If you were a track athlete, then this would be the last hurdle.

Finally, with a fierce slam open of the double doors enclosing the facility, you’ve crossed the finish line. The relieved heave of your breaths practically topple you over in exhaustion but you regain your balance by adjusting yourself next to a wall. Little do you know there was still another impediment you needed to face.

The noises that lightly ring and echo throughout the hallway emit down from the main room, indicating to you that you’re definitely past due punctual. Steps heavy and hesitant, you cross into the threshold. Everyone has already clad themselves in their fencing gear, scattering into their respected fencing disciplines to practice amongst each other. You’re left standing there in high contrast compared to the white uniforms dispersed in the room. At this point, you just hope to speak to the primary instructor without disturbing the vibe.

However, your goal is cut short by a quick thrust of a saber. Your eyes view over and behold the fencing match before you, where two combatants ready their blades on opposite sides of the piste—the extended playing area the game takes place on. Their bodies are encased in the standard protective gear, faces obscured by the dense masks covering their heads to the napes of their necks.

“En-garde... Prêtz?” The referee utters two distinct French words before starting the bout—one meaning “on guard,” the other “ready.” Each participant raises their weapons in preparation.

“Allez!”

At the signal, their movements advance into nearly triple time, feet light and flexible as their steps shift across the mat. You’re familiar with this particular fencing discipline known as saber fencing. It’s fast; in fact, it’s the second-fastest sport at the Olympics after rifle shooting. The aim of the game, of course, is to hit your opponent anywhere from the waist up with your sword. It may seem simple enough, but there’s another layer of complication factoring in the game’s speed, for this sport is calculated in as little time as milliseconds.

The fencer on the left side of the piste lunges forward, attempting to draw the momentum. Sadly, it’s a sloppy pursuit; his form is unstable and his efforts are in vain due to a missed strike. He swiftly backs up.

At this error, the opposition takes the reins and progresses forward, forcing his competitor back and back across the mat from his utter retaliation. In an instant, he spots a chance to win priority by taking over the impetus of the battle, and makes no hesitation in slashing with his weapon. Every movement he commits to is as swift as wisps of fire in the wind and burns nearly as fast. His opponent tries following the hit out of sheer panic. In the end, the exchange of strikes is so quick that even a simple blink could deter you from the actions at hand.

The two attacks make simultaneous contact on their lamé—the electric conductive jacket hugging their upper bodies—causing the machine in front of the referee to glow two colors. Left is indicated by red, green for right. If both colors concurrently light up, it’s the referee’s position to decide who earns the point.

Though the battle proved to be hasty and expeditious, you managed to observe every detail as keenly possible. From your basic understanding of the rules of saber fencing, the point should belong to—

“Right,” the referee promptly states, his arm lifted toward the corresponding side. By controlling the initiative of the fight, the right-sided fencer gains priority, meaning he’ll receive the point even if both players hit. The moment his competitor had made a mistake, the opposition had the right to steal the momentum along with priority.

The gush of air that heavily tightens your lungs eventually releases into a breath you hadn’t realized you’ve been holding in the spur of the match. The complication, as well as the speed of saber fencing, has always made you appreciate the aspect of the game, despite how different it was from your own fencing discipline.  

“And so the victor of this match is Todoroki,” the referee congratulates as everyone around sounds with applause, at which you can’t help but join in. The triumphant fencer brings his blade down by his side before running a hand over his mask to reveal himself.

You glimpse at a head of white and red tresses that flair elegantly upon layers, sticking to the sweat glistening across his forehead. His pretty heterochromatic eyes gleam at his victory, and exuding nothing but effortless confidence, he stands tall above the crowd. However, there’s frigidity in his expression, an underlying cold beneath frosty irises of turquoise and gray that’s difficult to comprehend.

Movements like fire. Spirit like ice. And together, they collide into an enigma that rattles your thoughts in that infinitesimal moment.

Staring at his form, you can’t help but compare this scene to a shot right from a movie, what with the man’s handsome looks, glowing charisma, and athletic ability. He’d definitely make for a killer male lead—

“Ahem.”

The panorama view is pressed on pause when you hear an abrupt clear of someone’s throat in your direction. The referee greets you, a slender man possessing messy, shoulder-length hair and an unusually worn-out appearance despite his young age.

“Can I help you, miss?”

Everyone’s actions are on hold after the match. They peep over to the commotion surrounding you and their instructor, exchanging choruses of whispers and curious looks. You can’t suppress the urge to cross your arms and nervously rub your skin over the uncomfortable amount of eyes boring into you. After all, it doesn’t take a detective to comprehend how you stick out like a sore thumb in this sea of white.

“Oh, um, I’m a newly admitted fencer… My coach recommended me, and I’m here to attend my first practice,” you manage despite an embarrassing red creeping up your cheeks. The only physical bearings you can hold onto is the strap of your duffle bag, which you grip firmly in hopes of not potentially floating away like a hot air balloon. Though at the same time, you’d also wouldn’t mind drifting off, or perhaps even bury yourself into solid ground if it meant escaping the stares.

While exhaling an arduous sigh, the man’s flat and tired eyes sink into your existence. You honestly can’t tell if he’s annoyed with you or perhaps just having an exhausting day. Maybe it’s both. In that case, you might be fucked.

“Well, you’re about twenty minutes late and not dressed in fencing gear. Though I suppose explanations are long overdue,” says the instructor, adding more heat to the squealing teakettle that is your mortification, “Your name?”

“L-L/n Y/n,” you reply. Let’s hope he’s not asking for it to kick you out of the academy.

“L/n Y/n...” He flips through a page, scanning the contents, “You’re an… épée fencer?”

“Yes, sir.”

As the man continues looking over his clipboard, you notice blue and gray eyes peering right from behind him. Your face lights up, perceiving them to belong to the saber fencer—Todoroki—from the earlier match, and your eyes are drawn to his as if they’re glaciers glimmering in the moonlight. The boy, however, averts his gaze the moment the two of you make brief eye contact. He returns to the mat and brandishes his blade for another bout.

“L/n if you want to stay here,” the instructor’s voice nudges your attention back to him, “I suggest you go get changed in your fencing gear. And quickly. I have an assignment for you.”

Your only reply is a prompt “yes sir” before you hurry to the locker rooms, bag smacking against your side at every step as if it’s physically reprimanding you for getting in such an unpleasant predicament. All you give it is a violent throw into a locker. Your hands rummage inside, hastily scouring for your gear to don on.

The thin clothes you’re currently wearing allow you to slip your long fencing socks over them, along with white trousers that hang onto your form thanks to two straps hooked over your shoulders. Next comes the safeguard for the upper body—a plastic chest protector first, followed by the plastron or the underarm protector. Finally, a white jacket sports over all the upper layers. Everything afterward is self-explanatory, what with only the gloves and shoes left. You won’t need the mask until later, so you grip it next to your hip, leaving the locker room with haste.

By then, everyone resumed their usual business for today’s practice. The swoosh of blades accompany you when you return to the training hall, sights set back on the shaggy-haired man standing on the side waiting for you. His wary expression is a chasm you can’t correctly discern.

“Though you’re not punctual, you dress fast at least,” he says just as you approach, “Now if you want to secure your spot here, there’s something you need to do.” You follow him to a piste occupied by only one other fencer. Assuming the player is also an épée fencer like yourself, you can guess what this “assignment” consists of now.

“If you’re going to be training here, I need to evaluate your skills and see where you currently stand,” he declares and hands you the corresponding weapon to your discipline: The épée, the largest and heaviest sword used in fencing. Compared to foil fencing, it dons a larger guard and is broader and thicker. But unlike saber, which has more slashing in play, this weapon is designated for thrusting.

“So I’m having you perform in a small, quick match right now. I’m only giving you one chance to prove you should stay here and train amongst us, so I suggest you play to the best of your ability.”

You nod, enthusiastic, and ready for the bout. Your opponent wordlessly walks off to the opposite end of the piste, their épée blade prepped at their side while you do the same, also wearing your protective headgear. Due to their dense mask, you can’t distinguish any prominent features or emotions on your contender, but you’re sure the sensations crossing their body are parallel to your own.

“En-garde.”

Inhale and exhale. Your even breaths lull your nerves, and every hindrance you faced today is buried in the back crevice of your mind. Right now, you focus your energy and spirit into this small match, let yourself envelope the vitality of fencing that drives your movements.

“Prêtz?”

Your knees are bent, steps light on your toes while your grip remains steady on the handle of the épée, the shine glossed from the hilt to the tip of the blade points you toward a new adversary standing in your way.

“Allez!”

Even with the signal, the small spring in your step ushers you only a bit forward. Unlike saber fencing, the pace is quite different. Whereas saber is fast and flashy all within as little as a speck of a second, épée is methodical, slow, and plays defensively. For in épée, any part of your body can register as a point. So the discipline focuses on maneuvering cautiously to protect yourself, being wary of your stance, as well as deflecting and parrying attacks.

Saber fencing is equivalent to a real-life scenario. If two people are equipped with knives and face off to see who wins, then the one who makes the quickest move and cuts down their opponent first is victorious. They don’t just trade blows with each other; they go in for the kill. It’s basic survivability. Meanwhile, épée fencing is reminiscent of a duel—a show. The competitors give the crowd a performance to enjoy, watching through every meticulous move and observing their blades clash in a struggle. Similar to the exaggerated fight choreographies seen in action movies and animation.

Every step an épée fencer performs is calculated and strategized in their heads because there are so many vulnerable factors an opponent can exploit. Knowing any part of your body is a target for your opponent’s blade, the most sure-fire way to avoid receiving a hit is to take extra precaution in your form while monitoring the enemy’s.

You regard every movement, every muscle, your competitor makes, indicating how fast or slow they shift when not attacking. Suddenly, the opposition proceeds forward, easing slightly into your range. You grapple yourself, ready for the fencer as they swiftly advance at a possible opening, their épée is thrust in an unyielding path to take you down. However, you foresee the hit, bringing your blade up to parry the attack. When the metal swords collide, you detect a break in your opponent’s defenses and launch your counterattack known as riposte—the offensive action carried after a clean parry.

The point of your blade hits home against the fencer’s chest. With the electric conductive lamé pierced, a high-pitched squeal rings in the air—a distinct indication that you have rightfully gained the point in the bout, winning the short test match.

Typically, a regular bout would continue until one of the contenders reaches fifteen points, but in this case, the coach had already held his hand up to halt your actions only after one round. You remove your mask, vision adjusting to the light, and hearing faint sets of claps in the vicinity. Glancing around, a small ring of onlookers commend your swift demonstration. While it is not on par with the garish applause you witnessed earlier, you appreciate the praise with an elated grin lining your lips. Your eyes cross into the threshold and notice Todoroki sparing a brief glimpse over the laudation, but doesn’t pay much mind.

“Hm, at least your former coach didn’t make a mistake recommending you here. You’re not half bad. Could touch up your technique a bit more, but I suppose that’s what you’re at this academy for,” the coach calls out, but his tone quickly submerges into deep waters. Out of instinct, your back straightens when he nears.

“However, I don’t have time for slackers, and tardiness is not something I tolerate. Here at this fencing academy, we don’t waste our time dawdling. We get in, make the most of every minute, and get our jobs done. So I better not see you twenty minutes late again, understand?”

A creeping veil of severity slithers down your spine, jolting nerves in your body you had no idea existed. If you stared into the man’s eyes long enough, they might shift into a threatening hue of red that could swallow you whole. Your fear over that has you shaking your head up and down in rapid succession, and surprisingly, the oppressive atmosphere disperses instantly like smoke scattered by the wind.

“Good. With that said, I’ll be your coach, Aizawa Shouta.” His narrowed brows soften when he speaks, reverting to his downbeat appearance. “If you have any further questions, you can ask your fellow fencers. If not, then get to practice.”  

He walks off to inspect the other fencers on their progress, allowing you to conduct your business. However, before you can conjure any thoughts on how to proceed next, a hand finds its way into your peripheral vision. A girl with onyx black hair tied in a high ponytail comes in view, a singular thick lock framing the kind smile adorning her face.

“That was a great match, I enjoyed every bit participating in it, even though it was so short,” she says. It’s by her statement and when your eyes scan across her form briefly that you recognize her to be your opponent, now no longer concealed by head protection.

You take her hand, grip settling into a light shake while you return the smile cordially, “Ah same, I hope we can play a full bout in the future.”

“Agreed,” she giggles amicably, which you find soothing, “My name is Yaoyorozu Momo, and as you witnessed, I’m an épée fencer like yourself.”

“L/n Y/n, though just Y/n is fine.”

“Well, Y/n, that was quite an entrance in the beginning, coming in twenty minutes late to your first practice,” the girl teases, a playful hand over her lips that leave a pout on your own.

“Yeah, that was my fault…” you drawl, rubbing a hand over your head. Your eyes avert to the ceiling upon remembering the chagrin, “It’s an excuse, I know, but I lost track of time…”

“Haha, don’t worry. Coach Aizawa may seem like a hostile man, who arguably doesn’t get enough sleep, but I assure you he has his soft spots. You just have to get to know him a bit more.”

Your face droops, finding the claim hard to believe when testifying for the man’s daunting character that left your nerves shivering. At this point, all you need to do is not get on his bad side, and you’re good to go.

“Rather, if I did have to point anyone to look out for, it’d be fencers like him,” she gestures off to the side, your eyes following the movement. The person in query is a boy of slick, blonde hair whose lips draw into a smug grin that somehow irritates you enough for your face to gaunt.

“That’s Monoma Neito. Fencing is a chivalrous sport, but he’s as arrogant as they come, all talk and no action. However, his family funds and supports the academy, so he was offered a place here with little regard. Luckily he fences saber so we won’t be running into much of him anyway,” she describes a type you’re fairly familiar with. They’re the kind of people that throw their money at their problems, reaching undeserving plateaus thanks to their authority and status. It’s frustrating to think a prestigious sports academy can still be touched by people like him, considering the lengths ordinary folks like yourself need to extend to reach the same level. In this cruel world, some arrive at the top with a simple touch of a button on an elevator while the rest must burn and sweat and suffer to climb mountains that span the same peak.

Despite that, you’re glad this place still harbors some exceptional skills, judging by the abundant competence surrounding the room in the form of rigorous training and practice. You should join in the grind soon. However, your curiosity piqued at the last second as your eyes have subconsciously been trailing the saber fencers, seeking peculiar tresses of red and white. It’s not long until you spot him again—Todoroki. He’s stepped off to the side, relieving his thirst with water and wiping the lingering sweat dotting his face.

“Hey, Yaoyorozu,” you call, eyes unwavering, “can you tell me about that boy over there, Todoroki?”

She gives a mildly surprised look, “You don’t know who he is? I thought the last name would ring a bell, especially as a fencer.”

“Um, should I?” You raise an eyebrow. Even when you spare another glance at the boy, hoping your mind would jolt with a distant memory, nothing clicks. Only a blank greets you.

“That’s Todoroki Shouto, son of Todoroki Enji, who’s a former saber fencing Olympian. He’s one of the best fencers here. They say he rivals his father in skill and is aiming to participate for the next coming Olympics, but Todoroki doesn’t talk much about it,” she finally answers. Your gaze fills with intrigue, processing the information through a filter that quickly fathoms the different planes you and the boy of ice and fire live across. Little do you realize that your worlds will soon collide faster than sword to body, and mar just as bad.

.

.

It’s by the next practice at the Tokyo Fencing Center that you genuinely take Coach Aizawa’s words to heart and let it show in your actions by committing to managing your time that day. Even with university classes and studies before another rigorous training session, you arrive with no commotion, no irritating looks, and no sweat. One thing’s for sure, the coach won’t be biting your head off this time.

You start to consider the notion that you could potentially be the very first person here; if not for a sound you begin to discern louder and louder the more you walk down the hallway toward the training room. You surmise it’s too early for anyone to be here when practice does not officially start until two o’clock sharp. Lighting up your phone, it reads 1:40 PM, twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

A ghost? No, you don’t believe in such things. Unless it’s maybe Coach Aizawa’s exhausted spirit coming to punish you for last time? In that case, perhaps you should be more mindful of specters after all.

You decipher the noise as a swoosh carried by thin metal slicing across the air and resounding in swift successions. Your steps careful and silent, you enter the training hall to peek upon the lone entity. It’s there you spot a white figure, however it’s not a ghost. Instead, it’s a fencer. A saber fencer at that, and one whose form is in peak and perfect condition as they jut their blade out with such a keen technique, you’d want to capture the shot within a sculpture of ice to admire every angle. But, under every chain of moves is a fire that melts and burns the previous images’ glaciers.

Before your thoughts can catch up to you, the fencer stops and lowers his sword.

“Do you usually spy on people while they’re practicing?”

The figure evokes a husky voice from beneath the meshed mask. Had it not been only the two of you here, you might not have heard the muffled words that nearly have your feet stepping on top of each other from how sudden they resonate in the air. You gather yourself and find your balance. When your eyes reach the boy’s again, he’s already swung off his headgear, revealing his heterochromatic eyes peering at you. Todoroki waits silently, expecting an answer.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to gawk at you or anything,” you sputter while unable to look directly at him.

“You kept glancing at me the first day you came in for practice too,” he mentions, his voice relaxed despite the detail making you out to be some attentive fangirl, maybe even a stalker if you stretched it. Surprising to you, however, he furrows his brows.

“Did I do something to bother you?”

You swing your hands up fervently to deny the question and assure to him that was not the case.

“Oh no! I just, uh…” your splayed utters have you fumbling to reach for a response that won’t come off too garish for your standing, “I just… admire your fencing. Saber has always been a discipline that’s fascinated me, considering it’s so different from épée.”

“Right, you’re an épée fencer,” he says.

You nod genially, “Hehe, that’s correct. I’m L/n Y/n, by the way, the new girl, but you probably already knew that when the coach scolded me last week for coming in late,” you chuckled, offering a strained grin to lighten the dreadful memory.

Noticing he’s about to return the introductions, you stop him with a wave of your hand, “Don’t worry, I know who you are, Todoroki Shouto.”

He lifts a brow, and you have to giggle at the perplexed expression etched on his face when comparing it to the icy demeanor he usually sports on pause.

“I watched a bit of your match last week the moment I walked in,” you explain, “Plus, you’re quite the talk around here at the fencing academy.”

“Am I?” Todoroki questions, a hint of inquisitiveness edging the tip of his tongue.

“I thought you’d already be the one to know that. You’re the skilled saber fencer here,” you tease. “So do you usually come so early just to do warm-ups and swing your saber around by yourself?”

His eyes avert to the blade handled in his right hand, then return to you, “I follow a training routine. In the morning, I work out at a gym, and then I come here afterward.”

Your eyes blink twice, interpreting his words, “Wait, so you’ve been here since..?”

“1:00,” he finishes for you. Your mouth hangs open in an almost cartoonish manner.

“You seriously stayed here for a whole hour doing fencing drills before the actual fencing? And that’s after working out?” you relay the questions in a way that expresses the details to be appalling, yet he simply shrugs.

“Isn’t that a bit much? Don’t you want to hang out with people for a bit or relax somewhere else?”

He pauses for a minuscule moment, glancing at the saber’s shining edge that reflects the fraternal twins of his irises across the metal. It’s as if the sword imparts him with an answer to your query, which drops weight in his next statement.

“The way I see it, there’s not much time to waste if I’m going to go for the top. If I’m going to beat him, I need to keep up this momentum, or else I’ll stray off course.”

You stare, eyebrows knitted, and unable to recognize if the words coming from his lips are genuinely his own upon sensing the candle flicker of anguish lit behind his glacial facade. The heat threatens to melt it off at the emphasis of “him.” Whoever “him” is, you aren’t too sure. Unfortunately, Todoroki does not allow you to ponder any further.

“Sorry, but I have to get back to my training,” he says before turning his back to you. The proximity left behind stretches into a tension you know you shouldn’t trifle with, lest risk snapping a nerve that must be left untouched.

“Right, it’s almost 2:00, and I need to get changed anyway,” you offer back, though truthfully, it was a way to excuse yourself and not suffocate under the tense atmosphere.

By the time you’ve entered the locker room and gotten changed, the other fencers have trickled in along with Coach Aizawa. Practice proceeds as usual, and everyone scatters evenly into their disciplines. You train in sets of matches with the other épée fencers, going through the ropes and trying to polish your technique—advice given to you by Aizawa that you needed to improve on.

It’s by the third match that the thoughts lingering in the back of your mind start to surface and cloud your motions, evident when you teeter in your stance and receive a thrust right against your torso you surely would have dodged in time. That bout ends in your defeat. Continuing with practice like this won’t do, so you seize the loss as a sign to take a water break and settle the haze in your head.

“Got something on your mind, mademoiselle?” a voice chimes in, airy, flamboyant, and not a tone you recognize, “You’ve been staring at that bottle of water for an awfully long time.”

The boy that approaches the bench is slim, blonde, and possesses an aura, both foreign and confident. He draws attention to the scrunched bridge of your nose and the pointed crests furrowing your features that you fail to notice you’ve been harboring.

“Well, er,” you’re hesitant to admit it at first, but you relent with a nod.

“Would you like to talk about it with me? I am always willing to lend an ear to any of my fellow fencers.”

You don’t say anything, words trapped in your throat as if lost in an abyss. Instead, you answer with a small nudge in a general vicinity. The boy turns in that direction and bemuses that you’ve ushered his gaze to where all the saber fencers are practicing. There’s a twinkle glimmering in his eyes now, a look that sparks uncertainty for you.

“Ah, some boy trouble?” he inquires playfully. Grasping his words, you fluster and your cheeks color pink. You vigorously shake your head.

“N-No, it’s not like that!” you start, voice rising slightly in volume, “I’m just worried about… OK, this guy. He seems like he has no room to breathe, practicing all the time.”

“Ah, you must be speaking of Todoroki Shouto.” His finger points to him, and you observe Todoroki is diligent as ever during practice.

“You see it too, don’t you?”

The boy you’ve come to know as Aoyama Yuga exchanges an inquisitive look, “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t blame him for living like that, considering the situation he’s in.”

Your eyes perk up, puzzled by his statement as you spare a confused visage, “Huh? Why not?” you ask.

“His father may have been a renowned saber fencer, but he was only runner-up to Yagi Toshinori while they were in their prime. Ever since Toshinori started competing in fencing tournaments and competitions, Todoroki Enji has always placed second since,” he remarks, shifting his gaze back to the dual-haired boy while he tells the story. “People say the youngest of the family was trained to rectify that error.”

Now you’re able to put two and two together, joining the pieces to view the full picture.

You draw a memory in the long film of your life. It’s an old clip from the Olympics you watched when you were only a small child, and from it sparked your ambition to fence in the first place, watching the athletes display their skills and passion on the piste for the entire world to behold. Little did you realize that the men participating were rivals whose bitter strife exists even to this day in the form of Todoroki Shouto and his father’s will carved into him. The will to carry out a petty dream that is not even his own.

You fight against the notion, “But shouldn’t he think about himself rather than his father?”

Aoyama shrugs, “It’s up to him to decide how he creates his path. And if he chooses to walk on it, who are we to stop him?” is his response before walking off, finishing the chat, “Well, it was nice talking to you, mademoiselle, but I must be getting back to my practice. Au revoir~”

The conversation leaves an odd sensation in you that you can’t shake off, with remnants of Todoroki’s struggle swirling. As you glance toward the boy one last time that day, your heart aches for him.

.

.

It’s the weekend, and you’ve made some plans to stop by the mall and head to the sporting goods store to replace some of your fencing equipment. Lately, the sneakers you’ve been using have worn out, making it challenging to keep your feet light on the piste, so you thought it’d be about time to purchase some new ones and break them in before the next practice.

When you enter, you’re greeted by the usual cashier at the register, who doesn’t pay much mind to you coming in, his attention glued to a volleyball game playing on the television. You instinctively head to the fencing section of the store, located around the back area where equipment such as blades, safety gear, and other fencing goods are sprawled and laid around for the average consumer to gander.

You navigate through the aisles, but soon discover another patron in the distance, hovering around the section—which to you was strange. Fencing is a sport a majority of people have heard before; however, it isn’t a sport that generates as many fans as basketball or baseball. People who follow the game take the time to understand the swordplay and make a note of what happens during the action, as well as touch upon the complicated rules. An average sports fan would find it hard digesting the contents of fencing, with many regarding that the pacing and action is too monotonous for their liking. Plus, fencing does not harbor as many active players compared to other popular sports littered with sponsorships, so because of all that, this section of the store was usually vacant whenever you visited.

Approaching closer, you decipher the figure obscured by the rows of equipment and goods, and to your utter astonishment, tresses of red and white hair come into view.

Your first instinct is to duck and dodge between the rows, an act which you’ve been repetitively doing as of late. To run into Todoroki outside of fencing practice is appalling to you; though, it seems fitting that if he were not working out at a gym, training at the fencing center, or staying at home, he’d take root in the fencing section of a sports store.

Your head darts out. Man, what am I doing? You gingerly think, relaying to yourself that you’ve already been called out for spying on him the first time you’ve encountered each other. It’s better to act natural and not give the security cameras the wrong idea that you’re potentially stalking this boy.

You ease out from behind a rack of protective gear. Todoroki does not detect your presence in the slightest as his attention is on the variety of premium shoes lining the shelves. So when you suddenly tap your finger against his left shoulder, he turns in haste and is bewildered to be greeted by your stiff facade.

“Oh hey, Todoroki, didn’t expect to run into you here,” you wave, and his expression mellows upon perceiving that it’s you—the épée fencer he spoke with before.

“Likewise,” he replies, then rotates around again to scan through the shoes. Luckily for you (or perhaps unluckily), your reason for coming here is to get your sneakers replaced so you establish yourself next to him.

Todoroki starts a conversation, despite his quiet self, “What are you here for?” he asks.

“I need to get a new pair of shoes, mine are a bit worn-out at the moment,” you answer, following down the rows of footwear to find your particular size and desired brand. “Since you’re in this section, I’m guessing you might be needing some new ones as well?”

He shakes his head, “My current shoes are fine. However, I’ve been thinking about trying out this new brand,” his finger hovers in front of him, drawing his sight to specific footwear, “Been told they’re better for fencing.”

Your eyes go from tracing the shelf to glancing at the boy, curiosity dancing. “Oh? Think I should try them out myself?” you ask while your hand grazes against the natural texture of the shoes you’ve been accustomed to, “I’ve been using these specific pairs for a while now, maybe it’s time to switch it up.”

“From what I hear, the cushion on these makes it easier for your feet to walk across the piste,” is his response before he spots said shoes on a particular row, about to draw them from their display board to inspect closer. However, subconsciously, your hands brush up next to each other while wandering through the litter of footwear among the walls. You’re both quick to separate as soon as they touch—like the sensation singes your skin—creating a distance between your hands.

“Sorry about that,” the two of you murmur your apologies. Upon hearing how in-sync your words sound between one another, you giggle and the boy next to you can’t help but hide a grin beneath his hand, amused.

Then you watch as Todoroki resumes analyzing the pair of sneakers. They’re fresh and matted in white with slick black streaks etched across the material. You nudge the boy to let you have a look, and he passes it to your palm. From a glimpse, you can tell these models were created with excellent quality and attention to detail.

“Wow, these are quite the shoes. A bit fancy, don’t you think? Wonder how much they—” the rest of the question does not leave your lips. You’re hushed the moment you turn over the white price tag strung around the holes the laces weave into, attempting to process the confounding amount of zeroes printed there. It only concludes with your eyes widening and your mouth hanging open. You ask yourself, how can mesh material molded into two simple pieces of footwear cost this much? Baffled, you merely twist the tag back around so you wouldn’t have to read the price anymore, and ease your spirit.

“I think I’m good with my current shoes…” your voice deadpans, swiftly gathering the box of reasonably priced sneakers into your arms.

Todoroki doesn’t make much of your reaction. He pulls the shoes off the shelf and ends up accompanying you to the register.

“It was a surprise to see you here, Todoroki,” you tell him.

“It’s my free day today, so I thought I’d run some errands,” he says.

A free day, huh? Your mind conjures the thoughts of last practice, recalling the rigorous routine the boy performed every other day, memorized into the fiber of his muscles down to the marrow of his bones.

You had to ask, “What do you usually do on your free days?”

“Rest,” his response is blunt and straightforward as expected, “sometimes get ahead on my studies,” he adds. By this point in the conversation, the two of you have arrived at the cash register.

You haul the box onto the counter, an action the cashier isn’t particularly fond of, forced to divert from the game airing on the screen. He scans the shoes, issues the price, and gathers the box in a plastic bag before doing the same for Todoroki, enacting the bare minimum amount of manners throughout the process.

Your purchased goods in hand, you’ve essentially finished your business here. Yet your eyes blink back, mind swallowed by the fact that after you leave the store, both of you will return and go about your day as you always do, likely not sparing a glance at each other until the next coming practice. You trail behind Todoroki, crossing through the exit with your gaze keen at the back of his head as if mustering a thought out. Soon, an idea emerges almost similar to a fast flicker of a light switch. Your voice calls out to him, and he turns back to you as a result.

“Say, Todoroki, since you mentioned today is your free day, how about we go grab something to eat together?” you ask, noting that the clock is currently ticking to lunchtime.

He narrows his brows, expressing uncertainty, “I don’t need to be back home until later, but I’m not sure if—”

“What? Are you gonna tell me you have homework to do or something?” You tease the boy for his overly-strict attitude. “C’mon Todoroki! Hanging out for a bit and eating with a friend shouldn’t hurt,” you chide, tone light, and persuasive.

Friend. You repeat the title in your head, wondering if it was right to designate that status on your own when you haven’t interacted much with him. In the end, you push the tricky thoughts aside for now.

“In fact, I know a pretty neat café around here. It’s right next to this popular soba restaur—”

His entire demeanor reacts in a flash the instant the last words depart from your mouth. Suddenly, he dons a faint, spirited expression, approaching closer as if he had heard wrong.

“Did you say soba restaurant?” His tone conveys an intense zeal at the word soba. You gawk before blinking in quick succession, the almost uncharacteristic gleam in his eyes taking you back. Then, your pupils dilate at the pieces assembling in your head.

The icy, diligent, handsome saber fencer, Todoroki Shouto, has a great weakness for soba noodles.

A smile curls across the line of your lips, “Would you like to come eat there with me?”

There’s a brief pause between you, but surely enough, Todoroki agrees with a nod. You verify with an exchange of smiles—yours wide, welcoming, and his subtle, yet still simmering warmth—before tugging him along with you to the soba restaurant, humming in tune with your steps that the boy can’t help but be amused by. When you arrive there, Todoroki’s quiet enthusiasm is evident while he scans through the menu filled with an assortment of food.

“They even have cold soba served in baskets here,” you hear him mutter beneath the menu. It ensues an amused grin on your lips. You try your best to contain the giggle threatening to chime as you watch the boy’s fervor for the noodles take on its most prominent form when presented and served within a woven basket, the bowl of dipping sauce on the side.

You opt for a hot bowl of udon, a contrast between the colder, thinner noodles on the opposite end of the small table. The two of you eat across each other, slurping your food with gusto to truly appreciate the restaurant’s well-cooked meal that soothes your bones. Just as Todoroki smothers his soba in the flavorful sauce, you speak to him to ease the atmosphere with more small talk.

“Todoroki, you mentioned earlier that you do some of your studies on your free days. Do you attend university?”

He swallows his noodles down to issue a response, “I do.”

“Interested in any particular majors?”

Todoroki shakes his head, “I’m undecided for now,” at his answer, he sets his bowl down for a moment and his sight lines down to his basket of soba.

“I haven’t had much time to think about where I’d head during university. Or what I’d do afterward.” The stare he evokes on his food could delve a fissure through the plate, considering the intensity over the troubling thoughts you’ve accidentally allowed to settle.

You frown, the udon noodles hovering above your bowl, twirled in your chopsticks. “It’s likely because you’ve been fencing all your life, huh?” you quietly surmise yet it’s loud enough for him to hear judging from the pensive look that crosses him. He doesn’t carry a response back because deep down, he knows it’s true. All he’s ever known throughout his young adult years of living is fencing. It has got to the point where the sport is second nature to him like it’s all he wakes up for, all he breathes for.

The shift in the air is apparent as you watch him silently resume eating his soba, but you don’t let the change deter your mood.

It’s up to him to decide how he creates his path. And if he chooses to walk on it, who are we to stop him? Aoyama’s words stir the depths of your subconscious. They ring through you until eventually activating an almost visceral reaction.

With your hardened fist wrapped around your chopsticks, a determined slam rattles the table. Todoroki, along with the nearby patrons encompassing the restaurant, rouse when it connects.

“Hey, look, you’re a great fencer. You should use your skills and talents to mold your future if that’s what you want to do,” you affirm, vigor in your voice, “It’s OK if fencing is integrated into your life. What matters is how you make your abilities your own and how it shapes you as a person.”

Todoroki blinks over your words. You scrutinize his face, searching for a reaction within the delicate seams of his handsome features before your chopsticks meet the broth in your bowl again.

“What I’m asking is, ‘Why do you fence?’” you ultimately inquire. That is the most important question after all, isn’t it? People who live this long in their path as athletes wouldn’t burn so much sweat and energy into a sport without so much as a reason—a goal.

Todoroki swallows the last of his soba noodles while contemplating. “I guess, to put it simply, it’s to become the best. To compete with the best and to go where... my father once stood.”

Your eyes flicker at the note of his father, perceiving the falter in Todoroki’s tone before the mention.

“Maybe even higher,” he adds, setting his utensils across the edge of his depleted bowl of sauce. You understand the reference at the attachment of higher. To head towards the upper step that his father could never achieve on that podium. It’s a weighty, arduous, and grandiose ambition, but the boy is determined to go to any lengths to get there, for the flare beneath his eyes quavers into a blaze too powerful to be doused by even a torrent.

“That would be quite a feat, Todoroki,” you whistle, “I just hope you remember, you’re allowed to go at any pace you want. You don’t need to be running all your life to get there.”

Saber fencers are fencers who live on the speed and adrenaline of the game, and only seem to increase their acceleration as time goes on. People who thrive on the discipline compare it to Formula 1 racing as it’s aggressive, fast, and requires split-second decision making. In a way, these traits reflect the boy’s story—the vigor he feels, the rapid-fire swiftness he tackles his life to attain that one point further to win the bout and achieve his dreams, his glory. He’s forgotten that he’s allowed to go at any pace he desires to accomplish something like this. He doesn’t need to keep his body in a full sprint all his life to make it to the finish line. He’ll get there eventually, and certainly doesn’t need his aspirations to be handheld by someone on the sidelines. He just needs to realize he can make those decisions on his own.

The breath he respires inward, along with the silence that drags amidst the gap enclosed among you two, is enough for you to know he’s absorbing your words. However, you’re blindsided when he leans forward on the table, chin resting on his palm with poise in his gaze.

“Why do you fence, Y/n?” He redirects your question right back. It’s not a move you expected, for you don’t respond immediately, attempting to conceive a reply through a trance in your head. Ultimately, you are scrounging for an answer that doesn’t exist.

“I’m... I’m not sure myself,” you say, returning empty-handed at the question.

Unlike Todoroki, you don’t harbor any challenging or earnest dreams and ambitions. Whereas he strides through his life, steered down a clear, concise path, you course through your existence like a nomad, and wander with no map and no specific directions to guide you except the wind and stars.

Perhaps the “stars” that led you here was that Olympic video you watched long ago, the one that spurred you to fence, and now collided you face-to-face with Todoroki, where he continues his venture to the top, and you’re still settling at the bottom with no particular outstanding talent or skills. Maybe the reason you could never drive yourself to achieve such feats is because you know, deep down, you’d never attain the results you desired. You’re just... average.

He observes as you shroud your figure in a stiff stance, your visage cast down to your own hands intertwined together beneath the table. You do not meet his eyes. Like an épée fencer, you are slow and defensive, putting up a wall hoping that it will be enough to repel the pierce of the deafening question away, along with the sear of his fixed stare.

However, he relieves you of the tension when his hand journeys across the table to tilt your chin up. Your walls teeter down as he allows your eyes to meet his once more, except at glance they do not burn. Instead, they are warm, soothing—parallel to the smile on his lips—like a kindle of fire you could sit by and revel in peace and tranquility.

“It’s OK, Y/n. I know you’ll find it eventually,” he assures. His words comfort you. The stiffness in your nerves mellow upon hearing the smoothness of his voice.

When the waiter abruptly drops off your bill on the table with a palpable clunk, your gazes remove themselves from one another at last, aware that you’re in the restaurant and have cleared your plates and bowls of noodles a while ago. Now was about time you vacated the spot for another set of people to occupy and enjoy a meal.

Your hand rummages into your bag to pluck out your wallet to help pay; however, Todoroki already allots his card atop the tray retaining the receipt, telling you that the food was on him. Even when you deny the offer, he still firmly insists.

“Consider this a thank you for showing me this place,” he asserts, “and for spending your time with me. I enjoyed talking with you.”

You wane, your hand easing out from your bag to wholly accept the proposal upon hearing that he relished your company—that the moment between you two meant something to him within his usual monotonous routine. It was a change, one he realized that, despite his uncertainty in the beginning, proved to conclusively recollect his thoughts and perhaps made him judge his ideals.

In the end, you lug your purchased shoes at your side as the two of you leave the table after paying the bill, now standing beside each other outside the restaurant.

Currently, the sun hangs above the clear sky scattered in the bright azure of late afternoon. You check the time on your phone, grumbling over how fast the hour flew by during your meal. Todoroki simpers, waving a hand out in front of you.

“I think it’s about time I headed back,” he says. You nod in agreement, knowing well you’ve intruded into his free time today, but are glad he enjoyed himself nonetheless.

“Can I borrow your phone, though? I need it to call someone to come pick me up.”

You pass your phone over to him without hesitation. He punches a few buttons through the call app, and the tone rings two consecutive times before he speaks into the mic. From where you’re occupying, you distinguish a muddled feminine voice talking on the other line.

His mom probably? Or maybe he has a sister? Either way, he concludes the call with a click sooner than you can debate further, returning your phone after his fingers dial across the screen longer than necessary. The swift series of motions bemuses you just as he places the device back into your palm.

“I’ll see you next practice, Y/n,” he farewells with a flourish of his hand as he walks off.

“Wait, what was it that—” your question pauses when you gesture your eyes down at the answer in front of you. The light emitting from the screen displays a newly added contact information with an attached number, and interestingly, it’s indicated by a single given name.

Shouto

Due to your inclination and inquiry, the contact rallies you to press your thumb above the series of numbers, clicking the message icon in the submenu. You type a quick text and push your finger on send without delay.

⇒ [ 4:13 ] — shouto?

Oddly enough, a gray bubble of ellipsis materializes as a notion that someone is typing on the other end, and it disappears just as fast as it emerges.

⇒ Shouto [ 4:13 ] — yes?

Of course, you’re surprised by how instantaneous the message appears, noting Todoroki had just utilized your phone to call home a minute ago. But at a tilt of your head, you pinpoint the boy hanging by the lamppost in the distance, turning back at you with—lo and behold—his phone right in between the slips of his fingers, a teasing grin gracing his lips. Your taunting nature quips a similar smirk in response.

⇒ [ 4:14 ] — you sly dog

.

.

“My, seems like you’ve been in an especially good mood lately, Y/n,” Yaoyorozu notes the way you hum upbeat melodies in the tune of a song one improvises on the spot, unique and unheard on any radio station, while you clasp the straps of your trousers over your shoulders in the locker room. The beam cast prominently on your face is enough indication that her remark is spot on.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you jest in a dulcet tone, fully aware of your jovial complexion. It’s almost as if a luminosity glows within your ambiance.

Since your run-in with Todoroki three weeks ago—resulting in your furtive exchange of numbers—you’ve been sending messages to one another, holding conversations outside the confines of fencing practice. During these texts, you grasp more and more of each other—your lifestyles, personalities, and interests. Todoroki even mentioned his older siblings to you in one exchange. His sister, Fuyumi, taught children at an elementary school while his brother, Natsuo, worked in the health department. However, his oldest brother, Touya, he wasn’t too sure about though he insisted he must be doing fine on his own, so you didn’t pry, surmising the brother to be free-spirited or some sort. Despite the generous dictions Todoroki spoke about his family, he still maintained a strained effort to not mention his father anywhere in your chats, presumably not to taint the conversation’s mood or flow. Especially considering his mother and his father are not on good terms.

However, through every delicate shift, you made a point to him that if he ever needed to open up to anyone about these sensitive topics that you’d always be willing to listen.

“You’ve even been on fire with all your matches during practice recently. Care to explain?” the onyx-haired girl questions, but you continue to wave her insistent queries away, latching on your last piece of fencing gear. Yaoyorozu quirks an eyebrow as she follows your splendor outside the locker room and into the training hall.

As you enter the room, now hectic with work, you catch sight of Todoroki only a little distance across from you, who’s preparing for a match. When your eyes meet, a smile unconsciously spreads on your lips cheek to cheek while he acknowledges your gesture with his own. Unknowingly, the reciprocation does not sneak past Yaoyorozu’s keen, peripheral vision as she soon emerges by your side with a witting glint in her eyes the moment Todoroki turns away.

“Oh I see now…” she begins musing, her hums pitching toward a chafing inflection, “You and Todoroki Shouto are seeing each other.”

“Momo!” you shrill. Despite Yaoyorozu passing on her remark through a bare murmur, your senses spike into acute awareness, jutting your head side-to-side behind you to perceive if anyone heard. Though your cheeks bloomed a dainty pink, the tips of your ears were suffusing a much more noticeable red that the girl can’t help but giggle at.

You release a sigh after composing yourself. “Shouto and I are most definitely not a thing,” you insist.

“Hm, but you’re already on a first-name basis with each other.” Yaoyorozu is as observant as always. You furiously shake your head, continuing to deny every accusation.

“Look, we’re just good friends! Besides, he doesn’t have time to get involved in things like that,” you tell her, and thankfully, Yaoyorozu does make a point that the boy seems more pressed about fencing than seeking a relationship at the moment, so she waves it off for now. All in all, you’re merely happy you could befriend him and offer your support whenever he needed it. Well, that was a summary of your relationship anyway. With Yaoyorozu mentioning the possibility of you and Todoroki being an item, it does find its way into your mind.

Holding hands, going on dates, exchanging—

But as soon as the idea transpires with vivid imaginations, you drive them away through an impulsive slap of your palms against your cheeks.

What am I thinking?! Shouto has too many things he’s working towards right now. He doesn’t have time for love and relationships! You scold yourself and immediately rush into training to distract those thoughts from appearing again.

On an average day of practice, the schedule follows along the lines of everyone scattering into their respected areas to warm-up before transitioning to drills and matches, mixing it up against different opponents to grasp a broader skill level. Today, you occupy your time as much as possible, taking breaks only when necessary to maximize the session and not allow your eyes and mind to wander towards a certain dual-haired young man again. And you’ve nearly succeeded this feat to the very end if not for said boy popping up at your side unexpectedly while you were placing your épée down.

“Oh, whoa, Shouto,” you sputter, about to tip off balance had Todoroki not caught you through a grip on your arm.

“What’s up?”

“Sorry, Y/n,” he apologizes, “but I wanted to ask if—”

“Todoroki.”

He’s cut short by a call, and when you two turn around you’re greeted by your messy-haired coach standing behind you.

“I need to speak with you real quick.” Coach Aizawa nudged his head toward the sideline. Obliging, Todoroki nearly dismisses himself from your side, but leans into your ear at the last second to mutter in a hushed voice, “Wait for me when you finish changing after practice, I’ll tell you then.”

Your sole response is a swift nod before Todoroki walks along Coach Aizawa. Whatever they’re speaking about is far beyond the curiosity of your mind because instead, you’re pondering the last bit of Todoroki’s words that edged off, making you wonder what he wanted to ask you. At first, you speculated the query to consist of trivial topics, like perhaps he was going to ask for another restaurant recommendation to show his family or whatnot. However, it didn’t take long for you to dive into the depths of your overarching thoughts. You surmised that maybe the other fencers have also speculated the two of you are in a relationship, and the boy came to you to clarify the matter by drawing a clear, defined line between you to rectify the misunderstanding.

“God, I’m just paranoid,” you mumble under your breath. While you do agree with not letting the others misinterpret your friendship, you’d rather it’d be through a means that wouldn’t have to hinder something between you two.

All you can do for now is fend off the rest of today until you’re finally hastening to the locker rooms to get dressed.

You tug the white uniform off to replace it with your casual apparel, shoving the gear back into your duffel bag and latching the strap onto your shoulder before closing the locker much more abruptly than necessary. As you’re about to make your leave in an evidently impatient manner, you still made sure to slip a remark to Yaoyorozu that you’ll be waiting outside the center for when she finishes.

By the time you headed to the exit, Todoroki had already situated himself beside the door, scrolling through his phone until he noticed you approaching.

“Hey, Shouto,” you greet, and Todoroki locks his phone to turn his attention to you. “What was it that you wanted to ask me earlier?” you ask, hoping he didn’t notice how eager you sounded.

“Right, I was recently invited to watch a fencing exhibition, and I wondered,” he starts, his hand brushing against the back of his head, “if you wanted to come along with me.” He averts his gaze to anywhere but your face, stance surprisingly stiff and a dust of pink blotting his cheeks that you don’t catch.

Oh, it was only that. At all your overrun thoughts and misunderstandings that built up beforehand, a grin arises, and you inevitably can’t suppress the laugh that gradually trembles in your gullet. Stumped, Todoroki scrutinizes your sudden animated expression like he’s left out in the ending of a joke.

“What? Was it something I said?” He squints his eyes, deliberating if he somehow said something humorous. You flit your head back and forth while the quivers resonating from your throat cease.

“No no, it’s not that. I’ve just been overthinking things is all,” you explain. Todoroki tilts his head.

“‘Overthinking’?” he repeats.

“Yeah, like I’m looking into certain details too much...” you trail off, voice running toward a dead-end that forces you to shift the tone of the conversation, much to your chagrin.

“Shouto, has anyone… said anything today?” Unknowingly, your fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt when you ask the question, nervous.

“What do you mean?”

At the response and his narrow brows, you shake your head, almost lamenting even asking something so ambiguous. “No, never mind, it’s nothing.”

Todoroki discerns the faint stir in your expression when you wave off the query. However, you’re quick to transition back into the subject at hand before he can even attempt to pry.

“Anyways, to answer your question, yes, I’d be glad to come with you, Shouto,” you answer, but a finger rests beneath your chin, “Though I’m a bit curious as to why you chose to ask me instead of someone else.” If Todoroki was invited to observe an exclusive exhibition match, it’s likely to consist of many other competent players within his league, meaning it’ll be an advantageous way to size up the competition. To invite you of all the people from the academy to tag along with him may be a waste compared to the other talent nurtured in that training hall. You understood your skills that much, at least.

The dual-haired boy raises his shoulders, nonchalantly, “I don’t see why I wouldn’t invite you.”

“I mean, wouldn’t it benefit another fencer better?” you reason. Todoroki remains unchanged in his stance.

“I don’t care about anyone in there. You’re the person I want to go with, Y/n,” he declares, firm with weight beneath every word that you don’t even think to oppose his fortification. So much so that those over-analytical inferences jointly possess your senses once again—the gears in your head beginning to speed up through a motor of hypersensitive nerves that drive your thoughts into ambient fantasies—until you will yourself not to let his words run over you, no matter how unwavering they may sound, or how saccharine they may be. You cannot indulge in cloying mirages, because you tell yourself those word don’t mean anything. They shouldn’t mean anything. 

“Alright, alright, I’m going with you,” you ultimately yield, and Todoroki grins like he’s beaten you in a longstanding debate.

“Good.” You hear a car pull up outside the fencing center, right as he finishes. At that, he makes his leave, calling out to you that he’ll see you again for the exhibition between an empty expanse that increases more and more as he walks to the vehicle. Your voice is only a distant holler when you utter back that you can’t wait, tone dying down. The moment his car drives through the broad horizon across the sky soaked in brilliant hues of reds and oranges, your hand reaches into your duffel bag to draw out your phone out of a deep longing for something you can’t properly discern.

An odd pang ripples your cognition, inciting you to unlock and push buttons that lead you back to your texts with Todoroki. You thumb across the keyboard in a gradual process to type a message you have little idea of the repercussions behind.

⇒ [ 5:34 PM ] — shouto what would you think if you and i|

“Oh, Y/n, thanks for waiting!”

Yaoyorozu’s preppy voice disrupts your motions, eluding your attention from the text message that is impulsively transcribed by the emotions running through your fingertips.

“Oh, Momo, you’re done,” you respond, feigning a sprightly tone in your reply to help waver the sensations playing at hand before cutting them off entirely by your thumb squeezing the backspace, suffocating the incomplete message away from your thoughts.

It is better to stab the heart now before it can beat any faster.

You try to ingrain this into your head, yet the lingering sensations you fail to extinguish produce the electric shock that prevents that heart from dying, and you head home, not realizing that it swells back into aching throbs.

Ending Notes | We made it to the end! Hope it wasn’t too boring or anything. If you liked to be added to the taglist for part 2 (which is basically the final part), just ask. However, I just want to warn you now in case you did not read the warnings and genre at the top, that this twoshot will contain smut. While it won’t be super explicit, it is still NSFW content so beware under 18 aged readers, especially since I haven’t posted any explicit content before this aside from sexual undertones and implied stuff on Syndicate. As always, comments and feedback are welcomed!

[doctorreids]

folklore - spencer reid x reader

CHAPTER FOUR - exile 

previous chapter | next chapter 

word count: 2.3k

a/n: so i thoroughly enjoyed writing this chapter so i hope you all enjoy! i’m the slightest bit worried that spencer is ooc but i’ll let myself lose sleep over that at some point. the donny hathaway song i’m referring to is this one - one of my favourite songs ever, so so so beautiful. reblogs, likes and comments are, as always very much appreciated - thank you for all the love so far x

“i can see you standin’ honey, with his arms around your body, laughin’ but the jokes not funny at all.”

It had been 3 months, 2 weeks, 3 days. He wishes he could recall the exact time but, for once in his life, he can’t.

There was life before Y/N and there was life with her, he never imagined that there would be a life without her; because if this is life…

The curse of having an eidetic memory is recalling every word, every glance, every silence, and every mistake. They filled his head every day, cacophonous and relentless.

He knows that 50% of couples break up then reconcile, he knows that this is more typical for unmarried couples to do. Yet, statistics do nothing to calm his frustration at himself. Statistics don’t tell him what he can do to fix what is broken.

There’s so much that he misses; her jumping at any chance to be with him, accompanying him to foreign film festivals, conventions, and anything he showed the slightest interest in. She would do anything for him, long before he ever called her his.

He’s still processing the depth of his loss. He had convinced himself for the first month that he could carry on and ignore the chilling cold of his bed at night or the loneliness of the subway journey home. By the second month, he could hardly look at himself. Now, three months on, the pain is so visceral, so real, that he cannot escape the crushing silence that surrounds him. No more quiet conversations on the jet, or laughter in the bullpen.

He wonders if her apartment feels just as empty as his.

He can’t help but let his mind wander to the conversation he overheard between Emily and Y/N in the bullpen - something about setting her up with a guy she knew from outside of work. He tried hard not to read into how reluctant she was accepting Emily’s offer or how defensive she looked when he went back to his desk.

What did he miss? Were there signs? Or did he, like he always did ignore the cracks as soon as they started to appear?

He didn’t want to think about someone else holding her, making her laugh, or being the reason for her smile.

It was dark outside, leaves littering the street, the rain pattering on his window. The sound of the occasional car passing by was the only sound that filled his apartment. Autumn was always his favourite season, it reminded him of change and growth, and when he first met her. It was cool that day, she was wrapped up in a royal blue knitted scarf and a soft brown worn coat - he swore to himself that he’d never seen anyone as beautiful before in his life.

He could barely focus on anything nowadays, from paperwork to books, everything was too difficult to confront. Sure, he’d been attending meetings, discussing his urges to numb himself from the world again. The beginning of his battle with addiction came before she did, it haunted him.

If he was being honest with himself, his addiction was the only thing he had fully confided in her.  She gave him all the understanding that, at times, his own chosen family didn’t give him. He didn’t resent them for it but it was frustrating.

He knew he immersed himself in work too often, the sea of paperwork and cases kept his head above the water that threatened to drown him. After all his years working for the BAU, he still didn’t know how to properly talk about what they witnessed. He tried to chalk it up to facts and probabilities, that evil exists in the world and all he can do is use what he knows to prevent it from happening again. But he couldn’t stop it from happening in the first place.

Despite how much responsibility he placed on his shoulders with his work, he questioned whether or not his career was what he really wanted. He’d promised he would find a cure for schizophrenia by the time he was thirty. Yet, here he is - alone, many a Ph.D. to his name but no overwhelming achievement.

He knew his first mistake was not telling her about how he was feeling. But he was angry, he didn’t know how to verbalise what was overwhelming him. Frustrated and choked up, he pushed her away. He kept telling himself that he felt suffocated, he was anxious that he would lose her to his job and he couldn’t prevent that. There was so much in his life that he couldn’t control.

His mother wasn’t improving, getting worse day by day, and all he could do was stand by and watch. He could write as many letters, call every day, and visit as often as he could but he couldn’t fix it. He couldn’t change what was happening.

He was surrounded by people he considered to be his family yet he felt alone. All the time. So, he pulled up his guard, plastered a smile on his face, and carried on. She would always go before him in his life, nothing could change that.

Work had been…tense. He knew from the start that the girls would be protective of her and he didn’t blame them - he knew that very next day when she didn’t reply to his texts or calls or when JJ told him to ‘give her space. His only other option was Derek and his advice wasn’t, at times, what he wanted to hear.

Derek told him to fix it actively but he wasn’t even sure what he was trying to fix. Himself or their relationship? Some big romantic gesture would win her back, he was told, but he knew she hated those. He tried bringing her favourite flowers, roses, but he would freeze up every time he got to her front door. By now, it wasn’t the season for roses and he was running out of options.

JJ, Emily, and Garcia never treated him any differently, he just felt exiled from their bullpen meet-ups. From the start, all he wanted was JJ’s advice. That night they all went out, he sat in her house with Henry, listening to him babble on about Aunt Y/N and Uncle Spencer.

He won’t ever forget the sad look JJ gave him when he left, underlying anger and bitterness in her voice when she bid him goodnight.

He can’t help but think that he had irreparably messed up.

“all this time, we always walked a very thin line.”

They always said that working together was more of a blessing than a curse, they were never without the other. They could read each other like the back of each other’s hand. Until one day, they couldn’t.

He wasn’t sure what switch flipped in his mind but his ability to be vulnerable with her and to open up completely was turned off. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find the words to express what was going on in his mind.

Then again, neither could she. That connection between them was lost, there was this impenetrable distance between them now.

He couldn’t get comfortable in his chair, his glass of whiskey sitting beside his growing stack of books. He kept trying to find room for them but he just couldn’t bring himself to put them away - it reminded him of her apartment; books scattered on different tables, never on the shelf. It was the only trace of her left in his apartment.

His pillow no longer smelt of her, sweet and fresh. Her toothbrush was no longer sitting by his sink nor her shampoo in his shower. He’d taken down the photos, they were too painful to look at almost every day. Yet, he still kept that scarf she had left at his apartment after one of their dates, the royal blue one. Her perfume was fading on that too.

“you’re not my homeland anymore, so what am i defending?”

She had been quiet the entire car journey home, exhaustion clearly written on her face. Her brow was furrowed in thought.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asked softly.

A slight smile flickered across her face for a split second. It went as quickly as it came, she was angry.

“I just want to get us home in one piece, Spence,” she snapped, “can you let me do that?”

“Sure.”

She wasn’t just angry, she was pissed.

By the time they got back to his apartment, she was tired, cold, and frustrated with him. He was equally as tired but grateful to be with her, alive and well. His run-in with the unsub resulted in an overnight stay in the hospital and minor surgery. Well, he thought it was minor. She clearly didn’t.

She didn’t stop for tea the way they normally would nor did she bother to leave the light on for him in the bathroom. She just crawled into bed without a word spoken to him since they’d gotten back to his apartment. In all honesty, he thought she was just going to drop him off then go back to her own home. He was surprised that she didn’t.

Lifting the covers, he slid into bed as silently as he could as not to wake her.

“What you did was really stupid, you know that?”

She was awake. He should’ve guessed.

‘I know.”

She sighed, turning to face him, “Spencer, I know our jobs don’t exactly meet safety regulations but you can’t play the hero all the time. I had to tell myself a long time ago, that you can’t save everyone. I know you, Spence. You’re a good man, brave and you have more courage in you than literally every other man that I’ve ever met and I love you for it. But you can’t keep doing this to me, to us.”

“Doing what?”

“Scaring us all half to death. You don’t remember me holding your hand while we waited for the medics. You don’t remember Morgan telling me that you’d pull through. You didn’t get to see everyone’s faces in the waiting room. But I remember it all, I don’t think I’ll forget it.”

He was stunned into silence.

“I could only think of the worst. How was I going to be able to tell your mother? How was I supposed to carry on knowing,” her voice broke and his heart shattered, “that I would never get to hold you again, or hear one of your many facts, or be able to explain how much you mean to me.”

“But, you didn’t have to-“ he started.

“I know. You’re alive and I’m so grateful. But if you ever pull a stunt like that ever again…”

His smile was sad, “I won’t ever leave you. You’re my home. I’d do anything to keep you safe.”

“And you’re mine too.”

“i think i’ve seen this film before and i didn’t like the ending.”

The memory echoed in his mind. He thinks about what could have been, the family he pictured them having. He knew, even though it was unsaid, she wanted a little girl. He couldn’t lie and say that he wouldn’t want to see a miniature Y/N running around. He always wanted his own kids ever since Henry was born and something inside him changed when he saw you holding Henry for the first time.

He saw his future before him.

Or so he thought. His dream disappeared when he heard his front door slam that night. He would give anything to take that night back. Take back the things that were said, the things left unsaid, and go after her.

By now, he thought he was too late. He witnessed the most perfect, the most precious thing he had in his life play out like a Shakespearian tragedy on the big screen. His heartache played like a movie he had seen far too many times before.

Maybe they were doomed from the start, their ending determined by fate. Something he only ever believed in with her.

“You can’t save everyone.” He couldn’t even save himself. He thought he was kidding himself when he thought he could ever win her back, too much time had passed, too much distance.

There were oceans between them, and for too long he was too scared to start to cross the vast space.

He stared at his now empty whiskey glass and out onto the street - the rain was heavier now. He had no idea what time it was, it was late. He wonders if she’s still up. If she’s sitting in that chair by her window, like he is, thinking about him.

His whole body aches for her touch. He aches to tell her everything, to apologise and to tell her all the small little things that have happened since they last spoke. Like how that mug she used to always drink out of shattered when he was putting it back in the cupboard and how he cried because he couldn’t glue it back together. Or how he searched and searched for a new one but he couldn’t find it so he decided to not buy a new one, it couldn’t be replaced.

He would tell her that he listens to that Donny Hathaway song she used to always play in the car late at night. He’d like to think that she would be proud that he knows all the words - that he doesn’t just listen to Beethoven. Morgan told him to play a song over a boombox outside her window. He didn’t get the reference but he knew he would play that song.

He opened his wardrobe to pull out his pyjamas when it caught his eye. The scarf, a shimmer of glitter caught in the moonlight.

He knew what he had to do.

Grabbing his coat, keys, and the scarf, he opened his door and walked out into the night.

[silenthillmutual]

prompt: daniil asking artemiy for a hug/cuddle pressure stim !!! (idk what you call it. but that thing when someone lies on u and it's Good)

he’s about near defeated. daniil feels exhaustion weigh into him on a level he simply can’t describe. but he feels like porcelain, like any little stumble could shatter him to pieces. and he feels, too, like he’s on the edge of tripping, even here in his room with his eye to the microscope. daniil takes off his gloves and presses his hands to his face. he hates the feeling of it all soaking into his skin - the soot, the grime, the dirt under his fingernails, because no matter how clean he keeps there’s always something. but with the gloves it’s worse, one less border to keep the world at bay.

and his hands smell like leather. it’s really neither here nor there at the moment, but his head is spinning. he’s never felt so dizzy in his life, even when his stomach railed at him and refused to let him eat. there had always been a sort of dangerous calm to him then, but here, in this town, his nerves have taken all control. shame starts to coil around his shoulders, around his neck like a noose, and he shivers in his atempt to lose it.

artemy’s steps on the staircase are loud. they feel like they pull daniil back down to the ground, back down to earth. and just when he felt like he was floating away from it, too. he can’t tell if his feelings toward that are positive or negative, but he looks toward the other man as he enters the room with a mind to hide how much he struggles, at the moment, hands tucked between his knees and making an attempt at a smile he’s sure from years of faulty experience does not reach his eyes. “burakh,” he greets.

“we’ve no need for the formalities, daniil. it’s just us.” daniil sighs and covers his face once more, fingers digging into his eyes. the twyre’s getting there too, making every surface of his skin itch. there’s a draw between them with the haruspex moving closer, putting his hand to the top of daniil’s head as if to feel the skin. “you look sick, emshen. don’t give me something else to worry about.”

“i’m not sick,” daniil argues, but there’s no fight behind it. he sighs, heel of his hands pressing his eyes back into his skulls. too much force, and they’ll slip right through the sockets, roll ‘round and come out his mouth. oh, how he detests the image. “i’m just exhausted. no matter -”

his attempt to move is cut short by a finger pushing him back in his seat, pinning him down. “it’s not ‘no matter’,” artemy tells him, “you need a rest, that’s clear as day. so have a sleep. i’ll come back in the morning.”

“i can sleep when i’m -” he stops himself just short. he knows the expression artemy wears before he even sees it. half amused, half bemused and altogether fond in an exasperated sort of way. “well, you know what i mean,” daniil says, but there’s a fracture making its horrid scrape across the inside of his head. he starts to angle his body down more, elbow on his knee cradling his brow once more.

artemy is fixated on him. where he stands is not so bad, blocking out a majority of the light in the room. daniil feels outside of his skin once again, bloated and soaring like a balloon. he just can’t stand it like this. “is there anything i can do to help you?”

“nothing remotely within either of our capabilities,” daniil grumbles. “we’ve both got our plates full, so to speak, and you’re already working on a cure. you’ve stated vaccines aren’t within your area of expertise, and i somehow doubt you’d want -”

“no,” artemy interrupts. “not something to help the plague, daniil. something to help you. and your...what is this, a migraine?”

“nerves.” daniil shifts. he’s not uncomfortable so much as a different, long-distant feeling building up in him. embarrassment, he guesses. but the rate he’s been going at, he’s so worn thin that it almost doesn’t matter to him how ridiculous the words he’s about to say will sound. but only almost. “there are some benefits to the human touch,” he states, and waits for artemy to make some snide remark that never comes. “and in times like this, where i feel so out of my body that i might drift off altogether, feeling alone can... ground me.”

so far, artemy hasn’t laughed at him. but there’s still the thought that he might, and it’s that which keeps daniil from looking up. if artemy so much as looks amused, he might - well, he’s lost control, but restraint will be the next thing to go. he can’t think of what he’ll wreck, but he feels the urge right under his skin. “what do i need to do to help?” artemy asks.

daniil’s fingers twitch. he’s got them dug so the nails flat into the wood of the chair. it’s uncomfortable. it’s another thing inching him closer to the edge, to screaming. “this will sound silly,” daniil says, and as much as he intends it as a statement to warn artemy of his forthcoming request, it feels and it sounds so much more like a comment to himself on the quality of his needs. a way to chide himself, to convince himself he’s above such nonesense. “and i understand if it’s far too much to ask -”

“just spit it out, will you?” artemy asks. “it’s not like i’ll bite you.”

he leans back in his seat, not meeting artemy’s eyes. his lip trembles. “lay on top of me,” he says. he feels the color hit his cheeks as his eyes roam over the desk. but he feels artemy trying to drag his attention back with a wave of his hand, eyebrows up nearly to his hairline. daniil’s not sure if he hasn’t heard, or perhaps simply hasn’t believed his own ears. it’s not like daniil to ask for affection, after all, or to show it as freely as all that. that’s something he thinks he wears about himself pretty openly, and it must confuse artemy to no end that he’s here asking for it now. but he clears his throat and pushes himself to a stand, fingers locking behind his back.

“lay down on top of you?” artemy asks. it’s hard for daniil to get a read on his emotions at the best of times, but artemy doesn’t say the words with any sort of inflection. he doesn’t want to get too comfortable with their rapport, in case the tables turn around on him now. and artemy shifts a little, looking around the room, before fixing his gaze on daniil once again, frown set in place. “no offense, emshen, but -” it’s too much, daniil thinks. too personal of him to have asked. “i think you’d break under my weight.” daniil must be wearing some sort of expression that betrays offense, and artemy gestures. “i mean, look at you! you’re rail thin. when was the last time you ate properly, or slept? if i lay on you, i’ll hurt you.”

“i think i know my limits,” daniil replies, but uncertainty is still etched into the haruspex’s face, and daniil sighs, running a hand over his face. “i can’t explain why it works. going into detail, it would only feel...crude. but the heaviness, it’s like - like my jacket, only warmer!” daniil feels embarrassed, trying to explain it, and even worse with the concerned look artemy’s giving him. he turns his back to the man to remove his shoes, mumbling the words forget it to himself as he does. and he keeps his head decidedly turned, too, as he curls up on the bed, hoping he’ll get used to the feeling of artemy’s eyes on him so he won’t just be laying in a huff, staring at the wall.

daniil doesn’t feel the bed shift behind him, no warning that he’s being joined until body heat starts to press against him. artemy rolls so he’s covered about half of daniil’s body. “i feel like an idiot,” he grumbles, and daniil almost shivers with the touch of his breath on the back of his neck. “am i doing this right?”

“yes,” daniil mumbles back. he shouldn’t be embarrassed, not of this, not in his own room, but artemy’s commentary makes him self-conscious. that happens - and not just here, not just now, but all of the time when they’re together. daniil sort of hates it, how easily flushed and rattled he gets, the way his colleague’s bites make him feel haunted through the day. but only sort of, because no matter how badly it stings the truth is that the fixation is all his own. he can’t blame artemy for it all.

it always comes back down to him. some block he has, as a person. “you’re cold, erdem,” artemy says.

crestfallen, he thinks the term is. stomach dropped to a lower pit. hurt, but in a deeper way than the shallow cuts he’s used to taking and inflicting. “i get told that often,” he says. his fingers curl in toward the palm of his hand, bending his knees and his head toward his stomach. “many people have called me cold. i didn’t expect you to be one of them.”

he hadn’t meant to divulge that last part. it’s a good thing artemy can’t see his face like this. he’s never liked... all that. being open with people. showing them his feelings. it’s never gone well, never could. it always takes him back to an early age, a bitter one. it’s always better to have people think you are cold, show them a stony face and let them hurl their insults than expect better treatment. artemy’s body shifts so his chest is flat to daniil’s back, and he feels fingers curling over the curve of his shoulders. “physically, daniil,” artemy says. without that coat i can feel your skin through your shirt. how are you even moving like this?” the fingers are light enough to tickle his skin as they reach down, grabbing a wrist. “show me your fingers. i need to see if the tips are blue.” in daniil’s line of sight he takes his hand, slotting his own fingers in the spaces between daniil’s, wrapping over the back of his hand. and he is warm, to contrast, his thumb rubbing daniil’s idly. moments pass, minutes, with artemy’s head rested against the back of daniil’s head before he pulls back. “i could fall asleep like this,” he admits.

“don’t let me stop you,” daniil mutters.

artemy laughs at him. he feels artemy’s chest move with it. “you wouldn’t be able to push me off like that. i really would be crushing you, and then we’d have issues.” you’re crushing me now, crushing my hopes, daniil thinks. he’d like to slap himself for the melodramatic thought.artemy slides until he’s back to an only partial cover, arm and a leg still around daniil. the night air grabs at him, but he feels less cold already. “is this alright?” artemy asks, as he moves his hand to grab the back of daniil’s. his fingers cover daniil’s fingertips, forcing life back to them. “is this alright?” he asks.

no, daniil thinks. it’s not enough. but he only sniffs, and says, “it’s adequate.” he listens to artemy sigh, breath skating against the back of his neck. he feels artemy mutter something, perhaps that will have to do for now.

and if they drift a little closer together in the middle of the night, well, neither man says a thing about it.

[highsviolets]

cristina my love, how does our dear lifeguard ben cope with being bored in class?

i am so tired   worn out  exhausted ill at ease with not

knowing??understanding

setting eyes

on time

ben’s penmanship gouges the thin sheet. “merde,” he curses, mouthing the phrase. his head jerks to the side -- his right -- in a single motion, dipping and breaking into empty space.

his hair is darker, now, much darker and more oppressive. ben is a cyclical being: his person matches nature. ben is the disciple of rousseau but he is not sure if he knows it, just yet: when will he unlock the secrets of the human heart?

he looks up again. there is still no clock mounted on the slabs of honey-hued stone, nor does the watch on his wrist deign to alleviate his discomfort. The professor is still droning, placid fingers draped over the sides of the podium and man’s voice as still as his movements.

what the lecture is about, Ben couldn’t say. The topic could be anything from Wuthering Heights to A Catcher in the Rye and he still wouldn’t care, not when there’s something inside of him that’s making his heart turn hot and his blood feel swollen in his veins and his own fingers tap out the meter of some yet-unknown rhyme on the wood desk that’s riddled with the imprints of half-minted poets past.

thoughts of you drift across his lungs and he is drugged on you, drugged on you and oxygen, those inseparable ingredients of existence. and he writes it out, because if he does not he will die, and you will die with him, and there will be nothing left but cigarette ashes and residual scorch marks.

and he cannot blame himself, later, when he does not remember anything but your name and your hair and the warmth of your hand in his, because school is but school, and you are but life.

prev // next // series masterlist

Tags: @anakin-danvers @mcu-padawan @catsnkooks @goldenkenobi @rentskenobi @profkenobi @wille-zarr @badedum-badaboom @i-am-i-am-obiwankenobi @master-obi-wan-kenboneme @ohhellokenobi @justrunamok @videogamesandpoorlifechoices @lussyyung @obirain

[avengerscompound]

Bartoned - Chapter 31

Bartoned - A Hawkeye Fanfic

Masterlist PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Rating:  E

Warnings:  Nothing really

Pairing: Clint Barton x F!Reader

Word Count:  1667

Summary:  Clint’s name has become synonymous with fucking things up.  When you have a one night stand with him, your whole life gets Bartoned.

A/N:  Thank you for @mumbles411​ for your help with this chapter

Chapter 31

The wedding of Kari and Wanda seemed to rush up on everyone suddenly.  It was weird how things like that could happen.  It would seem like there was an eon before a big event and then it arrived and you couldn’t believe how fast the time had gone.

You had been so busy though, with work, helping Kari with her wedding preparations, planning your own wedding, the two bachelorette parties, and parenting, there was never a moment of your time not occupied by something.  By the time the wedding actually arrived you felt exhausted and worn a little thin.

Though the excitement radiated off Kari and Wanda.  The ceremony was relatively small and being held in Central Park at the Cop Cot under the natural gazebo.  Wanda was getting ready with Natasha, Carol, and a few of the other female Avengers who she was close with in the apartment she shared with Kari, while Kari was in your apartment with you and her mother while Clint got ready and kept Nattie out of the way.  She was nine-months-old now and had started self-weaning from breastfeeding, and while she couldn’t walk alone she was very into cruising along, holding herself up on the couch or coffee table, or better yet, holding her daddy’s hand.

A photographer had been taking photos of Kari getting ready too but everything seemed to be done now.  Hair was set.  Makeup was done.  Dresses had been smoothed over and double-checked.

“Alright.  I think… I think I’m about to become someone’s wife,” Kari said, looking around to see if she missed anything.

You handed her her bouquet of red and white wildflowers.  “FRIDAY can you let Bucky know we’re heading to the car.  And tell Wanda we’re heading out?”  You said.

“Of course, miss,” the A.I. replied.

You kissed Clint and Nattie goodbye and headed down to the cars where Bucky was waiting.  You, Bucky, Kari, and her mother all climbed into the back of a limo and it pulled out into the busy midtown street.

“So you’re the one who’s acting as Kari’s father?”  Kari’s mother asked.

“That’s right.  You can call me, Bucky,” Bucky said, offering her his hand.

“I’m Conny,” she replied, shaking it.  “Funny, you don’t look old enough to be her father.”

“I assure you, I am,” Bucky joked.

“You would have been in Europe around the time she was conceived, weren’t you Buck?  Any trips to Denmark?”  You asked.

Bucky chuckled while Kari glared daggers at you.  “No.  You cut that out.”

“It’s possible.  I was sent all over the place,” Bucky replied.

“Oh god,” Kari groaned.  “I should have asked Tony after all.”

The car pulled up at the gates of the park, and the few security that had been hired moved in quickly to help get you all to the venue without a problem.  You could hear the group gathered up on top of the hill from where you all waited in the closed-off marque.

When Wanda and her group arrived you heard them talking as they moved into their own one.  The celebrant came to collect us as Bucky fixed his kippah to his head and went through the instructions about when each of us should go.

She left and a moment later a four-string quartet started up, letting us know she was making her way down the aisle.

“See you down there,” you said, kissing Kari on the cheek and heading out of the tent.

Natasha was waiting for you looking stunning in her cocktail dress, with its scoop cut neckline and flared-a-line skirt that reached just below her knees.  While the style was completely different to your floor-length empire cut dress, the red matched exactly.

The two of you walked up the path to the large gazebo on top of the hill surrounded by a thick cluster of trees.  The music changed and you and Natasha walked arm in arm down the aisle, splitting up when you reached the chuppah and you each moved to either side of the small canopy.  The cloth that covered it was red and white and it was decorated with wildflowers.

The music changed again and everyone stood.  Kari began walking down the aisle, flanked on either side by Bucky and her mother, their arms linked.   When they reached the chuppah, Conny lifted Kari’s veil off her face and kissed her cheeks before both she and Bucky moved to stand beside you and she stepped up in front of the celebrant.

Once again the music changed and the crowd all turned to look again.  Kari looked up excitedly and Wanda stepped through the entrance of the Gazebo.  She looked like a queen.  She wore a ball gown dress with a small train.  Red jewels were sewn up the skirt in such a way that every step looked like she was walking through fire.  The corseted bust was pulled tight with red ribbon, and on her head, she wore an elaborate diadem that almost looked like it formed two horns.  It was heavily jeweled with a large red jewel on her forehead.  Her veil was sewn into it and covered her face but even through it, you could see how her eyes were painted with a smokey eyeliner and even more clear was the huge smile on her dark red lips.

Clint looked just as proud as any father would.  He walked on her right, while Steve walked on her left.  When they reached the chuppah, Clint lifted Wanda’s veil and kissed her cheek, and then moved over next to Natasha.  Steve kissed Wanda too and when he was in place, Wanda and Kari circled each other.  When they finally moved into position the ceremony started.

It was a long but beautiful ceremony that blended in a few things from Wanda’s Jewish and Romani heritage - including stepping on a glass and jumping the broom.  The one thing that was constant throughout was how Wanda and Kari couldn’t stop looking at each other like one of them had hung the stars and the other had hung the moon.  They were so very in love and that whole feeling looked so alien to you.  When they finally walked back down the aisle and everyone followed after, the caterers swooped in and began to rearrange the area for the reception.   You and Clint found each other outside while the photos started.

“That was a beautiful ceremony,” you said, leaning against Clint as he wrapped his arm around your waist.

“Yeah, it was.  They looked so happy too,” Clint agreed.

“I don’t want ours to be anything like that,” you added.

“Fuck no,” Clint said quickly and you both started laughing.  “Like ten minutes.  I do - I do, get out.”

You leaned in and cradled his jaw as you looked into his blue eyes.  “I love you,” you giggled.

“Yeah, yeah.  Who can blame you?”  He teased and brought his lips to yours.

When you pulled back you were dragged into a few group shots and you stood around trying not to look too awkward as they rearranged everyone again and again.  When you finally were let go so that Kari and Wanda could go take photos around the park you made your way back to Clint again and inside the gazebo where they were serving canapes that this time mixed Wanda’s heritage and Kari’s Danish roots.  There was dark rye bread with gravlax, stuffed cabbage, and little potato cakes with a sweet corn mayonnaise amongst them.  On a small table next to the head table was a cake made from stacked rings of marzipan.

You grabbed a flute of champagne from the first server that passed you and drained half the glass in one go.

“Woah, go easy there,” Clint said as he piled canapes onto a napkin.

“No way, this is the first night out with you I’ve had since I got pregnant that I wasn’t either pregnant or with my infant daughter.  I’m getting hammered,” you said.

“You’re still breastfeeding!”  Clint argued.  “Plus we’re still going home to her.”

“I’ll pump and dump,” you said.  “She’s not gonna care if she gets a bottle instead.  And you -” you tapped his chest “- can stay sober.”

Clint tried to stifle a laugh unsuccessfully and kissed your forehead.  “Well, here’s to the second time in my life I’m getting to see my fiance drunk.”

“Here, here!”  You cheered and drained the rest of the glass.  “You think she’s gonna be okay tonight?  There’s always been one of us there for bedtime.”

Clint shrugged.  “We’re not gonna be that late.  And Doreen has our number.  It’s not like she’s never gotten her to sleep before.”

You switched out your glasses and looked around the room.  “Tony’s chatting up Kari’s mom,” you said pointing at them with your glass.

Clint snorted.  “He’s determined to get back at Kari for not choosing him to walk her down the aisle isn’t he?”

You giggled.  “Looks like it.”

Clint leaned into you and nipped at your throat.  “It’s a pity we’re in the middle of Central Park,” he said.  “Not having Nattie with us calls for being dragged into a maintenance closet and fucking our brains out.”

“God damn it, Kari,” you cursed.  “Spoiling our fun.  You’re not even gonna be able to finger me under the table, because we’re not even sitting at the same table.”

“Well that’s just rude,” Clint agreed and shoved the last of his canapes into his mouth.

There was a clinking on glass and Steve went up to the microphone.  “Could everyone take their seats?  Wanda and Kari are nearly here.”

You huffed and nuzzled at Clint’s cheek.  “I’ll see you at the dance, I guess.  I’m going to be well drunk by then.”

“Sounds good,” he said and pecked your lips.  “Oh, one thing before you go.”

You looked at him quizzically and he brought his lips to your ear.  “We’re next,” he whispered.

// NEXT

[werezmastarbucks]

Whitmore Guy doesn’t take FBI seriously

whitmore guy masterlist

word count: ~1600

BAM! crossover. what are you gonna do, arrest me?

She didn’t tell Damon. That maybe Mal was way more sinister they’d thought. Or she thought, since nobody really believed her when she expressed her concerns.

In fact, Damon was the last person she wanted to talk to.

 ________________________

Mal came back, as he promised, to everybody’s big relief – three projectors stopped working and the astronomy students went mental. By the end of June there were very few people on campus which made Y/N’s work way easier, but it also gave her more time to think.

She stood at the open window, watching the parking lot and the field, when she noticed his stupid head at the entrance. He was talking to Cindy/Sandy again.

Y/N sprinted out of her office, ran down the corridor and almost rolled down the stairs, stopping in the hall to even her breathing.

She didn’t know what she was thinking when she exited the building and walked to them, chatting like old friends, giggling and smiling at each other. God’s sake your girlfriend’s been killed two weeks ago, at least pretend you feel something about it.

“Hey”, she said loudly, levelling with them. The girl looked at her passively with her green eyes, color just like Bonnie’s, but not much more in common.

“Excuse us, I gotta steal this boy for a minute”, Y/N barked, grabbed him by the shoulder and sighed with relief when he actually gave in.

“Sandy, you know what to do, generally”, he pointed at the student as she followed them two with her lazy eyes.

Y/N walked a couple of feet and turned to Mal, noticing how his face was all clean-shaven again, and he never looked better.

“My necklace, dude”.

Mal looked at her with understanding.

“You’re not wearing any”.

“Yeah, because somebody stole it”.

He opened his mouth compassionately.

“No! Who?”

She could feel her nostrils flare.

“You. You did, Mal, while I was asleep in your bed”.

He dropped the act.

“You mean that golden one that you were wearing when you came by?”

“Yes”.

“I didn’t take it”, he said simply.

They just stood there, awesome weather making every bone in their bodies want to jump and roll in the grass, wheezing with delight. Y/N looked in his stupid perfect youngish face.

“Stop fucking with me, Mal. I came in wearing my necklace, then I fell asleep and when I came back home it was gone. You were there. If you’re cleptomaniac, that’s fine, I’ll understand, but you have to give it back”.

His lips formed a thin line as he tried not to let a smile out.

“First of all, gross and uncalled for. I am not cleptomaniac and I have never been. Second of all, Y/N, why would I need your damn necklace?”

“I don’t know, you tell me, dude”.

“I don’t. And I didn’t take it, end of story”.

She felt helpless. Mal was as impregnable as an old castle wall. Fuck that dude and his inhuman mentality.

She took his shoulder, and Mal couldn’t help follow her hand with his eyes.

“You are the strangest person who’s ever come round in here”.

“Thanks”.

“That’s not a compliment. You’re weird, and I know you’re lying to me about things, granted, you’re very nice to me…”

“Because you’re the best”.

“Mal, please, just say it”.

He sighed deeply, and there were small dimples around the corners of his lips. He did it when he tried to act rationally. His hands lay on Y/N wrists, fingers wrapping around them like they were branches of dog-rose, but he also didn’t care for the thorns because he was a damn lizard.

“Honey, listen to me”, his eyes were very intense, hooking her up. There was that same stinging warm sensation on her skin, but she didn’t move.

“I did not steal anything from you because I don’t steal from people. If you ask me nicely, I will look for your necklace in my flat, because there’s a chance you took it off for some reason. But if you keep blaming me without any proof, I will get mad”.

Y/N liberated her hands slowly from his grip.

“Alright, I will get proof”.

“Also, some help would be nice”, he added venomously.

Somebody coughed politely, and Y/N stepped away from Mal. He didn’t move, but he gave the intruders the deadliest look.

The two well-built guys, fit and wide-shouldered, were standing in front of them. One had his hair cut very short, and had the brightest green eyes. The second one was much taller. He looked worn out, his FBI suit clearly too small for his impressive figure; he was holding a small notebook in his hands.

“Sorry to bother you, kids”, the first one said in a deep voice, “we’re with FBI. Hope we’re not… distracting you”.

The tall one gave his partner a warning look.

“Agent Wrestler, this is my partner, Agent Reddington”.

“Like in Blacklist?” Mal asked coldly.

“Uh”.

“It’s a TV-show”, Y/N helped. The agents were not impressed.

“Look, you study here, right?”

“No”.

“We work here”.

“Good, we’re here about the multiple killings”, agent Wrestler, the tall and tired one, said, “we spoke with the Mystic Falls sheriff, and she said you two survived the attack at the Craze bar?”

“Not only us, there’s about five more people…”

“Sure, we’ll talk to them later”.

Y/N didn’t even notice that she and Mal stepped up to each other, closing space between them with shoulders. Nobody like FBI who break your fight in the midway.

“Have you guys seen anything odd lately?” agent Reddington asked.

“You mean, except twenty beheaded people on the Salvatore lawn?” Y/N asked, “No, nothing odd”.

“Yeah, except that”.

“Any weird smells, strange people, animals acting out, change of weather…” agent Wrestler helped.

Y/N cocked her head. Mal was slowly starting to have fun.

“Are those normal FBI questions you ask people?” he mused, playful smirk wandering all over him.

“In fact, yes”, Wrestler responded. He looked like he was too exhausted by this June weather, and laughing people, and taking shit. “Very often folk doesn’t really realize how much little things help investigation”.

“Well, I saw a dog taking a shit behind the college building, officer, it was this morning”, Mal said joyfully.

“It’s Agent, kid, and let’s not make it too hard, okay?” Reddington grumbled.

“Sure, officer”.

Y/N saw the short guy suck the air through his teeth, and stepped up.

“It’s a weird place altogether. Mystic Falls doesn’t have the best reputation, so the things like this don’t surprise us anymore”.

“Can you describe what happened at the bar, miss..?”

She told them her last name.

“We were sitting at the table and then I went to talk to my friend, and some people just started jumping at each other and beating the crap out of…”

“With their fists and teeth”, Mal added.

“I tried to get away, but it was wild. But in five minutes or so they just stopped and… left”.

Wrestler nodded and wrote something in his FBI baby notebook. Y/N didn’t like all that at all.

“And those people… did you know them?”

“Some of them were the students here, yes”.

“My girlfriend died that night”, Mal said, dramatically.

The agents politely took a second.

“We’re very sorry for your loss”.

He nodded, without taking his eyes off them.

“And what… did they look like? Was there anything weird about them? Except them attacking each other?”

She and Mal exchanged looks. She prayed this guy wouldn’t say anything.

“Not really. Don’t know what you mean though, but they were just… angry”.

“They screamed and growled, and then somebody literally crashed a table on me, and I blacked out. But I’m fine now”, Mal’s additions were invaluable.

The agents were slowly giving up.

“And do you know the Salvatore brothers?”

“She does”.

“I went to school with the younger one”.

“Were you present at the time when the bodies were discovered?”

“No, I wasn’t”.

“Any idea who could’ve done this?”

Y/N shrugged.

“A maniac?”

“Does Damon Salvatore have enemies? How would you characterize him?”

Y/N had to cough not to let out a laugh. If you haven’t dreamt of breaking Damon Salvatore’s neck at least once, you’ve never been alive. Mal studied her curiously, then looked up at the agents.

“I think she’s allergic to you, guys”.

“Listen, kid, why don’t you beat it?” Reddington ran out of patience.

“Don’t feel like it”.

Wrestler tried to ease the tension.

“Phil, you could… uh, try to find Mr Ellis?”

“He doesn’t work today,” Y/N said, “it’s summer, teachers barely come in. Was he there?”

“Yes, he was at the bar”.

“Can you answer the question, miss Y/L/N?”

“Damon has a difficult personality, and every other person has had a conflict with him one way or another”, she said. Wrestler nodded and added something to his notes.

“What about you?”

“He annoys me often enough”.

“Alright”, he took out two business cards and gave them to her and Mal, “thank you for your time. If you remember anything else about that night, please, call”.

“You’ve been at the sheriff’s office?” Mal asked suddenly, like he just woke up.

“Yes”.

“Any ideas who you’re looking for?”

“Can’t disclose details”, Wrestler said, and the two agents nodded slowly with dignity. Mal bowed to them a little, getting a harsh pat from Y/N.

[wordsthativelost]

Stalking Jack

Hey, look what I found on an old flash drive!  I guess that counts as “words I’ve lost - and found” I don’t even have a place to post original fic any more.  Might as well put it here. I wrote this when I was very depressed.  I still think it’s *interesting* if not necessarily *good* CONTENT WARNINGS: suggested child abuse, hints at sexual abuse, suggested violence. -----

    "My real mother would never make me do that," you say to me.

    All children tell themselves secretly that they have other, better, parents somewhere -- kinder, grander, more exciting -- or so I have heard.  I never did, but then I was never one for daydreaming.  Not like you.  Most children are not brave enough, cruel enough, to speak that story aloud.

    You, however, stand before me, your eyes now level with mine, your father's broad jaw jutting forward, and cross wiry arms against a chest that is no longer quite so thin. You repeat, "My real mother would allow me to stay."  To hide the trembling, you push your hand through that ragged straw hair with its gleam of sunrise, covering your eyes so I do not see the hurt.  O my careless burden, my Jack, your words slice my heart in two, and it falls empty to the dirt floor between us; but no blame spills out, no blame at all.

    How can I blame you for denying me, denying this the home I made for you?  We are dirty and dark, rough and ramshackle, no place for you, O my shining youth, my shame, all sunlight and softness and the sweet drone of summer bees.  Surely you could not have sprung from between these splintered thighs, slipped from this chinked womb.  

    "Good.  Then ask your real mother for food and a fire," I say harshly.  Like this hovel, I have no shelter left to offer, and the Spring turning is still many weeks away.  "Go and find work, for there is nothing more for you here."

    Your eyes, molten gold, flow away from mine. "There's still the cow.  I could take her to the knacker's yard."

    "What?  She is all that I have left from..."  I do not finish. I do not think of the time before.

    "She is too old.  She is useless.  She requires feed and water and gives no milk in return."

    "She is not yours to sell."  This is true.  The cow had been a gift to me, a calf then, with eyes as warm and whimsical as a promise of faithfulness and fertility.  It is also true that she is now withered and dry.  I am still not ready to let her go.  "You would kill her to purchase a few more days of idle scribbling?"

    At that, your eyes flash.  "I am not idle!"  You shake your hand at me, still gripping the stick of charcoal you use to etch your fancies on scraps of wood and bark.  "You have never understood.  You have never cared about what is important to me!"

    No, I do not understand you, O my strange one, my changeling child.  How you drink tales and eat stories, how you exhaust yourself from your pretend battles and lie spent, bleeding words from a thousand invisible cuts.  But still the ice in my chest melts before your fire.  "See that you get a good price for her, then," is all I say.

    But when you return the next evening, you bring me no cheese for our supper, no wood for our fire.  No copper coins to purchase a few more tomorrows.  Instead, you show me a fist filled with foolish fancies, and your mouth drips with dreams like poisoned honey.  A strange man, you tell me, a man with flaxen hair and the eyes of a lion, met you on the forest path and offered you great things. You traded my cow, my past, for his promises and plans.

    I say nothing. You chatter on nonsensically, but I cannot hear you over the howling in my ears and I cannot see you for the darkness in my eyes. I take your folly and fling it out the door, scattering your daydreams like dirt in our yard, and you fall silent, and I think that now the rage in your heart will choke the hunger in your belly.  

    Maybe this time your stories are true.  Maybe you are not my son.

    In the morning you are gone.  You have followed this stranger's ensnaring lures, I tell myself.  Trapped in the clinging vines of your own imaginings, you climb them into the clouds of fairytales, the fog of let's-pretend.

    I hope that someone will feed you there.

    As for me, I search beneath my pillow for my small bag of precious things:  a faded blue ribbon, a crumbled flower wrapped in a yellowing scrap of lace, many tiny ivory teeth that tumble onto my hand, biting into the palm.  There is also the ring, the one your father gave me six months before you were born.  I use my own teeth to pry out the stone, sparkling topaz, like his eyes, like your eyes. It glitters like the deceitful endings of your magpie daydreams, and I close my fist tightly. The Travelers will come by soon, when the Winter rains end.  Perhaps they will trade me supplies and seeds for the empty silver band.

    Weeks later, I am digging in my new garden with a stout sharpened stick.  You return to me, your golden eyes blazing like the sun reflected in the puddles all around me. Sitting in the doorway, you watch me kneel in the mud, and spin me fantastic tales of a giant's mansion, filled with amazing treasures. No, you did not see the giant, you admit; but you met his woman, a delicate, fragile, timid thing.  She pitied you, you say.  She fed you, and cosseted you, and hid you when the giant returned, his voice like thunder.  The woman told you to run, and you did, ran all the way back to me.

    "And look what she gave me!"  Your voice cracks like ice with excitement, as you shove a small purse into my hands. "Gold! Jewels! She says that all the giant's fortune shall be mine!"

    I look inside, and my eyes see only the dull gleam of brass buttons and bright shining beads.  O my besotted fool, my dreamer.  When have you ever seen real gold, real jewels, so that you should recognize them?  But then, when have I?

    I say nothing.  Instead I give you hot soup, made from the wild onions and cattails I have gathered near the lake.  You eat three bowls' worth, scowling all the while, comparing the meal to the rich scraps from the giant's table.  "But you shall eat such food now, shall you not?" you tease me. You insist that you must go back on the morrow, to fetch me more wealth from the giant's store.

    When you have left, I pull out my last set of spare sheets.  The cotton is soft from many washings, but still not worn through.  I boil the cloth with the onion peelings until it is the color of ripe wheat, of new butter, of your father's hair, your hair, shimmering under the smoking tallow-dips as you struggle to soothe your frantic fantasies to lay quivering, flat upon the page. I cut and pin and stitch it into a fine dress, such as an alderman's wife might wear, and sew the buttons you brought me down the front and sleeves.  Tomorrow I will bring this into town, and see if I can trade it for an iron trowel.  

    It is only two weeks later when you return again. I am searching the ground for fallen sticks to burn; although the days are warmer now, it still grows cold at night. "My father!" you shout as you rush to me. "The giant's woman told me of my father!"  Your words spray out like stones from beneath a cart wheel.  I flinch as they strike me.  Your father, you say, your real father, was a great man, a fine lord, a king! Indeed, he was the true owner of the grand house where you have been hiding for so many days. The giant came and slew him, and cast you, his infant heir, away into poverty and filth.  Surely, you ask me, it is your duty to reclaim all that should be yours by right?

    My duty is to feed you.  I grind acorns dug from the beneath the bracken and set to boil for hours.  They taste bitter and flat, so I stir in a handful of dried berries and the last of the windfallen apples.  You wolf down the porridge and grimace, but then you grin at me, like you are hiding the most delicious secret.  "Look at what I brought you from the giant's house this time!"  You thrust an odd bundle of carved sticks and wires into my hands, fingers stained brown and purple from cooking.  You tell me that this is a harp, that I can hang it in the doorway, and the wind will make it sing with marvelous, magical tunes. You say that it will make me less dull, make my days pass quickly and my sleep more restful.

    I say nothing.  You are so pleased with yourself and your gift.  O my heartless poet, my clown, what need have I now for music? Your father whistled haunting melodies to me once, when I was young and lovely, and I would hum them back to you as you suckled greedily at my breast, to put you to sleep so your father could have his turn.  If I want songs I can go listen to the senseless yammerings of the forest birds. My days are too short and my dreams too empty as it is.

    When you are gone the next morning, I turn the little device over in my hand, recalling your tales of talismans and triumph with a sour smile. I take the beads you brought me, and string them on my old blue ribbon, wrapping it around and around the delicate wooden frame.  A few early jonquils stuck here and there give a festive look.  The blacksmith believes me to be a hedge-witch, and has been pressing me to supply him with love charms.  Surely he will exchange this pretty bauble for a sharp axe.  Who knows, it might even work.

    You return to me again, only eight days gone. I am chopping at a dead tree with my new axe, pleased to depend no longer upon finding sticks on the ground. You are running through the trees, pale hair streaming behind you, something clutched against your chest.  "The axe!  Give me the axe!" you shout, shoving a squirming hissing bundle into my arms.  Snatching the axe, you whirl about to face the path to our house.

    I look down and see that I am holding a goose. It pecks at me.

    "She betrayed me!" you say, voice raw with fury and hurt.  The goose? No, the giant's woman.  She had assured you that everything in that fine house should be yours.  That you should eat at the giant's table.  Wear his clothes.  Sleep in his bed.  She took your hand, you tell me trembling, and brought you to his rooms with silk soft words, promising to uncover his most secret treasure.  

    O my wounded innocent, my dupe.  I hear the axe sing like a harp as it slices through the air, chopping your story into slivers. You asked her instead to take you to the giant's larder.  So that you might share his delicacies with me, foraging too long in the dirt and the muck. The giant's woman flushed red and hot and sharp, answering that she'd as soon give you a goose that laid golden eggs as provide a feast for the harlot of the woods.  

    Your eyes flicker with hot angry flames as you repeat her words. Do you believe that they shall burn me?

    When you asked to see this goose, she laughed at you. She pointed to the kitchen gardens, where the chickens wandered foolishly, and she laughed and laughed, and then the giant returned.

    Stop thief she shouted, and he lunged for you. You ran, you say, and you ran, and as you ran she grabbed shrieking at the giant, and you ran.  In the yard you saw the goose, the golden goose, and you snatched it and you ran. And now the giant is running too, running after you, coming for you.  Coming for us.  Down the forest path to our little hut.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you cry, "I will protect you," and O my brash brazen boy, my hero, you are weeping and angry and confused and terrifying, and I lift the axe from your hand.

    I say something.  "Take this wretched bird into the house and shut the door." And I turn and I wait for this giant.

    I stand ready, axe held level.  I shall chop down that strangling vine you have been climbing.  I shall hew it out, root and branch, and no clinging tendril shall remain to claim you. I shall bite deep with my blade until the sap gushes out sticky and wet, and washes away any hidden thorns.

#

    When I come back inside the little house, you sit still and huddled on your bed.  Your eyes, your golden eyes, are bright and full of tears and terror, not dark and empty like your father's are now. "You were a great lady once, mother," you whisper to me. "You were a queen in a splendid castle."

    I say nothing. But I nod, and hold you close until you fall asleep against me.  When your breathing is slow and soft, I go back to my small garden, and finish weeding among the pushing green that reaches already to my knees.  Later tonight I will take my axe and strike the goose dead.  It would be wiser, I suppose, to keep it for the eggs, but I can render the carcass for the good yellow fat instead.  I will make you many dip candles, O my treasure, O my song, O my prince, my son, and they shall burn clean and bright; and you shall scribble out your stories by their golden glow for many months to come.

    Besides, goose broth will taste well with these beans.