#Not my favorite drawing but I guess it could’ve turned out worse

[decentprint]

another doodle of Wally

but human✨

I also have some small sketches of wh ocs, or draft designs for them

(Just ignore that the art style seems to change a bit between the two characters, I got tired while drawing and took the lazy way out.)

I was thinking about like a maybe episode that involved a carnival or circus coming to town…

idk

these are just ideas in getting in the middle of the night that I end up wanting to draw.

[tailsrevane]

[movie review] cursed (2005)

okay like. i know the studio absolutely torpedoed this movie. i know how much better it should’ve–could’ve–been. i know how much i would’ve loved that movie. and i know what we ended up with instead is kinda tragic considering all the unrealized potential of wes craven making an extremely scream-adjacent werewolf movie with rick baker’s legendary practical effects and r-rated gore.

… but i still genuinely kinda don’t hate this movie?

like, don’t get me wrong, it’s a far cry from what could have been. i get it. i’m 100% there with you. but like, considering the whole… you know, everything, it could’ve been–probably should have been– much, much worse. and the fact that it isn’t is absolutely a credit to all the talent involved shining through no matter how hard certain convicted rapist studio executives tried to sabotage it.

the absolute best thing about this movie is unquestionably the parking garage/elevator scene. this is some actually-awesome werewolf peril to balance out the orgy of bad cgi we get later in the movie.

even more than the extremely toned-down & poorly-executed werewolf action throughout the rest of the movie, the main failing here is unquestionably the character writing (or likely given what we know about the production, the character re-writing). and that's just such a damn shame because obviously that's always gonna be a big part of the draw in a wes craven feature. i think that's where this thing's status as a frankenmovie is the most obvious, and it’s just so damn frustrating.

by far my least favorite bit of writing in the movie is the whole misadventure where it turns out the homophobic bully is actually gay. this entire trope is frustratingly victim blamey, and it also smacks of the way insecure/immature straight guys talk about not wanting to get hit on by gay guys. i guess the tl;dr here is it really feels an awful lot like a straight person telling a gay joke. and, y’know, shockingly i fucking hate that.

but yeah, in spite of everything this movie actually coulda been a whole lot worse, and i did kinda genuinely enjoy maybe 50 to 75 percent of what we did get. considering everything it was up against, i'd go so far as to call that a win. c-rank

[sanguineterrain]

Brooklyn Honey - Bucky Barnes x Reader

(Repost!) Hello, this is for the lovely @wkemeup​’s 9k writing challenge. I decided to go with the song prompt “Life in the City” by The Lumineers. It really reminded me of 40s Bucky.

Title: Brooklyn Honey

Summary: Life in the city ain’t always so pretty, but you’ve got Bucky and he’s got you.  

Pairing: 1940s!Bucky Barnes x female!reader

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: nah

***

“That’s so not how you do it.”

“Sorry, I must’ve missed the day you wrote the manual on how to put up curtains.”

“You sure did, and I can tell you as an expert, the nails aren’t supposed to resemble a mountain range.”

“Smartass. C’mere.”

Bucky’s palm opened and you took a nail, carefully tapping it into the wall.

“Or is it the skyline you’re going for?”

“You’re pretty mouthy for an assistant.”

“I keep it interesting, doll.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“James Barnes, what on earth are you doing in there?!”

Your eyes went wide and you hurried to scramble off the chair you were standing on. Bucky put a hand on your back, shaking his head.

“Buck—”

“I got it, don’t worry. Keep hammering.”

“But—”

“Honey, don’t you trust me?”

“Absolutely not.”

More knocking, faster and louder this time.

“Coming, Mrs. Anderson!”

Bucky buttoned up his shirt, smoothing his pomade-slicked hair back, and went to answer.

You stepped down from the chair anyway, daring to peek around the corner. 

He had his arms up, trying to fill the entire door frame and hide the obnoxiously yellow curtains you probably weren’t supposed to have. Mrs. Anderson, Steve and Bucky’s busybody next door neighbor, was a small, shriveled, old woman with a perpetually pinched face that looked like it had been stored in a jar of formaldehyde for the last twenty years. She kept trying to look over Bucky’s shoulder but he wouldn’t let her, moving when she did.

“—could’ve sworn I heard hammering coming from this apartment.”

“Oh! You must’ve heard me fixing my bike.” 

“You don’t have a bike, James.”

“Did I say my bike? I meant Steve’s.”

“Steve rides a bike?”

“Absolutely. Keeps him fit.”

“I don’t recall seeing him ever—”

“Well, bye, Mrs. Anderson! Always a pleasure to see you, ma’am.”

She gave another stern look before shaking her head, walking away.

You sighed as Bucky shut the door with his foot, a too sly smile on his face.

“Didn’t I tell you to trust me?”

“I think you might be a worse liar than Steve.”

“Well, ouch, doll.”

“First of all, who’s ever heard of needing a hammer to fix a bike?”

“We can be the first.”

“Next time, I’m answering the door.”

You clambered back onto the chair, returning to knocking in the nails. 

“I still don’t understand why you wanted curtains in the first place.” 

“It adds a homely touch, doll. Aren’t you the one who’s always complaining about how drab this place is?”

“Of course, but it’s not my apartment.” 

“It could be, with how often you’re over,” Bucky said sweetly. 

“Keep dreaming, Barnes.” 

“I will,” he assured with a smile that could melt butter. 

You shook your head and returned to focus on the curtains. True, the first one was beyond help in terms of nail placement, but the least you could do was try and make the next one even. 

Bucky had offered at least ten times to do it himself but there was no way he was getting his hands on a hammer after what had happened when he’d tried to install some shelves last winter. 

Besides, you were better at decorating when it came down to it. At least, that’s what Bucky kept insisting, letting you do essentially anything you wanted to the apartment. 

The chair suddenly groaned under additional weight and you startled as you felt the side of a body press against yours. 

“How’s it goin’?”

“Bucky, this chair really isn’t meant for two people.” 

“You sure? Seems pretty sturdy to me.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Bucky wrapped an arm around your waist and you fixed him with a look. 

“What? Don’t want you to fall.”

“How valiant of you.”

“Ain’t it?”

He hopped off before you could scold him further, grinning up at you. 

“Beer?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Bucky disappeared and returned a minute later with an open bottle for you, holding it so you could sip safely while still perched on the chair.

Then you kept hammering, eyes narrowed as you focused on not hitting anything other than the nail.

Bucky watched from the floor as you did so, leaning back on his hands.

“What’re you looking at?” you asked after a while, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

He shrugged, a gentle smile on his face.

“The city.”

***

“Honey, I’m home!”

“What did I say about that, Barnes?”

“You said… you’ll love me for all eternity because you’re as sweet as honey?”

“I think it was more along the lines of, ‘don’t call me honey unless you mean it.’”

“I always mean it, Y/N.”

And that was a little more sincerity than you were willing to explore, so you pointed to the bag instead.

“What’s that?”

Bucky grinned, setting a giant paper sack on the counter.

“Lemons.”

“What?”

“Lemons. You know, the little yellow fruits that make you do this?”

Bucky puckered his mouth and smacked his tongue, eyes screwed shut.

“Lemon’s not a fruit.”

“It sure is! Fruit got seeds. Read that in a book about agriculture. We produce a lot of corn, did you know that?“

“Okay, Bucky, the presiding question still remains: why do you have every lemon in the city?”

“There was a good deal at the docks. Dirt cheap for produce. Some guys told me they were takin’ some home for their wives. Didn’t want you to feel left out.”

“I’m not your wife.”

Bucky just grinned. You rolled your eyes.

“I don't know who taught you this, but the way to a girl’s heart is not twenty pounds of lemons.”

“Think of all the lemonade we can make.”

“Unless you’ve also got FDR and his cabinet in those bags, we’re gonna have a lot of leftovers.”

“Look at it this way: no vitamin C deficiency. One less thing to worry ‘bout.”

“Bucky.”

“They’re not all lemons, doll. I got other stuff too. Tomatoes, cabbage, snuck some cucumbers, even bananas.”

You sighed, smiling tiredly. This ration was taking its toll on everyone. You knew Bucky was doing his best, had seen the vegetables and thought of you and how much you missed having cucumber salad and tomato sandwiches like you used to.

“Thank you, Bucky, really. I appreciate you.”

You brushed past him to begin preparing the excess vegetables you three wouldn’t eat this week to pickle. Salt and sugar was going to be hard to gather, but you’d manage. You always did.

“Welcome, doll.” 

He beamed, eyes full of warmth as he watched you. 

“You gonna stay for dinner?”

“I dunno. Seems like Steve’s gettin’ kinda tired of me,” you laughed.

“Never. ‘Sides, even if he was, doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, really?”

“Nope. ‘Cause you stay for me.”

“And where did you get that idea from?”

He shrugged.

“Seemed kinda obvious, doll. You’re smitten, admit it.”

“Oh dear, you’ve got me all figured out. However did you know?”

“I’m a bright fella.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You ain’t saying no…”

“Really, I have to say no? Can’t you tell I only stick around for the great deals you get on produce?” 

“But it’s me that gets the great deals, so really, you’re still staying for me.” 

Bucky was against the counter now, shoulder to shoulder with you. 

You sighed, hand on your hip as you stared at the table. 

“What the hell are we going to do with all these lemons?” 

“We’ll figure something out. Always do, don’t we?”

You hummed, leaning your head on his shoulder, aware he was talking about more than the lemons. 

“Yeah. We always do.” 

***

Steve had been home for a while, wordlessly letting you in when you’d shown up an hour ago. You didn’t have to explain anything to him anymore. 

The record player was on, crooning gently. Steve was in the corner, drawing, away from the window after the breeze had whipped his papers around one too many times.

“Can’t believe they’re building another skyscraper down on Lawrence.”

Steve frowned.

“Really? Won’t be able to see the sunset now.”

“Yeah. And Brooklyn’s not exactly known for its scenery to begin with. Saw a rat and a pigeon fighting over a pretzel this morning.”

Steve chuckled from the floor, shaking his head.

“Times are tough. Even for rats and pigeons.” 

“Sure are.”

“Nice curtains, by the way. I like the color.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Did Bucky ask—?”

“No,” he answered, smile evident in his voice. “But that’s alright. I know he’s just tryin’ to gauge what you like.”

“What?”

“Yeah, after the war’s over and all, he’s gonna try and buy a nicer place.”

“And he wants my furnishing tips?”

Steve shrugged, gaze soft and knowing.

“Guess so.”

You cleared your throat, pushing a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Want some lemonade?”

“Jesus, there’s more? I thought we’d run out of bushels.”

“You’d think, right? I put ‘em in the icebox so they won’t spoil so fast.”

“Sure, yeah. Thanks, Y/N.”

You were in the middle of stirring the pitcher when Bucky came in.

He didn’t greet you or Steve immediately, like he usually did, instead setting down his keys, then slapping the mail onto the table. 

“Well, hey there, mister. Fancy a drink? Today’s special is sour lemonade, your favorite.”

Bucky looked up, startled, and glanced at the pitcher before nodding, attempting a half smile.

“Sure, doll. Thanks.”

“Everything okay, Buck?”

He nodded, slipping away to the bathroom with a sigh.

You turned to Steve, who shrugged.

“Long day at the docks, I guess.”

***

June twelfth. That was when Bucky was being shipped out, somewhere in Europe, too far from you. This entire year you’d been holding your breath, hoping, needing the draft to leave him alone. 

Now they were taking him away from you in less than a week. 

You were in the apartment, lying on the floor, on Bucky’s second to last day. That’s how he found you upon coming home. 

“Trying to count all the cracks in the ceiling, doll? You’ll be here all night.”

You had a glass of lemonade by your head, spiked with a bit of rum. It was already warm, because it was summer and things were supposed to be warm in the summer.

The curtains danced in front of the window, yellow like sunshine and all those goddamn lemons in the freezer. The only respite from an otherwise colorless world.

“This city is so ugly.”

Bucky looked up at the sound of your voice. He walked over, crouching by your arm.

“Think so?”

“Yeah. Can’t find a single pretty thing in the city.”

“I can.”

“Can you?”

“Sure. She’s looking at me right now.”

“That was sappy.”

“Yes it was.”

Bucky lay down, rolling onto his side next to you, taking a sip from your glass.

“But I ain’t mean it any less.”

You hummed, closing your eyes.

“Well, for what it’s worth then, I think you’re handsome.”

“Oh, yeah?”

You could hear his proud smile.

“Don’t make me take it back.”

“No, I’m just surprised to hear it is all.”

“Surprised, huh? I’m certain I ain’t the first one to call you handsome.”

“You’re the only one I wanna hear it from.”

Something fluttered in your chest.

“What d’you say then? You and I, think we can take on a city as ugly as ours?”

He smiled.

“With you, doll?”

“Yeah.”

“With you, of course.”

“Good. I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Bucky propped his head up on his elbow. It was quiet again, with only your occasional sighs and his quiet breaths.

“What’re you looking at?” you breathed, opening your eyes.

“You.”

Bucky flicked a drop of lemonade from the tip of your nose.

You turned, now face to face.

And oh, Bucky’s blues. Those had been your color even before the curtains.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you blurted.

He smiled a little sadly.

“Gonna miss you too, Y/N.”

You pushed your lips together, taking a deep breath.

“You were right, you know.”

“‘Bout what?”

“That day when you brought home all those lemons. You said that I stay for you.”

Bucky’s lips quirked, gaze fond like it always was.

“All those times I stayed for dinner and pretended to know what I was doing putting up those curtains. I stayed for you.”

You wiped your nose quickly, sniffling.

“And I’m gonna keep staying.”

“Yeah? What if the bridge collapses tomorrow?”

“I’ll swim.”

“Even in the winter?”

“I’ll get myself a pair of ice skates.”

“You don’t know how to skate, doll.”

“That’s right. So you better come back safe and teach me.”

Bucky leaned in, nose brushing your cheek. He rolled over and carefully straddled you, holding his weight.

“I’ll be there, honey.”

“Now what did we say about that?”

Bucky’s eyebrows pinched in thought.

“Don’t say it if I don’t mean it?”

You hummed, pulling him closer, arms around his neck. Bucky’s lips were a millimeter from yours, breath fanning over your chin.

“Mm, I think it was something about eternity.”

Bucky was soft, tangy and sweet. His scruff scraped your cheek and your fingers curled into the baby hairs at the nape of his neck.

He slid his hands under your back and turned so you were on top, head on his chest. You lay like that for a while, listening to his heartbeat, arms strong around you. 

Yellow fluttered in the breeze, tacked unevenly onto the wall, catching your eye. 

Bucky glanced to the side, chuckling.

“Don’t let Anderson take our curtains away.”

“Of course not. I spent a weekend on those. She’ll have to fight me for ‘em.”

“Good God. Now I gotta worry about you brawling with old ladies and Steve getting into alley fights while I’m gone?”

“Nah. Steve’ll help me.”

“Oh, great.”

You reached up, brushing his jaw with your knuckles.

“Call me honey again.”

“Honey, honey, honey.”

You reached up to get just one last kiss, except it definitely wasn’t going to be the last. It couldn’t be.

“They’re not gonna take you away from me.”

Bucky shook his head, kissing you much slower this time, trying to memorize you before time ran out.

“Never. ‘M gonna think of you and I’ll be back ‘fore we know it.”

You nodded, wishing hard, hoping somebody was listening. 

“Then, when I come back,” he whispered, promise riding on the summer air.

“We’re gonna make the best damn lemonade you’ve ever had.”

And maybe this city could take away your sunsets, your tea and jams, even your summer.

But if there was anything that was yours and yours only, it was the lemon pulp on Bucky’s lips and the undissolved sugar on your own, as bitter and pretty as home.

[lunar-wandering]

i don’t wanna fight alone anymore - Chapter 4

*(show host voice)* everybody welcome to the stage- Macaque!!!

Word Count: 1.8k

Read on Ao3

-

"What are you doing here?" Wukong hissed, struggling to push Macaque off of him.

"Well now, Wukong, is that any way to greet an old friend?" Macaque asked, a teasing lilt to his voice, and Wukong outright growled, grabbing hold of Macaque's arms and rolling over, pinning him to the ground. Macaque looked up at Wukong, a hint of fear flickering across his face for the briefest of moments, before it was once again replaced with the same old smug look.

"Ha! Nice scar." He laughed, and Wukong let go of one of Macaque's arms in order to use his hand to cover the notch on his eyebrow. "Oh, not to mention the scarf. Copying me huh? What, do you appreciate my style, or are you still jealous from when MK came to me for training, instead of you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Wukong hissed, glancing nervously over at the others, who still hadn't moved, mainly out of not being entirely sure what was happening. Macaque used the momentary distraction to flip their positions once again, putting himself on top of Wukong.

"Heh, either way, that's karma for you." He said, grin still evident on his face, and Wukong, seeing no other option, reached up and raked his claws against Macaque's cheek, drawing a small amount of blood. Macaque yelped, leaning back as he instinctively covered the wound, and Wukong sat up, immediately following up be headbutting the other monkey.

The headbutt, of course, ended up being a mistake, as both monkey's reared back, covering their foreheads as pain washed over them. (Wukong could help but feel that there's been something....off, something cold when they'd bumped heads but-)

"Enough." Pigsy said, suddenly standing beside them, holding a wooden spoon in between the two in order to separate them. "Wukong, what is going on?"

"Ask him." Wukong growled, still rubbing his aching forehead, "He's the one who suddenly appeared out of nowhere and tackled me."

"Yeah, I'm not going to apologize for that." Macaque said, crossing his arms. MK mentally noted that the shadow monkey had, thus far, made no attempt at standing up.

"Didn't expect you to, you bitch." Wukong said, accepting Mei's offered hand as she helped him stand back up. "Seriously, why are you here?"

"What, can't I drop in to check on my favorite student every now and again?" Macaque said, not so subtly gesturing at MK, who sighed.

"I keep telling you, I'm not your student." He said, sounding tired with this whole thing already. Macaque just smirked. In response, Mei kicked him in the leg, and Macaque yelped, bending over as he cradled his leg closer to himself, his fur bristling as he clenched his teeth.

"....I didn't even kick you that hard." Mei said, looking Macaque over again. There were no visible injuries, other than the scratch Wukong had left on his cheek, but she had encountered many a demon, she knew that just because she didn't see it didn't mean it wasn't there.

"Is that it?" Wukong asked, crossing his arms as he looked at Macaque in disapproval. "You got injured, so you came crawling to us?"

"No. I'm fine." Macaque hissed out, rather unconvincingly, considering he still hadn't come out of his curled up position. Pigsy sighed, sensing this would be a long day.

"Wukong, go get the first aid kit." He said, and Wukong, despite huffing in irritation, complied, turning around to go find it. "Sandy- just. Restrain him for now."

Sandy pulled out some rope, and started wrapping it around Macaque's waist, restraining him by tying the other end of the rope to the ship. He didn't wrap it around Macaque's arms, worried about potentially brushing against some unseen injury. Macaque, surprisingly, laughed in response to this treatment.

"What am I, some damsel in distress?" He asked, "You going to tie me to some train tracks next?"

"Don't tempt me." Wukong hissed, rolling his eyes as he came back, passing the first aid kit over to MK, who handed it over to Tang, who, despite Macaque's protests, started applying a bandage onto the scratch on the monkey's cheek.

"I can't treat the rest of your injuries if you won't let us see them." Tang said, after he finished treating the scratch.

"I told you already, I'm not injured. Besides, I don't remember asking for your help." Macaque said, looking away from Tang's face. Wukong, a smirk on his face, snuck up beside Macaque, before lightly poking the leg Mei had kicked. Macaque yelped again, pulling his leg away, an expression of pain flickering across his face. Wukong lightly giggled, then hissed as Pigsy hit him in the back of the head with the spoon.

"Wukong, why would you do that??" Pigsy asked, disapproval in his voice. Wukong couldn't help but feel a bit like a child being chided for doing something wrong.

"...He was being kind of stuck up?" He offered as a response, chuckling nervously when Pigsy's disapproving look only increased in intensity.

"Either way, he is injured." Tang said, "So, Macaque, are you going to let me treat your injuries or not?"

Macaque didn't answer for a few moments, before he reluctantly sighed, a look of concentration appearing on his face-

And then, just like that, a series of injuries appeared on his body. A long gash down his arm that looked only partially healed, a newer cut down his leg (and Mei winced, knowing she had made that injury worse), as well as his fur looking, overall, like a mess. Wukong sucked in a breath.

"What happened to you?" He asked. Macaque rolled his eyes.

"Like you'd care." He mumbled, looking down at the floor as Tang carefully tended to his injuries. MK subtly tugged on the edge of Wukong's scarf.

"Monkey King?" He asked, quietly. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

"Sure, kid." Wukong said, letting MK lead him to the other side of the ship. He knew Macaque would probably still be able to hear them anyways, but the other monkey was distracted with Tang, so they should be okay for now. "What's up?"

"It's just....you- you don't think that she did that to him, do you?" MK asked, glancing over at Macaque, at Macaque's injuries.

"No way to know for sure." Wukong said, "He isn't the best at making friends. Could've been anyone."

Suddenly, the look in MK's eyes changed.

"You'd know all about how Macaque makes friends then?" He asked, crossing his arms. "Y'know, while you were on vacation, I ran into Macaque again."

"You what? Why didn't you tell me?" Wukong asked, concern in his voice. MK brushed it off.

"You were busy, remember? Anyways, Macaque said something....interesting." MK said, "He said you two used to be friends. Like, he straight up compared the both of you to the sun and moon."

"He was always over-dramatic like that-"

"And. He said you abandoned him." MK said, "That you forgot about him."

Wukong sighed.

"Is that still how he sees it?" He said, rubbing his arm. "It's- look it was complicated, okay? I, well to put thing's simply, time in heaven works... differently than time on earth, and then the whole 'Havoc in Heaven' thing happened- and just. I never really got the chance-"

"But you were friends?" MK asked, "He can't have been all that bad back then."

"Well- no. He wasn't." Wukong admitted, "...If this is some attempt of yours to get me to trust him, you're not going to succeed kiddo. Not that I'm sure why you'd do that-"

"That's not what I'm- okay, so it's a little bit like that." MK confessed, laughing a little as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It's just, he's injured, so we can't just let him leave. We should let him stay with us for a bit-"

"MK-"

"It'd be wrong to just let him leave, wouldn't it?" MK insisted, grabbing hold of Wukong's hand, looking up at him with pleading eyes. "C'mon, Monkey King, at least this way we can keep an eye on him!"

"....I can't argue with you on that, I guess." Wukong sighed, "Fine. But don't blame me when he ends up betraying us in the end."

"We'll pay very close attention to him." MK insisted, "He can't betray us if we know it's coming!"

-

He was going to betray them.

He was going to turn against them.

He would earn their fragile trust, and then shatter it like glass.

He would not let himself get attached.

Macaque kept this mental mantra to himself going as Mei quietly showed him to the room he'd be staying in. They had reluctantly untied him, letting him walk by himself so long as he had someone with him. They would allow him the privacy of his room, but that was it.

Macaque walked into the rather small, empty space, the only thing in there being a bed with plain sheets and a door to what he presumed to be a bathroom. He sighed as he heard Mei close the door behind him, before she turned and walked away, down the hall. He waited until her footsteps faded, and he was sure nobody would open the door unexpectedly.

Macaque went into the bathroom (it was just as small and plain as the bedroom), and let his glamor drop all the way.

They'd trusted him with this room. And that was a problem.

The kid and the others had trusted him, albeit by not much, but they were still going to let him stay.

Wukong, at least, clearly still distrusted him, if the glares he'd noticed were any indication.

Macaque sighed again as he looked in the mirror, trying to mentally prepare himself to play the long con.

He was going to betray them.

He was going to turn against them.

He would earn their fragile trust, and then shatter it like glass.

He would not let himself get attached.

Despite this, Macaque knew himself.

He knew he was going to get attached.

It would be inevitable really, that kid, MK, seemed to drag everyone into his little golden family sooner or later. He was sure that Wukong probably would've outright thrown him off the ship if it wasn't for the kid.

Macaque knew how easy it would be for the kid to drag him in, make him feel like a part of the group. He would resist it, but it would happen.

He tried to brace himself for how much the looks of betrayal on their faces would hurt. Tried to convince himself he would enjoy it. That this is what he wanted. That he chose to do this.

The shine of the blue circlet that wrapped around his head in a vice grip, reminded him that it wasn't his choice to make.

[pan-fangirl-345]

He’s Just Recharging

Summary: Your boyfriend is a very cuddly person, and how others can’t see how much he loves you makes you mad.

TW: Mentions of abuse (nothing graphic, but just in case), bullying, mentions of bullying. I swear it’s fluffy.

A/N: I love this boy, and he deserves more love!

"Guess who?" Satori sang, covering your eyes as he stepped up behind you.

"Satori!" you giggled, prying his hands off, turning to smile at him.

"Hey pretty girl," he said, kissing your forehead in greeting.

"Where are the others?" you inquired. The rest of the third year volleyball boys tended to stick together when they could, and a lot of the first and second years trickled in as they willed.

"They're on their way, I just really wanted to see you," he informed you proudly.

You smiled at him again, walking over to the table they usually sat at during lunch.

After becoming manager, you and the boys volleyball club had become a tightknit group, even to the point where Satori had asked you out.

Satori rummaged through his bag looking for something, making you laugh as you sat down.

"I can't find my English notes and I have it next period!" he whined, flopping into the seat next to you.

He frowned for a moment, then latched his hands onto your hips and pulled you into his lap.

"Satori!" you squeaked, trying not to draw attention to the already embarrassing situation. "Hey, let me go. I can't be light!"

"But I like you here," Satori mumbled, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around your waist, toying with your fingers.

"You aren't going to let me go, are you?" you inquired.

"Nope," he said, popping the 'p', and you could feel him smiling against your neck.

You sighed.

It wasn't that you didn't like this, you did, but you had never been the skinniest girl in your class, and it made you more than a little self-conscious at times.

Which, now that you thought about it, was probably why Satori did this in the first place.

He was a very touchy boyfriend in general, and half the time he didn't even realize he was doing it. It was like he was just drawn to you. He always managed to end up by your side, regardless of where he had started out in the room.

You had asked one time if he did it on purpose, but he had just said that sometimes his body just naturally headed to your voice.

It was sweet, and it made you blush, but it also made you worry. Did he think that he had to be by your side? Like some sort of boyfriend obligation? Or did he honestly want to be by you?

"Hey pretty girl, why the long face?" he asked, setting his chin on your shoulder.

"Oh, it's nothing, I was just lost in thought I guess," you muttered, but you could tell you were still frowning. "Hey, Satori?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think I'm clingy?" you inquired. "Like . . . do you feel like you have to be with me at all times because you have to be? Like it's some sort of chore or something?"

"No," he said. "If anyone in this relationship is clingy, it's me. Why are you asking?"

"I'm just worried I guess," you admitted. "The last guy I was with . . . ." 

You trailed off with a wince.

Satori's arms tightened around your waist, almost subconsciously.

"You know you don't have to tell me anything baby girl," he murmured, kissing your neck lightly.

"I know that. I want to. The last guy I was with said that I was too clingy, that he spent time with me because he had to."

"(Y/F/N)," Satori said, a serious tone to his voice that made you turn to look at him. "I'm clingy because you make the bad days better. I'm clingy because you let me be. You always smile so easily for me."

"I smile for you because you make it easy to smile for you."

"God, you two can't keep your hands off each other, can you?" Semi asked as he set his bag down.

"If she was your girlfriend you wouldn't be able to keep your hands off her either," Satori retorted.

"Yes I would, because I'm aware of the fact that the cafeteria is a public place."

"You have to admit though, we're better than them," you replied, gesturing with your thumb at a second year couple that looked like they were attempting to get into each other's pants.

"I hate couples like that," Semi hissed, picking at his lunch.

"If it makes you feel better, I tried to move," you told him.

"She did, she made a very valiant effort too," Satori agreed. "But, I'm a stubborn bastard, and I love my girlfriend."

"A simp is what you are," Semi said in unison with you.

"I can't appreciate my beautiful girlfriend?" Satori asked, giving a small pout.

"You can, but there are much less physical ways to do it," Semi insisted.

"You're just jealous she's my girlfriend Semi-Semi!" Satori sang, making you snort.

"Why do I hang out with either of you?"

"You love us and you know it," Satori said, fiddling with the fingers of your free hand as you ate with the other.

"Why is (Y/L/N)-san sitting on Satori-san's lap?" Goshiki asked when he sat down.

"Satori's recharging," you told him, ruffling his hair affectionately.

Goshiki was probably one of your favorite underclassmen, mostly because he always wanted advice on how to get better and he gave you the least amount of back talk out of all of them.

Satori hummed his agreement, picking at his own food thoughtfully.

"You really should eat something," you murmured, touching one of the hands he had around your waist.

"I will if you will," he countered, making you smile.

"Love, I already ate mine."

"How?" Satori and Goshiki asked at the same time.

"I have a big family, and in my family you learn to either eat fast or you get whatever everyone else doesn't want. Big family gatherings are the worst, especially in my family when one wrong comment could start WW3 in my grandmother's backyard."

Satori chuckled, and the sound vibrated against your back where it was pressed up against Satori's chest.

Satori stopped messing with your hands so he could eat, but one hand did start tapping beats on your thigh absentmindedly.

The others trickled in the way they normally did, and no one else mentioned that fact that Satori still had you trapped on his lap. Not even Ushijima, who was too busy reading a new book about plants to really listen to anyone.

You smiled and laughed along with the rest of your team until you glanced at the clock in the cafeteria.

"Oh no, I have to go," you said.

"Why?" Satori asked, his grip like steel bands around your waist. 

"I have to talk to a teacher about a book I need to read for an AP Lit class!" you squeaked, shoving your stuff in your bag. "SatorI, let me go!" you whined when he refused to let you move.

"Fine, but you'll find me before practice, right?" he asked, moving his hands to his sides.

"Of course, I always do!" you chirped, sliding off his lap.

You kissed his cheek before you left, waving goodbye to the others as you wove in between people, heading for your classroom.

"I heard that she's dating the Guess Monster," someone whispered.

"I saw them sitting together during lunch, it was kind of disgusting."

"I heard the only reason she's with him is because he hits her."

"You know, if you're going to gossip, you might want to do it where the person can't hear you," you snapped, turning to a girl from the second year's class one. "And whatever idiot told you Satori abused me is a fucking moron because he's the best boyfriend I could've ever asked for. And he's not a monster.

"And I wouldn't be saying anything Hiko, if I were you, considering I saw your boyfriend sucking face with Mei from the first year's class five, and Amaya from the second year's class three. At least Satori is faithful to me. Can your boyfriend say that? I think not."

When they didn't say anything more to you, you headed back down the hallway.

It had been like this since the beginning of the your relationship with Satori. People didn't understand it, so they gossiped and they lied and they spread rumors.

Normally, it didn't bother you, but lately people had been coming up with worse and worse theories, and it was starting to get on your nerves.

If they bothered Satori, he hadn't said anything to you, but he had been treated like this his entire life, so he had a much thicker skin than you did.

"(Y/L/N), are you okay?" Shirabu asked when you stumbled into him.

"Uh? Oh, yeah, I'm fine, just a little distracted," you assured him, sending him on his way with a smile that was only a little forced.

The sight of a setter for your team somehow calmed you down. You knew that no matter what, the members of the Shiritorizwawa Boy's Volleyball Club would never say those things to you or to Satori. They knew what you were both like, and they knew that Satori was crazy about you, and had been since day one.

You took a deep breath before you stepped into your classroom, apologizing for being late.

After picking up your book and heading back towards the cafeteria you kept your head high and your shoulders back.

You were Satori's girlfriend, you were yourself, and you were proud about that. You were proud to be yourself, proud to be his girlfriend, and proud to be the manager for the team.

When you stepped back into the cafeteria, Semi pointed to you and Satori loped over, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, smiling down at you.

"Hey love," you said, getting on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm perfect," you assured him.

You walked back to the table together, and when Satori pulled you into his lap again, you didn't argue. If people had a problem with you and your boyfriend, they could take it up with you.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Duplicity. 

Word Count: 2.6k

Written for an anonymous commissioner.

Paring: Yandere!Hanako/Reader & Yandere!Tsukasa/Reader.

Synopsis: The afterlife is very, very lonely. It effects come spirits more than others, but Hanako’s gotten close to so many humans, and he’s been left so many times... You can hardly blame him for wanting to be selfish. You can’t fault Tsukasa for wanting to keep his favorite toy close, either. 

TW: Death, Graphic Violence, Blood, Imprisonment (via Ghost Mechanics), and Emotional Manipulation.

No one should have to watch themselves die.

You guess you didn’t, really. Or, you did, but you didn’t watch as closely as you could have. You’d like to say that you faced your end bravely, that you were cunning and quick and did your damnedest to make sure your assailant left your encounter only slightly better off than you did, but you’d never been one for self-flattery. As soon as you realized you couldn’t escape, as soon as you’d caught the glimpse of something glinting in the dim, flickering school lights and managed to put a name to it, you’d clenched your eyes shut, threw your arms over your face, and begged for mercy. You could remember the pain, if you wanted to, the intensity of it, but you don’t try to. You could recall the feeling of your own blood flowing over your fingertips, but you’d really rather not. You know that, one moment, there was something, and the next, there was nothing. Black, frigid nothing. For a few seconds, you couldn’t think of anything worse than that nothingness.

And then, there was something, and you realized there were things much, much worse than nothing.

You think you would’ve found a way to stay dead, if you knew he’d been the one to kill you.

He’s still bent over your unmoving body when you reform, on your knees and beside yourself, your skin translucent and your chest so much more hollow than it used to be. You let yourself linger on the sensation for a moment or two, attempting to inhale and exhale before realizing how odd it feels to breathe when you don’t have to. You’re still caught up in the change when your attention drifts, first to the dark stains littered across the tile floor, obscured by the darkness, and then to… yourself. What used to be you. You, but not you.

Dead you, with a familiar knife still rooted in its diaphragm, and a familiar boy straddling its waist.

It’s disorienting. He isn’t panting, but his chest is heaving in silent, uneven sobs and his eyes closed as tightly as yours had been. With one hand clamped around the hilt of his knife and the other pressed to the ground, supporting his nonexistent weight, he draws his weapon out, then with only a slight hesitation, he plunges it back in. Out, then in, again and again and again until something breaks underneath him, your ribs caving in with a sickening crack. His eyes fly open, his shoulders tensing as he scrambles backward, but it’s a short-lived panic. All it takes is a quick scan over the corpse underneath him, and with an exhausted sigh, he drops his knife, relieved that you’re as dead as he is.

You’re not sure whether the cold feeling that runs through you is betrayal or disgust, but you don’t have much time to decide. A scream hitches in your throat, emerging in a stifled croak, and Hanako turns towards you, all wide-eyes and parted lips, as if he’d gotten caught rummaging through Yashiro’s back or playing with Kou’s staff, rather than killing his friend. He has time to lift a hand, to open his mouth, but if he says anything, you can’t make it out. Not over the blood suddenly rushing past your ears.

“I don’t…” You mumble, taking a step forward, then one back. You drive your nails into your palms, hoping to ground yourself, but it hurts less than you thought it would. You’re not sure whether that’s a reason to be relieved, or just a new source of distress. “Hanako, I don’t… Why are you--”

“It’s not what it looks like.” The words are hasty, spouted in such a rush, you can hardly differentiate one from the other. He wasn’t expecting this part. “I mean, it is, but you don’t understand. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

You don’t respond. You don’t want to respond.

You turn on your heel, and you run. As fast as you can and as far as you can, and thankfully, Hanako doesn’t try to follow.

~

Surprisingly, it’s Tsukasa that comes to find you first.

Holing yourself up in a storage closet wasn’t your smartest decision, but it wasn’t like you had much of a choice. You were scared, you are scared, but it was the only thing you could think to do, after realizing you wouldn’t be able to leave Kamome. You’re still hugging your knees, fruitlessly attempting to warm yourself up when he walks through the closed door. You’re not sure where you ran to in your desperation, but it’s not like he has a reason to move secretively, nor does Hanako have a reason to stop him from doing so. You’d promised to visit sometime after your graduation, sometime during a break, as stupid as that turned out to be. The staff wouldn’t return for weeks, let alone the students.

Disturbingly, the thought crosses your mind that your body might sit there, undiscovered and decaying, until the first day of the next school year. In an effort to distract yourself, you decide you would rather face Tsukasa than linger on it.

When you bother to look up, he’s hovering in front of you, his eyes as wide as his brother’s and twice as unsuspecting. You attempt to melt into the wall, and then, for fear that you actually might, you stop. “What do you want?”

“To see you,” He answers, no trace of malice or discontent audible in his voice. He’s uncomfortably close, the distance between the two of you minimal, but you're glad for the space. You’ve seen him be far less courteous to spirits he’s known for a shorter time, spirits he’s far more fond of. “I don’t think Amane was as gentle as he could’ve been. I wanted to make sure you were alright.” He thinks, for a moment, before he adds a brief explanation. “It’d be boring if you were already broken.”

“Like you’d care,” You mumble, letting your gaze fall to a dusty corner someplace behind him. “I’m dead, aren’t I? That probably goes with at least one of your schemes.”

At that, he grins. “My brother and I worked together,” He admits, rubbing the back of his neck as he floats upward absent-mindedly, his head bowing and his cheeks turning pink with the barest hints of a flush. “He was really stubborn about it, though. He didn’t come to me until the very last minute, and even then, he was so specific about the rumor he let me spread for you…” Tsukasa laughs, the noise high-pitched and half-suppressed, more of a giggle than anything. “You should’ve heard some of the stories we were going to try! Sakura made it look so easy, but--”

“A rumor?” The question slips out before you can stop it, the subject instilling as curiosity as revulsion. “What do you mean you ‘spread a rumor’ for me?”

“Oh, that was my part!” There’s a clap, a roll that left him lying on his back, and despite yourself, you begin to uncurl. Just enough to make him more excited than he had to be. “I was supposed to set things up, give you a rumor to slide into, my big brother just had to get you here! I did all the boring, business stuff, and Amane got to do the dirty work.” Tsukasa lets out a disappointed huff, pursing his lips. “He was so mean about it, too. He said he didn’t trust me to be responsible, whenever that means.”

It’s a numb sense of shock, a dull wave of luke-warm information you only barely don’t know. Hanako’s betrayal makes sense. You don’t like it, nor does your awareness do anything to soften the blow, but it does. He’s a spirit, someone who did something awful enough to warrant an afterlife full of duty and obligation. You feel stupid for not realizing he would be willing to do something awful to you, too.

When you speak, you nearly forget he’s meant to respond. You want to hear yourself talk more than you want to hear his grim clarifications about a story you have a feeling you don’t want to know. “How’d you get him to do it?” You ask, already fearing his response. “Hanako didn’t seem… I can’t believe he would--”

“I didn’t have to,” He chirps, cutting in without hesitation. He really doesn’t have to.

The way his smile widens is enough to silence you on its own.

“It was all Amane’s idea.”

~

When Hanako finally comes to you, it’s only because you come to him, first.

Or, you leave your closet, at least. It seems pointless to avoid him, even if your legs start to shake before you can make it to the girl’s bathroom, the ghost of a heartbeat racing in your chest and your vision going dark at the edges without warning. It’s a terrible feeling. Everything is duller, when nothing’s life or death. Sensations are fainter, the world around you seems dimmer, and no matter what you do, you can’t seem to get warm. Although, you aren’t sure if that’s because you're dead, or because you’re trapped in a dark, dank school building you’ve never seen past sunset. In the end, you give up about a hundred steps away from Hanako’s domain, you back against a wall and your legs crossed underneath you.

It’s a pathetic position, but you’re pathetic.

No one with any dignity would crawl back to their murderer so quickly.

He’s kind enough not to say anything. There’s no friendly greeting, no callback to a better time in your companionship, just a deep breath and a solid thud as he falls against the cheap, plaster wall, then another when he hits the ground. You try to resist the temptation to look at him, to see if he’s just as miserable as you are, but it’s a futile thing to fight.

That doesn’t mean you don’t regret it, though. He’s… different, for lack of a better way to put it, less lively than he usually is. All troubled eyes and wilting posture and thoughtful glances in your direction that get taken back so quickly, you have to wonder if he’d ever offered them in the first place. He’s sad, obviously, he’s guilty, but there’s something missing. Something absent from his display.

It dawns on you abruptly. As unwelcome as it is unpleasant.

He’s guilty, but he isn’t sorry.

He doesn’t regret what he did to you, he’s just disappointed he got caught.

Still, he’s the first to speak, his voice listless and downtrodden. Like a child who’s just been put in time-out and forced to apologize. “I’m sorry. I calculated wrong, I… I thought it would take more time. I didn’t think you’d have to see anything.” He pauses, something troubled flitting over his expression. You might’ve missed it, if you hadn’t known him so well. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I didn’t want to--”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Your tone’s far from authoritative, the declaration more sober than strict, but Hanako falls silent all the same, giving you a moment to gather your thoughts. Not that there was much to think over. “I don’t think I really care about that. I’m angry, I’m absolutely angry, but… There’s nothing you can say to fix this.” You feel him bristle next to you, folding into himself as his eyes narrow at nothing in particular, but if he’s going to interrupt you, he doesn’t make a move to do so. His acceptance is a small relief, but it’s a relief all the same. “I just want to know why. We’re friends, Hanako. If I did something to make you think I deserved this, all you had to do was tell me. I would’ve transferred to another school, or stopped bothering you. I could’ve left. You didn’t have to--”

“I did.”

You snap towards him, moving to speak, but Hanako reaches out before you can, his fist claiming around your sleeve. It’s a sickeningly childish gesture, a sickeningly desperate one, meant to stop you from leaving before the thought could even cross your mind. “I want you to stay. It’s not--” His voice cracks, his whole body tensing. “I couldn’t just sit back and watch you leave. I couldn’t watch you move on, not after Yashiro took the first chance she had to run. I didn’t want to. I’m selfish, and I didn’t want to.”

For a second, you’re too stunned to speak. You’re confused, you’re disoriented, that crushing, oppressive dizziness only getting worse every time you try to associate the scared kid sitting at your side with the same boy who ended your life. “I would’ve come back,” You stammer, grasping for something to say, a sentiment that would comfort you as much as it soothed him. “I graduated, but I wasn’t going to leave you alone. Yashiro visits every time she gets the chance, I would’ve done the same thing. You know that, Hanako, you knew that when you… When you decided to do this.”

“Nene’s growing up,” He spits. “She’ll stop. She’ll get busy with her university classes and meet a boy and forget about me, about us. I’ll be a bad dream, and you’ll be her annoying underclassmen. In a few years, Kou’s going to care more about exorcising spirits than befriending them, if he cares at all. He might forget, too.” He drops your sleeve, pulling into himself, but it’s hardly an improvement. Like this, he just looks withdrawn, spiteful. Someone who knows what kind of trap they’ve been caught in, but still refuses to completely submit to it. “They always forget. You would’ve, if I let you.”

You want to deny it. You can think of a thousand reasons you wouldn’t, a thousand moments you’ve done more than enough to prove you’d never willingly abandon him, and yet, all your arguments and disputes and defenses disappear the moment you turn towards Hanako, finally looking at him in earnest. You think he’s going to be angry, furious, violent, and yet, your expectations couldn’t be farther from the truth. Rather than balling his fists and steeling himself, he’s shaking, trembling, rubbing furiously at his eyes with sleeves that are just a hair’s width too long, every tear he misses falling to his chest, unnoticed and neglected.  You can’t hear him crying, but you almost wish you could. The sobs that rack over him are silent, his jaw locked in place and his teeth grit to the point of pain, but the few noises that slip through are pitchy, pitiful, evidence that something much louder is coming, something Hanako won’t be able to control. Something no one should have to go through, not alone.

Something you don’t want to see your friend go through alone.

You don’t think. You rest a hand on his shoulder, tugging him towards you gently, and just like that, Hanako’s face is buried in your shoulder, his arms wrapped around your midriff and yours resting limply on his shoulders, giving him permission to be as close as he wants to be. It’s not amnesty, but it’s sympathy, and that’s enough for Hanako to melt into you, to cling to you like a lifeline.

To make you think you might be able to forgive him, one day. Even if the idea seems incomprehensible, now.

So wrapped up in optimistic thoughts, you don’t notice how tight his grip is, as he clutches at your shirt. You don’t pull back when he goes quiet too quickly, or mention how easily he’s convinced to go still. You don’t feel the tiny, contented smile soon pressing into your skin, small but just as self-satisfied as any grin or smirk could ever hope to be. Involuntary, but genuine.

More genuine than any tear Hanako could ever force out, at least.

[heyheydidjaknow]

Chapter 11

Guess who's back? Back again. Back three hours late, but back nonetheless. I'd feel more sorry if I was more sorry. This is officially the longest chapter as of now, so, yay. Someone challenged me to not swear for a chapter, and I believe I fulfilled that requirement. I'm just gonna go sleep.

Update: APPARENTLY, TUMBLR DOES THE TRANSFER FORMATTING THING ON LAPTOPS AND I HATE EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE RIGHT NOW SO MUCH. I usually do all my editing on my phone, so I knew no such luxury. I have never been more pissed. That is a lie, but my anger is still very genuine.

Chapter 11

“Where were you?”

The younger brother looks up at his senior. “Huh?”

“You were gone all night.” Leonardo leans against the door, crossing his arms. “Don’t look so surprised; I started getting up early to meditate.”

He shrugs in feigned nonchalance, already dreading the ensuing conversation. “Out.”

“And where’s ‘Out’?”

Donnie slides out of his chair, deciding his straining eyes need a break. “Just went to check on Y/N is all.” He rubs them with his arm, quietly noting the sounds of fighting in the dojo were starting to cease as he sits on the couch. His rounds of sparring with Leonardo were finished a little over an hour ago; a part of him is grateful it took him this long to corner him.

This got a raised brow. “You were checking on her for hours?”

He does not look him in the eye. “It’s not impossible.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“It wasn’t that late,” he argues.

“Donnie,” he presses, “you didn’t get home until five in the morning. Where were you?”

He feels his face heat up. “I said.”

Leo leans down to look his brother in the eye. “Final answer?”

He swallows a yawn. “Look, I know it was stupid—”

“I didn’t say it was stupid.”

“No,” he snips, mildly irritable from a lack of sleep. “You implied it.”

The doors to the dojo slide open, the disgruntled look on Raphael’s face all the evidence the other two need to know who won.

Mikey dives onto the couch, sprawling out next to his slightly older brother. “Did you ask yet?”

“I did.” He glances at the disgruntled boy. “Donnie was, apparently, at Y/N’s all night.”

The reaction is immediate.

“Details!” The small victor sits up, leaning forward on his knees in usual attentiveness. “Was she good?”

“What did you—shut up, Mikey.” Raph’s attention snaps back to his tallest brother. “What did you do to her? Did you—”

“Wait, hold on!” Donnie’s face feels uncomfortably hot. “N-Nothing happened!”

“Yeah, sure.” The second eldest rolls his eyes. “You think we fell off the truck yesterday? Who stays with a girl all night in her room without something happening? Nobody,” he cuts him off before he can defend himself.

The youngest’s voice rises over his brother’s before he can continue. “Dude, big picture!” He gestures to his brown-eyed brother. “He got with a girl first! He has valid info or whatever he says and stuff!”

“What are you two even talking about?” He wrings his hands. “Look, nothing happened!”

“Then what were you doing at her house,” Raphael eggs. “You weren’t just sitting there, right?”

“… no.”

“Then what were you doing there?”

He pauses, the two excitable boys waiting on bated breath. “She wanted me to spend the night,” he explains carefully, “because she was having bad nightmares and didn’t want to sleep alone.” He leans back, tossing his hands in the air. “That’s all.”

Silence falls.

“So,” clarifies Raphael, “you spent however many hours in her room, in her bed, and you didn’t make a move?”

“I—look!” The conversation is taking a shift for the worse. “I was trying to be nice! The last thing she needed was me doing whatever you’re insinuating!”

“He has a point,” Michelangelo nods knowingly. “Brownie points are key.”

“When did I say I was doing this for brownie points?”

“Look,” the eldest interjects. “Regardless of whether or not he was doing the ‘smart’ thing—” air quotes, “my bigger concern is that you didn’t bother calling to let us know where you were. You could’ve—Raph, do you have something to say?”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you really gonna act like you wouldn’t do the exact same thing if it were you?”

The leader pauses. “Would you like to take this somewhere more private?”

“Sure.” A venomous smile curls Raph’s lips. “Dojo?”

“Bring it.”

As the two leave, Donnie looks back over at Mikey. “Okay,” he sighs, “did I miss something?”

A shrug. “Man," he grins brazenly, "bold of you to assume I follow half of the things you guys say.”

He pulls his T-Phone from his utility belt. “Do you think I did the right thing? Honestly?”

Another shrug. “I dunno.” He looks over his older brother’s shoulder, reading the text on the screen curiously. “Can’t have gone too bad, though, if you two’ve been textin’ all day.

He pushes his head away with his free hand. “It hasn’t been all day,” he corrects. “She just filled me in on this week’s episode and we just kept talking after that.” He smiles faintly. “Although, she did check to see if I got home alright.”

“Hey, that’s totally progress!” He grins encouragingly. “I mean, the bed thing was bigger progress, but this is also progress.”

You push through the turnstile with a bit of difficulty, hopping on your good leg as you pull the walker over the divider using your free hand with an embarrassing clatter. “Sorry,” you wince, feeling your face heat up as you slide down the railing. “I’m still getting used to—”

“Holy—are you alright?” The distress is apparent in the youngest’s voice as he sees you for the first time in a month. “You look like you—”

“I’m aware,” you cut him off dryly, holding a paper bag as you stumble over to the couch. “Whatever you’re about to say, I’m aware.” You put it down in Donnie’s lap. “Here.”

He blinks, picking it up as you regain your bearings. “What is it?”

“Not poison or snakes. Open it.”

“Yo,” Mikey interrupts, pointing at your banged-up leg, “can I draw on your white thing?”

It takes you a second to figure out what he is referring to. “Oh, you mean—yeah.” You lean your head back against the back of the couch. “Just know that I’ll take white-out to anything that could get me kicked out of school.”

“Deal!” He runs off to your room as his brother pulls the bag open, pulling the pastry from its confinement.

“What is it,” he repeats, icing already on his fingers.

“Cupcake.”

He fingers the wrapper, his brick stare seeming almost to dissect it. “What is it for?”

“Besides being messy?” You smile gently as you watch him try to figure it out, feeling your heart swell. “It’s food.”

“How much of it is edible?”

“Everything except the paper bit.”

He peels the liner back. “And how do you eat it, exactly?”

You lean forward on your arms. “The goal is to eat the frosting and the cake part at the same time, so however you accomplish that.”

He smiles sheepishly, eyes softening as he looks back at you. “Is it possible to eat it without the frosting getting on your face?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

He tentatively holds eye contact with you as he takes a bite, unsurprisingly getting icing sticking to the space around his upper lip. You wait tentatively as he licks the excess off, blinking in delighted surprise. “What’s in this, exactly?”

You feel yourself beam at his tone. “It’s nothing too special,” you shrug nonchalantly, bubbling with excitement. “It’s a personal favorite; red velvet with cream cheese frosting.”

He takes another bite. “Do you have more? Follow-up question,” you note his speech quickening, “can you make more?”

“Totally,” you nod in agreement. “I wanted to make you something as thanks for—”

“Back!”

Donnie shoves the rest of it in his mouth as soon as you two hear him.

“Sorry for the wait; I couldn’t find my stuff.” He plops down with a cardboard box filled with various discarded art supplies. “I’d use spray paint, but he—” he nods to his brother, currently trying to choke the rest of the cupcake down—“said I’m not allowed because of fumes or somethin’, so.”

“Fair.” You allow him to drape your calf over his legs, digging into the cardboard box he was carrying and pulling out a pencil. “Got any plans?”

“You’ll see,” he grins, starting to sketch shapes out.

The taller of the two wipes the excess frosting off his fingers. “Oh,” he snaps his fingers, “when you two are done with that, Y/N, I still gotta do that physical.”

“Physical?”

He clears his throat in preparation for a very redundant explanation. “A physical,” he explains calmly to his over-excited brother, “as in a physical examination, not whatever you’re thinking of.”

He blinks. “Like a doctor’s visit?”

“Donnie was asking about my recovery time,” you add helpfully. “Apparently, it’s weirdly long, but I don’t have any weird medical problems, so he wanted to see what the deal was.”

“That, and your comment about how ‘insanely high’ we jump, apparently.”

“Do not air quote that!” You lean your head back to look at him, hair falling onto his lap. “Not when you guys put high jumping to shame.”

He adamantly avoids eye contact, face warming. “It’s not that high,” he mumbles. “Especially if we’re bringing a sport like high jumping into this.”

“I respectfully disagree.” You lay your head down properly, looking up at him from his thighs. “Considering your falling form, it is a miracle you still have working hips.”

“What’s wrong with my form?”

“It doesn’t include a parachute.”

“Okay,” Mikey interjects, “it may not last unless you cover it with something. Just, FYI.”

You lean your head up to look at him. “Noted,” you nod. “I’ll pick up varnish or something on my way home.”

He nods. “Oh,” he asks innocently, “mind turning over? I have to get the other side and I don’t want to hurt you.”

For some inexplicable reason, the boy you are currently laying on looks as though someone has put a gun to his head.

You do as asked with a bit of difficulty, bringing your knee closer to your chest as it is now closest to the back of the couch. “Like that?”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

You look up at Donnie. “Let me know if you need me to move,” you smile. “If your thighs go numb or anything.”

His voice is oddly tight. “You’re good.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Sure? You sound very uncomfortable.”

“Never better.”

“He’s alright,” Mikey reassures you, shooting a thumbs up at his brother behind your back.

“...Alright.” Your eyes focus absentmindedly on what you thought was a couch cushion; upon further inspection, it appears to be a repurposed training mat. You bring the arm not currently pinned to your side under your head, humming an earworm softly.

The boy currently under you is silently panicking as your fingers squeeze gently around his knee, making a conscious effort to stare at the television and only at the television with his hands hovering awkwardly over you. Surprisingly enough, out of the corner of his eye, he does not catch his younger brother trying to stare at you weirdly, sincerely focused on drawing.

You feel him, eventually, resting his hands down, one resting in between your shoulder blades, the other in your hair, twisting a lock of it around his fingers gently. “Still alright,” you ask.

His voice is almost airy, now. “Mhm.”

‘This is nice.’ You trace little designs into the mat as your mind begins to wander, the boys starting to talk about something you struggle to pay attention to. This is not the closest you have been to him physically, but it is nice not to be crying this time around. "Domestic, almost, even if he doesn't think so.’

‘I should learn how to braid.’ Braiding is not something he has necessarily needed to know how to do in the past, but as he wraps the fibers around themselves, curious about the texture, he wishes that he knew; using your hair as a material of sorts would certainly be interesting, and he knows he has the dexterity for it. Admittedly, the conversation is less of a conversation and more of a speech on his brother’s part, but he tries to pay attention.

“So,” Mikey continues, digging into the box and pulling out a pencil sharpener, “he’s watching this guy all stealth-like, right? The guy’s out here, giving out his plans like they’re candy or whatever, and he’s just kinda recording it on one of those little tape recorders you used for that one thing a couple weeks ago-- you know the ones, and-- you don’t mind spoilers-- long story short, the guy gets caught, and when the crew got there, he was totally messed up.”

“Sounds like Batman,” you mumble sleepily-- ‘He really is warm.’

“Huh?”

“Your story.” You hoist yourself up, looking over your shoulder back at him. “Sounds like this Batman cartoon.”

“Batman?”

“Universe…” you stifle a yawn. “My universe has this thing called Batman, and there's a crossover thing in a different iteration of this universe. I guess you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

“Different iteration?” Donatello looks down at your head in his lap, desperately in need of a cold shower.

You feel Michelangelo bend your leg forward. You nod in confirmation, trying to will yourself awake. “Didn’t I… did I?” You lay your head back down properly. “You guys are, like… mega-famous down-- back-- there.”

“I’m not sure if you did.”

“Well,” you giggle sleepily, “you are.” You try to count on your fingers. “You’ve got the original comic, the old cartoon, the two-thousand three animated show, the CGI movie, this one, the two live-action movies, the twenty-eighteen animated one-- gorgeous animation by the by that I have to show you later, Mikey-- that crossover movie with Batman, the live-action show, the other, older live-action movie, the IDW comic series, that weird one with the hats-- there’s a ton.”

“Dude, that is sick!” The resident artist grins. “I bet they were awesome.”

You consider telling him about the IDW comic. You quickly decide against it.

“How long have we-- as a property-- existed, exactly?”

“I dunno.” You shrug. “The first animated show was the eighties, I think.”

“...huh.”

You notice him fiddling with your hair, finally. You don’t mind.

“It’s been too long.”

You freeze, suddenly very awake and painfully aware of your current position.

One of the few good things about having your own apartment: you seem to have forgotten the fear of being walked in on.

“Please, relax.” You hear his smile. It does not help matters. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

The other two, astonishingly, do not seem nearly as anxious as you are.

You look up at him from your spot on his son’s lap. “You look as healthy as ever.” ‘I miss my grandpa. Is Grandma okay?’ You were unable to find your relatives on your father’s side through social media-- they could be dead for all you know.

“No thanks to my diet,” he chuckles. Yoshi walks out of your field of view. “Don’t mind me; how long have they been in the dojo?”

“Half an hour?” You hear the jostling of the box and the snap of an uncapped pen.

You hear him sigh. “Let’s just hope nobody’s died,” he mutters, walking into the dojo.

The three of you strain your ears to-- unsuccessfully-- hear what is going on. The door snaps open as the two brothers leave together in heated silence.

Mikey shakes what you can now identify as a paint pen. “Who won?”

“Nobody.” Leo’s voice, snippy. “Is she out?”

“She is not.” You turn your arm awkwardly to wave back at him.

“Then,” he shrugs, “nice to see you.”

“Likewise.”

“So,” Raph interjects, apparently very interested in the current situation, “can someone please explain what, exactly, is going on here?”

“I’m painting her white thing.”

“Of course. Donnie?”

The mortification would be apparent if you were looking at him.

“Nothin? Okay then.” You shut your eyes as he sits down on the other side of you. “You look terrible. Nice scar.”

“I am too close to very sensitive areas for you to give me a hard time, Raphael,” you warn.

“Whatever.”

“I’m heading out.” Leo nonchalantly bounds the steps, hopping over a divider.

“Tell her I say hi,” you call back. “Remember, consent is key, yellow roses lead to friendzoning, and to always use a condom.”

“... No comment.” He runs off.

“I have so many questions.”

“Ask me later.”

It takes him about twenty more minutes to finish covering the entirety of your cast in brightly colored characters and objects; if you have to describe it, you will say that the style is contemporary pop illustration with composition reminiscent of the renaissance period if the single art class you have taken is serving you right.

“This,” you smile, a little misty-eyed for some reason, “is absolutely gorgeous. Thanks, Mikey.”

He beams. “You’re totally welcome! If you ever get more white things, I’ll draw on those too, if you want.”

“Dude, for sure.” You nod in agreement, looking back at Donnie. “Isn’t it cool?”

Donatello has been quietly jabbed at for the past twenty minutes and is mostly desensitized to the quality of his brother’s art; frankly, it is not his area, and he cannot judge it one way or the other. Despite this, he gives his brother a thumbs up. “Very.”

“Don’t stroke his ego so much,” teases their older brother. “Donnie’ll get jealous.”

“Hate to steal her from you all,” he interrupts, “but I still have a physical to do, so if you would be so kind as to shut up, that would be great.”

‘Green with envy. Is that racist? No clue. Pretty colors.’ Donnie is talking to you. “Huh?”

“I asked if you were still on board.”

You nod. “Mind grabbing my walker?”

He shoots his snickering brother a glare. “Want me to just carry you to the lab?”

Panic. Immediate panic. “You sure you can carry me?”

He shrugs, smiling. “It’s only a few feet. Besides,” he points out, “aren’t you the one always going on about how strong we are by normal standards?”

You do not have a rational way to explain why the idea of being off of solid ground, held up by someone who can potentially drop you, is distressing. You also do not want to insult him in any shape, way, or form. “Promise you won’t drop me?” Your stomach turns.

“Swear it.”

“Can I paint your walker while you guys are doing that?”

“Of all the things you could've chosen--”

“Lay off.” He offers his arms. “You can trust me, I promise.”

You pause. The statement is entirely true, but your gut is screaming at you not to do that. The same gut told you that slamming your body into the person driving the car you were tied up in was a good idea.

You latch your arms around his neck, burying your eyes in the crook of his neck as to not see when and in what direction he is moving you. “Please,” you mumble, trying not to blatantly beg, “do not drop me.”

He does not exactly understand why you are clinging to him so tightly, but he is hardly one to complain. He slides an arm under your knees, picking you up.

Raphael is heckling you. You are more concerned with your body inaccurately telling you that you are going to die from this. Tears prick your eyes as you try to breathe.

He looks down at you, mind wandering as he walks away from his brothers. You look so sweet to him, shaking like a leaf in his arms. Cute. He had thought the same thing when you had started clinging to him during that movie forever ago, when you held his hand last night and pulled him back onto the bed with you. You are not normally openly vulnerable and, although he is hardly one to talk about vulnerability, it is always a sight to behold.

“Please don’t drop me.” He is not exactly sure if you are aware of your own, almost silent begging as you repeat the phrase over and over. ‘You trust me.’ His heart melts.

It takes no time to get you to his lab. He sets you down on a chair, but you do not seem to understand that as you still cling tightly to his neck.

He chuckles nervously. “I need my body to perform the physical, Y/N.”

You were not aware he had put you down. Your eyes snap open as you let your shaking, iron grip relax. “Sorry,” you mumble, face going a gorgeous shade of pink.

“No prob.” ‘Prob?’ His face changes color to match yours.

“So.” He claps his hands together just a bit too hard, slamming the door closed when he hears his brothers’ snickering. “Let’s get started.”

--

You sit on your couch, applying another coat of varnish to your cast as you listen to a cooking show because something something exposure therapy. Also, listening to people scream at one another about food textures is soothing.

Your results were not surprising to you; by the standards of humans in this universe, you are a walking talking coma patient. It was a bit funny, watching him freak out about a blood pressure that you knew-- through the help of google-- was completely normal. You are fine for the most part, if he was using the tools given correctly, and so, you are currently preoccupied with making sure the gorgeous painting on your fiberglass prison is going to stay gorgeous. The only thing he had insisted on, really, was that you not cook, after seeing your crudely applied bandages on your fingers.

You lean back into an actual couch, pulling out your phone and scrolling through pictures of gloves again. You are determined to find a good pair; the deep scars on your hands are not fading any time soon.

You can hear the window slide open. “If you’re planning on killing me--” you stop when you look up to see the look on Donnie’s face. “Something up?”

He says absolutely nothing, leaning his staff against the wall, closing the window in a daze and he stands next to the sofa. “Are you busy?”

“No.”

“Good.” His eyes glance at the space next to you. “Can I stay here for a bit?”

“As long as you like.”

He lays his head on your lap as he sits down, staring blankly at the television screen. He immediately understands why you like this-- your thighs are incredibly soft.

You immediately understand why he was awkward. You have no idea where to put your hands, but you eventually settle on his head as you turn the volume down. “What’s up?”

He takes a deep breath, licking his teeth as he sighs. “I,” he explains, “just realized what my reality is right now and I-- okay, I know this sounds stupid--”

“Not at all.”

“It does,” he insists. “I know it sounds stupid because I realized it did when I was working it out, but I just-- hear me out, okay?” His voice oozes exhaustion.

“I’m hearing you.” You listen to him, laying your phone face down on the coffee table. “Hit me.”

He takes another breath. “I just fought a giant… thing.” He rolls over, looking up at you. “Mikey called it Jacob or something, and it was about twenty feet tall and it looked like something out of a monster movie and it destroyed us in a fight.” You hear his voice rising, and you just nod along, letting him talk. “It wiped the floor with us. And the only reason it existed was that Leo, apparently, got a girlfriend named Karai-- you know her?”

“Hot alt chick with the wicked eyeshadow and eyeliner that could kill?” You nod. “Yeah, I’m familiar.”

“Her-- wait, should I…?” He trails off, shakes his head. “Another time.” He covers the side of his face with his hand, gesturing animatedly with his other. “Anyways, apparently he met this girl because she wanted to do a heist with him-- this girl, working for the Foot, of all people-- sixteen or whatever-- she goes and just touches a button to mix the DNAs of all the creatures an alien race could find on Earth, and then bails.” He realizes he is shouting, lowers his voice. “The alien creatures, in case you forgot, that look like brains and waddle around on tentacles which, by the way, makes no evolutionary sense whatsoever, decided to create a button that mixes the entirety of their samples of DNA together in a smorgasbord of wrong, okay?”

“Uhuh.” You nod along. You know what he means, even if the word he used was technically not correct.

“This thing,” he continues, officially ranting, “destroyed a building! It set the whole thing on fire, which was probably only Kraang, but also maybe had normal people in it, which is concerning.” He rubs his eyes aggressively. “So, to recap, an alienish creature named Jason or whatever got created by Leo’s crush and destroyed a building and that was just what happened today!” He raises his hands in the air, almost accidentally hitting you in the face. “I didn’t bat an eye at this!”

“Man, I feel you.”

“And I understand,” he continues, “the irony of telling you this, considering I am a giant, talking turtle created by the very same mutagen that created Justin or whatever its stupid name was, was taught ninjutsu by my ninja master father who is also a rat, and that you have already previously died--”

“All very bizarre things,” you agree.

“-- but this is just…” he sighs. “My life is getting so… weird? It was already weird, I know, but more so than I thought it reasonably should be.”

You wipe a bit of oil you notice on his cheek off with your thumb. “This world is a weird one,” you admit.

His voice is lower now as he follows your hand with his eyes. “I…” He takes breath. “I just wish we were more normal, you know? That our lives were more normal, that our existences made more sense, you know?”

You cup his face in your hand gently, remembering how your mother used to do the same for you. “I do.”

You feel him leaning into your touch. “I wish,” he mumbles, almost to himself, “that I was a normal, human teenager who went to school and didn’t know how to use a bo staff and had three, normal brothers who could try to get girlfriends without worrying about whether or not they wanted to kill them.”

You sigh, running your thumbs along the edge of his eye socket, feeling the soft skin shift under you. “You’re very well adjusted for a teenager trained in the art of assassination,” you joke softly.

He chuckles dryly, closing his eyes. “My mother is an empty canister in a locked cabinet in the kitchen.” He exhales slowly. “My stepmom was murdered by a man now actively trying to murder me and my entire family because of a decades long feud. Well adjusted is probably the highest compliment you could give me.”

“I’ve given you higher.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” You glance up at the television screen, then back at him. “You’re holding up better than I am, and you’ve been fearing for your life since you were real little.”

“Apples and oranges.” He rests his hand on yours.

“Look,” you shrug, “the way I see it, life is a series of events that all string together to the present.”

“Butterfly effect.”

“Exactly.” You smile down at him. “And if things didn’t happen exactly as they did, we never would’ve met, the world would be totally screwed, and we would be missing out on one of the greatest minds on the planet.”

He looks to see if you are being serious.

You are.

“You also wouldn’t have a broken leg and messed up hands,” he points out ruefully.

“Meeting you was worth it.”

He reaches up, running his fingers along the scar on your face. “I disagree.”

“It’s my body, and my physical detriment. It doesn’t matter if you’re stupid enough to think it wasn’t worth it.”

You feel his body relax

You two shut up for a bit, watching the show absentmindedly.

After a while, he pipes up. “It’s alright if you say no,” he starts tentatively, “but is it alright if I stay here again tonight?”

“Will your brothers mind?”

“They don’t care so long as I’m home before sunrise,” he shrugs. “I just like it here. Smells better.”

You smile brightly. “Sure,” you agree easily. “I sleep better with you here, anyways; I don’t worry about people sneaking in through the window.” You check the varnish. “I just have to wait for this to dry the rest of the way, first. You’re free to go to bed without me, though.”

In all honesty, you’re just happy not to be alone.

He nods, standing up and drawing the curtains. He sits down on the bed, untying the mask behind his head. ‘I could get used to this.’ He smiles slightly, slipping a hand into his utility belt and texting his brothers where he was to avoid his brother’s scolding in the morning. He slips that off too, dropping both onto the side of the bed and starting on the wraps on his feet and hands; he had learned his lesson when he had gotten up morning before, having gotten a few hours sleep at home, to large, noticeable indentations in his flesh where the foreign objects had been.

You glance over. “Do those go in the wash?”

He looks back. “Not usually, no.”

“Do you want me to wash them?”

‘You are too considerate.’ He shakes his head. “It’s alright.”

You shrug, putting your hands up. “Suit yourself.” You cross your hands across your stomach, staring absentmindedly back at the screen. “You can use the shower in the morning, but please do not use all of the hot water. Fridge is open if you need breakfast.”

“Nah,” he sighs, slipping the clothes into his utility belt. “I’ll eat at home.”

You nod in acknowledgement.

It occurs to him as he sets his knee and elbow pads with the rest of his things that, technically, he is stripping in front of you, and you are not batting an eye. As soon as that clocks, it also dawns on him that you are showing the most skin he has ever seen-- an A-shirt and gym shorts-- which had not even registered until he was laying in your bed. You are relaxed and in your warm apartment, watching a television program with him in your bed. You are awake and absolutely gorgeous and you feel safer with him of all people.

His heart swells as he slides under the blankets, the sound of the television white noise at this point.

You glance back at him, the phrase “Snug as a bug in a rug," coming to mind as you look over at him, struggling to keep his eyes open. “You gonna fall asleep?”

His face warms. He nods. "It's been a really long day," he admits.

“Then goodnight,” you smile. “Sweet dreams.”

He smiles sleepily. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he shuts his eyes.

You swallow.

You forgot how much you missed this.

Table of Contents

Chapter 10

Chapter 12

[dc41896]

Perfect

Hey guys👋🏾! So I saw in the video from the recent USO live chat that Chris said if he wasn’t acting, he’d be doing something where he has to work with his hands a lot and thus here we are lol! Hope you like it😊!

Pairing: Builder!Chris EvansxBlack Reader

⚠️: Slight angst, fluff

“Ohh this one is pretty! What do you think Ivy?,” you ask lying the lilac onesie against your swollen abdomen. With only a month left until your due date, you finally decided to try to organize your closet to accommodate her growing collection of clothes.

Although tiny, the amount of outfits and other supplies bought by you, your fiancé, and both sets of your family and friends warranted her own room really, but being stuck with your quaint one bedroom apartment the small plastic dresser in your closet would have to do.

“I’ll tell you this baby girl, you are definitely spoiled already.”

“And your grandparents wouldn’t have it any other way,” you hear from behind paired with the light thud of work boots hitting the floor. “Can’t blame them entirely though, me and your mom might have had something to do with that too.”

“You’re home early.”

“Yea the floors didn’t take as long as we thought they would.”

Kissing your cheek, he notices the box of diapers you were currently trying to move with your foot but not getting far. Bending down reaching for the cutout handle, he moves your hands beating you to the box before placing it with the others. “Here babe let me get that. Remember the doctor said-,”

“I know what he said Chris. I’m the one who told you what he said since you weren’t there remember?”

You didn’t mean for it to come out as bitter as it did, but you also couldn’t hide your frustration anymore. He was always a perfectionist when it came to his work. From the paint to the furniture placement, and even the plants outside, he never wanted a client to walk in seeing anything out of place or thinking he didn’t care about what he did.

You understood and loved how much he cared, but with your heightened emotions and the fact that this was a pretty important time in both of your lives, him not being there broke your heart a little more each time it happened.

“Y/N, I know I haven’t been around like I want to and I’m sorry, but it’s just I really want this house to be perfect.”

“I know you do, but I’d also like for you to actually see her moving on the screen rather than me tell you what happened. Or hear her heartbeat in person.”

Grabbing your sides, he gently pulls you closer bringing his calloused yet soft hands up to cradle your face and graze his thumbs against your cheek while peering into your eyes.

“I promise you things will be different as soon as everything’s done. Then I’ll be at every appointment and by your side so much you’ll be sick of me,” he smiles.

“You really shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.” Sliding out of his grip, you make your way to the kitchen, hands rubbing the base of your belly as he follows close behind.

“It’s not my fault this all had to happen while you’re pregnant.”

“I know.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me,” he sighs, back leaning against the counter watching you remove different items from the fridge trying to put something together for dinner.

There’s silence as you chop bell peppers to sauté in the pan slowly heating up on the stove. You could feel his eyes still on you though as you moved about getting different seasonings and other tools to help make your meal, but you refused to say a word.

“Guess I’ll go shower then,” he states under his breath ready to leave so you could have the space you clearly needed.

“What’s so different about this house?”

“What do you mean?”

“Every other build you’ve done you’re telling me any and every detail about it and even a little about who it’s for,” you explain still focused on the sizzling pan in front of you. “This one, you haven’t said one thing about it other than you finished the floors today. Then you’re rushing out the room to take secret calls and working later than usual, which makes me believe this house must be something special.”

“I haven’t really had the time to tell you since I’ve been so busy.”

“...sure you’re not just trying to bury yourself in your work?” Hearing your sniffles, he walks up behind you turning you around to see your glossy eyes as tears begin to fall. “I mean I know I’m a bit more emotional and probably more annoying-,”

“Shh, stop,” he softly speaks wiping away your tears and hugging you close to his body. “You’re not annoying and I’m definitely not burying myself in my work. If I could, I’d spend every second with you doing anything you want.”

“You say that now, but I’m sure you’d think different after.”

“Nope. Never.”

Bringing your hand up to his lips, he kisses the diamond on your finger before moving to your lips making them move together as if they were part of a passionate dance.

“You’re gonna make me burn dinner. Again,” you smile resting your forehead against his.

“Sorry,” he chuckles leaving one last peck on your lips. Letting you turn back around, his chin sits on your shoulder and hand lightly rubs up and down your belly as he helps with the remainder of the meal.

———

The following week, Chris finally finished the house and couldn’t wait to give you a tour through the bare home. He was practically glowing with excitement each day leading up to the weekend, when you both agreed he could show you.

Driving through busy streets and backroads shaded by canopy trees, you eventually arrive in the driveway of a grey house trimmed in white with pillars of the same color. On the wrap around porch sat two dark brown rocking chairs seemingly waiting for someone to rest in them, while bunches of orange and yellow chrysanthemums were planted in the flower beds just below it. Carefully stepping out of the black Ford truck, with his help, a small smile forms on your lips as you look from the building to your future husband.

“What?,” he shyly asks nervously fidgeting with his hands.

“Nothing, just amazed again by what you do. And also wondering what made you chose to plant my favorite flower?”

“Guess you were stuck on my mind,” he winks kissing your lips before grabbing your hand and leading you up the steps to the door.

Your footsteps against the dark hardwood and Chris’ voice echo throughout the empty house as he takes you to every room, noting how the furniture would be placed once it arrived and asking your opinion on how it would look. Walking down the hall, he points out the master and guest bedrooms pausing in front of the last door with his hand on the knob.

“I’ll tell you now, I did this room all by myself so go easy on me okay?,” he states making you giggle.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s just as beautiful as the rest of the house.” Slowly opening the door, you notice it to be the only furnished room in the house with a grey crib, dresser, changing station, and cloth rocking chair all matching in color.

“Aww babe! Why didn’t you tell me they were expecting a baby too?”

Black butterfly stencils staggered along the pink wall above the crib, seeing the teddy bears placed on top of the changing table instantly draw your hands to your stomach as you become even more excited for your own bundle to come into the world.

“I uh also got them an extra little present from us,” he states opening the top drawer to reveal a folded baby blanket covered in clouds. “Think it’s okay?”

“Yea it’s-,” you start as you notice the shine of golden letters embroidered in the corner. Stepping closer to him, Chris can feel his heart pounding in his ears as he watches you read what’s been sewn on the blanket and look at him confused.

“Why does it have Ivy’s on it?”

“Because it’s hers, along with everything else in here.”

Words seemed to be something foreign to your brain as you continued to stare at the man in front of you wondering if he was being serious.

“Wha-? How-?”

“Grandma Peggy left this land to me in her will and I always planned to build a house on it but never got around to it. When little Ivy came in the picture though, I thought now was the perfect time.”

As you scan the room holding onto the blanket, he starts to feel a bit scared from your silence.

“W-We can always change stuff around though if you don’t like it,” he stammers rubbing the back of his neck. “Like maybe the crib can-,”

Unable to complete his words, he feels your arms wrap around his neck as your lips press against his moving in perfect sync.

“It’s perfect!”

“Really? You think so? It’s okay if you want to change anything I swear.”

“No I promise I love it how it is,” you giggle kissing him again. “I love everything, thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me love. I’m gonna do anything I can for the both of you to make sure you’re taken care of, and nothing will stop that.”

“I know, which makes me feel worse about thinking you were purposely trying to stay away,” you sniffle looking down at the blanket in your hands.

“Well, it didn’t help that I wasn’t being as open as usual.”

“But still I shouldn’t have even let my mind go in that direction and I’m sorry.” Wiping your tears away, he lies your head on his chest rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“That’s in the past okay? Now we focus on what comes our way next,” he smiles to which you nod your head wrapping your arms around his waist and enjoying breathing in his scent as you both stand in the peaceful quiet.

“So you really love everything? Be honest.”

“So much that if I wasn’t pregnant, I probably would be in the morning,” you bite your lip looking up to see his raised brow and amused expression.

“Looks like you might be getting another sibling soon Ivy,” he whispers down towards your stomach making you laugh.

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[dahliax]

Sokka having a fight with reader but it ends up being really fluffy when they both apologize 🥺 and can it include “I didn’t mean to yell at you,” while he cooks the reader pancakes thank you and goodnight

Omg hi!!! this is my first ask so I’m a lil nervous but I really reallllyyy hope you like it! I reread it like 10 times to make sure it was okay 😂💗

Sokka x fem!Reader

Warnings: fluff and a lil angst

The gaang couldn’t deny that both you and Sokka had quite the attitudes. But that’s what made your friendship strong in a way. Occasionally you butted heads, like right now. Everybody was getting the campsite ready for the night and Sokka was acting off for some reason.

“Sokka, is there anything I can do to help?” You say sweetly, trying to calm the tension radiating off of him. But he ignored you making your heart fall. You knew he might be upset from your most recent battle with the Fire Nation. You made it out barely alive, pain from the burn on your arm reminding you. It wasn’t anything Katara couldn’t fix in a few days with healing, but you’d definitely have a scar.

Sokka was collecting wood to start a fire and now he was having trouble lighting it. “Are you sure you don’t want my help Sokka?” You said again placing a soft hand on his shoulder while he hovered over the branches he collected.

He huffed and turned around so quick you barely seen him move. “How are you so clueless!” He yells straight in your face. You step back, heart racing from Sokka’s anger. He never talked to you like this. “W-what?” You barely squeaked out.

“You threw yourself into that fight like your life meant nothing! You could’ve died!” He yelled even louder. Katara and Aang could probably hear him from the shore while they were collecting clean water. “I think my fighting capabilities are just fine! Can’t I ever make a mistake Sokka?!”

“We can’t afford mistakes right now y/n! If I wouldn’t have came to get you who knows what would have happened! They could have tortured you to death! Or even worse-“ he stopped when he sees the tears well up in your eyes.

“Well then I guess I’m just not good enough to fight with Team Avatar anymore. I understand, I’ll leave in the morning” you say sadly turning around to head to your tent finally letting the tears flow once you lied on your cot. You really didn’t want to leave, you loved all your friends. And you especially loved Sokka, so if he thought you weren’t fit to fight you would believe him.

Back at the fire Sokka was still having trouble starting the fire. Soon Aang and Katara come running from the trees startled by all the yelling. “What’s going on?” Katara asked Sokka. “Y/N is leaving tomorrow..I yelled at her for getting hurt today” he said trailing off.

“Why would you do that? That was the perfect distraction for Aang to give the final blow. Yes, it came at a cost but she truly saved us all” Katara said in her ‘mom’ voice. (It’s adorable honestly) “Yeah Sokka she is right. Maybe you should go apologize and try to convince her to stay. Because we all know that’s not what you or the rest of us want” Aang said trying not to get too angry with Sokka.

Sokka simply nodded and walked slowly to your tent with his head down. ‘What am I going to say? She won’t forgive me after saying that,’ he takes a deep breath and opens the door to see you curled up in a ball on your cot. Sokka’s heart shattered, how could he have done this to you? Your beautiful face looked so painful as the tears slowly made it to your chin he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Y/N-“

“I don’t wa-want to hear it,” she says putting her hand on her chest, feeling so overwhelmed.

“No y/n please hear me out!” He dropped to his knees infront of the cot, tears starting to fall from his own eyes. “Fine” She said finally opening her eyes, they were bloodshot and her lips were swollen from crying. But Sokka always thought she looked gorgeous, even if she was crying.

“I-I don’t want you to go! I didn’t mean to yell at you! I love you more than anyone else here! I can’t fight without you by my side. So I think it’s time I told you the truth. I got so mad because I love you so much and I didn’t want to lose you. I wasn’t there to protect you like I should have. And I made you feel like it was your fault, when really it was mine” he admitted looking down letting his tears fall more freely. Y/N never seen Sokka cry before, he always tried to act tough.

“S-Sokka..” she trailed off feeling weak. “No no it’s okay you don’t have to feel the same way or forgive me I’ll leave you alon-“ he starts but stops when he feels your cold hand pulling on his. “I love you too” she said timidly looking into his blue ocean eyes. Sokka was completely taken back, never thinking she’d actually like him back. “You know what would make me feel better...” you say trailing off. “What? Anything you want sweetheart,” Sokka sprinkled in his favorite nickname for you, now meaning so much more to you as the butterflies flew around in your stomach. 

“A kiss... and some of your yummy pancakes...” and as soon as you said that, his lips were on yours and his thumbs reached to your cheeks wiping away all the tears. The feeling was indescribable, his lips drawing you in for more and more. Unable to get enough of him you pulled him closer, wanting to savor the moment forever.

He pulled back, “Now come help me start this fire so I can make you pancakes,”

Aaaah! I had so much fun writing this!! I hope it’s okay!! Feel free to send me more requests!

[ratcandy]

are there any things we missed in cogr?

MMMMM

Some things I cannot mention because spoilers for either late-CoGR or the Trivia Doc, but urm. Hmmmmm. I guess I can spill a lil bit as a treeeat

major spoilers for CoGR (Camouflage of Great Renown) below!!! up until what’s currently published (chapter 51)

1. Mom things

So! Zote’s mother amiright?? She was purposefully kept as vague and untouched and unmentioned as possible up until chapter 47. There’s six (6) instances of the word “mother” before chapter 47, but none of them have to do with Zote’s mom- HOWEVER this does not mean there were not hints toward her existing!! Chapter 20: “Who, then, spoke to me? And why did they mimic her?” was NOT in reference to the Den Elder, as someone theorized it was! This was the very first reference to Zote’s mother that I can remember writing in, and I think that’s :) potentially interesting :) 

Chapter 26: “’Impudent child…’ …Hmph. I showed her ‘impudent.’” Chapter 47: “Impudent child… You are as feeble as your forebearer...” thanks momma

Birdie actually noticed this one!! And they’ve been the only one to thus far: Chapter 35: “Hah. I just realized… I would’ve scarred its eye. Oh, how fitting would that have been? Perhaps it’s better I lost my chance.” [this is in reference to the Vengefly King] Chapter 47: “Oh. Hah. Are you wondering what her usual disguise was? I’m sure you’ll have a hearty chuckle over this one. A vengefly.”  ... “What’s worse, she had a crooked laceration over one of her eyes. It translated into every form she took, making her awfully recognizable no matter what she looked like.”

aaand there’s one (1) more reference to Zote’s mother coming to mind but I LEGALLY cannot talk about it because it’s. some. MAJOR spoilers for things unwritten! It’s been misinterpreted as someone else, though, I’ll give ya that much!

2. A little tidbit that could’ve given away everything about zote’s mom if y’all had paid attention: “Their “leader” was my very brother. And I can assure you, he was not a superior. Not yet, anyway.”

3. I know I’ve alluded to this already but I’m gonna need you guys to pay attention to some’a the times zote has used the word promise

4. As with “fiend,” “grub” is not mentioned outside of the grub arc except for the instance of the mimic in the colosseum, a quote in chapter 4, and chapter 47: “Look at me, shivering like a lost grub. Pah! Haha! Ah. Of course, that’s the first thing that came to mind. Grubs.”

5. this isn’t really in the fic but have y’all been paying attention to zote’s right hand when i draw him. ignoring the pogchamp picture u might....... wanna glimpse at his right hand sometimes. :) chapter 30 was my favorite chapter

6. “I did something in chapter 28 that promised something horrible in a future chapter!” here’s the thing I said in chapter 28 that promised the awful for chapter 42 (don’t hesitate): “Do not turn back, do not hesitate, and do not wonder the state of what you’ve left behind.”  also a little thing in chapter 3: “Believe me. Disobey. Do not hesitate as I may have.”

 ,,,,okay so there’s actually a lot I can’t mention because of spoilers but. once. specific chapters come out, I’m sure I’ll have more to add to this about things y’all missed! Becauuuuse there’s a bit :) though honestly not that much, ‘cause y’all started gettin observant once shit started goin down heehehee

[goldenretriever-nicknelson]

Blurbmas ~ Day 4 (TH)

gif not mine

A/n: What do you know the powers of writing have blessed me and I was able to write it! Happy day 4 of blurbmas! I got this idea from a random prompt list and ran with it so I hope you like it. 

WC: 1.4k 

Warnings: (my attempt at) enemies to lovers trope, swearing maybe (?) and fluffy fluff fluff 

12 days of blurbmas!

“Remind me why I’m here again?” 

Your best friend sighed and dragged you by the hand. “Because you are not sitting in bed all day and watching Christmas movies, again.” 

“Z that’s the best part of Christmas!” You complained, dragging your feet as she pulled you towards the house. It was beautifully decorated from top to bottom with lights and Christmas decorations. 

“You wouldn’t want to miss your secret admirer would you?” Zendaya smirked and turned to you, stopping in her tracks. She noticed the blush on your cheeks that had little to do with the chill of the weather and her smirk grew wider. 

It had been an inside secret on set and it had started a few weeks ago when someone left a letter taped to your dressing room door. It was a simple letter stating that whoever had written it liked you and thought you were beautiful. 

At first you had thought it was some practical joke and even though their words had made you feel warm inside, you didn’t let it get to you and chose to ignore it. A few days later a delivery guy showed up with a bouquet of flowers, pink roses; your favourite. 

And after that the gifts and letters just kept coming, each one making you blush more and more. You had your suspicions of who it could be, you’d even considered Z at one point but she’d assured you it wasn’t. You knew she knew who it was and you’d been trying to get her to tell you but she wouldn’t budge and only gave you vague clues that bugged you further. 

“It’s someone you won’t expect.” 

“You’ll never guess them.” 

Even Tom, your co-star and king of getting on your nerves, knew something with the little smirks he’d give you after filming or when he’d see you find a gift or a letter. The fact he might know only irritated you further. 

It could’ve been Harrison but he was too busy with his own career taking off to come by as frequently. Maybe it was Harry but you’d always seen him as a little brother and the things in those letters did not read sibling friendly. 

A few days ago you had received what was supposedly the last letter. It asked you to meet them at the party which Tom and Haz were throwing and where you were headed right now. Only there was one condition, you had to wear your ugliest christmas sweater and they would wear theirs so you could finally find each other.

You had resided to not going, not wanting to be the butt of a big practical joke or worse finding out it was someone you didn’t want it to be. Receiving all the gifts of affection had made you feel like you were living in some romance novel or a fairytale and you didn’t want to ruin the happy feeling you got in your chest whenever you looked back at them. 

“Come on Y/n!” 

Without realising Zendaya had walked ahead to the party leaving you no choice but to follow. You sighed and wrapped your coat tighter around yourself as you walked, not wanting anyone to see the ugliness of your sweater. 

As you finally stepped inside a happy sigh left your lips at the feel of the warmth, you could hear chatting and laughter coming from different rooms and christmas music playing in the background. Fortunately it wasn’t as loud or as crazy as you had thought. 

Harrison was the first to greet you both, giving you hugs and offering to take your coats. You shook your head and held it tighter around your body. Haz gave you a confused look as he took Zendaya’s coat and laughed.

“Okay whatever suits you i guess.” He chuckled and hung Z’s coat up before going back to the main party room where it seemed to be the loudest. You blushed as you followed him, Zendaya going to get drinks. 

You were already starting to feel hot in your coat with the body heat and the fireplace roaring as well. People were dancing and celebrating around you. You recognised most people from on set and waved to them as you passed, unsure of where you were actually going. That was until you spotted a familiar smug looking face in the crowd. 

Yours and Tom's eyes met and it looked like he was about to yell something to you but you didn’t give him the chance and quickly walked in the opposite direction. There was no way he was going to see you in this hideous sweater because you knew the mockery would never end. 

Just as you hightailed it into the kitchen, you bumped directly into Z who ended up spilling the drinks all over your coat. You sighed and looked down at the stain of wine that was seeping into the fabric of your coat. 

“Shit Y/n I’m so sorry.” You shook your head, letting her know it was fine as you smiled smally at her. “You should probably take it off.” 

Somehow you would have thought Zendaya had planned it as she helped you take off your coat, assuring you she would take care of it. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, trying your best to hide your sweater as you walked back into the main room. 

You felt like everyone’s eyes were on you, like that scene in the movie where everyone’s waiting for you to do something but you knew it was probably just your nerves. Your secret admirer was meant to be in this crowd of people or maybe they hadn’t arrived yet but either way you felt very on alert. 

It felt stupid to have feelings for someone you didn’t even know the identity of but their letters had made you think with every word sinking into your heart. Whoever this person was, knew you and their gifts proved as much. Your favorite flowers, chocolate and candy and more. The past few weeks they had made you feel special, like you were the only one in the world they wanted. 

You found a comfy chair by the fire and reread their last letter, tracing your fingers over the words. You had your wishes of who it would be even if your thoughts were stupid, you knew it couldn’t be since you were sure they hated you but your heart still hoped. 

Someone cleared their throat in front of you, drawing your attention away from the letter. You quickly tucked it away and blushed as you heard a familiar voice. 

“Nice sweater.” 

The blush on your cheeks was so immense you thought you might have been catching a fever as you looked up. The first thing you saw was a bright red sweater that had a Santa with sunglasses on, bold text reading “have a rockin’ christmas.” You let out a giggle and your heart started to lift with hope, this must be him; your secret admirer. 

“You too.” You giggled and took a deep breath before finally looking up at your mystery admirer. And there he was with his messy brunette curls, matching honey brown eyes that melted your heart and that smug smile. The closer you looked you could see a hint of shyness behind that famous smile. 

“Thanks darling. You got my letter then?” 

Your mouth was slightly agape as you nodded, making Tom chuckle and unless you were mistaken a blush spread across his cheeks, matching the colour of his sweater. 

“It was you?” 

You stood up and looked him in the eyes, meeting his shy but loving gaze. He looked down and bit his lip before nodding. 

“You’re disappointed aren’t you?” 

As if on instinct you took his hand in yours and squeezed, shaking your head. Tom looked up hopefully and smiled, giving your hand a squeeze back. 

“I’m not disappointed. I was hoping it would be you but I thought you- um that you hated me.” You blushed and giggled, now knowing it was far from the truth. 

“I could never hate you. It’s the opposite actually.” 

You smiled wide and pulled Tom closer, making him chuckle as his hand slid around your waist. Both of you leaned in until your lips met in a perfect collision. The kiss was short and sweet but you knew from the feeling in your heart that it was right. 

“It’s the opposite for me too.” 

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[sachigram]

Telescope Now Chapter 5

((click here to read on ao3!!))

“Okay, can you explain this to me one more time?”

Izaya stays where he is, doesn't want to look up at either of the men in his apartment. He can feel them both watching him with judgment disguised poorly as concern, and at this point he's not very interested in what either of them has to say. He knows what he sees, knows his own mind better than anyone else. He won't be swayed into thinking differently.

“I already fucking explained it to you!” Shizuo is angry, which is refreshing. He was acting much too friendly before, much too human. It's funny to Izaya that Shizuo is acting so upset on his behalf.

“Yes, but it was over the phone, and you were acting...frazzled,” Shinra answers in a placating tone. “Just once more, please.”

“It's what I said! Flea's fucking losing it way worse than you let on before. He's acting weird as fu—“

“The urns?” Shinra interjects. Izaya can hear Shinra moving towards the counter, the sounds of glass sliding, and then there's a pause.

“He says they're empty,” Shizuo says lowly, but it's almost as if he's incapable of whispering.

“They are empty,” Izaya says, sitting up at last to face them both. The blanket falls down into his lap, and he rubs at his eyes, blinking lights out of his vision. He was lying in the dark for so long with the TV as the only light source, and now Shinra has the main lights on.

“Izaya-kun, they're not,” Shinra says, lifting an urn into his arms. He pads towards the couch and tilts it towards Izaya. “Look.”

Inside is the same emptiness Izaya saw before. He thought it was a joke at first, the urns being empty, thought maybe the staff of the funeral home were trying to pull one over on him, but no. Everyone else thus far has found the urns to be full. Izaya scoffs and flops back onto the couch, pulling the blanket over his head.

“I can't look at nothing, Shinra. I don't know what you want me to say.”

“See?” Shizuo asks, and there's the rustling of fabric, the sound of footsteps. “He really thinks it.”

“Well, I didn't think he was faking,” Shinra says. There's some more movement, and then pressure next to Izaya as someone sits beside him. “Izaya-kun, I want you to come stay with me.”

“No. You think I'm crazy, I can tell. Who knows what horrible experiments you'll do as soon as I'm unconscious?” Izaya curls further into himself, wishing the others would just leave. This is awful enough without them both observing Izaya as if he's a rare exhibit at the museum.

“How many times do I have to tell you I don't think you're crazy?” Shinra asks, and he tugs at the blanket until Izaya relents to letting it pull away from his face. Shinra smiles at him sadly. “Will you trust me, please? Let's just talk through this. What could the urns being empty mean, exactly?”

“That they're actually alive, that something worse could be happening to them, that Shiki-san is somehow involved—“ Izaya lists, and Shinra holds a hand up.

“You realize what you're saying. You realize how this sounds. You're saying a powerful executive, a made man, is trying to convince you that the twins are dead. What exactly would his motivations be here?”

“I don't even know how they died!” Izaya shouts. He's gone over these facts, assessed them over and over in his mind, and having Shinra spout them as if Izaya is just being willfully ignorant is asinine. “Every time he starts to explain it to me, he stops short, like he can't piece the story together for himself.”

“Izaya-kun, he has explained it to you. He's explained it to me as well. You're blocking it out because—“ Shinra sighs and reaches for Izaya's shoulder, but Izaya swats his hand away. “You're traumatized,” Shinra continues. “This is a perfectly acceptable response to what you're going through.”

“Bullshit,” Izaya snaps, sitting up once more. He glares at Shinra, wants nothing more than to strangle the man, and he wonders briefly if this is how Shizuo feels all the time. “Tell me, then. Tell me how they died.”

Shinra opens his mouth, and his lips move, but Izaya can't hear anything. He looks from Shinra to Shizuo, trying to decide if they're messing with him, but Shizuo looks uncomfortable, as if he doesn't want to hear this story, and Shinra's expression is morose, like he's giving a patient bad news.

“They aren't dead,” Izaya says, and he draws his knees up, rests his head on them. “If they were dead, I'd know it.”

“I saw the bodies, Izaya-kun,” Shinra says gently.

“You fucking didn't. You don't even know how they died!”

“Flea, he just—“ Shizuo tries, and Izaya throws his hands in the air.

“I didn't ask for either of you to be here! I'm not asking you to believe me! What the hell do I care what either of you think when you,” he points to Shinra, “work closely with Shiki-san, and you,” he points to Shizuo, “hate me anyway?” Izaya glowers at them both, and then he flops back down, exhausted suddenly from all these emotions.

“We're trying to help you,” Shinra says, and his voice is calm. Shizuo scoffs in the background. “Neither of us has anything to gain from lying to you.”

“Yes, you do.” Izaya doesn't elaborate, doesn't think he needs to. “Get out.”

“As your friend, I can't do that, and as your medical professional, it would be nothing short of irresponsible of me to leave you on your own when I think you might be a danger to yourself or others,” Shinra says, and Izaya rolls his eyes.

“Yeah? You just said you didn't think I was crazy, and now you're saying I'm dangerous?”

“If you really think I'd be out to get you, then I have to assume something might not be right,” Shinra says coolly, and he narrows his eyes when Izaya glances at him.

“Then you leave. Shizu-chan can stay,” Izaya says.

Shinra has the gall to look hurt. “Izaya-kun...”

“I already know Shizu-chan hates me, so I won't be inclined to listen to him. Get out, Shinra, I mean it. I'm not interested in convincing you or anyone else of the truth.” He folds his arms over his knees and looks over at Shizuo, almost daring him to say something. Shizuo is uncharacteristically silent, though he still looks as annoyed as ever. He shrugs at Shinra, his lips turned down, and Shinra sighs loudly before standing.

“Have it your way, but I'll be back soon,” Shinra says. He passes by Shizuo and motions for Shizuo to follow him, and the two of them move towards the door while murmuring back and forth.

“I'm not crazy,” Izaya says to himself, and he glances at the urn Shinra left on the coffee table. It stares back at him almost vindictively, a worthy foe, every bit as empty inside as Izaya is.

The door opens and closes, and Shizuo returns, his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes focused on Izaya. “I really, really don't know what to say here.”

“I don't expect you to say anything, monster. Actually, I'd rather you not talk at all.”

“Why the hell would you prefer me to Shinra? He's right, you hate me.”

“Most of the people in my small inner circle hate me, Shizu-chan. It's easier to deal with openly hostile people, as there's no trust between us. You can't possibly betray me, as I don't trust you to begin with.” Izaya lies down once more and turns to face the TV. “Can you turn the lights back off? They're hurting my head.”

“Shinra said you should eat. Come on, I brought you fatty tuna.” Shizuo moves to hover over Izaya, and he lifts the bag as if to remind Izaya of its presence.

“I'm not hungry.”

Shizuo growls, and Izaya smiles, wonders how far he can push Shizuo before Shizuo lunges at him with intent to kill.

“Fucking eat it, or I'll shove it down your throat,” Shizuo snaps, throwing the bag at Izaya. “Dying of starvation is too nice a death for you.”

“That's absolutely terrible, Shizu-chan! It's a slow, painful death, you know?” Izaya considers throwing the bag to the floor, but the ootoro smells delicious. His stomach rumbles.

“See? You're hungry. Just eat it.” Shizuo sits down, his elbows on his knees as he leans toward Izaya. His fingers twitch.

“Did you poison it?” Izaya asks.

“I didn't even take it out of the bag!”

“Mm, you could've put poison all over the lid though... It could seep into my skin and leave me paralyzed or worse. I doubt you could come up with such a scheme, but that little friend who works with you would definitely know where to get poison. She might even be on her way here to help you dispose of my body as we speak.” Izaya knows he's reaching here, but it's just so easy to make Shizuo angry. It's Izaya's favorite toy to play with.

“Do you mean Vorona? Don't fucking talk about her to me,” Shizuo says, and he grits his teeth. “She doesn't even know I'm here. No one does except Shinra.”

“Are you saying I'm your dirty secret, Shizu-chan?” Izaya lifts his hand to his mouth, feigns shock. “I see your angle now! I never would've expected this from you, but... You always surprise me, Shizu-chan! Okay, so then the next thing for me to ask is this.” Izaya sits up, purses his lips, bats his eyelashes at Shizuo. “I don't have any money for this sushi. Is there any other way I can pay for it?”

Shizuo looks like he swallowed something sour. He snarls at Izaya before he stands up and looms over him. “You have until the count of three to eat a piece of sushi, and if you don't do it, I'm gonna make it where the only way you can eat anything is through a straw.”

“But then how will I suck your dick, Shizu-chan?” Izaya lilts, and he barely manages to move before Shizuo roars in what can only be pure frustration and lifts Izaya's entire couch to throw it across the room. It crashes into the bookshelf, knocking all the books into the floor and splintering the wood. “Ah. I guess this means you want to go to the bedroom, then?”

“Would you fucking quit it?!” Shizuo yells, and he stomps towards Izaya, lifts him by the front of his shirt. “What's with you? Why are you saying all this gross shit? Is this some new plan of yours to piss me off more than you usually do?”

“Well, being openly hostile to you doesn't seem to be working as well as normal.” Izaya shrugs as best as he can with Shizuo shaking him around. “I thought I'd see how you responded to a little flirtation.”

“How about you shut the fuck up and eat your sushi off the floor like the rat you are?” Shizuo asks, and then he lets Izaya drop.

“I think you like the flirtation! It really seems to be getting a rise out of you. That's good, Shizu-chan, you were being boring before.” Izaya turns away from him and goes to the kitchen where he fetches a bottle of wine. He's in the middle of opening it when Shizuo follows after him.

“Goddammit, Izaya, I'm just gonna call Shinra and ask him to come back. I can't be nice to you, okay? It's too fucking weird for both of us, and you're only gonna hurt yourself more to spite me.”

“The real question here is why do you care?” Izaya asks, and he pours himself a glass of wine. “Call Shinra, leave, it doesn't matter to me. I've got no problems being on my own.”

“Oh, yeah?” Shizuo asks, moving forward. He has Izaya cornered, Izaya's back pressed to the counter. “You wanna know why I care? Because you're a fucking wreck. I said I didn't pity you, and I meant it. Anything that happens to you is still less than a leech like you deserves, but letting you lose your mind first is an act of mercy I'm not capable of. I'm gonna kick the shit out of you one day, but I wanna make sure you feel every bit of it, and I wanna make sure you know why it's happening.”

Izaya sips his wine before he sets the glass on the counter. Keeping his eyes on Shizuo's face, he hops up to sit beside the wine, spreads his legs to make room for Shizuo, who growls when he realizes the suggestive position they're in.

“There's nothing wrong with me, Shizu-chan. You want me lucid so you can kick my ass? Fine, I'm perfectly aware of everything now. Get it over with and then get out. And put my couch back where it was. I'd tell you to organize my books, but I think even holding a book in your hands might send you into a meltdown.” Izaya smiles sweetly, and then he picks his glass back up.

Shizuo slaps the glass into the floor.

“Can you stop destroying my things?” Izaya asks with a pout, and Shizuo leans closer, his arms on either side of Izaya's thighs.

“Can you stop being a pain in the ass?” Shizuo asks.

Izaya lifts his finger to Shizuo's nose, taps it playfully. “Boop.”

Shizuo shouts angrily and shoves away from Izaya. He goes to the window and opens it, fishes in his pocket until he's pulling out his cigarettes and a lighter. Izaya watches him with a frown, and then he carefully gets off the counter, mindful of where the broken glass is. He carries the entire bottle of wine with him to his desk.

“I don't remember telling you it's okay to smoke in here,” Izaya says.

“If you want me to stop destroying your shit, you'll allow it.” Shizuo blows smoke out the window before he scowls at Izaya. “You piss me off.”

“Yes, I know. Those were the first words you ever said to me, you know? I'm well-aware.” Izaya logs into the Dollars chatroom as Chrome and reads over the conversation thus far. He blinks as a private message opens.

Kuru: Is this really what you're doing with your free time? You think everyone is pulling an elaborate joke on you, and you're getting drunk off wine and doing nothing about it?

Chrome: I know this isn't real.

Kuru: Real enough. Real to you.

Kuru: Why do you think the urns are empty?

Chrome: Where is Mairu?

Kuru: She's here too. She doesn't talk much in the chats. She's on a time-out for being vulgar.

Chrome: Where are you?

Kuru: The real question is where are YOU?

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, and his voice trembles.

The anger drains away from Shizuo's face. “What is it?” he asks.

“Can you tell me what the screen looks like to you?” Izaya scoots his chair over to make room for Shizuo, who flicks his cigarette out the window before moving to Izaya's side.

“Just looks like the same chat Celty is always on,” Shizuo says.

“You don't see the private window? You don't...” Izaya grips the desk to stop his hands from shaking. “Why is it just me?”

“Flea.” Shizuo nudges Izaya with his arm, and Izaya glares daggers at him for it. “Look, I'm not a doctor or anything, but maybe the alcohol isn't helping?”

“Fuck you,” Izaya mutters, and he takes a pointed sip from the bottle.

“Like I said,” Shizuo says, moving away from the desk. “You're a wreck.”

“I don't need your help.” Izaya uses his feet to push his chair, and he wheels after Shizuo. “You keep saying I hate you, but you leave out the part where you hate me right back. You leave out the part where you hated me on sight.”

“What's that gotta do with anything? We were teenagers.”

“It fucking matters!” Izaya snaps, and he stops the chair short of crashing into Shizuo when Shizuo freezes in place and whirls to face him. “It matters,” Izaya repeats.

“Okay. Okay, fine, then I'm sorry for that.” Shizuo rubs the back of his neck, and he looks uncomfortable. “That was a rough time for me.”

“That's it?” Izaya asks in disbelief. “You're apologizing, just like that? Your excuse is that high school was a rough time for you?”

“Well, it was!” Shizuo says. “People kept picking fights with me and Shinra wouldn't leave me the fuck alone about meeting you, and then—“ Shizuo stops abruptly, a faint color rising in his cheeks. “And then you came at the worst possible time.”

“Right. I should've booked an appointment before meeting you.” Izaya scoffs and scoots the chair back towards the desk. He grabs the wine again. “You're the one who ruined it. You're the one who started this.”

“I just said sorry! Fuck, Izaya, what else do you want from me?”

“I want you to leave.”

“No. You don't need to be alone,” Shizuo says, and he crosses his arms, a stubborn set to his jaw.

Izaya laughs. “What kind of idiot are you? I'm always alone, Shizu-chan. Believe me, I've gotten pretty used to it.”

“Me too. Doesn't mean it's not lonely.” Shizuo watches Izaya take another drink, and then he holds his hand out. He rolls his eyes when Izaya gives him a dubious look. “I'm not gonna pour it out. I want a sip.”

“All I do is share my expensive drinks with you,” Izaya laments, but he passes the bottle. He's aware Shizuo doesn't seem like a wine drinker, and his assumptions are confirmed when Shizuo makes a face. “You just don't want me to drink it all.”

“You're an annoying drunk.”

“I thought I was a sad drunk?”

“Crying is annoying.”

Izaya snorts before he slides the chair to the cracked bookshelf. He finds the takeout bag close to the couch, and he opens it, pleased to find the little plastic container isn't crushed. He pops it open and eats a piece of ootoro, a smile appearing at the taste. It's been so long since he's had it.

“Good flea,” Shizuo says, and he wheels Izaya out of the way before he cracks his knuckles and lifts the couch. He carries it back to its place in front of the TV and drops it.

“You know, if you get fired from your current job, you could be a professional mover,” Izaya says.

“You try to get me fired again, and I'm gonna snap your neck,” Shizuo replies.

“We'll have to work on your customer service, but otherwise I think you'd be good at it.” Izaya eats more sushi and feels almost happy for the first time in a long while. He doesn't say so, of course, but Shizuo seems to be aware. It's easier to ignore the elephant in the room with someone else here to provide a distraction.

“Its weird. You were right before when you said I don't know anything about you. I guess I made it a point not to know things. But now I know your favorite food,” Shizuo says as he crosses the room to pick up the discarded couch cushions. He carries them back to the couch and throws them on.

“All you have to do is pay attention. I know a lot of things about you,” Izaya says, and he smirks when Shizuo glowers at him.

“See, that's creepy. You're a creepy bastard.”

“Ask me something about you! Go ahead!” Izaya wheels back to the desk where Shizuo sat the bottle of wine down. He takes a long sip.

“No thanks. I'd rather not know how long you've been watching me.”

“Why not? It's not the least bit flattering to you?” Izaya asks.

“Why would it be?”

“I'd be flattered if someone cared about me so much,” Izaya says, and he immediately regrets saying it. His face heats up, and he turns his back to Shizuo, absolutely mortified. “I'm usually overlooked, is all I mean.”

“Overlooked? You?” Shizuo asks, and he barks a laugh. “Sorry, flea, but you really suck at blending in.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I'd know you anywhere.”

Izaya spins his chair around, laughing to himself. Shizuo is probably the only one in the world who always notices him, never looks past him. Izaya has wanted it more than anything else, no matter what he had to do to get it. Shizuo needs to look at him, even if it's with hatred, even if it's out of the desire to kill. Shizuo needs to look.

“Do you think things would be a lot different if we were friends?” Shizuo asks suddenly. Izaya stops spinning, feels a little sick to his stomach.

“Oh, come on, Shizu-chan. You wouldn't stoop to the level of being friends with me.”

“I mean it.”

“Don't you know it's rude to kick someone while they're down? How monstrous of you.”

“Flea. I mean it.” Shizuo moves closer to Izaya. “Maybe if I hadn't been fighting that day, maybe if I was in an okay mood when Shinra introduced us...”

“Stop it.” Izaya has had the same thought himself plenty of times: What if? “Even if you liked me at first, you still wouldn't like what I do, wouldn't like who I am as a person.”

“Can't you just stop being a prick?” Shizuo asks.

“Can't you just stop losing your temper all the time?”

“It's not the same thing!”

“There's that hypocrisy again! Tell me, how many excuses do you give about your temper? Someone always pisses you off, even when they aren't doing anything to you. There's always a reason for your fights, right? It's not just the fact you have an extremely short fuse to go along with your incredible strength?” Izaya smiles, sips more wine before passing the bottle to Shizuo, who snatches it.

“What's your fucking point?”

“I don't make excuses, Shizu-chan. You ask me why I do the things I do, it's because I enjoy them. It's as simple as that.” Izaya spins around. “Have you considered the reason you fight all the time is because you actually like it?”

“No, because that's not true. I hate fighting,” Shizuo says.

“Then tell me this.” Izaya stops spinning and scoots closer to Shizuo. “Have you considered you chase me around so much because you might actually like me?”

“God, are we back to the flirting now? You're running out of tricks, flea.”

“Mm. Maybe you should think about it. All those excuses of yours, you must really not know much about yourself. Denial is enough to give anyone an anger problem.”

“You wanna know what I think?” Shizuo barks, stomping forward and putting his foot out to stop the chair from moving. “I think you're the saddest, loneliest, most twisted piece of trash who ever lived. I think you tell yourself all this shit and make excuses to yourself. It doesn't matter if you own up to them out loud, does it? Not if you still try to convince yourself you're happy being alone when really you hate yourself. Don't you?”

“You're not saying anything profound, Shizu-chan. I already told you I was a coward,” Izaya says, not bothering to address the rest of it.

“Yeah, well now you're a hypocrite, too.”

They glare at each other, and then Izaya turns away, laughing at the absurdity of all this.

“Maybe we're both cowardly hypocrites. Maybe that's why we're in each other's lives. Maybe you hate me so much because I remind you of yourself.”

Shizuo removes his foot from the path of the chair, lets Izaya roll away. His eyes narrow. “So is that the reason you hate me, then? Or do you hate me because you actually like me?”

Izaya stops rolling, huffs and eats another piece of sushi. “I don't like you.”

“Right.” Shizuo drinks some wine, scrutinizes Izaya's expression. “It's okay if you do.”

“Oh, is it?” Izaya asks, eating the last of his sushi and throwing the container at Shizuo's head. “Well, thank you, Shizu-chan, that really cleared things up for me. I'm a new man, and I'll never have to bother you again!”

“God. Fuck. It's impossible to be civil with you, you know that? You make it impossible.”

“So call Shinra, call him and leave. I'm not asking you to stay.”

“No. I'm not gonna let you be by yourself.”

“Why? Why not, what business is it of yours—“ Izaya starts, standing from his chair. He falters when Shizuo kicks the desk, splitting it into pieces so the monitor crashes into the floor.

“Shut up!” Shizuo shouts, breathing heavily. “I fucking mean it, flea. One more word, and I'll kill you.”

“That desk was top of the line, you know? It probably costs more than you make in a month.” Izaya steps forward and snatches the wine from Shizuo. “I don't care what you do anymore, monster. You want to sit in silence and keep an eye on me, convince yourself you're saving me? Go ahead. It won't change anything, will it?”

“Do you really think the urns are empty?” Shizuo asks, breathing heavily, and Izaya scowls.

“Yes.”

“Then I'm staying.” Shizuo goes to the couch, flops down onto it. Izaya grins, takes a gulp of wine, and sits close to Shizuo, probably too close. “Flea,” Shizuo says warningly.

“I'm cold,” Izaya says. He pouts up at Shizuo. “You're here to help me, right?”

“If you try anything weird...” Shizuo trails off.

“Define 'weird',” Izaya says.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Shizuo hisses through clenched teeth.

Izaya's grin stretches into a leer, and he fits himself against Shizuo's side, surprised to feel just how warm Shizuo is. He wraps his arms around Shizuo's arm and nuzzles his face into Shizuo's sleeve.

“Get off me!” Shizuo hisses, and Izaya shakes his head.

“Nope. You're like a monster space heater. I'm tipsy and I'm cold.”

Shizuo grumbles and leans back into the cushions. He changes the channel to some MMA thing, and Izaya allows himself the liberty of inhaling Shizuo's scent. It's odd, it's exactly how he imagined it: the musk of sweat, cheap cologne, cigarette smoke. Izaya loves it, hates that he loves it. He loves it so fucking much.

“Shizu-chan could wipe the floor with all those guys,” Izaya says, voice muffled in Shizuo's arm.

“Nah, they have actual skill. I just get mad,” Shizuo replies. “Your TV is amazing, by the way. I feel like I'm really there.”

“Mm.” Izaya passes Shizuo the bottle of wine, watches Shizuo's throat bob when he drinks. Shizuo tilts towards Izaya's body very slightly, probably for comfort reasons. Izaya smiles, closes his eyes, wants to memorize this exact moment down to the tiniest detail because it's already so much more than he ever thought he'd get.

“Just tell him you love him,” Mairu's voice says, and Izaya jumps backwards, away from Shizuo, who looks at him with alarm.

“Flea?”

“I heard Mairu,” Izaya says, looking around. He doesn't see her, but the urn is still on the coffee table.

“What'd she say?” Shizuo asks.

“You didn't hear her?” Izaya asks, though he knows the answer already. He laughs, falls to his side, and curls his knees to his chest. “Shizu-chan, do you think I'm losing my mind?”

“I don't know,” Shizuo says honestly. “I have no idea what you're going through. It could all be normal. And even if it's not, I think you're allowed to be a little crazy right now.”

“Why are you being so nice to me? Is it just because Shinra asked you to?”

“I don't know,” Shizuo says again, and he doesn't say anything else.

“I'm going to go to bed,” Izaya says, and he stands, lingering over Shizuo. “Stay the night, I don't care. I have a guest bed, or you can crash here in front of your beloved TV.” He looks at the urn in front of him, and then at the one on the counter. “I can't be around these things anymore.”

He goes upstairs and quickly brushes his teeth, doesn't bother with washing his face. He's so tired, so tired of everything, and somehow, knowing Shizuo is below him calms him enough to fall asleep.

He wakes in his parent's house.

He's on the couch, rubbing at his eyes as the twins argue loudly over a doll, Mairu pulling an arm, and Kururi pulling a leg. He groans and sits up.

“Can't you two just share your toys?” he asks, and they both glare at him.

“Easy for you to say! You never had to share!” Mairu shouts.

“And look at me now, sharing everything,” Izaya replies. He reaches out, takes the doll from them, and moves her around through the air. “She wants you to share her, and...what's that?” He places the doll next to his ear. “Ah. She also wants you to let me sleep.”

“She does not. It's daytime. Why are you so tired anyway?” Mairu asks, swiping for the doll. Izaya pulls the doll out of reach.

“I study at night. I also have to work.”

“Work...” Kururi repeats, tilting her head.

“I have my own private assignments, you know?” Izaya looks between them as he remembers everything, and the dream seems to shift. “Are you really dead?” he asks suddenly, and they look at each other before looking back to him.

“What do you think?” Mairu asks.

“I think you aren't. I don't think it's denial on my part. I really think if you were gone, I'd know it.”

“So then...what do you think is going on?” Kururi asks softly.

“I don't know. It...” Izaya inhales, smells a floral scent, but he doesn't know where it's coming from. “I don't know what's happening.”

“You do,” Kururi says, and then she smiles. “You've known for a while.”

“It's okay, Iza-nii,” Mairu says, and she reaches out to squeeze Izaya's hand in hers. “We're here!”

Izaya wakes up thrashing. It takes him a few moments to realize he isn't alone. Shizuo is hovering over him, holding his arms in place.

“Calm down, dammit! You woke me up again,” Shizuo says, and his grip relaxes when Izaya stops fighting him.

“You're still here...” Izaya says dazedly, his eyes full of tears. He's grateful for the darkness of his room, doesn't want Shizuo to see his face.

“Well, yeah, you...” Shizuo stops talking when Izaya's hands settle on either side of his face.

“Shizu-chan...” Izaya murmurs, his hands pulling. Shizuo follows his lead, inhales sharply when his forehead rests against Izaya's.

“Flea?” Shizuo asks.

“I had a dream. Only they aren't dreams. Or they aren't always dreams. I just...” Izaya caresses Shizuo's face, doesn't care anymore how this looks. “Can you stay up here?”

“You sure?” Shizuo asks, though he makes no motion to leave.

“I need to know you're real.”

“What are you talking about?” Shizuo asks, and Izaya shakes his head.

“I can't explain it all. You'll really think I'm insane. You can go downstairs if you really want to, I just...”

“No, I'll stay.” Shizuo rolls off Izaya, settles next to him, and Izaya doesn't hesitate at all before he's scooting closer, wrapping his arms around Shizuo and pressing his face into Shizuo's chest. “You're really freaked out, huh?”

Izaya doesn't reply. He takes greedy breaths, tries to keep Shizuo's scent in his nose for as long as he can. He feels Shizuo's arms settle around him, but he doesn't dare read too much into it. Shizuo has no choice here, after all. He's trying to make sure Izaya is okay, is doing a favor for Shinra. It's not anything more than that.

“Fuck, Izaya, you're shaking.” Shizuo hugs Izaya tighter, his face pressing into Izaya's hair. “Talk to me. What is it?”

“They're alive,” Izaya says weakly. “I know it. I know they are.”

“They aren't, flea. It's like Shinra said, you're protecting yourself from the truth.”

“I am, but I don't think the truth is that they're gone.”

“So then what is it? What's the truth?” Shizuo asks, and Izaya clings tighter to him. They lie together in silence, and Izaya is so warm, so content in Shizuo's arms that he's close to sleep once more when he hears footsteps below. He jolts, and Shizuo grunts irritably.

“I heard something,” Izaya says, trying to lift to his elbow. Shizuo pulls him back down.

“You didn't. C'mon, Izaya, just try to sleep. You'll feel better if you do.”

Izaya hesitates before he curls back in to Shizuo. All these bizarre instances, these things he can't explain, he's almost willing to overlook all of them for this: the feeling of being held, the feeling of being worried over. Izaya has never known this kind of comfort in his entire life, and he thinks he's beginning to understand why he's feeling it now.

“Christ,” Izaya mutters. If he was at rock bottom before, he's lower now, somewhere in the layers of Hell. It's cruel that it's like this, but Izaya can't say he doesn't deserve it. He reaches up with trembling hands and undoes the buttons of Shizuo's shirt. Shizuo only watches him, a calm expression on his face.

“I don't think you're a coward, Izaya,” Shizuo says, and Izaya raises an eyebrow in response, though he's not sure Shizuo can see it in the darkness. Shizuo continues anyway. “Before, you said you were, but I don't see how. You're not scared of anything. You're not even scared of me, and you really should be. Even I'm terrified of me.”

“There's more than one definition of a coward, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, and then he presses his face into the warmth of Shizuo's bare chest. He slides his hands up and under the back of Shizuo's shirt, sighs softly and blinks back tears.

“Oh, yeah? Well, some of us don't have the time to dig up all these other definitions for simple words. Must be nice to be self-employed,” Shizuo huffs, but he keeps holding Izaya, and Izaya wonders if Shizuo might be the only thing holding him together.

“It is, it's nice. It's lonely. I'm...” Izaya's voice trembles. He swallows, forces his voice into neutrality. “If being brave means you're afraid to do something, but you do it anyway, then a true coward is someone who never tries in the first place to face their fears. Someone complacent.”

“But you put yourself in crazy situations all the time. You don't back down even when I'm trying to kill you,” Shizuo argues.

“I have a list of fears, actually. Whatever you think of me, I'm a person.” Izaya listens to Shizuo's heart beating faster. “I accept everything about everyone, I tell myself nothing they do can hurt me, not as long as I'm willing to accept any and every outcome. I love all of humanity because I see the worst of humanity every day and I can still love them, but no one sees me. No one does, and no one can, because I won't let them. You were right before when you said I'm a hypocrite, too. I am, and I know it. I want to see everyone, but I don't want anyone to see me.”

“So you hide,” Shizuo says.

“The only one who knows me is me, and I don't even like me. How am I supposed to just let people see me as I am? It's amazing, isn't it, that people can be so vulnerable with others! To let your guard down and seek comfort and love from your fellow man— It boggles the mind! Humans are social creatures; we subconsciously drift together and long for another's touch, but at the same time, we fear each other, fear existence, do terrible things to avoid being known! Isn't that amazing?! We're a paradox in ourselves!”

“I'm pretty sure you're doing the opposite of calming down,” Shizuo says, and he punctuates it with a yawn. “You're getting all manic and flea-like. Hiding from other people doesn't make you a coward, and if it does in some way, then I'm a coward, too. Whether it's to protect yourself or others, sometimes it's better to be on your own if the alternative is everyone getting hurt.”

“You're not on your own, you barbarian. You fucking should be, but you're not. You don't know the meaning of true loneliness.” Izaya seethes, digs his nails into Shizuo's back, but of course Shizuo probably doesn't feel it.

“And now you're getting all pissy. See, this is why it's hard to talk to you. You go on and on about random bullshit, and then you work yourself up, and then I just really wanna punch you. It's a cycle.” Shizuo nuzzles his face into Izaya's hair, and it has the tightness leaving Izaya's shoulders before he knows it. “If you wanna be comforted, then I'm right here. All the other shit you were saying doesn't matter, does it? You're a person, you want comfort. What's wrong with giving into nature every now and then?”

“That's so easy for you to say. You're a creature of pure instinct. And I really want you to know the emphasis I'm putting on the word creature.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. You know, the more you babble about things, the easier it is to see through you. I can actually tell you're putting all these walls up, and it's kind of stupid. It's actually really stupid for some brainiac like you. Aren't you supposed to know better?” Shizuo asks.

“It's paradoxical, as I said,” Izaya replies, and Shizuo hums.

“It must really suck to have so many thoughts all the time. No wonder you're crazy.”

Izaya lifts his leg and kicks Shizuo, and Shizuo rolls over him, partly on top of him, and he presses his face into Izaya's neck.

“Go to sleep, flea,” Shizuo says.

“That's your expert advice?”

“It sure as hell can't hurt anything, can it?”

Izaya purses his lips, chooses not to answer that. He feels Shizuo falling asleep on top of him. It happens gradually, Shizuo's body sinking further, the tension leaving his muscles. He makes a soft noise, and then his breathing evens out, his exhales tickling Izaya's skin. Izaya waits until he knows for a fact Shizuo is out of it, and then he lifts his hands, threads them through Shizuo's hair.

“I don't need this,” Izaya murmurs. “I'm doing this because I want to, not because I need it.” Shizuo's breathing is the only answer he receives, but somehow it's an answer all the same.

Izaya stays where he is even after day starts to break. It's still dark out, raining again, and he has no idea what time it was when Shizuo came to bed with him, but it must have been close to morning already, because Izaya doesn't feel like much time has passed. He doesn't sleep, doesn't dare to. He refuses to miss a single moment of this, Shizuo clinging to him, completely relaxed, drooling the slightest bit into Izaya's neck. Izaya keeps his hands in Shizuo's hair, keeps them moving, because when he tries to stop, Shizuo grunts in irritation. Izaya stops a few times anyway, just to feel Shizuo's angry little breaths against his skin.

More time passes, it must, because soon enough Shizuo is moving around more. Izaya thinks Shizuo is awake already and choosing not to get up, though whether it's from wanting to stay the way they are or not wanting to acknowledge it, Izaya can't say.

“Did you sleep?” Shizuo asks after a while. His voice is deeper than normal, gravelly from the remnants of sleep. He still doesn't move.

“Nope. I was never planning on sleeping in the first place. I'm tired of the dreams, you know?”

“Hmm.” Shizuo lifts his head slightly, rests his lips against Izaya's pulse point in imitation of a kiss, but there's no pressure. “This is nice.”

“You're spoiled, you know? I spoiled you overnight. You just wouldn't let go of me, you clingy beast.” Izaya closes his eyes when Shizuo's impression of a kiss becomes more accurate. He inhales sharply, his hands clenching in Shizuo's hair when Shizuo suddenly bites down.

“It's raining again,” Shizuo says, and he kisses Izaya's neck again, slightly higher than before. “And it's early, isn't it?”

“Probably. I can't say for sure.” Izaya shivers when Shizuo's tongue meets his skin, bites his lip on a gasp. “Fuck, what are you doing? I didn't say you could drool on me even more than you already have.”

“I think you like it,” Shizuo says smugly. “I think you really like it, flea.”

“You don't know anything about me or what I like,” Izaya argues. He opens his eyes when he feels Shizuo lifting up, feels Shizuo's nose on his cheek. Shizuo pulls back, and their eyes meet.

“Don't gotta know you to know what you like.” Shizuo leans in and stops short of pressing his lips to Izaya's. He grins at Izaya's frustrated little noise. “But I guess since I don't know you at all, I won't force it.”

“Yes, we can't add this to your list of atrocities,” Izaya replies. They watch each other closely, and when it becomes clear Izaya isn't going to budge, Shizuo breathes a laugh before he rolls over and sits up.

“Man, I hate working in the rain.” Shizuo lifts his arms, stretches until his joints pop, and Izaya lifts to his elbow.

“So then call out,” Izaya says. Shizuo turns to look at him from over his shoulder.

“I can't call out. I have a job to do.”

“That woman is there. She's capable.” Izaya tosses the covers off himself and scoots closer to Shizuo. He wraps his arms around Shizuo from behind, rests his head on Shizuo's shoulder. “Stay with me.”

“Flea...” Shizuo leans back against him, his hands settling over Izaya's. “You sure?”

“Just for today.” Izaya presses his face into Shizuo's shoulder. “I feel like it's the end of the world. Maybe it is, for me. Just indulge me this once, and I won't ask you for anything else.”

“That's a lie if I ever heard one,” Shizuo huffs, but he makes no motion to leave Izaya's grasp. “Hey. Goddammit, you're shaking again. What is it?”

“This is Hell. Isn't it?”

“Okay, no more flea shit.” Shizuo turns and cups Izaya's face. His hands are callused, but his touch his gentle, as if he's being as careful with Izaya as he can. “You're spouting nonsense, and all that's gonna do is piss me off. You want comfort, right? You want me here with you?”

“Yes.” Izaya leans in, brushes his nose against Shizuo's. What has he got to lose anymore? This probably isn't even real.

“Then shut the fuck up,” Shizuo says, and then his lips brush against Izaya's. There's a slight pause as they pull away, both of them apprehensive about the other, but then they're kissing forcefully, hard enough that Izaya forgets to breathe at first.

“Shizu-chan...” Izaya gasps, pulling back. Shizuo doesn't allow him to retreat far, just tugs him closer and seals their mouths together once more.

“I said to shut up,” Shizuo murmurs. His hands trail down Izaya's sides, his fingers sliding under Izaya's shirt as they make their way back up Izaya's body. “I've heard enough of your yammering over the years. Does it really make you so happy to deprive yourself and be miserable?”

“Fuck you,” Izaya spits, and he groans when Shizuo answers by licking into his mouth. There's a hint of desperation to their kisses, to their touches. Izaya wonders if Shizuo can also feel how finite this is, but he must.

It's all effortless, much smoother than it has any right to be. They fit together, and there's none of the awkwardness Izaya would usually associate with Shizuo. Shizuo is a fumbling moron in his own right, scared to touch and to be touched, but there's no issue with this, and that's enough to drive home that something isn't right. Still, Izaya is incapable of listening to himself at the moment. Shizuo was correct before: Izaya is so tired of fighting against himself, and just this once, just for a little while, he wants to feel what he's always been so afraid of.

“Shizu...!” Izaya's mouth drops open when Shizuo slides inside him. Their breaths mingle between them, and Shizuo is watching Izaya through dark eyes, his lips red and wet from kissing Izaya.

“Fuck...” Shizuo winces, his hips snapping forward minutely as he tries to let Izaya adjust around him. “I've thought of this so many times. Thought I was...crazy for it...”

“Move, you idiot!” Izaya swats at Shizuo's shoulders, angry that Shizuo is so calm during this when he isn't. Shizuo grins at him and thrusts forward, and Izaya's insults die on his tongue.

It's good, it's perfect, it makes no fucking sense. Shizuo knows exactly how to touch Izaya, exactly how to move, and Izaya has watched Shizuo enough over the years to know Shizuo has absolutely no experience with this. Still, Izaya is left panting, biting back screams as Shizuo pounds into him with powerful motions, with a confidence he shouldn't possess. Izaya comes hard, hard enough to where he forgets where he is, and he clings to Shizuo as Shizuo growls in his ear and keeps fucking into him.

“This...isn't... Fuck, Shizuo— How are you...doing this?!” Izaya manages to blurt between his gasps. Shizuo doesn't respond, but he does bury himself as deeply as he can inside Izaya before coming. Izaya shivers, barely recognizes that he's got his arms and legs wrapped tightly around Shizuo's body. He offers a soft moan when Shizuo kisses him again.

“I gotta call Tom-san,” Shizuo says when he pulls back a bit. He growls and looks around. “Fuck, where did I throw my pants?”

“How should I know?” Izaya asks. He's boneless and satisfied, too happy for it to be a good thing. He can't lose himself in this fantasy. He bristles when Shizuo smiles at him. “What?”

“You're so cuddly like this. It's like all the fight's gone out of you.”

“Keep thinking like that and I'll slit your throat.”

Shizuo has to leave the bed to find his pants. They're in the corner, close to the door, and Izaya watches listlessly as Shizuo calls Tom and feigns an illness.

“You don't get sick. You really should use a better excuse,” Izaya calls, and Shizuo flips him off.

“Yeah, no, it's just like...a tickle. A throat tickle. Yeah, it's weird. I feel weird.” Shizuo is pacing now, his eyes trained on Izaya in bed.

“Tell him you killed someone, that's believable,” Izaya says. Shizuo throws his pants at Izaya.

“I will. Yeah, I'll let you know. Sorry Tom-san. I'll see you tomorrow,” Shizuo says into the phone, and then he hangs up, tossing his phone off to the side. He hurries back to the bed and pounces on Izaya, and they continue where they left off long into the afternoon.

Later, when they've exhausted themselves, Izaya is once again carding his fingers through Shizuo's hair. He doesn't think he'll ever forget Shizuo's taste, his scent, the way Shizuo feels inside him. It's too good to be true, Izaya knows that, but he also knows this is probably the most he'll ever get, and like all things in his life, good and bad, he accepts it.

“Fucking flea,” Shizuo mumbles, his voice muffled against Izaya's chest. “How am I supposed to leave the bed when you're being all cuddly?”

“You aren't,” Izaya says simply. He tugs on Shizuo's hair. “Are you hungry?”

“Starved,” Shizuo answers, and Izaya snorts.

“Mm. I suppose I could order something for you, since you stayed here with me today.”

“Least you could do,” Shizuo replies.

“You'll have to grab one of our phones for me,” Izaya says.

Shizuo groans. “I'm not hungry after all.”

“You are. Your stomach is annoying me.”

Shizuo sighs loudly and lifts up, pouting at Izaya, and then he rolls out of the bed. He fumbles around, trying to find his phone in the floor, and then he glares at Izaya.

“Where's your phone, huh? In your pants?”

“Nope. Downstairs. Guess you have to look harder for yours, Shizu-chan!”

“I-za-ya.”

“For fuck's sake. It's right there.” Izaya points to a spot on the floor, and Shizuo looks from it back to Izaya.

“Where?”

“There! Where I'm pointing!”

Shizuo shuffles forward and turns in a circle, looks around thoroughly. “There's nothing here!”

Izaya grins and lifts his own phone up. “I know. I have mine right here; I just wanted to watch you look for yours.”

Shizuo scowls at Izaya, and then he crawls back into bed, fitting himself into Izaya's side.

“Do you care what I order?” Izaya asks.

“None of your super healthy shit. I want something good.”

“'Good' doesn't mean covered in grease.”

They wind up ordering Thai food. Izaya orders his spicy, and Shizuo growls before saying he wants the same, refusing to let Izaya beat him in this nonexistent challenge. When the food arrives, Izaya is the one who answers the door, his bathrobe haphazardly tied. The delivery man pointedly looks away, and when Izaya grabs the food and closes the door, Shizuo is immediately behind Izaya, mouthing at his neck and untying his robe.

By the time they eat, the food has gone cold. Shizuo complains about the spice, and Izaya rolls his eyes, informs Shizuo that no one made him order the spiciest items on the menu, though it's almost too hot for him to enjoy either. They're camped out on the floor, their bodies entwined as they share all the food they ordered. Izaya is slurping up noodles when he notices Shizuo is staring at him.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing, just. This. Us.” Shizuo smiles and takes a bite of his own food. “I'm happy.”

“Oh? Shizu-chan is happy in the arms of his greatest enemy?”

“Yeah, I am.” Shizuo leans in and kisses Izaya's bare shoulder. “I'm happy to see you coming back to life.”

“Yes, I'll be terrorizing you within the week, I'm sure.” Izaya swirls his chopsticks around in the noodles, a contemplative look on his face.

“What is it?” Shizuo asks.

“Do you really think we could ever be like this? If things were different, if we were different, could you have really been happy with me?”

“What are you talking about? We're here now.”

“This isn't really Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo's brow furrows, and he sets his takeout container down before he gently takes Izaya's from him as well. He pulls Izaya into his lap, wraps his arms around him.

“I want you to be okay, Izaya. I think maybe you should...talk to someone. Someone besides me and Shinra. You know, like a grief counselor. I can't really help you deal with this aside from being here, but...” Shizuo's arms tighten.

“This helps,” Izaya says, tilting against Shizuo. “Certainly makes it harder to focus, but maybe that's your goal.” Izaya laughs breathlessly, his eyes closing as he inhales the scent of Shizuo's skin. “I imagined so many times how we'd be if we came together like this. I always went back and forth with it, thought you'd either be overeager and clumsy or surprisingly good at it because you're an instinctual beast. In the end, I guess I don't know how you'd be, Shizu-chan, because you always surprise me. But like this, it's easier to say I don't think you'd be this gentle. Not with me.”

“Izaya—“

“I think you'd try, but that would just annoy me. I've never liked being treated like I'm delicate, and that's part of what drew me to you in the first place. You looked at me and you weren't fooled by my appearance. You knew immediately I was someone who could keep up with you, and that's why we gravitate together the way we do. Life without Shizu-chan would be so boring. I imagine you feel the same way, but you don't allow yourself to think it. You've gotten so used to the idea of having a quiet, peaceful life that you hate me for not allowing you to have one, but you've never considered how bored you'd be if you attained it. You've never blended in. You don't know how it feels to yearn to stand out.”

“Izaya.”

“And that's stupid, isn't it? You and I, we're so different and so similar. As cliché as it is, we really do complete each other, and coming together like this, it would be so easy if we only allowed it to happen. But we won't. We won't because I'm me, and you're you, and if we stop fighting and actually coexist, we won't have anything left but to accept the fact we need each other, and that's terrifying to us both.”

Shizuo is squeezing Izaya now, his eyes wide as he observes Izaya's face.

“You've done everything possible to isolate yourself, and I've done all I could to keep you alone, but here you are, beloved by others. It really is so stupid, Shizu-chan. I wonder if you really did try to save me. I don't put it past you. I think you probably tried to.” Izaya smiles at Shizuo before he kisses Shizuo's worried frown. “It really would be so easy, to stay with you like this.”

“So stay.” Shizuo's hands cup either side of Izaya's face, and he looks so scared, so human. “You want to, right? You want to be with me?”

Instead of answering, Izaya kisses him again, sighs when Shizuo deepens it. He allows Shizuo to pull him down, allows Shizuo to taste him, spread him open, fill him until the empty spaces inside Izaya feel fuller than they ever have before. It really is so real. It's cruel, so cruel, and Izaya knows he deserves every bit of it.

Shizuo winds up passing out on top of Izaya right in the middle of the floor. The takeout containers are still scattered around them, as are pieces of shrapnel from the various things Shizuo destroyed. The urns look on, looming, daunting, and Izaya holds tightly to Shizuo, a smile on his face.

“Iza-nii.”

Izaya tilts his head, looks to Mairu. She's standing above him, isn't fazed by his nudity or the compromising position he's in.

“I know,” Izaya says. “I always told you both to have a little bit of patience.”

“We're bored. And worried, but not just for you! For lots of reasons!”

“Mostly for you,” Kururi says, appearing at Izaya's side. She touches his hand.

“We just don't fancy being alone. Plus, we owe you so many kicks, you know? You can't get off this easy!” Mairu chirps. She touches Izaya's other hand. “Maybe it'd be easier to give up, but you can't! You're a super stubborn jackass, so we know you're not the type.”

“The urns are empty because you're not dead,” Izaya says.

“We have lots of things to tell you. You love gossip, right?!”

“You're really here with me, but you can't hear me, can you?” Izaya asks.

“We think Shizuo-san visits you. We don't know for sure, but we've seen him around,” Mairu continues.

“I'm the one who isn't really here,” Izaya says, and his sisters vanish. Shizuo vanishes. The apartment around him blurs until he finds himself sitting on the rooftop of Raijin once again. His younger self is there, watching him, book still in his hands.

“Welcome back,” he says, closing the book. He stands.

“Is this the part where you tell me all I've done wrong?” Izaya asks, and his younger self grins.

“Why would I do that when you've already tortured yourself?” His head tilts to the side. “You figured it out faster than I thought you would.”

Izaya smiles, thinks of Shiki and Akabayashi coddling him, thinks of Shinra caring about him, of Celty asking him for cooking lessons, sincerely enjoying his presence. And then he thinks of Shizuo.

“People are rarely so nice to me.”

Izaya turns to look as Shizuo marches onto the roof, his uniform jacket tied around his waist. He stops in front of the younger Izaya and picks him up, slams him against the wall before devouring his mouth in a hungry kiss.

“In this universe, Shizuo wasn't in a mood that day. He was happy when he met you, because you were just a little softer, a little less damaged.” Another version of himself appears at his side, watching the scene unfold with indifference.

The roof blurs and disappears, and then it becomes Ikebukuro at night. Izaya watches himself face off with Shizuo, watches them fight, neither of them running or holding back. He recognizes the look on his own face, the look of someone who has nothing left to lose.

“Do it, monster.”

“Here, he really does almost kill you. You wind up in a wheelchair, traumatized. You run away from the city!” Mairu appears, taking the place of Izaya's doppelganger. “You leave it all behind!”

“I've always been a coward,” Izaya says, and the scene dissolves again, is replaced with another.

He watches himself meet Shizuo as a child, watches as another version of himself never meets Shinra, and therefore, is never introduced to Shizuo. He sees a world where his parents are around more, where he doesn't grow up too much, too fast. He sees every possible variation of himself all at once, and he realizes no matter what, even when they aren't together, even when they never meet, every version of Shizuo completes every version of Izaya.

“Do you have regrets?” Kururi asks, appearing by her sister. They look at Izaya, and he smiles, laughs before he can hold it in. He shakes his head.

“I never blamed anyone else, did I? I stayed true to myself no matter what. I didn't let anyone destroy me but me.” Izaya laughs again, his body shaking with the force of it. He falls to his knees, still cackling. “How many people can truly say that?!”

The twins observe him with pitying eyes, and they blur until they're gone, leaving Izaya in Ikebukuro on a sunny morning. He's on the sidewalk, and he turns as he hears hammering footsteps, watches as another version of himself rounds a corner, narrowly avoiding being grabbed by Shizuo, who looks pissed beyond belief. There's the sound of honking, some shouts, a woman screaming, and Shizuo stops abruptly, skids to a halt as he tries to grab Izaya's hood, his eyes wide with fear, and Izaya watches himself step into the middle of the road, solidifying what he already knew: the truck didn't miss him after all.

[serenasoutherlyns]

Full of Surprises ch. 1-3

casey/alex, past alex/olivia. semi-au & fuzzy timeline, set post season 9. cross-posted from ao3 so the first three chapters are coming at ya all at once. TW for series-typical violence, SA, and discussions of mental illness. less graphic than the show. Fluff, romance, angst! First three chapters are totally SFW.

And yet, as she scanned the place, she caught someone she recognized. Sitting at the bar, bent over a notebook, was Casey Novak; her deep red hair tied back in a casual ponytail, an empty highball glass in front of her, chewing on the end of a click pen.

1 .

This wasn’t where Alex would usually find herself. Or at least, it didn’t used to be. Maybe it was now.

Emily had spent her evenings sat at a booth in the back of the local pub, watching and sketching. The books she’d filled, she kept them safely tucked in a box in the back of her closet, initialed “EC.” Alex couldn’t find it in her to draw much anymore.

Anne was alone more than not, spent long evenings reading philosophy, went running early mornings, yoga classes, taught herself guitar, filled hours on hours with ideas and exhaustion. Alex didn’t spend much time poring over The Republic these days, her guitar was long covered in dust.

In law school, her friends had a favorite table in the window of a little cafe, they would go from morning coffee to afternoon study to sharing bottles of red wine, coming and going as they pleased, debating with hopeful glimmers in their bright eyes. Late into the night, arm wrapped around Sylvia’s waist, listening to her classmates carry on, she’d watch the candles burn down. Sylvia had called her Lexi, whispered in her ear on night walks in the cold Cambridge air to their little apartment, gentle hands soothing her most anxious times. Alex hadn’t felt like that in years.

College weekends were spent at punk shows in basements, though she knows now nobody would believe it, young Alex Cabot (the nickname had been coined in those years, sharper edged than the elaborate Alexandra) knew how to have some fun, at least back then. She’d dyed her hair black and worn studs on her collar, had a reputation for being a player, and it seemed like the back of her right hand was constantly stained with marker residue. Sticky floors and lipgloss on her neck, so many firsts all at once.

Her evenings during her years in the DA’s office were usually full of work, except the odd night when she’d meet the detectives for a drink at their haunt or head out with the other ADAs to some upscale cocktail bar. Two different crowds with two different mentalities, the detectives were dedicated to a fault, while the prosecutors were insufferably full of themselves. The detectives would tire her out by 11:30, but she’d find an excuse to leave the ADA excursions before 9. Far more special were the many evenings spent in Olivia’s apartment drinking two beers each and filling the quiet air with soft laughter and conversation.

But a little library themed speakeasy? Not her typical place. Well. No time like the present to change one’s habits. She’d been recommended it by an old law school friend a couple weeks ago, bumped into him on a whim in a coffee shop, was surprised she wasn’t dead, had been there last night, said it was right up her alley. Its illicit vibe wasn’t exactly to ADA Cabot’s tastes, no. But it scratched something in Alex, that hadn’t been satisfied since those basement nights and cozy cafe afternoons. From the place’s shelves she’d pulled a book of Pre-Raphaelite poetry and sat in a comfy chair with a scotch and a San Pelligrino, pleased, at least, to be out of the apartment for the evening.

She didn’t need the money, but she’d been copyediting textbooks freelance, filling up her time with grammar and word choice. She’d been reading a lot of fiction. She adopted two extremely fluffy cats. It was a pleasant, if mundane, life. It turned out, Alex had realized, that there were plenty of eager and capable young attorneys who could do her former job as well as she ever had. She felt, finally, like she deserved a bit of a rest. Needed one, really. Someone would do the prosecuting. The thought of stepping back in the courtroom, looking at the bench, examining witnesses, made her feel sick to her stomach, though she had once loved that life. It wasn’t her anymore— maybe it never really had been. She decided this was her kind of place after all. This iteration of Alexandra Cabot would drink bubbly water in secluded speakeasies while reading poetry.

Alex didn’t expect to see anybody she knew, not somewhere you needed a password to get into, where the music was indie folk and old jazz from a vintage record player, the drinks had names like the “Lady Brett” and the “Daisy Buchanan,” and most of the patrons were dressed in flannel with their noses buried in old books. And yet, as she scanned the place, she caught someone she recognized. Sitting at the bar, bent over a notebook, was Casey Novak; her deep red hair tied back in a casual ponytail, a half-empty highball glass in front of her, chewing on the end of a click pen.

This was surprising. Alex, though she hadn’t ever known Casey well, before her first brief return to life as Alex Cabot, only as one of the white collar ADAs (they ran in a bit of a pack, didn’t shy away from imitating the lifestyles of those they prosecuted). After knowing her as a prosecutor, Alex would expect to see Casey in a sports bar watching a game, or in some chrome-gilded bar with high ceilings drinking designer cocktails and cheering on a verbal showdown between her colleagues. Or in the center of a showdown like that. Not alone, writing in a moleskine, wearing a red flannel over a simple black dress. Casey was striking, Alex realized, before she realized she’d been looking a little longer than was considered normal. She hoped she didn’t seem like a creep watching from afar. She considered getting up, saying hello, but felt that Casey may not even remember her, may not want to be disturbed as she wrote, may not even recognize her anymore. She’d changed her appearance when she’d gone back to being Alex Cabot, cut her hair in a short bob, dyed it dark brown, wore thick rimmed glasses and simple clothing, too painful to be the formal blonde she used to be. Barely the same woman who’s once-murderer Casey had put behind bars those years ago.

Alex didn’t have to consider talking to Casey, however, because almost as soon as she returned to her book, she heard the sound of rubber soled sneakers against the old hardwood floors and a voice beside her.

“Hey stranger,” she said.

“Hi Casey,” Alex said as she slid her bookmark into place and looked up at the familiar face with a smile. “Care to join me?”

2 .

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Casey said as she sat down. “I’m allowed to, uh, talk to you right? Though I guess if I wasn’t you wouldn’t acknowledge me, which would be fine, by the way.” There was the Casey Alex remembered, her words getting ahead of her.

“It’s fine, I’m me again,” Alex said calmly, “It’s really good to see you, though I wouldn’t have imagined you to be the writing type, or the underground-library-bar type” Alex gestured to the leather notebook in Casey’s left hand.

“I’m full of surprises, Alexandra Cabot.” Casey said in a tone that suggested she was sarcastic, yet convinced Alex she was telling the truth. Alex sipped her water.

“What were you working on?” She asked, not wanting to pry, but very eager to catch up, to know why she was alone in a place like this.

“Oh, nothing, nothing interesting. Just some little bits and pieces.” Casey replied.

“Not argument notes on a Saturday night, I hope?” Alex asked, though she knew that she would’ve done the same thing back when she was in the DA’s office. Casey looked pale, uncomfortable for a moment. “I’m sorry,” Alex said, trying to soothe any pain she may have caused, though she couldn’t fathom why. “I don’t mean to bring up work when you’re trying to relax.” At this, Casey just looked confused.

“Alex, have you not heard?” Casey said, searching for signs of recognition in the woman’s eyes, but finding only further confusion continuing, her voice low, “I was censured a few months ago. I can’t practice law for at least three years.” Alex’s eyes opened wide and she set her glass down on the table between them. “I’m surprised the rumor hasn’t reached your circles yet, though I admit I’m glad I get to be the one to tell someone for a change.” Alex noticed Casey cross her arms together over her chest, closing herself up, making herself seem smaller.

It was quiet for a while, the sounds of Ella Fitzgerald on the speakers, quiet conversations, and pages turning filling it. “I’m sorry, no, I hadn’t heard. That’s too bad. Do you want to talk about it?” Casey grinned at the suggestion, oddly intimate for the two women who, while they hardly knew each other, had shared some of the most intense moments either of them had experienced in a courtroom.

“I think I’ve gone over it enough in my head, but uh, thank you.” Casey said, her voice wobbling on the thanks, “You know, you’re the first person so far to actually ask me that?”

“I’m sorry.” Was Alex’s reply. Surely Casey had people who were interested in her feelings?

“The circumstances were,” Casey trailed off as she looked for the right wording, “I was at fault, for sure. But I was just trying to do the right thing, and I made a mistake.”

“Nothing shocking, I hope?” Asked Alex, still trying to ascertain the nature of the censure, wondering about what the woman sitting across from her could’ve done.

“I violated due process, technically.” Casey replied, attempting to gauge Alex’s reaction, but seeing that it continued to be contemplative rather than condemning, continued, “I shouldn’t’ve, but I think all of us have done worse in our time. But I was not in Donnelly’s good graces, so…” instead of ending her sentence, Casey sipped the last of her drink and looked up at Alex nervously, hoping the woman wouldn’t judge her too harshly.

“Oh man, Casey. That’s really tough. I’m sorry.” Casey searched for any sign of disapprobation in Alex’s tone, but finding only genuine concern, relaxed.

“So I’ve been doing other stuff for a little while. Using my undergrad,” she said, truly sarcastic this time. “What about you Cabot? What’s keeping you from your old haunt? And what’s with the brunette look?”

Alex wanted to answer, but wasn’t going to let Casey get away completely with deflecting. “You didn’t answer my question, Novak. What’s in the notebook?”

Casey laughed. “You really are relentless.” Alex just raised an eyebrow smugly while sipping her drink, as if to say, go on. “It’s a poetry journal. I’ve kept one since college.”

This admission broke the unflappable Alex Cabot’s reserve and she couldn’t keep herself from a few giggles. “I apologize,” she said, “for laughing at you. Just, the idea of Casey Novak the poet would not have occurred to me.”

“Like I said,” Casey started, “I’m full of surprises. And nobody has laughed at me in a long time,” she continued, beginning to laugh herself. “Believe it or not, I have an English degree.”

“Ok, ok, stop. I’m not sure I can take many more shocks tonight,” teased Alex.

“And you, didn’t answer my question. What’s with the brunette? You look beautiful,” Casey said before realizing what she was saying, shutting herself up before she said anything embarrassing.

“I needed a change,” Alex said, “Something to distance myself from my old selves. I never dyed my hair before, or switched up my look at all really. Just, a change.”

“I get that.” Casey said, and Alex felt like she really did get it, somehow more than anybody else had to this point. She’d seen a few old colleagues and friends, and they all had looked at her with this mixture of fear and pity that made her wish she was invisible. But Casey seemed to say something deeper in just three words.

They talked together late into the night, about books and drinks (Casey had been a bartender in college, her knowledge on pairings was unparalleled) and everything but law. It was close to 2:00 am when Casey started to yawn.

“I’m really glad I ran into you, Alex,” she said as they left the bar, her voice scratchy from talking quietly, a subtle accent that Alex couldn’t quite place showing through under the influence of sleepiness and her light buzz. It was adorable, Alex found herself thinking.

“Me too, Casey,” Alex replied, and before she could turn to start walking towards her apartment, only a block or so away, she was met with a hug. It was brief, but Alex took in the scent of Casey’s coconut shampoo, sweet and pleasing.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to be much of a hugger either,” Alex said as she pulled away, brushing her hands on Casey’s elbows.

“I guess you have a lot to figure out,” she said, playfully, as Alex handed her into a cab.

As Alex walked up the stairs to her apartment (she could afford a bigger place, but this one, this one felt right), Alex replayed the evening and regretted not asking for Casey’s phone number before she left. When she pulled her keys out of her pocket to unlock the door, she found a piece of paper, with a number and a note:

text me, so I can learn some of your surprises.

3 .

Alex was awake.

The same old dreams kept her restless. It had been a bad night, she’d slept less than 3 hours before she woke, startled, as the sun just began to rise, 5 am on a Saturday in September.

Foggily, she attempted to reconstruct the details of her pieced together dreams, her therapist, Julia, had convinced her to keep a journal. She said the nightmares of being shot, of nobody recognizing her, those made perfect sense, classic PTSD symptoms. With what happened to her it would’ve been stranger to not suffer it. But these hadn’t been those dreams.

Clare Cartwright, age 15 stood in line at the coffee shop. Her face was pink with tears but nobody saw anything out of the ordinary except for Alex, watching her from a table. Clare’s cheeks were wet and covered in running mascara but the barista didn’t bat an eye as she ordered an iced chai and sat down alone with her laptop. Tears turned to sobs turned to screams, thrashing, but she just kept typing, sipping her tea, nobody did a damn thing. Alex tried to rise from her seat, go to the girl, hold her and scratch her back while she cried, but the heavy weight of her own body kept her seated, powerless to do anything. She tried to yell across the room, tell her that it was going to be ok, she was going to put whoever hurt her behind bars, protect her from them forever. But when she opened her mouth all breath was sucked out of her lungs, she collapsed. Clare’s cries echoed ceaselessly.

Trevor Hamilton, a 20 something pro, had been turning tricks all night but one guy had taken it a little too far. He was sure his neck, hips would be covered in nasty bruises the next day. Oh well. Nobody believed a pro who cried rape. He stuffed his cash in his briefs and made his way towards the van he slept in with three other guys but before he could get there, he fell, body bloody. Nobody heard a sound but Trevor must have been shot. His blood was cold as it poured out of him onto the sidewalk but he stood up. He wasn’t dead. In the morgue, Melinda Warner ruled the cause of death a fatal gunshot wound to his back, probably a stray bullet, but he’d had sex the night he died, maybe an angry John. Alex told everyone that he wasn’t dead. Trevor whispered in her ear, asked her how could she let them say he was dead, how could she let them get away with saying such a thing like that, how could she let them call what had happened to him sex. Alex repeated herself over and over but all she got in return from the detectives were sympathetic looks of confusion as they sent her home for the day. She must’ve been too tired, Alex heard Olivia tell Elliot, maybe her mind was acting up again, sleep deprivation can kickstart psychosis. Someone would check in on her that night, make sure she wasn’t relapsing. Alex knew she wasn’t hallucinating, because Trevor had spoken to her in the clearest voice she’d heard in months. Alex wept for Trevor the whole way home and then some but nobody seemed to notice.

Annabelle Lamm wore a fuzzy pink nightgown when her grandmother brought her into the precinct one snowy night. Olivia called Alex to come to the precinct, they needed a warrant for the apartment, they found fluids in the girl’s hair of all places, grandma handed them an envelope full of pictures of Annie that nobody in the family admitted to taking. It was a no brainer warrant, Alex didn’t even mind waking up a judge for it if it meant getting whoever had been hurting this little girl as soon as possible. When Alex arrived to the building, Olivia wasn’t there and all the lights were off. Alex clicked on a lamp, wondered if Liv had found another ADA and rushed off without telling her anything. But the room was unfamiliar, empty, concrete. In the center of the room standing perfectly still was a 5 year old girl in a pink fuzzy nightgown. Alex ran to her but couldn’t get any closer. The little girl had a hollow expression and didn’t move an inch. Alex kept running and running but her feet stayed in the same spot, powerless.

Yeah. Powerless. As she awoke she felt like she was still running, head still spinning, still heard screams.

She wrote it all down in her journal. Julia had said that it was unusual for people whose jobs involved consistently levels of high stress and disturbance to have the severity of symptoms she had; that there was usually a tolerance that was built up to being horrified. Alex had either never had that tolerance or it had been washed away during the years she’d spent in WITSEC because her very brief return to the practice of law had nearly broken her.

“Sleep deprivation can kickstart psychosis,” Olivia had told her once when they first worked together, ostensibly referring to a case of statutory rape where the perp didn’t recall a single piece of the event; but Alex knew the comment was pointed at her, not the perp. Olivia could tell that Alex’s patience was growing thin, her mind unfocused; she must’ve deduced that Alex wasn’t sleeping much. But Alex already knew the warning signs.

Alexandra Cabot, age 16, sat shaking in a hospital room. It was almost finals week, she’d pulled a few all nighters, it was nothing serious, she’d told her school counselor a week prior when her friends had noticed her speech patterns growing muddled. She stayed up another 24 hours and the last thing she remembered was her roommates grabbing her wrists and pulling her inside off the balcony. After that, the school had installed locks on all the windows. Alexandra was freezing in her hospital gown, brain numbed out from the IV antipsychotics she was attached to. A few days in the hospital to take care of her injuries (she was informed that she had thrown herself against the wall while school officials took her to the ER), then a summer of residential treatment, hopefully she would be able to return to boarding school in the fall. Her father looked at her with a shattered expression, her mother treated her with cold indifference, her friends didn’t talk to her. Major depression with psychotic features.

Alex knew the consequences of not sleeping enough. She considered taking her cup of mint tea and heading back to bed, cuddling up to her cats, reading a book maybe, just trying to screw her head on right. Her body fought her though, nervous energy ran through her veins, so she elected to have a walk instead. Besides, it had been years since she’d had any serious episode. Anxiety, sure, and the occasional month or so of depression, a few close calls, but regular therapy and medication kept her more or less in the clear since college. Her family, her therapists, had suggested she go into a different kind of law, something stimulating but less distressing like, intellectual property, but she had refused, felt called to prosecuting. But her experience was what made her a great prosecutor, and it was why she had been so adamant about the proper handling of cases involving those suffering from mental illness, especially victims, but perps as well. She knew how it felt, more than she admitted to almost anybody, but she also knew there were paths through it.

The same old nightmares, but Alex was a different person. The old Alex would’ve thrown herself even harder into work than usual, won her cases even more viciously, assuaged her feelings of powerlessness by asserting control. This Alex knew that complete control was unattainable.

The September air was cold this early in the morning, but bracing. The contrast between her thermos full of hot tea pleased her, she pretended she was a dragon as she breathed steam. She smiled to herself at the thought and at the bright orange sun rising through the treetops in the park by her apartment. This had been the right choice, sunrises were her favorite magic. Content covered her like a well fitting dress, shaking off the nerves slowly. The most dedicated joggers and newsstand operators were the only other people out this early, the quietest time in the city. Alex’s phone buzzed.

Casey: Nice coat, Cabot.

Alex looked up from her phone, confused. What? Maybe it was delivered late. She’d seen Casey two days ago for coffee— they’d developed a friendship. Texts, coffee, nothing too deep; but then it had only been a couple weeks since they’d run into each other at the library bar. Alex liked Casey. She was funny and a good listener, and she always had something to say. She didn’t walk on eggshells around Alex either, making Casey unique among her friends. She’d tried to meet up with Liv right when she’d gotten back to the city the second time, but the way she looked at her cut way too deep, like she was a hero, like she was a victim. Both of those she may well be, but she needed to be treated as a friend. Casey did that for her, down to playfully teasing her over her eccentric habits. Another text:

Casey: Turn around, Clueless.

Not many people had ever called Alexandra Cabot clueless. Alex turned around, and Casey waved at her excitedly from the jogging path and without waiting for Alex’s reaction began to run up to where she was sitting. Alex was surprised to see her, happily so. She knew Casey was athletic, but didn’t take her to be the 5:30 running type. She wore tight leggings and a running jacket, and the biggest smile Alex had seen from her. She looked beautiful in the soft early light, Alex thought, then immediately blushed at that thought.

She’d never been one to shy away from her sexuality, especially when she realized the destructive role repression had played in her life before she came out. Alex had been out since college, but she tried very hard not to crush on straight women. She knew she couldn’t control who she was attracted to, but it always made her feel a bit dejected, so. Nip that in the bud.

Alex didn’t have much time to consider the ethics of her thoughts, because Casey was right in front of her, grabbing her hands.

“It’s so good to see you! A second surprise encounter, must be fate, Cabot,” Casey said in a quiet voice, a wink in her words.

“Something like that,” Alex replied, “What are you doing out so early?”

“I could ask the same of you; I’m just finishing up my run. You are wearing a fancy coat and looking deep in thought, in fact, you are being far more suspicious than I am, look at how many people are out here jogging, I mean,”

“Oh my god,” Alex cut her off with an eye roll, “Ok, stop cross-examining me.”

Casey gave Alex a genuine laugh, “Old habits die hard.” She paused for a second. “You look pale, did you sleep?”

“Thanks, Casey.” Alex gave her a playful glare. “If three nightmares in three hours counts, then yes, I slept.”

“Oh you poor thing. I’d hug you but,” She gestured to her sweaty figure. “You wanna get breakfast? I’ll pop back to my apartment, shower, and meet you at yours in say, half an hour?”

Alex started slightly at the familiarity, but responded, “Yeah, sure, sounds fun. Uh, here I’ll text you my address.”

Did Casey blush? Alex couldn’t be sure due to her post-run glow and the chill in the air. “Sorry if that’s too familiar, I know we usually plan these things out, and I guess I just assumed you didn’t have plans, it’s totally fine if you don’t want to, you know, runner’s high and all,” but Alex cut her off again with a raise of her eyebrows.

“Are you retracting the offer, Novak?” Alex couldn’t resist the urge to tease the woman in front of her. “Because if I recall correctly, I said yes.”

Casey grew more flustered, replied with a quick, “Nope, still happening, see you in half an hour,” and took off running, leaving Alex behind as she laughed in disbelief.

[cherryblossomflowers]

An Old Life Meets A New (Pt21)

Pairing: Jensen x Daughter, Danneel x Stepdaughter, Jared x Niece

Warnings: Slight Cussing, Angst, Fluff, Death Mentioned, Car Accident Mentioned, Anxiety/Depression, Arguing, Panic Attacks, Yelling, Fighting, Sex Mentioned

Summary: After the recent death of her mother, Harper must adjust to her new life in the Ackles home, this includes a new stepmother, half-siblings, and reconnecting with her father.

A/N: This is only the first part of the truth, Chapter 22 has the second half. The woman, Lizzy, is Harper’s mother’s name in case there is any confusion. No hate on Danneel or Jensen please. Feedback is greatly appreciated!

***ASK OPEN***

*LET ME KNOW IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE TAGGED*

*NEW CHAPTER EVERYDAY AT 3PM CST*

An Old Life Meets A New Masterlist

Chapter 21

Jensen and Harper were sitting on her bed, neither of them looking at the other. The only sounds were Harper's labored breathing from her sobbing.

Jensen glanced up at the half completed mural, "Your painting is really good. I didn't know you could draw."

Harper mumbled a reply, "You never asked."

Jensen sighed and stood from her bed, walking a few steps forward, "Harper, look. I know I really have messed up your life, but I'm trying to fix it. You just need to help me."

"I don't know how to help you, Dad."

Jensen's heart broke at his daughter's words, "I know of one way. But you're really not going to like it."

Harper turned to him, "And what's that?"

Jensen instantly had tears in his eyes, "Harper, what I'm about to tell you...just know that...I didn't have a choice in the matter."

Harper's chest tightened, "A choice in what exactly?"

Jensen stood there with his back to Harper, so scared of her reaction. Harper stood from her spot on the bed and made her way over to him.

"Dad, tell me what's going on. You're scaring me," she said in a small voice.

Jensen walked past her and back to her bed, sitting down with a sigh. Harper joined him, her eyes not leaving his face.

Jensen took a deep breath and began, "It was when you were just starting the 2nd grade..."

*FLASHBACK*

The school year had begun on a hot and muggy mid-morning August. An 8-year-old Harper sat in the backseat of her mom's car. Jensen was in the driver's seat, taking his little girl to school.

Jensen looked in the rear view mirror, "Are you excited, babygirl?"

Harper nodded enthusiastically, "I'm super excited! Mommy got me new school supplies and guess what!"

Jensen smiled, "What?"

Harper jumped in her seat, "It's all blue! It's my favorite color!"

Jensen chuckled, "I know it's your favorite, babygirl," he said as he pulled up to the school, "But what she didn't get you was a new lunch bag."

Harper gasped, "Daddy? Did you get me a surprise?"

Jensen turned around, "I may have."

He reached in the floorboard of the car and lifted up a bright blue lunch bag. It had a picture of Times Square on one side and the Texas Capitol on the other.

"I had it made for you before I came out here. Both sides represent who you are, a city girl and a country girl," said Jensen, handing it to Harper

Harper took her lunch and smiled, "Thanks Daddy!"

Jensen got out of the car and made his way over to the backseat door to help Harper. He unbuckled her and helped her out of the car.

"And don't worry, I made your lunch just the way you like it. PB&J with no crust, carrot sticks, an apple juice, and I may have added a cupcake in there for dessert," Jensen said with a wink.

Jensen bent down and hugged Harper, "I love you, babygirl. Have a good day okay? And remember, Mom is picking you up okay?"

Harper gave a huff, "Can't you stay a little longer?"

Jensen shook his head, "I'm sorry baby. I need to get home to Texas. But I'll be back soon, I promise."

Harper hugged Jensen again, "Okay, Daddy," she kissed his cheek, "I love you."

Then Harper caught the eye of a friend and ran off towards her school. Jensen watched his little girl run to talk to her friends, a smile formed on his face.

He hopped back into the car and sat in silence for a moment. That is until his phone began to ring. He looked down and saw Danneel's photo.

He answered quickly, "Hi honey."

"Jensen, I need to tell you something, but I really don't think it can wait until you get here," Danneel said, a slight panic in her voice.

Jensen's heart skipped, "Danneel, what's going on? Is everything alright?"

"Jensen, honey," said Danneel, on the verge of tears, "I'm pregnant!"

The smile grew on Jensen's face was from pure shock and happiness, "You're pregnant? Dee that's amazing news!"

Danneel chuckled, "I'm so glad you're happy, Jay. We can celebrate when you get home, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am. I should be home this evening. I love you."

"I love you more. Bye."

Jensen hung up and sat back in his seat, Danneel's pregnant. Oh man, I'm going to be a...

He turned his head towards the elementary school, his eye immediately falling on Harper. The smile faded at his realization.

What am I going to tell Harper? What am I going to tell her mom?

Jensen silently drove back to Harper's house. His mind was going a mile a minute. He felt panicked. Things were going so well with Harper and her mother, even if he got married to another woman. But now adding a baby into the mix?

He pulled into the driveway, turned off the car, and leaned his head back. If I don't tell her now, she'll find out somehow. And that's much worse than me just telling her.

Jensen got out of the car, walked up the sidewalk, and to the front door. He knocked and stood there for a moment before someone opened the door.

"Hey, Lizzy, can we talk?"

Harper's mom, Lizzy, rolled her eyes and opened the door further, "What is it this time, Ackles?"

Jensen walked inside the house and Lizzy shut the door behind them. She walked up to him and crossed her arms.

Jensen sighed, "I just got a call from Danneel. She's...pregnant."

Lizzy laughed, "Okay?"

Jensen was shocked, "You're not upset? Or angry?"

Lizzy shook her head, "Not at all. These next 9 months should be interesting."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, once that baby is born, I don't expect you to be around as much. Which means Harper will have you in her life less, she'll resent you, she'll want nothing to do with you, and we'll never hear from you again," Lizzy said.

Jensen was taken aback, "Wait what? You think once Danneel has our baby I'll just forget about Harper?"

Lizzy nodded her head, "Exactly."

"Lizzy, believe me when I say this. Nothing could be further from my thoughts. I want Harper in my life, she's my daughter," Jensen said, pleading with his ex.

"That's funny coming from a man who freaked out when he found out I was pregnant with his child," Lizzy said walking away.

Jensen chased after her, "I didn't freak out. I wasn't ready to be a father then. You and I both know that."

"Then maybe we shouldn't have had sex Jensen! That's what happens! Baby's happen when you have sex, genius!" Lizzy screamed at him.

"I know that, Lizzy, but-"

"If we could've just stayed together, this conversation wouldn't even be happening," she mumbled, interrupted him.

"Lizzy, listen-"

"But that didn't happen. Because you didn't love me. You loved someone else," Lizzy angrily said.

"Elizabeth, I did love you. It's not that I stopped loving you. You and I wanted different things. We were very young, and just learning about our lives. And I know that you know the main reason you and I are even still in contact is because of our daughter," replied Jensen.

Lizzy walked towards the front door, "Jensen, I think you should leave."

Jensen was shocked, "Lizzy, this conversation isn't done."

"I know. You should leave," Lizzy refused to look at him.

"Please, Elizabeth," Jensen begged.

"Call a cab to the airport. We'll talk later," Lizzy opened the door.

*FLASHBACK END*

"Your mom wouldn't tell me then what she was thinking, but I had a pretty good idea," said Jensen.

Harper was confused, "What does this have to do with anything? You and mom had a conversation about Danneel being pregnant?"

Jensen sighed, "When I got home, I got a call from your mother..."

*FLASHBACK*

Jensen's phone vibrated on his nightstand. He looked down and saw Lizzy's face on the screen. Danneel was fast asleep next to him, so he decided to take the phone call in another room.

He grabbed his phone and walked out of their bedroom. He kept walking until he got to the couch of the living room. He sat down and answered the phone.

Lizzy spoke, "Jensen Ackles."

Jensen sighed, "Yes, Lizzy?"

"You have 9 months left with our child. I hope you spend them wisely," she said flatly.

Jensen felt his heart stop. His breath felt like it was pulled from his lungs. Tears flooded his vision. He felt like he couldn't speak.

"W-what? Lizzy you can't do that to me! That's my daughter!" Jensen yelled into the phone.

"I don't care, Jensen. I'm saving Harper from heartbreak. I want her life to be happy and joyful. So the day your baby is born, you can forget about us okay? It'll make things easier for you and for us," Lizzy said coldly before hanging up the phone.

Jensen let the phone fall into his lap as he slumped forward. Tear were pouring down his face as he sobbed.

9 months...that's all I have left of Harper's life?

*FLASHBACK END*

Harper had tears streaming down her face, as did Jensen. Harper was in disbelief her of her mother. She had no idea about any of this. Mom was the reason...

The two sat in silence for a bit, neither knowing what to do or say.

Jensen spoke up, but his voice was barely a whisper, "But that's not all."

"Dad, I don't think I need to hear anymore. I honestly don't know how much more I can-"

"I need to tell you," Jensen interrupted, "...about the last day I got to see you."

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

Masterlist

My Cherry Blossoms

@mlovesstories​ @chessurkait​ @adorable-minibot​ @desiredposion​ @idksupernatural​ @thevelvetseries​ @spnfamily-j2​ @let-me-luve-you @obsessedwithfandomsx @wecantgiggleitsafandom

@mangueweaschester @unicornmadness2444 @emery--nicole--morrison @starchildwild

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Daisies

Sam Winchester x Harry Styles

Word Count: ~1330

Warnings: All the fluff. Recreational drug use. Dean snark.

A/N: Rockstar AU, continued. You don’t really need to read Handshake to enjoy this, but it’s basically a follow-up. Pure silly fun. I blame it on @fookinghelljensensthighs​. 

Dean claps and whistles as Greta Van Fleet file offstage with one last wave. He doesn’t want the set to stop; it’s been a long time since he’s been able to hang out in the pit at a show with any sort of anonymity. 

He could’ve been watching from sidestage, up in the artists-only bleachers, but where’s the fun in that? 

Dean’s gotta hand it to the kid, the “disguises” he’d suggested are surprisingly effective. Dean feels utterly ridiculous with a bandanna over his mouth, like some sort of fuckin’ Old West bandit, but it did help with the dust all day, and between that and a low-angled hat, he hasn’t gotten more than a few double-takes. Harry, in his blue wig, massive sunglasses, and long skirt, didn’t draw so much as a second glance when they were walking around yesterday. Trust the former boy band member to know how to get around unnoticed. 

Speaking of, better get back to them before they decide to go on an adventure, or (worse) before the kid manages to talk Sammy into another fuckin’ genius idea like the Silly String Incident of 4am yesterday. It’s almost sunset; he’s pretty sure Harry turns into a pumpkin when you get him wet after dark. Something like that, anyway. 

About four months ago, this ostentatiously pretty dude showed up on the doorstep of the Winchesters’ Nashville house, toting a fucking Gucci overnight bag, and he just… stayed. It’s become normal to come downstairs for coffee and find an international pop star helping himself to Dean’s favorite cereal, absent-mindedly singing Prince songs while decked out in a silk kimono and a leather collar. Dean’s life is weird. 

Sammy’s been smiling a whole lot lately, though… the real, big, brilliant smiles that Dean didn’t see enough of, for a while. 

They had a few rough years, getting the band started; they’ve had their ups and downs, and sometimes Dean feels guilty for dragging Sam all around the country in a van when this music thing wasn’t really his dream to begin with. Then Dad died, and Dean might’ve been drinking too much, and Cas almost quit when they were recording the first album, and it was touch and go there, for a while. It felt like Sam grew up too fast. He grew up before he was ready, always trying to be the responsible one, the peacekeeper, always working so hard to live up to what he thought Dean expected of him. 

Anyway. Anything that makes Sam smile like that is fine in Dean’s book.

He makes his way past the VIP checkpoint and into artist camping, and he spots Harry and Sam from a distance. They’re right where he left them, thank fuck, sprawled out on a blanket under some trees in a relatively private clearing near the parked tour bus. 

Sam’s sprawled, at least. He’s lying back with his head on Harry’s lap, and… oh dear god he’s wearing a flower crown. Dean stops dead in his tracks, blinks, and rubs his eyes, as if that might change what he’s seeing. No such luck. 

It’s not some fuckin’ Coachella fake flower bullshit, either. Sam’s got an honest-to-fuck daisy chain around his head, and as Dean gets closer, he realizes Harry’s currently braiding more flowers into Sam’s hair. There’s a fuckin’ piece of grass in there, too. A florist just moved in and set up shop on his head.

“Hey, Timberlake,” Dean barks, trying to make his voice come out stern instead of soft and embarrassingly fond. 

Harry looks up as Dean approaches and declares lazily, “If it isn’t my favorite Dean-Bean.” 

“Did you pop down to Rivendell while I was out? Who’s the elf queen?” Dean snarks, and Sam finally tilts his head to look at Dean and give him a floppy-armed sort of wave and a goofy grin. 

“Dean! You’re back!” he says, with way more excitement than Dean thinks his ninety-minute absence really warranted. “Check out this sunset!” 

Dean glances up, to where the sky is just beginning to turn vaguely peach-ish, and looks back down at Sam, who’s now holding his own hands up in front of his face and examining them with a seriously enraptured stare. 

Harry, meanwhile, is looking up at Dean with the world’s most innocent, dimpled, picture-perfect, squeaky-clean, teen-mag grin, the grin that means he’d probably be in a lot of trouble right now if he wasn’t Harry fuckin’ Styles. Dean raises an eyebrow. The kid bats his goddamn eyelashes, like butter wouldn’t melt in his goddamn mouth. 

“I wasn’t even gone for two fuckin’ hours,” Dean grumbles. He sits down on the blanket next to them and looks down resignedly at his brother’s spaced-out grin. “What’d you do to him? Mushrooms again?” 

“What do I look like, some sort of drug pusher?” Harry says mournfully, managing to look wounded for exactly two seconds. 

Dean rolls his eyes. “No, you look like a stray teenybopper wearing his grandma’s clothes.” 

The impish smile returns with a vengeance. “Just a bit of LSD. D’you want some?” 

Dean sighs and looks down at his little brother. “How ya doin’, Sammy?” 

“Pretty fucking fantastic, actually,” Sam says, and then dissolves into laughter for no apparent reason, rubbing his cheek against Harry’s thigh (the paisley velvet pants he’s wearing do look pretty soft, to be fair) like some overgrown cat. 

Harry’s already pulling a bit of tinfoil out of the pocket of his cardigan and unfolding it. 

“I dunno, he’s never done this before, what if…” Dean hedges. 

Sam flails upright, refolding his long limbs to sit cross-legged, and reaches out to grab one of Dean’s hands with both of his. 

“Dean,” he says, painfully earnest, eyes huge and pleading. “Please do this with me? I’m having so much fun, and I want you to have so much fun. With me. Us. Fun. You know? I just want you to see how amazing these trees are right now!” 

“If you think those trees are cool, just you wait til we find some music,” Harry says, leaning in conspiratorially, draping himself over Sam’s back and clinging like a drunken octopus, as he tends to do. “Don’t worry, Dean-Bean, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” 

The combined power of their dimples could probably melt steel beams, and that’s before you take into account the puppy-eyes. Dean just rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, and Harry cackles with slightly alarming glee as he places a tiny square of cardstock on the tip of Dean’s tongue. 

“Down the rabbit hole, I guess,” Dean says, smiling in spite of himself at the childish joy on Sam’s face. 

“Right,” Harry says decisively. “Time to gear up and find some fun.” He scrambles to his feet, pulling Sam up after him, and Dean follows. 

They only make it a couple steps before Sam side-swipes him into a gigantic bear hug. Dean returns it bemusedly at first, but after a second he relaxes into it, giving Sam a squeeze. 

“I love you, Dean,” Sam mumbles, and he’s doing that sincere thing again when he pulls back, his expression open and honest in a way that Dean knows shouldn’t make him quite so uncomfortable. 

“You’re on drugs and there’s a fuckin’ shrubbery in your hair, it’s real hard to take you seriously right now,” Dean grumbles, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. “But… I love you too.” 

Sam laughs and slings an arm around Harry’s shoulders, and the two of them start quoting the Knights of Ni at each other as they walk unsteadily down the path. Dean doesn’t mind that they’re a few steps ahead of him. It gives him a second to wipe his eyes. 

It’s still new, this version of Sammy, the one who hugs Dean for no reason and says “I love you” without thinking twice. He’s just been happier, these last four months. 

Dean thinks he could get used to seeing his brother smile like that. 

.

.

More in this ‘verse over HERE! 

.

[yandere-daydreams]

Something with Kiyoomi Sakusa from Haikiyuu?? He just reminds me of Overhaul, but like hotter. And more sadistic. And hotter.

I don’t know a lot about this man, but he has the Bad Vibes we love to see. A germaphobe with a god-complex and some crushing anxiety to sweeten the pot… What more could you want in a ‘loving’ sadistic?

TW: Violence, Dehumanization, and Emotional Manipulation.

~

He liked to feel bigger than you.

You guessed it could’ve been worse. The basement was renovated, the floor covered in spotless faux-wood, and Sakusa made sure you kept it as neat as the rest of his home… or, you assume he did, at least, based on the few glanced you had of the upper floors you’d gathered over your months with him. He could’ve poured ice-cold water over your head, again, or gone back to forcing those little grey pills down your throat. This wasn’t so bad, in comparison.

You could live with this.

Still, your knees began to ache as you repositioned yourself for the thousandth time, attempting to find a stance that didn’t leave your legs sore and your knees bruised from the constant kneeling. You were relegated to the floor, but Sakusa felt free to make himself comfortable on your cot, pursing his lips as you nuzzled into his thigh, attempting to create the air of manufactured intimacy you knew would soften his resolve. In return, he ran a hand through your hair, his concentration devoted to detangling nonexistent knots and flattening imperfections you could never seem to find, on your own. He was good at that - pointing out all the things you didn’t were wrong.

He hummed as he worked, blunt nails scraping against your scalp gently, and you let yourself melt into the feeling, content to close your eyes and pretend you were anywhere else, with anyone else. It was the closest you got to happiness, when your world was infested with your captor, whether his presence came in the form of the gifts he expected you to treasure or the sparse furniture he blamed for ‘spoiling’ you or the clothing he provided, made up of jerseys and his shirts and anything he decided he wanted to see you in, your tastes be damned. The temptation to complain was still there, to cross your arms and refuse to cooperate, but you’d learned your lesson. As far as Sakusa was concerned, if you didn’t want to wear what he gaze you, you could wear nothing at all, and you’d sooner swallow your pride than be so exposed again. Exposure meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant inferiority, and inferiority meant you weren’t human--

“You’re quiet, today.” His voice broke through the gentle silence, drawing you from your thoughts like an owner calling the name of their favorite pet. You perked up, crossing your arms over his legs to better stare up at him, but you didn’t reply, letting him scan over you with the observant, prying gaze that never failed to make your skin crawl. You weren’t sure what he was searching for, but he must’ve found it, averting his eyes to the wall behind you rather than attempting to meet yours. “No screaming,” He explained, bluntly. “You haven’t thrown a tantrum in… How long has it been? A week?”

“Nine days,” You corrected, more than a little offended that he hadn’t been keeping a record as diligently as you had. Still, you smiled, melting into his palm as it came down to cup your cheek, his rough skin contrasting sharply with your own. “My back still hurts when I lay on my side. I want to wait for it to heal before I try anything that might make it worse.”

That earned a laugh, albeit a soft one, barely audibly by the time it was off his tongue. He cupped your chin, tilting your head back, guiding you to straighten your back and hold still as he leaned towards you, kissing the top of your head. “And now you’re strategizing,” He mumbled, giving you time to peck his cheek. He didn’t react, but a pink tint was slowly spreading across his skin, a nervous tic he couldn’t seem to shake. You used to think it was cute. Now, it just made you wonder if he was stricter when he was embarrassed. “You’re supposed to behave because you want to behave, y’know. Not because you’re biding your time until you can do something bratty and turn me into the bad guy.”

“I’m still behaving.” He moved to back away, and you strung your arms around his neck, pulling him towards you, if only to hide your face in his shoulder. Sakusa sighed, beginning to toy with the edges of your shirt’s collar. “You’re always talking about punishments and repercussions… That’s what you want, right? For me to be scared enough not to act up?”

There was a moment of stillness, a second where the only thing you felt was his warm breath fanning across your neck, but it didn’t last very long. Before you could do so much as separate from him, his fist was around your collar, jerking you back and onto your feet as he stood, letting you stumble for a proper stance before you were thrown to the floor. You tried to push yourself up, but your joints were sore and your whole body felt so weak, leaving the last traces of your hope to be crushed as Sakusa’s heel collided with your diaphragm, knocking the air from your lungs and lodging itself in your solar plexus, keeping you pinned as a sharpened, electric pain spread through your ribcage. It’d been sore for weeks, if not months. Maybe he’d take away your mattress, again. Maybe he’d leave you alone in this hell, again.

“It’s not about you being scared,” He spat, the sound echoing off plain, concrete walls. He ground his foot down as he spoke, pressing a whimper through your lips before forcing out an earnest, genuine cry as he landed a kick to the center of your stomach, not bothering to hide his disapproval of your lacking response. He wanted you to scream. He’d never be satisfied until you did. “It’s not about fear, it’s never been about fear. You don’t get it, you still don’t get it.”

“I’m sorry!” The apology was automatic, and you scrambled to shield your head, but it didn’t matter. Sakusa was never one for theatrics, he didn’t have to be. He new your weak spots as well as you did, from the burn that stretched over your shoulder-blade to your recently fractured ankle, the one that now held the majority of his weight, bringing tears to your eyes with little more than the basest hints of his strength. “Please, I just… I said the wrong thing! I didn’t mean to--”

“I’m doing this because I love you.” His voice was calm, and you curled into yourself, unwilling to let him see as ragged, empty sobs began to rack through your chest. Sakusa showed his sympathy with a clink of his tongue and little more. “I love you. I want you to love me back. That’s why I’m doing this. If you’re scared, it’s only because you deserve to be scared.”

The pressure disappeared, thankfully, replaced by an iron-clad grip around your wrist as he pulled you onto your back. Using his free hand, he caught your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. He didn’t try to look away, this time.

You wished you were brave enough to try.

“Clearly, you still need to learn your place.”