#a plastic wobble all the way there I can only ask if it was worth it

[dykedvonte]

Fallout New Crashes

[palbabor-writes]

oh my god! your writing is amazingggg. may i please have a creepy! shiggy, dabi or hawks whichever one is easier for you where they really like the reader so they do yk normal creepy stuff like stealing her underwear and humping her bed and one day they get caught and they thought she’d be disgusted but she’s lowkey into it and she’s just super sweet and praising and a HUGE SERVICE TOP. I think they just need some good pussy 😔 if you decide to do this then THANK YOUUUU

｡ﾟ(TヮT)ﾟ｡ you’re too nice nonnie & tysm. i’m glad you’re here!

warnings: general degeneracy, masterbation, handjobs, SMUT, panty sniffin’   

You make a point to leave your room unlocked.

Oh, you’ll switch it up, every so often, just so he has something to work for, but  you prefer to pressure him with a time crunch instead of a locked door. It’s always so much fun. You make a show of dashing up the steps, feet thudding heavily on the warped wood. Then, right when you’re on the threshold, gosh, how could you be so daft, so thoughtless! You’d left your supplies downstairs, again! You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your shoulders. Silly, silly, silly.

The display does what you need it to, namely, giving him the chance to slink away. He’s always whisper quiet when he creeps into your space, it’s a miracle you’d caught him. But, even super-villains find themselves on the back foot sometimes, and boy, was he clumsy about this. 

It wasn’t like him. That was the slip up. No, his one, original, mistake was a simple one.

He’d left evidence of his arousal, of his lewd, heated, heart thudding, want. It was tacky, sticky, absolutely dripping with the milky residue of him. He’d tried to bury it deep, pressing it down into the bowels of your hamper, likely praying that it would remain hidden and you wouldn’t question it further when you did stumble upon it, hopefully weeks later.

You didn’t like to leave your hamper open and you certainly never, ever, left it beside your bed. It had been another long day and, at first, you’d only given it a swift glance, replaying the events of the night before. Maybe you’d lugged it over, too tired to pace the small distance? You had been in a rush. It was plausible.

Kicking your boots to the floor, you raise a hand to lower the lid of your plastic hamper when you spot the cascade of clothing. Again, it’s a tiny, tiny, fragment, but he should know better. It’s your job to notice the small, the obscure. Retcon is your bread and butter and this is too much, too tempting to ignore. 

Fingers follow the hollowed space his arm has left behind and you hit the panties, seconds later. They’re warm, wet, and you clutch them into your palm and pull.    

Fuck.

The lace is soaking. Fresh lines of cum run in thick rivulets, falling down your upturned hand and along your wrist, dribbling onto your bare feet. For a moment, you can’t seem to process the image that’s before you, your mind whirring through the possibilities, the faces. Who...no...which one of them did this?

The next morning, you’re quiet. It’s not unnatural. After all, it’s freaking 7 am, no one at the bar is talking. As you sip on your chilled, canned, coffee, your eyes carefully size up the men who are lounged around you. 

Shigaraki is perusing a newspaper, the pallid hand of father obscuring his face, but you can still catch sight of the red glint of his eyes. He looks bored. He hadn’t even looked up when you walked in, his back bowed and head down, engrossed in his search.

Dabi is perched on one of the dilapidated couches, his long legs curled under him, flicking a bashed lighter, open and closed, open and closed. Like Shigaraki, he hadn’t lifted his gaze to you at first. He had, however, answered a question. Just the one, when you’d asked him if he had found any newbies, any potential recruits. He’d snarked his reply, his cerulean irises latching onto you with a cruel sharpness. No was his answer and you hadn’t pressed for any further elaboration.

Compress was shuffling a deck of cards. Spinner was ticking through his phone. Twice was chittering with Toga. Nothing was out of the ordinary. You finish your breakfast and tell them that you’re heading out. 

No one replies.

******

Unsurprisingly, it happened again. 

It’s a different pair of panties but the glisten of the cum is the same. So is the lowered placement, the bevel of the clothes, and the position of the hamper. However, it’s a little more calculated this time around. The lid is closed and there are no traces of his entry, no cuts or nicks on the door handle or key hole, no scattering of your things, no dip on your bed. There’s nothing. 

Alright. Two can play at this game. 

The hamper is moved, strategically maneuvered into the bathroom that your room holds. You’re careful to leave the lid propped. It looks haphazard, but it takes a precise click of the plastic to lock it into that position. You’ll be able to tell if it’s been moved. 

You tug your panties out of your dresser and count them, noting the colors, patterns, the imperfections in the lace. If you’re going to do this, you need to know what you’re working with. The inventory must be precise, each variant recognized and tallied. 

Every day, it’s a rinse and repeat process. Yank the flutter of fabrics out, spread them across your sheets and count. It’s tedious, bordering on annoying, but you wanna know. It’s like an itch. It sits right where you can’t reach and it tickles at the back of your mind. Besides, you’ve always liked a good puzzle. Although, this isn’t quite what you had in mind, you’ll take it and you’ll solve it, if it’s the last thing you do. 

Two days after you start this mind-numbing task, four pairs go missing. 

******

It’s late when you stumble back into the hideout, padding past the darkened bar and up the steps. The mission, despite its lower ranking, and pay, you think bitterly, had taken almost three days. Thankfully, the information you’d gleaned was worth it, but you’re exhausted. You’re wiping a sleepy hand across your face when you notice your door.

It’s ajar.

Instinctually, you fall to your haunches, tip toeing toward the crack, eyes narrowed, fingers curled into fists. The room is pitch black but there’s something, no, someone, in there. You can make out their outline. It’s a jagged cut that sits upon your bed and you can hear the tiny hitches and groans that they’re gasping out.

As your eyes adjust, you can see more. Your knees fall to the floor, digging into the wood and you steady yourself against the wall, eyes wide. He’s propped along your pillows and his hand is working over himself, using the friction of another pair of your panties to rub himself to completion. You can’t make out the exact shape of his cock but from the rapid fire tugs of his fist you can tell it’s long. It must be thick too, since he needs to adjust his pulls toward the tip.

He’s quiet, but you can still hear the catches and moans he’s making. Your name slips out too and the utterance makes your mouth go dry. So that’s who it is. Well, wonders never cease. 

In the months that you’d known him, he hasn’t paid you much mind. Even through the haze of this strange obsession, he hasn’t altered his day to day routine, hasn’t broken character, hasn’t spoken to you unless the situation absolutely called for it. 

Damn. It’s too much, it’s way, way...no. No. It’s not that it’s too much, you think, mesmerized by the sight that’s splayed across your sheets. It’s nowhere near enough. 

You want to march in there, yank your soiled panties off his dick and hear what kind of noises he would make for you then. Would he shove you off, or would he welcome your notice? Either way, he’s too close now.

His hips have started to rut upwards, unable to resist the rhythm he’s created. The moans have drifted into hisses and his back arches when he cums, those familiar ropes of white splashing across the pastel of your lace. He’s careful to catch the drops, pinching the end of his cock and shuddering at the overstimulation. As he sits up, you cautiously rise, unsteady on your wobbling legs. 

You’re halfway down the stairs when your door shuts. His footsteps recede down the hallway and you can hear him as he thuds into his own space, the click of his lock reverberating in your ears. 

******

Thus, the game of cat and mouse continues. 

Outwardly, neither of you reveal your hand, keeping your cards close to the chest, out of each others line of sight. Your door locks, unlocks, and you keep losing more panties. You’ve marked the one that will make the difference. It’s your new, favorite, pair. You haven’t worn them yet, but they’re a lush item, expensive, luxuriant, an excess that you don’t usually allow yourself. You’d purchased them the day after you’d finally caught sight of him. You couldn’t help it. 

Most people, you reason, would be horrified by this situation, but not you. Oh no, you’re so turned on you can barely sleep. You start to masterbate in the early evening, when you know the others are moving around, your fingers trailing past your dampened curls, a careful fingernail pricking along your clit. You’ve even left your door open, cracked, welcoming the attention of anyone passing by. Once, you could have sworn you’d heard him. The whisper of that gasp, imagined or not, had bowled you over, your thighs clamping around your wrist, your cunt pulsing around nothing, hungry, slathering, desperate for more. 

You want to just toss those panties on your bed and provoke the interaction. Goddamnit, how much longer is he gonna make you wait?

****** 

Not even 24 hours later, they’re gone. 

He’s getting reckless, too. Your hamper is knocked over, the dresser drawer that holds your underwear is a crumpled mess, and he’s deliberately left a vacant hole where the panties used to lay. It’s screaming for your attention and you can feel your heartbeat thrumming against your breast. 

Finally.  

The next mission you’re assigned is easy, too easy. It’s mid-afternoon and there’s no reason for you to be back this early. Well, that’s an oversimplification. There is a perfectly excellent reason for you to be back, you’re just hoping the sliver of intel that was dropped for you will pay off. 

Apparently, while the rest of you were out pounding the pavement, he’s elected to stay behind. He had something he needed to take care of. 

“It sounded important,” Toga informed you, her voice lilting, rising with that sharp toothed smile of hers. 

“Why are you telling me this,” you’d asked her, biting your lip and crossing your legs, soothing the throb that’s pricking in your core. 

“He just told me to tell you, didn’t ask him anything more. You know how he is. He can be, prickly,” Toga winks, popping her head to the side, bouncing her golden locks. 

“Alright,” you reply, adding a mask of disdain and disinterest to your performance. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” 

Lies, lies. 

So many fucking lies, but he must know that you realize, that you know. Why else enlist Toga? He hated having to lay things out. No, he must know, he has to.    

The bar is empty and the upper floors are deathly still.

Your door is sensibly shut but you can make out his jerks, his gasps, and those choked whimpers that echo past the flimsy wood. Your hand catches against the knob and you take one, last, steadying breath. 

Here we go.       

When you swing the door open he startles upward, his white hair curtaining the flush of his cheeks. Those vermillion irises land on you and he vaults away, nearly tumbling off the side of your bed. His pants are still bunched around his thighs, so that hinders him from making a true getaway. As he’s fumbling with the dark material, you don’t miss the shake of his hands and the spread of that lovely blush.

Oh, this is too perfect.

Before he can finish tucking himself back in his pants, you’re dashing across the top of your bed, ignoring the discarded panties, ignoring the dark glare that he gives you, ignoring everything but that heated bulge that’s giving him so much trouble. 

Impatient, your fingers curl around his wrists and you use the millisecond of surprise that your swift action has gifted you. With a low gasp, he falls forward, his knees sinking into the softness of your mattress. One hand lowers to brace himself, but he’s careful to keep a finger arched away, preserving the permanence of your bed. Before he can get his bearings, you’re pressing him onto his back, straddling his lean hips and lowering those dark pants back down. 

His cock, badly concealed by the upper line of his boxers, springs out, curving proudly toward his muscled stomach. For his part, Shigaraki squirms under you, his scarred lip set in a forbidding scowl. His deadly hands lower to yours, but you ignore his unspoken threat, knocking his trembling digits away. Your  fingers lace around his cock, squeezing at the heft of him, stroking up the spidery veins and grooves until he’s dropping his defiant head back against your sheets. 

“Wh-what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growls, his raspy voice halting over the question. 

“Who? Me?” you laugh, tugging a few more gasps from his shaking lips. There’s a pale strand of precum that’s leaking from his tip and you brush your thumb over it, gathering it against the pad and using it to ease your motions. His hips buck up and he shoves himself into your fist, a long string of curses slipping through his clenched teeth. 

“I don’t think you get to ask that, dear leader,” you tease, leaning over his prone form. You’re glad he’s forgone wearing that creepy hand. It hadn’t even come into your calculations of how all of this would go. “No, not with the way you’ve been behaving.”

“I-I didn’t...fuck–” 

“What? Didn’t think I’d find out?”

“You’re not supposed to be here. I sent you on that– ah– that mission for a reason,” Shigaraki bites out, shifting away from your close inspection. You smile at his discomfort and cup your free hand around his chin, yanking him back to you, forcing him to look up. 

“That’s too bad, cus’ I finished early. Looks like I’m just that good, huh?” 

He’s seething up at you, his eyes gleaming in the low light of your room, but he’s not making any attempts to leave. He may want to, but it seems his body has other plans. His cock is swelling as you pick up your tempo, your fingers clenching and releasing as you go, edging him along. 

“You ever fucked a girl?” you ask, leaning back to admire the tense enjoyment of the man under you. The muscles of his stomach, coil and writhe, flexing each time you hit his tip and relaxing as you make the swift pass back down. 

“N-no,” he moans, jerking his hips up, silently demanding that you pick up the pace. 

“Did you want to?” you whisper, lowering to his face again, letting your soft lips trace along his temple. His skin is rough, but you like the contrast. Shigaraki seems to enjoy it too, his eyes slipping behind his eyelids as he turns toward you. When he doesn’t answer, you slow the hand that’s passing over the strain of his length. Shigaraki hisses at the shift and his eyes pop open again. They burn as they blaze up at you, clearly echoing his displeasure. 

“Asked you a question,” you scold. He’s quiet for a long breath, but, after a few tense seconds, he lowers his eyes and nods, his jaw tight. “Should I take that as a yes?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Shigaraki grumbles, flashing a quick glare your way. “Was that clear enough for you?”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, one delicate eyebrow arching at his disgruntled expression.

“Don’t fucking call me that,” he huffs, grimacing as you lift your hand from him, freeing yourself to yank your shirt off. 

“What do you want me to call you?” you ask, unbuttoning your jeans and easing them down the curve of your hips. 

“My fucking name.”

“Shigaraki?”

“No. Tomura,” he replies, his voice falling into that deep rasp again. He’s watching you closely and you grin down at his frank assessment. 

“Alright, Tomura,” you begin, testing out the unfamiliar acknowledgement. “Let’s make this good for you, hmm? What are you wanting to try first?”

He’s silent and you can hear the grinding of his teeth. “What’s better for you?”

Oh. Well, that’s not a question you were expecting. “For me? Uh, I guess I prefer to be on top. Let’s me control things and–”

“So do that,” he shrugs, finally peeling those dark pants off his long legs. He leaves his shirt on, but it doesn’t matter, if you’re riding him it’s not like you can’t tuck your hands under the tattered fabric.

“After acting like such a creep, you’re being pretty nonchalant about all of this,” your fingers wander along his sides and he shudders again, his neck bowing off the bedding. 

“You’re one to fucking talk. Think I didn’t know what you were doing?”

“Ha! Well, well. No wonder you took my bait so easily. When did you figure me out?”

“That night you sat outside your door and watched me,” his hands raise to your hips and he urges you to hurry up, grunting when your dripping cunt traces over his tip. “Then you left your fucking door open. Not just once, either, no, you did it for days. It was a whole fucking week of that shit. Didn’t even need to steal a pair of your slutty little panties to smell you then. You reeked. I could smell you from my room.” 

You laugh, helping him to press up and he glides into you, stretching you, radiating a satisfying ache along the slippery heat of your walls. His legs lift and his hands fall from your hips. Once you’re fully seated, your pelvis flush with his, you give him a few gulping breaths. 

“Ahh, fuck, oh– fucking damn it. Ohh, this feels nice. God, you feel so fucking good,” he mumbles, his voice falling into a hysterical edge. You bite your lip and raise up on your knees, making sure you grip him tightly as you go. Another mantra of obscenities drop from his lips and his feet brace against the bed, his hips rutting blindly as you begin that slow lift and lower.

“How’s that?” you query, moaning when he returns those broad hands to your hips. His reply is a sharp thrust and you’re tipped forward, forced to sprawl over him, fingers digging for purchase in his dark shirt. He grunts at the weight of you but he keeps his pace up, using the bed as leverage. 

You’re so close to him and you can’t help but reach for his face, suddenly desperate to feel his lips against yours. He doesn’t fight your hold, but he does let out a long groan when you tentatively kiss him. It’s slow at first and you’re very conscious of those dangerous hands of his. They’re still braced against your hips, but the four digits are starting to dig into your skin, sinking into the vulnerable dips until you’re whining. 

He’s unsure, so you help him along. 

You suck and nip at him, teasing him until he’s raising his head for more. Finally, one of those powerful hands detaches from your waist and he snatches at the back of your neck, insisting that you let him explore you further. After a time, you need air more than you need his lips, so you shake yourself free, pulling away and grinding your hips down as he ruts into you again. 

“Not bad,” you tell him, grinning when he swipes his tongue over his swollen lips, his eyes lifting to peer up at you curiously. “Want me to take it up a notch?”

“No,” he replies sharply. “I like this.”

You snort at his blunt response and give him what he’s asked for. You keep the drags of your lifts slow, enjoying how he throbs and swells inside you. Each time you rise, you roll your hips and he sighs at every minor clench that your pussy does. After a time, you can’t ignore the pulsations of your impatient clit, so your fingers trail downward, delicately rolling and grinding against the bud. 

Tomura tilts his head at this and his hazy vermillion snags your attention. “Does...does that feel good?” 

For a second, you’re unsure what he means, but when his hand ghosts over yours, you realize. “Mmhm,” you gasp, giving yourself a quicker tweak, delighting in the widening of his eyes when your cunt flushes another wave of arousal around him. It slicks between your thighs and pools around his pelvis, gleaming against the dark curls that rest there. 

“Lemme try,” he demands, batting your hand away and replacing your fingers with his own. He’s clumsy and he’s not expecting it to be that slippery, but he’s a quick study and he watches your face expectantly each time he tries something different. 

“Y-you’re doing so good, Tomura,” you praise, lingering on his name, pleased that he reacts so positively to it. “Just a little bit...oh fuck...yeah, right there is perfect.”

You’re not being facetious either, he’s honestly killing you with those earnest looks and careful prods. Each time you gasp, he presses just a fraction more, testing out his new skills and expanding on them. As a reward, you keep the positive reinforcement coming, calling out his name as you fuck him into you, loving how he keeps pulsating and groaning each time you sink down. 

A thin misting of sweat is beading over both of you, but you ignore the heat, too close to care that you’re starting to falter a bit in your rhythm. Tomura is panting also, losing some of that focus as he races toward his own release.

“Harder, ride me fucking harder, (Y/N),” he commands. The sight of him gasping and groaning out your name gives you an idea. You acquiesce to his demand but as you start those quick pumps your fingers reach behind you, searching for something that you think he’ll like even more. 

Ah-ha!

It’s an older pair, not as frilly as the one’s you’d saved for him, but you’ve been wearing them all day, so that scent he was complaining about should be nice and ripe. His eyes have winced shut, so the flop of your lace panties startles him. He tenses for a second, but once he notices what you’ve given him a wicked smirk curls his lips. Instantly, his hand leaves your clit and he presses the fabric to his face, huffing heavily against the crotch. 

“You fucking tease,” he groans, his tongue tracing along the seams, lapping at the thin residue that you’ve undoubtedly left behind. “Ahhh, yes. I think I would have rather had you sit on my face, but this will work, for now.” 

The threat in his voice makes you shiver and you rock forward as you lower, snagging the sharp edge of his pelvis against your clit. Tomura takes in another deep breath at the sensation, his hand still holding your saliva filled panties to his lips. Just a little bit more. Your fingers tweak and pull, rolling the way you need. The heavy sting of Tomura’s cock is helping too and your pussy greedily begins to tighten around him, earning you a sputtered groan from the man beneath you.

“D-do that again,” he sighs, shifting your panties down his face so he can watch you. Obediently, you flick at your clit again and that stimulation, plus the heady knowledge that Tomura is watching, memorizing every move you make, hurtles you over the edge and you can’t help but slump forward as your orgasm crashes over you. Tomura lets out a guttural moan, flinging your panties away and yanking you to his parted lips. His kiss is frantic, nonsensical, more bites and slurps than any kind of caress, but you fall into his arms, overwrought and too turned on to think. 

Once he’s had his fill of your lips, he resumes that steady pounding, his powerful hips canting into you, peppering you with jagged thrusts that leave you gasping. 

“What’s the matter?” he taunts, his voice a wild rasp in your ear. “Can’t take anymore? Am I too much for you?” 

You don’t trust yourself to reply, already seconds away from another shuddering release. All it takes is the feeling of him swelling and the heat of his cum to reduce you to a gasping mess again. This time, a thin line of drool escapes your lips. Delighted, Tomura snags his hand in your hair, tugging until you’re hovering over him. Gluttonously, he laps at your lips, sucking until you’re not sure who’s making the bigger slob of themselves. 

When he’s finished, he rolls you off of him, splaying you out on the bed. As the world falls back into focus, you catch sight of him, leering over you, his white hair cascading around the two of you. 

“I don’t think I’m done yet,” he grins, one hand cupping under your jaw. “Besides, you could have given me this weeks ago. I think you owe me a few back payments. Don’t cha’ think?”

notes: ahaha. this is basically a full fledged fic. whoops. 

did i have anyone wondering if i was gonna pick Tomura or Dabi?                                        

[hargrove-mayfields]

Day one of the Horror on Cherry Lane Challenge! I’ll be participating this month as a writer! The prompt for today is Knife!

warnings for mentions of suicidal ideation and attempts, death, child abuse, and blood.

Billy met Steve in the psych ward.

Well, they met officially at Tina’s party, but that wasn’t the real Steve. That was the King Steve. Deeper than that though, even the Steve Harrington everyone else saw even after the breakup and the fall from grace still wasn’t the real thing.

That was fake smiles, overdone nonchalance to cover up the wound from his fallen status. Now he was stripped down to himself, all bloody bandages and tired eyes, the boy he was pretending to be finally broken down to reveal this.

Apparently, Ruthie Harrington found her son with his grandfather's switchblade- all the other objects in the house sharper than a spoon and with less sentimental value had already been tossed -bleeding all over her freshly polished linoleum floors. She dropped him off at the hospital a night ago and nobody’s been by to see him since.

Now, it’s by pure coincidence that Billy’s already in on the same day Steve’s admitted.

He’s been locked up the past three days compared to Steve’s one. These small town hicks are jumpier (ha) than he thought, and don’t think doing the walk and turn test on the edge of the quarry after downing a bottle and a half of fireball is as funny as he does. Whatever. Cid would’ve thought that was badass as hell.

So he was admitted, on suicide watch for a stupid joke that wasn’t really worth it, or even really a joke. Max came to visit once. She punched him in the chest as hard as she could and cursed him out for an hour. She’d never done that before. By the time she left they were both in tears, and maybe Billy realized a thing or too about his carelessness. Realized for the first time that someone cared.

But he’s still in here for another week and a half by law, so. He’s not going to mope about it. And while Steve Harrington showing up is about the last thing he’s expecting, he decides that’s at least something he can work with. Definitely brings a little life to the place.

He waits until Steve’s intense watch period is over to bug him, once they’re out of their cramped little rooms for a couple of hours to “socialize” (see, the more sound of mind keep an eye on the other patients while the nurses take their smoke breaks) Billy goes straight to Steve. Him and Harrington are far from friends, but that’s pretty much irrelevant when the only other choices for company are kids younger than them too scared to approach them and people too deep in their midlife crises to bother with teenage drama.

Throwing himself down in the blue plastic chair across from where Steve settled in, Billy kicks his feet up on the table,, “What’s up Harrington? Didn’t expect to see a familiar face in here.”

But Steve, poor Steve, takes one look at Billy with those haunted brown eyes, and his face just falls completely apart. There are tears on his way too pale cheeks before Billy even has a chance to breathe.

The smile drops off of Billy’s face, “Jesus Harrington, I know m’not looking my best surviving on hospital food and cigarettes without a hairbrush, but that’s a little unwarranted.”

“Shut up. Not everything’s about you, Hargrove.”

“Oh I disagree with that. But I get the point. I’ll let ya be.” Billy hums, scooting his chair back and getting up. He stops when Steve starts to speak, “Y-You outta be careful saying that kinda stuff in here.”

“What?”

“That the world revolves around you. They’ll come up with a diagnosis for that and keep you here forever. Drug you ‘til you forget your own name, let alone your status.” Steve tells him with humor, wiping the tears off his face.

Billy nods in understanding, sits back down with an interested smirk, “This ain’t your first time here, is it?”

“Is it yours?”

“Nah. I’ve done some shit on purpose, some on accident. Once it wasn’t even me. But s’never done anything to help so far.”

Steve puffs out a sigh, “Don’t I know it.. I’ve been in and outta this place since I was like, ten. Clearly nothing’s changed.”

“Why? What’s your dirty little secret, Harrington?”

“I cut myself, dumbass.” He deadpans, looking at Billy with a bluntness in his expression that reads more concerning, more like indifference to what he just said than matter-of-fact.

“No shit. But that ain’t the secret.” Billy probes further, can tell he’s getting under that mask Steve wears, “Why do you do it?”

“Legally, I can't tell you. And I don’t think I would anyways.”

“What about if I tell you all about me first? I got no reservations ‘cept the one that got me a bed here.”

“It’s not a hotel, Hargrove.”

“Eh, might as well be. Feels like the damn hotel California.”

“Is that why?”

“Huh? Oh no, I been pullin’ stunts like this long before we left Cali.”

“Like what?”

“Like downing two full bottles of my mother’s meds after she left. Not at the same time obviously, or I wouldn’t be here. Mostly ‘cause my dad didn’t even wanna take me to the hospital either time.” Billy doesn’t look at Steve while he elaborates. Not because he cares, he’s an open book, if a random old woman at the grocery store asked about his last attempt, he’d tell her.

But. He doesn’t like watching people’s faces. Seeing sympathy and concern there. It makes him feel all stupid and guilty. It’s usually not like that with other kids like him, but Steve’s different. He’s got a big heart. Even if there’s no room for himself.

And Billy hurt Steve before. He doesn’t want to see someone he caused pain caring so much about him. He already cracked when Max came to see him. This could be what splits him open, spills out all the things he’s covered up.

So he keeps going, “And like runnin’ out in front of traffic with my friends. They thought we were just playin’ chicken ‘til I stopped dead in front of a station wagon. Metal rims’d done me in for sure if one ‘a the older boys hadn’t pulled me outta the way. Damn near ripped my shirt in half how fast he grabbed me.”

“I’m guessing your parents are the reason why then?”

“Yessir.” Billy deflects, not good at getting deeper into it, “You wanna tell me yours then?”

“I started cutting because Tommy Hagan told me about it. He thought it was freaky, but when he ran his mouth about how they found the neighbor kid in his room, drained of all his blood from his wrists, I wanted to try it. I’ve tried liquor and drugs and all kinds ‘a shit I shouldn’t, but nothin’ stuck like cutting.” Steve pauses for a long time, his eyes going blank, staring right past Billy, “When my mom found out she.. she.. Forget it.”

“Hey, you seen my skeletons. Can’t I see yours?”

“No. I don’t wanna fucking talk about it anymore.” Steve answers, despite his assuredness, his tone wobbling with some unidentifiable emotion.

Talk about mood swings. Billy doesn’t get how nobody would’ve noticed something was up before Steve started carving into himself. Really, he knows someone would have seen it and just ignored it.

It only gets worse though, the reservedness turning to sadness and frustration. None of the words are coming out, but he can tell Steve’s thinking of the stories, reliving all that got him to the here and now. Billy can also tell there’s nothing he can do no to stop him from doomsdaying.

So when Steve is inevitably in the thralls of a panic attack, he tries to hug him tight, to try to get it to stop maybe, that always worked for him at least, but Steve swats him away. Judging from the way he winces, it’s not easy for him to do either, with those thick ass bandages constricting his wrists, but the tears and the pain on his face are buried behind his resolution.

He’s hiding something from Billy.

In hindsight, talking to a new patient about past attempts probably wasn’t his brightest idea anyways, so he switches the subject while Steve works on coming down from his panic attack. He brings up Max and her little nerds, trying to bridge the healthier connections between him and Steve that they’d both been ignoring since the fight. He mentions basketball too, another something they have in common other than trying to kill themselves.

It doesn’t really work, though Steve does stop shaking as bad, just curling up in his little chair and sniffling, pretending not to listen while Billy rambles on and on. But he doesn’t talk. It’s probably better for him not to anyway. Billy himself has been known to say some dumb shit when he’s in distress.

Ultimately, even once the conversation runs out, he stays with Steve until dark. He can tell from the way his gaze sticks to the floor that Steve recovered from his fit a while ago, but he’s embarrassed by having a breakdown in front of him, as if he isn’t in here for the same reason. It helps that he gets it though, and they sit in a comfortable, albeit very prolonged, silence.

Long after Steve gets xanned up and knocked out though, while Billy is still free to wander until the midnight curfew as a low risk patient, he decides to stick with him in his room. Billy’ll never admit it, but he gets nightmares, and he doesn’t want to face that just yet, so with a new friend as an excuse, he’s up half the night watching Steve sleep.

He remembers what happened earlier, how focused Steve was on keeping him away from him, despite his panic, and decides, with a glance at how deeply Steve is sleeping, his greasy hair all strewn about on stiff pillows, that he’s going to figure out what it was.

He snoops around in his bedside drawers, in the bathroom, in the locker in the corner. It’s there he notices the knitted jacket Steve was wearing before, hanging heavy to one side, like there’s something in its pocket. He touches it and feels the outline of something small, so he pulls it out.

He regrets checking though, because it’s a knife. Judging from the old looking engravings on its handle, and the coppery stains within the grooves, it’s specifically the very same one that got Steve hospitalized.

He shoves it in his own back pocket and keeps looking, with a quick glance at Steve, finding a note tucked where the knife had been. Written in perfect scrawl on bond paper that’s been folded a dozen times and stained with tears,

“Do it right next time, why don’t you? Your mother is too soft on you. I’m not paying for this again.

- J.Harrington.”

Billy doesn’t know what to do but throw the note in the trash. Not really in shock, but definitely more than a little fucked up from reading that, he sits on the end of Steve’s bed. His own dad, who'd more than once been the one putting him in the hospital, had never even said anything like that to him.

He didn’t get to talk to Steve much today, but they’ve got as long as Billy’s stuck in here together to fix that. Longer if he just pulls something in front of a nurse. And he wants to, really really wants to.

Because he knows he just met the real Steve, can recognize another broken boy when he sees one, and he knows too, that he never wants to meet a pretty boy like this again.

And if that’s his declaration to get clean, then so fucking be it.

But. He never promised not to hurt anyone. Ultimately he’d still need that outlet.

He keeps the knife. To make sure his pretty boy doesn’t get hurt again.

[peachysamu]

Warning: suggestive content; mention of alcohol

A/N: Happy birthday to my second haikyuu obsession

You hum to the background music playing on the speakers. It’s dialed down from the previous bass thumping it’d been playing all night. The wee hours of one in the morning, alcohol consumption, and the amount of social interaction you’ve done today has you feeling groggy, but with just one look at the reddish glow on your boyfriend’s cheeks and his cheesy little grin he probably has no idea he’s making has you know that this was all worth it.

“Did you have fun?” You ask him as you pick up all the plastic cups littering your coffee table.

“Hm?” Eyebrows pique up. You must have caught him lost in thought with the way his cheeks redden even further but he picks up his facade with a quick grunt of his throat and busies himself by taking down the tacky decoration you put up earlier. “Yeah. Makki was laughing a bit too loud sometimes, don’t you think? I was scared we’d get a noise complaint.”

A smile tugs at your lips. You were laughing just as loud as him. You think, but you decide to take it easy on him and keep the thought to yourself. It is his birthday after all.

You hum in agreement. After throwing your collection of trash away, you stand beside your boyfriend who’s atop your tallest stool and reach your hands out. He first drops you the ‘H’ and then the ‘A’ and then the ‘P’ and he continues further through the letters that celebrate his birthday. You can’t help but admire the piece of work that the world has blessed you with. The definition in your boyfriend’s arms are mesmerizing with the chords pulsating at every single movement. You don’t even notice how your mouth has started to water at your ogling.

“Close your mouth,” Hajime says in a direct, deadpan tone. “You’re drooling.”

Teeth clink together at how quickly you hinge your jaw, but when your boyfriend hands you the letter ‘D’ from birthday, you can’t help but open it back up real quick.

“But Haji!” You whine and lift up the letter he’s just given you to make a point. “You’re just so handsome! I want the real ‘D’!”

Your boyfriend flusters immediately that he almost loses his footing on the stool. You grab at his butt to steady him but it only embarrasses him even more. He wobbles between his two feet until he’s finally found his balance and when he does, he immediately gives you a hard glare. You beam back up innocently.

“I thought you promised you wouldn’t make my life hard today.” He says as he climbs off the stool to face you.

You pick up your phone and flash him the home screen. It reads back 1am June 11. “Not your birthday anymore!” You sing it out to annoy him. It works, but he’s also merciless with his stare.

“Okay, okay,” you finally say with a roll of the eyes. You hand him back the letter that almost jump started his heart and turn to clean again. “We can get this mess all cleaned up and then maybe—“

Turning, and a wink for added affect, “You can give me that ‘D’ later.”

[thirstyforcharacters]

When the Universe Collides (Sam Wilson x Reader)

Summary: Every person has a soulmate. When your soulmate experiences pain, so do you, and any bruises, scars, or other markings that they get appear on your skin. Or, the story of how smacking yourself in the face with a cabinet was the best thing to ever happen to you.

Notes: Hi! Since the first episode of Falcon and the Winter Soldier comes out today, I wanted to write something for Sam! He’s super underrated and deserves more love! Also, this soulmate AU is extremely self-indulgent and has absolutely nothing to do with the TV show, but tbh I don’t care. Hope you all enjoy it too! (no y/n, no pronouns) (PS: any italicized text is Sam texting and the italicized and bold text is the reader texting!)

Warnings: mentions of a stab wound (nothing explicit), cursing I guess 

WC: 2.2 k

Your soulmate must have one hell of a job.

Almost every day, you woke up with dark bruises covering your body. It seemed that whenever one faded, another took its place. At completely random times, you would double over in aches that you certainly didn’t inflict upon yourself. One time, in the middle of the night, you woke up with pain in your stomach so intense, it felt like someone had stabbed you! It turned out that it was a stab wound, but given that no one had stabbed you lately (or ever), you figured it was from your soulmate. You definitely didn’t appreciate that hospital bill.

But you still desperately wanted to meet them. Meet that person that completed you: your other half. As a teenager, you made your parents tell you the story of the day they finally met so many times, you knew it by memory. They were both in the library at college, and your mom dropped a psychology textbook on her foot! Her howl of pain was only matched by the “SON OF A BITCH” that came from your dad on the opposite side of the library. When the two of them made eye contact, they instantly knew they were the ones for each other (they were also immediately kicked out for making such a ruckus). You wanted to have that moment so badly; meeting your soulmate was a huge milestone in every person’s life, and you needed it.

Your best friend and roommate, Brianna, had met hers just two months ago. They had met at the beach, when out of nowhere, Bri had shrieked in shock and pain.

“A crab just pinched me!”

When you had looked at her foot and told her nothing was there, she was totally confused, until you saw a handsome guy with a crab hanging from his foot! He had introduced himself as Julian, and the two had been inseparable since. He was living with you now, and you had honestly never felt more lonely in your life. Sure, you had your dream career; you ran a music shop in New York City, selling instruments, making repairs, and meeting all sorts of interesting people. You had a decent apartment, a chill best friend, and the cutest Yorkie, named Muffin, on the planet. By all accounts, you had it pretty good. You were just missing your other half.

It was a rainy day in NYC. The chill of winter was still clinging onto the March air, and you shivered as you trudged from your apartment to your shop. Even though you had an umbrella to protect you from the rain, the wind blew right through the too-thin jacket you yanked off of the coatrack in a rush. Still holding your half-eaten toaster strudel in your hand, you pushed open the doors to Major Instruments and Minor Repairs, your pride and joy.

It was two floors: the first was where you sold instruments, and the repair shop was above. Acoustic panels were attached to the burnt red walls to help quiet down the place, since the hardwood floors didn’t do much to help with that. The checkout desk was directly in the center in the room. Surrounding it were reeds, bottles of valve oil, and guitar strings. Picks were placed in two clear, plastic bowls on the desk itself. In the front left corner of the room was a grand piano, situated right in the window so passersby could see whenever someone plucked its keys. The entire back wall was covered in guitars and basses. To the right of the desk was a large drumset, accompanied by a pair of drumsticks and brushes. On the right wall were string instruments; string basses and cellos were leaned against the wall, while the violins, violas, and bows were displayed on it. Woodwind and brass instruments were scattered across the room in various display cases. Instrument stands, bow rosin, and miscellaneous instrument parts were on shelves throughout the room as well. The spiral staircase leading up to the repair shop was in the back left corner of the room. Behind the staircase was the door to the back store room, where you kept your extra supplies and also where you took your breaks.

“Good morning!” called Andrew, one of your closest friends from college, from behind the desk.

You waved in reply, wandering to the back store room. You were lucky you had Andrew; you could rely on him to run the front desk while you and Brianna assisted customers on the floor. Unfortunately, Bri had the flu today, so it would just be you on the floor, which would make things a little more hectic. You hurriedly finished your strudel, took off your jacket, which left you in a black and white flannel, a matching black tank top reading “Music is Life,” black leggings, and black combat boots (you had an aesthetic to uphold), and strode back out to the main area.

“You seem in a bit of a rush. Everything okay?” asked Andrew, who was currently restocking bell covers.

You sighed, “Just a whirlwind of a morning. Bri has the flu, Muffin nearly choked on a chicken bone, I almost burned my toaster strudel, and I smacked myself in the face with my cabinet door by accident.”

“Oh, that’s where the new bruise on your eye is from,” he mused.

You snorted, “Yeah, for once it’s not from my soulmate.”

“Maybe he’s a spy. Or a superhero!”

“Yeah, or a criminal,” you joined in on the restocking, grabbing some trumpet mutes since the place opened in just half an hour, “thanks for opening up, by the way.”

“It’s no problem,” he replied, “you know I don’t mind.”

The doorbell jingled and two of your instrument repair people, Sarah (for strings), and Natalie (for brass), entered. Natalie was lugging what was unmistakably a tuba case, while Sarah carried both of their instrument repair kits.

“Morning, ladies!” called Andrew.

“Good morning,” Sarah replied pleasantly.

Natalie huffed out a “morning” and dragged the tuba up the stairs.

“Her tuba’s broken. The tubing that holds up her mouthpiece completely snapped off. She’s going to try and repair it before her appointments today,” explained Sarah.

You winced, “That’s rough.”

Sarah dropped off both of their jackets and followed Natalie up the stairs leaving you alone with Andrew again. Soon after, Erik, your percussion guy, and John, the woodwind repairman, arrived, and it was time for the shop to open. For a while, it was just another mundane Thursday. Customers came and went. People tested the piano and drumsets, someone bought $100 worth of jazz scores, and a teenaged boy came in who somehow got a ping pong ball stuck in their trombone (you learned to never ask). But at exactly 1:47 pm, a time you would never forget, two very unexpected customers walked through the threshold of your store. You were up on a ladder, carrying a large, rather heavy, box of violin bows to situate on the wall, when you heard their voices.

“I’m telling you, Buck, I’m a wizard at the saxophone.”

“Sure, Sam. I’ll believe it when I hear it.”

“I’m serious, dude! I played all the time before I joined the military, and I picked it back up a little bit again after the whole Avengers thing. I just need to get a new one.”

“Hmm, okay. We’ll see.”

“Bastard.”

You whipped your head around and saw the Falcon and the Winter Soldier themselves in your shop. Having superheros in your place was a first. And who knew Sam Wilson played the saxophone?

Andrew offered them a cheerful greeting and directed them toward the saxophones, which happened to be near the ladder you were teetering on. Every time you leaned up to put a bow on display, it wobbled so badly you thought you were going to fall. You really needed to allocate some funds toward a new one.

As you continued to place bows on display, you heard the conversation of the two gentlemen browsing the saxophones. Apparently, Sam much preferred the tenor sax (which you happened to play, quite well you might add). Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him pick up a Selmer Paris model and inspect it. Those didn’t come cheap, but you were sure that saving the world gave a man a pretty decent paycheck.

“You think I can test it out?”

“I don’t know, dude. You should probably ask.”

You saw him nod, “Yeah, I guess so. And there’s not a reed in here, anyway. Excuse me!”

You realized he was calling you, so you craned your head to look at him. Both men were looking up at you, both with kind smiles on their faces.

“Is there any way I can get a cheap reed to test this out with,” Sam asked, “and are we even allowed to test them in store?”

You smiled back, “Yes, you can. We have test reeds at the front desk, just ask Andrew and he’ll give you one. That’s the only one you’ll get though.”

“Cool, thanks,” he replied while looking around, “nice place you’ve got here.”

Your smile grew a little wider, “Thank you! It took a little while to get it off of the ground, but I’m really proud of how it turned out.”

It was almost as if the universe wanted you to suffer. You stretched up to display yet another bow, and the ladder toppled to the ground, taking you with it! You shrieked in surprise and braced yourself for the impact with the floor.

But it never came.

Instead, you were caught in a pair of (ridiculously) muscular arms. When you looked into the arms of your hero, of course it was Sam himself. He was too handsome for his own good. The thing that stood out most to you were his deep brown eyes. And how, on the left one, was a bruise that exactly matched the one that you gave yourself this morning.

“Are you alright? That ladder must have it out for you,” joked Sam, though you could tell that he was concerned for you.

“I’m okay,” you squeaked, “thank you.”

“It’s no problem. All a part of the job.”

You nodded distractedly, still fixated on the bruise adorning his eye. He couldn’t be your soulmate, could he?

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he questioned.

“I-yes. I just got a bit, well, distracted.”

“By what?”

Well, it was now or never. You might as well just go for it.

“When did you get that bruise?”

He looked a bit surprised by the question, “The one on my eye?”

You nodded.

“This morning. It just popped up. Hurt a little bit, like something hit me in the face. Can’t be worse than what I’ve given my soulmate, though. I got stabbed in the stomach once and all I could think about was how confused and hurt they must’ve been,” came his reply.

It was him. It had to be! All of your random, serious injuries made so much more sense now.

“It did hurt,” you murmured back, “but not as much as the hospital bill.”

His face went from apologetic to elated faster than you had ever seen, “Wait, that means it’s you?”

“I think so,” you said, “I hit myself in the eye with a cabinet door this morning, and that-” you gestured to his face, “matches mine.”

“Oh, it does!” he exclaimed.

“Are you two done over there?” complained Bucky.

Thankfully, the Winter Solider had successfully rescued your box of bows.

Sam stood you up, and you could feel the embarrassment slowly creeping over you, “Yeah. Sorry about that, guys. Promise I’m not usually that clumsy.”

“Seems like you need a new ladder,” Bucky told you.

“You don’t say,” you sassed back, prompting a laugh from Sam.

Bucky then strode off to return the fallen box to Andrew. He gave Sam a knowing look as he passed by. He wasn’t very slick, though, you totally saw him.

“Listen, since apparently we’re soulmates and all, I’d love it if I got your number. I’ll take you somewhere nice to make up for all of the times I’ve gotten you hurt,” explained Sam.

You smiled bashfully, “That sounds nice.”

He handed you his phone and you input your digits. As Sam and Bucky were in the checkout line, your phone buzzed.

Hey, gorgeous. It’s your new man.

You giggled softly and looked up at him. He gave you an exaggerated wink and launched finger guns at you, making you laugh a bit harder. You entered his number into your phone and decided to send a text back.

Looking forward to you making up for all of those broken bones.

Me too.

You knew you’d be happy with him. Whenever the universe collided in this way, it always turned out for the best. If your parents and your roommate weren’t enough proof, soon you would discover it for yourself. You couldn’t wait for all of the memories you’d make together.

[haus-seeblick]

Suptober Day 1! “Harvest”

My first ficlet for Suptober! Read under the cut :)

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: Mature 

Word Count: 2,218

Tags: Fluff, Disaster Bi Dean Winchester, Daydreaming about hot farmers, Some suggestive language (and swearing), Angelic wheat harvest assistance, The Dom Brow makes an appearance, Sam Ships It, Mini Case Fic  

On AO3 here.

“All right,” Dean announces as he stomps into the hospital room, trailing mud with every step. “You’re not gonna have a problem anymore, Randy.”

The man propped up on the hospital bed cushions glares at Dean from under bushy eyebrows. “Well, it’s about time,” he snaps. “First these-- these things terrorize my fields for weeks, then y’all show up and are so useless that they maim me after you’re already on the case, and now I’ve lost the prime window to harvest a year’s worth o’ growth ‘cause I’m laid up in this godforsaken facility. So don’t you tell me I ain’t gonna have a problem anymore.” 

Dean sinks down onto the rickety plastic chair next to the bed, moving gingerly to avoid jostling his (probably) dislocated shoulder, courtesy of some extremely vengeful spirits. He fixes Randy with an even gaze. 

“Man, I’m sorry about your leg. I am. The spirits had a wider range than we thought and we figured you’d be safe at the house.”

Randy snorts in obvious derision, his scruffy mustache fluttering comically. Dean presses on.

“But, we’ve put them to rest. Your great-grandparents aren’t gonna give you any more grief.”  Even if the rest of your family did totally fuck them over.

He stands again, awkwardly, and pats Randy’s good knee. “Sorry about your harvest, though. Can anyone help out? Neighbors? Friends?”

Randy glowers. “I ain’t takin’ no charity.”

Dean quirks his lips and nods. “Right. Take it easy, Randy.” He leaves the still-grumbling farmer behind, following his own trail of mud back down the hallway. A tall janitor lurking around the corner sends him a death glare and Dean tries for an appropriately apologetic smile. 

It’s been a real headache of a night. 

The pair of spirits haunting Randy Johnson’s wheat fields ended up being way more pissed off than Sam, Dean, and Cas had anticipated. By the time Cas located the heavy brass key to the farmhouse that was apparently tethering the property-line-obsessed spirits to the material plane, Dean and Sam were long out of rock salt. In their retreat, they’d ended up waist-deep in a pebbly creek, splashing and wobbling as they beat off the screeching spirits with crowbars. Dean has an unfortunately-placed boulder to thank for his dislocated shoulder -- he went down hard and clumsy just as Cas reappeared next to the stream, the old key melting dramatically in the bright glow of his palm. 

The spirits burned away in a shower of sparks, along with Dean’s dignity.

To top it all off, Dean drew the short straw to go tell Randy the case was closed, and he may have stomped off in a sulky huff before thinking of asking Cas or Sam to put his shoulder right. 

Oh, well. At least it’s dealt with. One more night in their more-stained-than-usual motel room, and first thing in the morning they’ll get the hell outta Dodge (almost literally - they’re up in Osborne County). 

Dean thinks of a bright July morning on the open road and sighs in relief.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He doesn’t get his wish.

“I just feel bad, Dean!” Sam protests as Dean gesticulates incredulously at him. (His shoulder was very pleasantly healed by Cas the night before, and if Dean noticed that Cas’ warm hands lingered a little longer on his skin than was technically necessary for a cursory dislocation repair, he didn’t mention it.)

“God, Sammy, yeah, it sucks about the guy’s leg, but maybe if he wasn’t such an asshole to everyone he knows, somebody’d help him out! It’s not-- it can’t be our problem.”

Sam crosses his arms stubbornly. “It’s not about Randy. His fields are part of a huge supply that feeds a ton of people. Do you want people to go hungry, Dean?”

Castiel chooses that moment to materialize directly next to Dean, his nose inches away from Dean’s cheek. He’s holding two steaming cups of coffee and Dean immediately grabs one. Cas squints and tilts his head. “Why does Dean want people to go hungry?”

“Oh my god.” Dean throws his free hand up. “Fine. Fucking fine. We’ll find someone who’s willing to plow the dude’s fields. That’ll be easy.”

Sam opens his big mouth, probably to say something about having faith in humanity, but Cas beats him to it. Still planted firmly in Dean’s bubble, he sends a puff of warm air against Dean’s face as he speaks.

“Oh. I can do it.”

Dean and Sam both look at him. Dean shuffles back a couple steps and wills his eyes away from the guy’s lips. He really spends too much time staring at them.

“Um--” Sam clears his throat. “You can harvest Randy’s wheat?”

“I can plow, yes.” Cas nods firmly. Dean’s first sip of coffee comes spraying back out. He pounds his chest and wheezes. 

“Like-- like-- with a combine?” 

Cas furrows his brow. “Is that a machine? No, I don’t require machinery. This is a very basic task.”

“Plowing,” Dean says weakly.

“Harvesting,” Cas corrects, tilting his chin down and narrowing his eyes. “Humans have been doing it for a very long time. I used to help, now and again. I can’t imagine the process has changed much.”

Sam slaps his thighs as he stands up from his bed. “Well! Look at that, Dean. Cas doesn’t want people to go hungry.” 

Dean flips him off, but it lacks the usual heat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour later, they find themselves on the edge of a vast, lazily undulating expanse of gold. They’d skirted the north edge of the field extensively while working the spirit case, since the activity was strongest there along the creek, but in his single-minded focus Dean hadn’t really paid much attention to the field itself.

It’s big. Like, squint-into-the-distance-and-you-can’t-see-the-end big. 

“You’re really gonna plow all that?” Dean asks, glancing at Cas. The morning sun is turning the tips of Cas’ hair a chestnut gold. 

“I will cut down the stalks, separate the grain from the chaff, and deposit the edible grain into a large truck, which apparently takes it where it needs to go,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “I visited Randy early this morning to make sure I knew which truck it was.”

Sam laughs. “Oh yeah? How’d good old Randy take that?”

“He seemed dubious,” Cas says. “And rude. I assured him that despite his unsavory attitude, he would come home to harvested fields.”

“Very angelic of you,” Sam remarks. 

“So how’s this gonna go?” Dean lifts a hand to block out the steadily-rising sun. “You gonna be flapping back and forth? Probably not smart to let the locals clock an angel doing the harvest.”

Cas arches an eyebrow at him, somehow gazing down at Dean despite being an inch shorter. “I don’t flap, Dean. I may have wings, but their movement in the ether is beyond your comprehension.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his face away in a show of studying the field to the north, but mostly to conceal the flush of his cheeks in response to that eyebrow. 

For Christ's sake, keep it together, Winchester.

“I can’t explain to you how it will look,” Cas continues, oblivious. “You’ll just have to watch. Anything you see will be for your eyes only. I guarantee no locals will ‘clock me.’”

Dean looks back just in time to see the tail end of the finger quotes. Cas is staring right at him, that damn eyebrow still up, a subtle challenge, daring Dean to make a move.

Maybe not so oblivious. Asshole. 

Dean smiles sweetly and gestures at the wheat. “All right then. Have at it, buddy. Show us what you’ve got.”

With no further ado, Cas is gone. Dean’s left staring through the previously-Cas-occupied space at his brother, who’s grimacing with an air of great suffering. 

“What?” Dean demands. 

Sam sighs heavily and gazes out over the field. “You two are so weird.”

Dean’s about to respond with something really witty when Sam perks up and points into the distance. “Holy crap, look!”

Dean follows the path of Sam’s outstretched finger and his mouth drops open. On the horizon, at the far end of the field, there’s a cloud. No-- a mini tornado. A golden tornado. A… sparkly tornado?

“What the--” Dean cups his hands around his eyes like blinkers. Even with the glare of the sun blocked out, though, the tornado is just as bright -- a swirling, racing funnel criss-crossing the field way faster than a combine, or even Baby, could drive. 

“Why is it-- what’s the sparkly stuff?” 

Sam’s squinting too. “I think it’s the pieces of the stalks he’s separating? And they catch the light as they get tossed around.” 

The tornado’s already halfway across the field, approaching them steadily. It’s about as tall as an oak tree, and as it gets closer Dean sees that Sam was right: thousands of little stalks and bits of grain and -- what had Cas called it? -- chaff are whirling and flitting amid the twisting golden dust of the tornado. The effect is a bit dizzying, kind of like that ocular migraine Dean had one time as a teenager, when an aura of tiny flashing spots obscured his vision, right there in his eye yet impossible to focus on. 

He steps back instinctively, Sam mirroring his movement, when the tornado grows close to them. It whips past, blowing Dean’s jacket open, and where there was once chest-high golden grain, there’s now just dirt littered with aborted stalks. 

“Damn,” Dean whispers. He’s seen Cas do all kinds of badass things, of course, but they’ve been more of the smiting and heavy-lifting variety. This is a new level of cool. In a farmer-y way. This, of course, leads Dean’s traitorous brain directly to images of worn flannel stretched tight over biceps; of a blade of hay dangling jauntily from chapped lips; of long, strong fingers gripping a pitchfork--

“--Dean!” 

The pleasantly-evolving bubble bursts. Dean twitches as Sam elbows him in the ribs.

“Dude! Cas is done, come on.”

Dean blinks a few times to bring himself back to reality (a reality with wheat-harvesting angel tornados) and realizes that Sam’s heading north along the field to where a normal-sized, non-funnel-cloudy Cas is standing, brushing off his trenchcoat. Dean follows his brother and takes in the scene; the whole field really has been reduced to nothing -- just a flat, dappled expanse.

“Damn, Cas,” he says quietly as he reaches Cas’ side. His voice comes out strained and a little breathless. “That was some good plowing.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Can replies gravely. He tugs on his cuffs and some wheat dust puffs out. “It was an effective harvest. I disguised myself from mortal eyes -- including yours -- as I transported the grain to the truck, but I trust you saw the rest?”

Sam nods enthusiastically and launches straight into a barrage of questions about the physics and techniques and yadda yadda before Dean has to come up with a response. Yeah, I saw it. Yeah, it got me all tingly. That’s normal. He takes a few deliberate, slow breaths to calm the pounding in his chest.

Still tuning Sam out, he zeroes in on a single piece of wheat still stuck in Cas’ hair. It’s poking up toward the blue summer Kansas sky -- a tiny, trembling link between earth and heaven. Dean sidles up to Cas before he can overthink it. He slips his fingers into Cas’ wild, dark hair and plucks the wheat out. 

He throws it on the ground. It belongs to the earth. 

Sam falls silent with a choked-off laugh and Cas turns his trademark unblinking stare onto Dean. But this time there’s a slight crinkle to the edges of his eyes. A quirk of his lips. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says again. He reaches out and -- Dean stops breathing -- brushes another piece of wheat out of Dean’s collar. His warm fingers graze Dean’s throat and all Dean can do is watch the little stalk flutter to the ground. 

Well. So much for a steady heartbeat. 

“Hey, I’ve got stuff in my hair, too,” Sam announces, voice thick with amusement. “Anyone gonna help me out?”

Dean tears his eyes away from the enlightening piece of wheat and points a finger at Sam, leveling him with his sternest shut the fuck up face. He prays his cheeks aren’t flaming. 

“If you need assistance, Sam--” Cas says, starting toward him.

“--He’s fine,” Dean interjects hastily. Maybe a little loudly. He coughs to cover it up. Smooth. “Let’s go. I wanna hit the road.”

Sam’s already jogging away before Dean’s done speaking. “I’ve still got the keys,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll warm up the car. You guys can catch up!”

Cas and Dean are left at the edge of the empty field. Dean rubs his neck and shuffles his feet, acutely aware of Cas’ piercing gaze. It’s nearly warmer than the morning sun. “Uh-- that was really cool, Cas. Thanks for letting us see it.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas replies, measured and deep. “I enjoyed sharing that with you.”

Wow. All right. Dean needs to get moving or he’s going to explode. But not before filing that particular comment away for extensive mental perusal later, in the privacy of his bedroom. 

He flashes a grin and punches Cas’ shoulder. “Come on, farmer angel. Let’s go home.”

[angelisverba]

come out, come out wherever you are

in which y/n agrees to do something really stupid, and harry is a bit of a shit

word count: 5k

pairing: vampire!h and y/n (different au from my other vamp!h fics, though)

warnings: drug use, mentions of drinking and alcohol, mentions of blood (duh, he’s a vampire). 

author’s note: okay so i know that i put vampire!h in the pairing, but this h is a wierd succubus x demon x vampire mix where he can feed off the emotions he wants to?? i’ll explain it in the story. enjoy your reading :)

She shouldn’t have agreed to play hide and seek in a cornfield.

At night.

During a full moon. 

On Halloween.

Y/n’s logic always disappeared when she was… under the influence. Whether that be with alcohol or other sorts of… fun substances. That was not to say that she was an alcoholic, or a drug addict, she just… hated to be a party popper. When her roommate invited her to college parties, she didn’t say no to the red solo cup because she knew that some way or another, she would end up giving in by the end of the night. Or when it was just her and her closest friends passing around  a freshly rolled joint, she didn’t say no because she didn’t want to be the odd one out.

Plus, it didn’t hurt that she enjoyed it… most of the time. 

This? This was not one of those times.

*    *    *    *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Josephine, her roommate, had barged into her room with a smile over her lips as the brightness of her phone lit up her face from the bottom up, casting spooky shadows since y/n’s room was dark and she was falling asleep. 

“Y/n, look!” She said, turning the phone so beams that felt like they came from hell illuminated y/n’s pinched face, marks from her pillow decorating the place above her lip. She mumbled something, and Josephine kept speaking, “Travis just sent me an invitation to one of the frat’s Halloween parties! Come with me, it’s gonna be so much fun!”

And to get her to leave her room, she agreed. She must have, because the next morning as she was getting ready for her 10 a.m. literature class, she was bombarded with a series of costume ideas and questions about what was considered cheesy or overdone. Josephine had made it clear that it was okay that they didn’t match, especially because of their differences in clothing choices. Jo was more risqué, and y/n liked to dress in what she felt comfortable in. 

It didn’t take her a long time to figure out what she was going to go as for Halloween. That same morning, just before she walked into class, y/n stopped to stare at a framed art print in the hallway. 

La Belle Dame sans Merci by John Keats was a poem that she knew by heart, and the painting was one that she could get lost in for hours. Stopping to stare at it before walking into class was not an unusual occurrence for her, but that time an idea came to her, almost like it was written in the long locks of her red hair. 

Y/n would go as a Victorian princess. The dresses had always fascinated her, with the intricate lace details and elegant rippled of muslin fabric that flounced in a puff around the hips of Countess, or trailed behind the average cottage girl as she frolicked in fields full of daisies. She could picture it in her mind, and it made her giddy to know that there was a possibility she could look as pretty as one of the poet’s muses. She spent the entirety of the class switching from writing notes to browsing the five pages worth of gowns on Amazon, looking for something pretty yet within her price range. 

By the end of the period she’d had what she wanted in her cart. A baby-blue wisp of a dress with intricate lace detailing at the neckline that curved like the top-hald of a heart to cup her breasts. The sleeves bunched around her arms mid-bicep, and scrunched again around her wrists, the transparent fabric looking as if her arms were wrapped in the sky. Built in ribbing created a corset that added an extra curve to her waist to make way for the heaps of fabric that exploded from her hips and cascaded down to the floor like the foaming spray of a waterfall. 

It fit like a dream. When it arrived a few days before the party she dropped everything she was doing to try it on. The moment Josephine patted her shoulder to tell her that she was finished zipping up the back, y/n twirled around in the limited space of their dorm room to see herself in the narrow mirror at the end of her bed. 

Every penny she had spent on it was worth it. Sure, it was snug around the bust and refrained her lungs from expanding the extra millimeter they needed, but it made her feel… nice. Pretty. She liked the way it cinched her waist, how her wrists looked dainty covered in the lacy ends of the sleeves, and the way her breasts looked… accentuated by the frilly detail. 

Jo had squealed once she had a full look at her friend, and wouldn’t stop talking about how good they were going to look walking in together. She was going as Cat-Woman, complete with the latex suit, boots, mask, and all. She looked every bit as fantastic as y/n, only on opposite ends of the Halloween costume spectrum. 

Building up to the day of the party, the pair talked make-up and hair details, both of which Josephine would be taking care of because she was better at them. At one point, y/n thinks she even dreamt about making a grand-entrance, boys and girls gawking at how amazing she looked, and the most handsome guy stepping forth to profess his undying love for her. 

Which wasn't really how it went the night of, but she attained the same satisfaction. 

The party was located a little ways away from the city, at a plantation-style frat house in-front of a huge cornfield. Carved pumpkins with candles illuminating them from the inside out lined the pathway up to the front-doors, the trees nearby created crunchy pathways of orange and yellow leaves, and the moon was out; yawning tiredly, but glowing an eerie yellow color over the scene. 

It looked like the opening scene of a horror film. 

Y/n did receive a lot of stares, though. Most of them were from guys whose beady little eyes pointed straight to her chest, and the ones she got from girls were on the nastier side of envy. She could tell. But, oddly enough, she liked the attention. 

Josephine y/n’s hand and led her through the mass of costumed-bodies. There was a variety of ‘sexy’ professions (the usual: nurses, cops, cowgirls, and school girls) and those that come from fandoms (Hogwarts’s students, Eleven from Stranger Things, Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction, multiple heroes from the Avengers) or those that came for shits and giggles (T-rex blow-up costumes with tiny hands, Joe Exotic, sumo-wrestlers, those things that sway outside car-dealerships, and even a Trojan condom packet). There was a lot to see, and honestly, it was beginning to overwhelm y/n.

Not only was it slightly disorienting to see everyone disguised, the interior itself was something to look at. Chandeliers and velvet sofas, gold lamps and fancy carpets and curtains. The epitome of privilege. She felt trampled, every once a while there was a tug on the ends of her dress. 

“How about a shot to start off the night, y/n?” Josephine asked her, hooking a latex coated arm around hers. The music was a rumble on the backs of their heads, shaking them through and through as some nameless rapper sang of drugs, sex, and money. What it always came down to. 

She agreed, and took the plastic shot cup. On normal nights, she would’ve usually required some type of coaxing, but not then. Y/n was almost looking for the hangover the next morning. She wanted fun. 

Three shots later and her fingers were dragging in front of her face. Her knees were wobbly and cheeks tinged with spirits. Everything was funny and if you asked her what two plus two was she’d tell you five. There was a new swagger in her step, and some might say that was the influenced hand-eye coordination, but to her it was newfound confidence. She felt good, she looked good, and she was having a damn good time. Laughing, making the best conversation she’d ever made, and when Jo suggested they go dance, she danced the best she’d ever had.

And sure, she was drunk out of her mind. A light weight. Everything was under a glamourized rose filter. It only made sense that the crowd parted like the Red Sea at God’s feet. 

Y/n’s lungs stopped working the moment her eyes locked with his. 

He was her counterpart. Literally. 

Dressed in a navy blue Victorian prince’s suit decked in gold trim and gold medals pinned to the breast. The tan pants that hugged his muscular thighs like they were made just for him, and his hair was slicked back. Jaw a sharp, smug line that worked as he popped a piece of pink bubblegum between his molars. A gleam of appreciation sparking in the forest of his eyes as they raked a path on her figure.  

It was like the work around them stopped, put on pause by some higher power so they could relish the moment of their discovery. What was that shit called? Divine Intervention? The millisecond before and after and between the time Eve’s teeth sunk into the taught skin of that forbidden red apple, and the snake’s tongue slithered out to see her. He was a stranger to y/n, but it seemed as if the feeling he stirred deep in the core of her being was one she’d always known, one from a past life. Besides her, Jo stopped doing whatever lucrative dance she was doing to see what had caught her friend’s attention. Y/n stood, tongue dry, feet glued to the ground as the handsome stranger approached her, a clear path in front of him. 

Then, he takes one step  forward and whatever conversation he had been involved with before was no longer of importance. Besides her, Jo stopped doing whatever lucrative dance she was doing to see what had caught her friend’s attention. Y/n stood, tongue dry, feet glued to the ground as the handsome stranger approached her, a clear path in front of him. 

“Oh,” Jo huffed in her ear, “he’s hot.”

“I-Is he?...” Y/n’s question died on her tongue.

“Coming right for you, girl. Good luck,” Jo pressed a kiss to her cheek and disappeared in the crowd. 

The stranger stops closer than she would have thought him to; a finger away from her nose, and when he spoke, she could feel the vibrations of his speech through her breasts where they nearly grazed his chest. 

“I don’t believe we’ve ever met before... princess?” His voice is deep, raspy and filled with grooves like the bark on a tree. He mocks a bow (given their costumes) and their nose touch before he straightens again. Up close, y/n can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, and she hopes her mouth doesn’t stink (it probably does, given the alcohol she’d had). A chilled palm grips her bicep, and the fabric of her sleeve sinks under his touch, “Would you like to get off this shitty dance floor and speak somewhere else?” He asks her. 

Her heart is pounding and she wonders if he can hear it because she certainly can, rushing in a taunting, roaring stream past her eardrums. Y/n nodded her agreement; yes, she did want to speak with him. A thrum of warmth comes from where he holds her, and he tugs her so that she’s standing in front of him, her back touching his chest as he pushes her through the crowd. 

Her fingers shake as she lifts the fabric of her dress to avoid tripping, and her saliva goes thick. Not because of what might happen, but because the man who ripped her bicep tenderly, like she was made of the most fragile china, was the most good-looking man she had ever seen. Her mind ran images of things to compare him to, and almost all of them were of the Greek statues put up in museums for all to admire. 

He leads her past the crowd and the kitchen where everyone was making drinks, past the wrap around stairs on the inside of the house, and even past the calmer sitting areas where couples were making out or groups of friends passed a smoking joint. He leads her right through the open back doors of the house so they faced the seemingly endless cornfield and the barn that was a speck behind it. The deck was less populated than the couches where kids smoked weed, but y/n guessed that it wasn’t to his liking because instead of turning off to the side so they could have a much less strained… conversation, he continued to walk- this time standing beside her instead of behind her. 

Grass crunched under their feet as they got closer to the stalks of corn. Confused, y/n spared a glance to what she was leaving, and then to him. He stared straight ahead, but she caught his eyes flickering in her direction, and a smirk quirking cockily on his lips before they returned to the yawning face of the moon. 

There was a short wooden fence separating the house from the cornfield that reached her hip, and he stopped there. 

“Finally,” he sighed, “Some peace and quiet.” He makes a gesture to the fence, and pops his gum. 

Dizzied, the tequila still in her head, she watches his tongue gather the gum back into his mouth, his lips shining with his own spit. Y/n doesn’t register that the movement towards the fence was his way of telling her to take a seat on the wooden bars. 

“C’mere,” he murmured. Placing his hands on her waist, he lifted her up so she could sit on the wooden fence, and her hands went to his wrists instinctively, trying to keep herself steady. 

Suddenly out of breath, her eyes shot straight up to his. There’s no way he can’t hear my heart right now, she thinks. He’s so close to her, his breath on her face. He smelled like pink bubblegum, cologne, and a liquor much more sophisticated than what she had to drink. His eyes held the same spell that she felt she was under. 

“What’s your name?” He asked, his hands still on her waist. He didn’t look like he was in a rush to step away from her, and that was okay because she didn’t want him to. 

“Y/n,” she whispered. It was physically impossible to raise her voice any louder. The stupid corset was making it harder for her to breathe, along with the added pressure of being in his presence. “You?”

“Prince Harry, at your service,” he smiled then, and y/n got a glimpse of shockingly sharp canines. They had to be fake. Longer than most in length, and she swore she saw one of those cartoonish-diamond glitter at the knife-like tips of his teeth. 

She pointed to his mouth and said, “Are you a vampire prince?”

He looked at her strangely, his brows furrowing and his tongue running along the inside of his cheeks. Then, he laughed. “Something like that.” 

“I-” She was gonna say something along the lines of ‘I think you’re a very good looking vampire prince’ until he cut her off.

“How about we play a game?” One of his hands lifted from her waist, and she let go to steady herself by grabbing onto the plant. Y/n hoped that her dress wasn’t getting dirty, but the moment that Harry brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear it flew out the window. 

Her eyes fluttered closed, and she leaned into his touch like a purring kitten. She blamed her blatant carelessness on the alcohol. “A game?”

“Yes, y/n. A game,” he muttered, watching the way her eyes twitched under her eyelids. 

“Which game?” Her eyes fluttered open again, and her breasts pushed against the corset as she took a deep breath, “I thought you wanted to talk?”

“Oh,”he glanced down, to her lips and for half a second, to the repressed mounds of her tits,  “I promise the conversation is going to be much more interesting after a game of hide and seek.” 

“Where would we even play t-that?”

“Right,” he pinched her chin with two fingers so that her lips smushed together, and gently tilted her head towards the field of corn. “There.” 

That’s how she found herself, running for her life in the middle of a corn maze, at night, on Halloween. 

What had started off as her giggling and running had soon into a panting, scared-shit-less run for no reason. Maybe it was because she just couldn’t get Harry off of her tail, or maybe it was that she was running with no direction into a cornfield she was sure was lost in. Maybe it was a combination of all those things. 

Harry yelled, “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” and it only made her want to cry. 

It was strange, really. Y/n didn’t know where this fear was coming from, it started out with them actually having fun, the tips of his fingers tugging at the fabric of the skirt before he let her run a bit, calling out how he was going to get her, how he was gonna catch the princess and she was giggling, turning to see him disappear when she turned. 

Then he went quiet. The footsteps stopped. And his tone of voice dropped to something much more… sinister. 

“Come out, little one,” he said, a clear whisper poured directly into her ear. 

Y/n turned, and she felt him getting closer so she tried to run faster. But she was getting so, so tired, and it felt like she couldn’t get any air into her lungs. All she knew then was the moon, with her tired face, and the intimidating, tall stalks of corn. 

Harry supposes that he’s doing her a favor. A lot of people wish they could run through a field wearing a dress like the one y/n has on. He was a bit of a shit, sure, setting her up for failure given he had abilities that she did not possess, but, he knew just as he knew the sky is blue- that she liked and wanted to walk into the corn field. Now, it wasn’t because Harry happens to be really good at reading people, no.

As an empath- one of the terms in the fine print of the being he was- he was able to connect into the funnel between her veins, the curved out thrum of what she was feeling. The witches he knew compared it to reading an aura, but it was much more than that. There was no need for interpretation of colors because it was like he was her, feeling what she was feeling. And she liked it.

Up until, of course, he switched up his game. 

After a few minutes of running around and playing with her like she was a mouse, Harry decided that he wanted to scare her. He wanted to give her a taste of himself. He wanted her to be scared- to not like him. Because he was something that shouldn’t be liked. It was a sick thing, really, that he happened to be so good looking when he was a literal monster. Harry fucking drank human blood. He wasn’t something that should be thought of as Greek statues. 

The part of him that remained human throughout the years felt bad for doing this to her. But, he had to. It made him feel better when he sunk his teeth into a victim’s skin. Almost like… he’d warned them, and it was their fault that they hadn’t taken the signal.

A scarecrow loomed overhead, and her lungs were running out of air, so he decided to go ahead and make his final jump on her. 

When y/n broke through the final turn to reach the very small clearing in the center of the field where a scarecrow stood in between a few bales of hay, she felt his breath at the back of her throat, and her knees buckled. 

She’d never really been much a screamer during a jump scare. Instead, she sucked her breath in, really loud and sudden, and because she was having such a hard time breathing, that instinctually breath caused black dots to litter her vision and suddenly those weak knees contributed to a faint. 

Harry caught her, and picked her up, huffing a small laugh to himself as he laid her across the piles of hay. 

She really was a sight to see. Flushed, hair a mess from all her running. Her lips were dewy and her waterline was agitated, he could see the moisture in the place where her eyelashes sprouted. 

With a few pats to the cheek, her eyes fluttered open, he was still hovering over her. Harry did not make a move to scoot back. 

“You’re awake, princess,” he said, smirking.

Y/n blinked, her eyes wide, and… gasped when Harry pressed a kiss to her cheek. His lips were cool against her heated cheek, and the curved ends of his slicked back hair tickled her chin. 

“You chased me,” she gulped, “for a long time.”

“Yes, I did. And you liked it. Didn’t you, little one?” He allowed the tip of his nose to follow the line of her jaw, testing the waters. She liked it, he could feel the shudders it sent to her heart in his bones. 

“I did.” Her eyes furrowed at her own admission. Why was she being so carefree? Why was she allowing herself to continue to stay in this cornfield? What was stopping her from questioning further what the fuck was going on? Her attraction, and his implied interest, that’s what.

Harry’s tongue slipped out of his mouth, and licked at her jaw before he placed another kiss to it, “Good. What do you say we have some more fun?” “What kind of fun?” Her head titled, and he was given direct access to what he wanted. Her neck. The column of her throat was pulsing with the beat of her heart, and the veins he could almost taste criss-crossed beneath her skin. 

“Fun is fun, pet. But if you must know, the kind of fun I’m talking about involves a lot of mouth to mouth,” He moved so his face was directly in front of hers again, and his palm gripped her waist beneath him. Unconscioslu, her legs parted and Harry had more space to slide both of his thighs between hers, one of his knees resting on the bales of hay she rested on. 

Y/n was no longer worried about the state of her dress, but rather, where his mouth would land, and where she would put her hands. Her eyes bounced between his, but they struggled to remain still under his intense hold. “O-okay. I’d like that.” 

“The prettiest princess I’ve ever seen,” he mumbled into the hollow underneath her jaw. And it was true. He’d seen a lot of royalty all throughout his wretched life, and none of them had been as pretty as she was. He felt a shiver of arousal go through her at the same time the air came fresh into his lungs, and it felt like he was going to explode from the inside out. 

“I think you’re the most handsome prince I’ve ever seen.” 

Y/n wanted to slap a hand over her mouth the moment those words left her lips, but Harry only chuckled and the vibrations felt heavenly against her skin. 

“You've been seeing other princes’, little one?” Harry teased, his mouth tracing their words against her lips. He pressed forward and kissed her; just a peck, testing. Again, she liked it. 

“No, just you,” she shivered. Her words were coming out in pants now. The fabri of her dress was too thick and too abundant to allow for any frisky actions, but his mouth was enough. One of his fingers was running over the tops of her breasts. Her mouth opened, she wanted more. Harry tasted of pink bubble gum. She wondered where it went. 

He chuckled and kissed her once more. “Then how do you know you know I’m the most handsome?” 

“I just do,” she said, arching into his touch. His finger was hooking into her sleeve, and he let it snap into her skin. 

“You do?” He licked her bottom hip, and she whined. This game, whatever it was, she wanted it to be over. It was too much for her to handle. 

“Yeah,” y/n said in a dreamy, far-off voice. “I mean, yes. Yes.”

Harry relished in what she felt, and soon enough, his cock twitched in his trousers. He never let himself become… involved in his meals emotions, but it was different with her. She was tender, and sweet. Willing and not a nuisance that he drowned out before biting. 

“Am I handsome enough... for you to let me bite you?” And that was another thing. 

Harry never asked for permission. Y/n was drunk enough that she’d wake up the next morning and think that he was just some kinky dude who’d left a sick hickey on her throat, as all of his ‘victims’ were, but still. Harry had asked for permission. 

“Bite me?” She was confused, head fuzzy with the same feeling that was heating in her groin. The lacy knickers she wore were probably soaked through. The bale on her bum was beginning to hurt. 

“Yes, princess. Bite, right,” he licked a stripe right where her pulse was the strongest to accentuate his intentions. “Here.”

“Okay, Harry.” 

He was handsome. And she was horny (with a mix of other things), she didn’t see a reason to say no. 

“Thank you, pet.” 

It was the same as it always was. Harry nuzzled into the spot, sniffing like a dog meeting a new friend, and with no preamble, he bit into her. The tips of his teeth pierced her flesh, and he allowed them to retract once the blood started to flow. When the first drop touched his tongue, he groaned. She was good, one of the best he’d ever had, and the heady flavor was just as sweet as she was. He was so caught up in his own satisfaction that he didn’t notice the moment her hands bunched the fabric of his suit from the late 1700s into fists, or her body going tense before he slowly relaxed, her heartbeat an irregular mix as she decided whether or not she should be panicking. 

But, he knew that she continued to enjoy what she was doing. 

“H-harry, I-”  She went limp in his arms, and the small squeak that left her mouth was the mermaid’s song that enchanted Harry. 

He knew this wouldn’t be the last time he’d see her again. 

*     *      *    *    *   *   *   *    *   *   *    *   *    *   *

hi! happy halloween babies! or better yet, happy harryween! i hope you enjoyed this peice, it was for sure out of my comfort zone and something new for me. if you haven’t yet, please check out my fanfic on wattpad in which harry owns a more aesthetic version of playboy mag. you can read it here.

[bellygunnr]

Blown Lightbulb

A commission piece for @poisonheadcrabsalesman featuring Thomas Lasky/Sarah Palmer. 

---

The house is cold. It hasn’t changed at all since you’ve last been here, some twenty odd years ago. You hadn’t been a kid then-- just a pilot, home on leave despite not really wanting to be. It had been tense then. It was the same now, even if your mother wasn’t even here, and you were laying bare the contents of your past to the two people you loved the most and considered the most important in your life. You hesitate to look at them, not quite fearful of what they’re thinking but definitely reluctant, like any of this is your fault and something to be ashamed of.

You know no one can really blame you for wanting some modicum of closure, but you’ve always been conscious of starting losing battles. Your mother isn’t even here, for one. A toneless holo-message is all she’s left you, detailing that an emergency at work brought her in and she’ll be back sometime in the evening. Maybe you and your colleagues could meet her at this location, even, and upon further investigation, that location is a startling high-profile restaurant of considerable Martian renown.

So much for flying close to the surface. You’d be in the air for all to see, just for a chance to reconcile with what little remains of your family. But that wasn’t for several hours yet, so you content yourself with poking around the giant empty house and listening to Sarah and Roland banter between each other.

“No offense, but this feels kind of like a museum exhibit,” Sarah says. “It’s not even dusty. I’d prefer it if it was.”

“You’d prefer it? There are stock photos of kids up here-- unless the Lasky family is way bigger than records suggest,” Roland answers.

You look at the picture frames Roland is pointing out. Amid the pictures of your brother Cadmon, there are photos of a foreign family, conspicuously only featuring a father figure. You run your fingers through your hair, nostrils flaring with a barely-restrained sigh.

“We didn’t take many family pictures,” you say, as if that explains anything. “I’m going to check out the upstairs.”

You tug on the back of your head, pulling at the recently shaved strands in a fit of anxiety. You don’t want to go upstairs. You’re afraid of what you’ll find there. Cadmon’s room was practically a shrine twenty years ago. The stairs don’t even creak as you step up them and you’re not sure why you expect them to. They look and feel and sound like wood, but you know them to be special composites that just didn’t degrade.

Your grip lingers on the railing as you take the final step. The door you know that leads to your mother’s room is closed. The keypad lock to it is bright red. You wonder if the keycode has changed at all, but testing it probably isn’t worth the risk. Across from her room is Cadmon’s, but that door is also, as you expected, closed.

And the one you recognize as your own is ajar. You let your hand find Sarah’s, squeezing it so tightly that she squeezes back, thumb rolling over your knuckles in a decidingly tender way.

“You know you don’t have to do this, Tom,” she says gently.

“But I want to,” you say. “I know I don’t need to.”

“Well, that’s something.”

It is. You offer her a braver smile than you feel and let her follow you to your room. There are more picture frames up here, covering the walls in even intervals. You can only ignore them because you know Roland is looking at them. You nudge open the door with your foot and, again, hesitate at the threshold.

Was everything in this house going to be difficult?

You shut your eyes and take in a shuddering breath. You can feel Sarah at your back, her presence radiating warmth. If you wobble, you feel her sturdy body against yours, so you let yourself lean into the partial embrace of her arms. She squeezes your shoulders, just as ice trickles down your spine.

Roland’s presence bleeds into your mind like condensation forming on the outside of a glass. It’s not enough for his thoughts or feelings to be tangible, but it’s so distinctly him that you smile and relax, easing the tension in your balled-up fists and opening your eyes. The room ahead is dark, but all you need to do is step inside for the lights to wake up and--

It’s not exactly the same as you left it, but it’s close. Your eyes roam the room, picking out all the various effects of teenaged you. There are posters on the wall, though some of the pixels have gone dark in their paper-thin construction, and models on the shelves, thick with dust. Your bed is perfectly made, the pillows hidden beneath a dark red blanket. Inevitably, your eyes roam over to a box bolted seamlessly into the wall, just above your nightstand. 

“Ah,” you breathe, staring at the box. “I see.”

“Is that…?” Sarah starts, but trails off, uncertain.

You can feel Roland’s curiosity curling up in the back of your mind. If you strain, you can even see his glittery-gold essence creeping out toward the box, but that gives you a migraine the harder you try.

You open your mouth to try and explain what it is, despite what it is being obvious. It’s a physical control panel for a domestic-grade Dumb AI. His name is still plainly depicted in the form of colorful stickers-- Admiral Hart. He hadn’t been active last time, but he hadn’t been gone either, so at least the sick hope flickering in your belly isn’t fully misplaced.

Still, is it worth trying to activate him?

“Roland,” you say, feeling quite outside yourself. “You can investigate it, if you want. Um, if he’s in there, could you…?”

“Of course, Captain,” Roland says.

Roland’s projection hovers in mid-air, thrown there by the custom commpad he was currently residing in. He smiles brilliantly at you and Sarah before bringing up what must be the digital counterpart of the control panel, his gestures as grandiose as ever, his expression just visible behind the transparent boxes. You hate it, but you distract yourself by leaning into Sarah’s space and kissing the bottom of her chin, staying there until Roland pipes up again.

“He’s in there, Captain. Says here he hasn’t been activated since… 2549. Very long service life, this one.”

Oh, that wasn’t too bad. Still, nearly ten years, completely shut down.

“...I don’t know if I’m ready to see him yet,” you say in one long rush of breath, the realization making you feel ill. “I do miss him, though.”

“There are also several other AI matrices in here,” Roland adds. “Why so many, if I may ask?”

“They were my teachers, when I was doing homeschooling. I’m surprised they’re still here.”

Dumb AI were very limited in their fixed personalities, but you swear they’re more sentient than they let on. One didn’t befriend several all at once and not experience some inexplicable variances, but dwelling on it was starting to make you feel hot behind the eyes. You shake your head, exasperated.

“Sorry, this is-- a lot more than I thought it’d be.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Sarah says lightly. “Want to go back downstairs?”

“Mind if I hang out in your house’s network for a little while?” Roland asks. “I won’t touch anything.”

“Go for it,” you say with a smile.

Roland winks and smiles before gathering up the tendrils of himself, more visible now that he was letting his essence ooze out between commpad, neural interfaces, and nearby network ports. Smart AI were remarkably fluid, or even gaseous, automatically filling in the void spaces around them, not because they wanted to be big as possible-- they were just that big. Still, you rub the back of your neck the same time as Sarah does, acutely conscious of the absence.

“Downstairs, then,” Sarah says. “Think there’s anything in the fridge?”

“I have no idea. Are you hungry?”

“I haven’t eaten since yesterday. To keep the motion sickness down, you know.”

You hum in acknowledgement. Her moving ahead of you prevents you from lingering too long upstairs, anxious as you are to keep up with her long strides. You have no idea where either of you are going to get clothes nice enough to go to a restaurant. Neither of you are dressed for it, let alone packed. Roland had suggested dressing as casually as possible to take the edge off, and well, maybe that was going to backfire. 

“I can feel you thinking too hard,” Sarah says.

She’s in your space the second you leave the stairs. But it’s gentle and unintrusive despite her taking up your whole line of sight. She’s teasing you, even as her brow is bent in concern.

“What am I thinking too hard about?” you ask.

“Hmmm. Something about your mom, like that stupid message she left us. Seriously, talk about a neutral location.” 

You laugh before you can stop yourself. 

“Got it in one,” you say. “I don’t know what she’s thinking.”

“Guess poor mother Lasky is going to have to come home after all,” Sarah says. “Isn’t that sad?”

She bumps your hip with the back of her fist, a playful nudge that, surprisingly, doesn’t send you stumbling. You punch her shoulder in return, silently following her into the next room, where the kitchen is. You watch Sarah go for the fridge and open it, head disappearing inside to scope out the contents. She retreats a moment later to throw something green and limp into your arms.

You catch it more out of surprise than anything, but you feel nauseous just holding it.

“What the hell is this?”

“Nutritional smoothie paste!” Sarah says, like she’s struck gold. “Used to eat this shit when I was a baby Spartan. They put it in Mjolnir on long-haul ops.”

“And that’s…. Is it good?” You ask, instantly skeptical.

“Hell, no. But I’m too polite to eat the meal plan stuff she has in there. So, drink up.”

Well, you couldn’t fault her there. You set the plastic tube of paste down on the faux-granite countertop, deciding that you’d rather let Sarah just drink both of them. You can’t stifle a smile as she immediately scoops it up, tearing open both of them at once and drinking them down in a truly disgusting fashion. But she doesn’t spill a drop, so... 

“I see you’ve gotten better at that,” you say.

“Roland made me promise not to make a mess if I’m going to be carrying the commpad,” she admits, looking exasperated for all of a split-second. “So.”

She tosses the spent bags onto the countertop, despite the trash can being directly underhand. You shrug that off in favor of grabbing her by the collar of her tank top and pulling her down, kissing her flat on the mouth. Her answering hum is felt in your bones and you both relax into each other, your anxious tension sapped by her solid core. She curls an arm around your waist and holds you in place, like she’s been waiting to do that.

“Relax a little,” she murmurs. “We can worry about her when she gets here.”

Not you, we. You feel a little weak in the knees at the distinction and let yourself hang onto her arms, certain that you’re looking at her with a dopey smile.

“But we probably shouldn’t do this in the kitchen,” she adds.

Before you can pull away, Sarah effortlessly hauls you into her arms, supporting you by grabbing a fistful of your ass and waiting until you wrap your arms around her neck. She squeezes your rear a couple times before moving, gait so smooth that you don’t even feel it when she turns on her heel to dump you on the couch with a flourish. 

You sink into the couch cushions, but wrap your arms around hers so that you don’t disappear completely. Her face is so close to yours that you count each individual scar and freckles, including the faint lines of surgical augmentations that only show up in the right light. You snake your hand up to the back of her neck, mindful not to grab ahold of the enlarged neural implant.

“Anyone ever told you you’re handsome, Tom?” Sarah murmurs.

“Mmm, I can think of a few…”

Her laughter is felt on your skin as warm puffs. She kisses you, her lips rough with bitten and half-healed skin that you nip at, chasing them when she tries to pull away. The plasticine fabric squeaks as she carefully, carefully lowers her weight over yours and straddles you, her thighs big enough to keep you in place. 

“Let me know if I’m hurting you.”

“I will,” you promise.

You want to say that you know she won’t, but she always looks so earnest when she asks that this time, you don’t. Because she has before-- there’s a biological differential between the two of you that you never stop thinking about. You work your hand further up to pull her hair out of its ponytail, working your fingers into the coarse locks and kissing her more intently, eyes fluttering shut. I love you, you want to say. I trust you, which is just as hard.

Her hands roam across your shirt and pluck open several buttons so that she can follow the edge of your collarbone and the slope of your shoulders. Her warm, slightly sweaty palms are a sharp contrast to the cool air, and the shock of physical contact has goosebumps lifting on your arms. You lick at her lips and fist some of her hair, mumbling indistinctly as you pull her down closer.

There’s no smart quip or knowing look to make light of your neediness. She finally lets her weight drop onto your lap completely and the kiss moves on, her teeth and lips tracking across the edge of your jaw to just underneath your ear. Instead of letting your hands hover, you start to follow the hard curves of her body, groping at the bunching muscles and admiring the power coiled there. 

Then she snaps into rigid attention, face turned toward the front door, her lips drawn back in a snarl. You vaguely notice that she has a chipped tooth before you hear the door opening and Sarah is still poised over you and she’s kissing you again, hard, and you kind of moan into it--

“Well, then,” an all-too-familiar voice says. “Thomas, care to… introduce me?”

Finally, Sarah climbs off of you, but not before buttoning your shirt and kissing your forehead. Your brain already hurts from the mental whiplash of the situation.

“Um, mother,” you start. “This is Sarah Palmer. My partner.”

Your mother is shorter than you remember. Her hair, once a brownish-black, is in faded tones and grey at the roots. A scar that wasn’t there twenty years ago lurks just by her eye and she looks exhausted. Stress and worry lines make canyons of her face, ones that twist your heart to look at.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Sarah says stiffly.

She does not look amused. She doesn’t look much of anything except terribly stern and suspicious of the scene before her. You almost can’t blame her. Almost.

“You know, I was hoping you’d be here when we got here,” you say. “But it seems you’re still working.”

“Of course. Duty still calls, you know.”

You watch her as she shrugs off her jacket and hangs it up on the coat rack in the anteroom. Both nothing and everything has changed about her and it makes something in your throat tighten.

“Oh, I know that more than anybody,” you breathe. “Yeah.”

“I do appreciate you coming home, Tom,” Audrey says, not looking at you. “It means a lot. I thought I’d have to see you when the Infinity opened her doors to the public. That is still happening-- right?”

“Sure, it’s happening,” Sarah says. “Look, Tom, do you want me to…?”

You shake your head.

“Yes, but I won’t be back on Mars until then. Working nonstop has its benefits-- like a lot of vacation time.”

“That sounds like a dream, to be able to use it,” Audrey replies calmly. “I need to know if we’re having dinner tonight.”

You and Sarah share a look.

“I was thinking we could share a bottle of wine and shoot the shit instead,” Sarah says. “Or some scotch, if you have it.”

At that, Audrey looks amused.

“I never took you for a scotch man, Tom,” Audrey chuckles.

You don’t say anything as she leaves the room, no doubt seeking out the desired glasses and alcohol. The sun is going down outside, plunging the room in a deep red. This was going better than expected. You want to break open the window and run. You want to do anything but sit back down and draw out the table and sit in a semi-circle and “shoot the shit.” But you’re already sitting down and the bottle is open and you haven’t ate anything-- neither has Sarah, even, but with her augmentations drinking on an empty stomach is probably beneficial and--

“Good news, everybody! I took the liberty of ordering us some, what do you humans call it? Party food? You know, for all the drinking we’re about to do. You’re welcome!”

You choke on your own spit and your mother nearly drops the glass she’s pouring. Sarah, for her part, is taking the bottle and stealing a sip directly, if only to conceal a smug smile.

Roland is hovering inches above the faux-wooden table, drawn up to his full height with chest puffed out and expression gleeful. He flicks one hand out in a casual salute toward Audrey before trotting aside and sitting down, legs crossed.

“Cheers,” he says.

“Hi, Roland,” Sarah greets.

You had completely forgotten about Roland. Oops.

“Thomas, I do hate to ask,” Audrey says, peering down at Roland with a pinched expression, “but why is there an AI?”

“Oh, you know,” you say vaguely, waving a hand. “It’s classified.”

“I’m Captain Lasky’s boss,” Roland says, grinning. “So I’m allowed to be here, you see.”

“Are you my boss, Roland?” Sarah asks.

“No, ma’am.”

Audrey’s eyebrows shoot up. She takes a sip from her glass, shifting in her seat uncomfortably.

“Well, I’m Audrey Lasky,” she says finally. “Pleasure to meet you.”

The rest of the night goes painfully.

[awhitehead17]

100 ways to say I love you - TimKon edition:

Number 53: “Sit down, I’ll get it.” 

Enjoy! :D 

While Tim loves being a vigilante, there are parts of it he absolutely detests. One of those things is getting injured. He knows it’s part of the gig and at the end of the day he’s only human, his body can only with stand so much and throwing himself around all over the place certainly doesn’t help.

By now he’s lost count of how many injuries he’s had over the years. He wouldn’t be able to recall all the bones he’s broken, how many fractures he’s received, or even how many times he’s woken up in the med-bay for one reason or another.

Despite all that, no matter how many times he goes through it, he can’t stand the recovery period afterwards.

When the injury is still fresh, where it can be easily aggravated, it’s easier to accept that he’s limited to what he can do. However when the wound has healed and he’s moved onto doing light activity, that’s when it gets frustrating. It’s the setbacks that frustrate him each and every time.

When he’s recovering from an injury, he’s fighting back for what he had lost. Months of training gone in a matter of a couple weeks. The physical side of the job doesn’t come naturally to him, like it does for his brothers, and he works his ass off to make up for that. By the time he gets back to where he had been before he ends up getting injured again!

“Who’s pissed you off?”

The sudden question startles Tim out of his thoughts. He blinks and turns his head to the side to find Kon sat on the couch next to him with a concerned look on his face.

“What?” Tim asks dumbfounded.

“You’re scowling really hard. If you had heat vision that coffee table would be ash by now. I’m wondering who’s pissed you off enough to make it look like you want to kill them?”

Tim waves his hand, dismissing Kon’s question. “No one.” He says turning his attention away, he ends up staring at the aforementioned coffee table again.

“Uh huh,” Kon sounds out in disbelief. Now Tim scowls purposely, knowing Kon is analysing him. “You sure it’s got nothing to do with that big, white and heavy cast that’s currently encasing your left ankle?”

He hates how well his boyfriend knows him. Tim’s loathing thoughts on injury recovery are because of his current predicament. During an Arkham breakout, Tim had broken his ankle while chasing Two Face around Gotham. Not his finest moment he has to admit but it happened and now Tim is laid up for the next few weeks. It seems like he can’t think of anything else except for his road of recovery, what hassle it’s going to be and the impact it’s going to have on his body.

Tim huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, pouting as he sinks further into the corner of the couch he’s tucked into. “I hate being injured.”

Kon snorts and reaches out to pat his leg comfortingly. “I know you do. Unfortunately it’s happened so you have to deal with it.”

“I hate being idle.” Tim continues to complain.

“At least your brain still works.”

With his non-injured leg Tim kicks his boyfriend in the side. “You could at least be somewhat sympathetic y’know?”

Kon sends him an incredulous look. “You’ve done nothing but mope for the last three days since Alfred released you from the infirmary. I’ve gone past the stage of being soft. Anyway, what do you fancy for dinner?”

Tim stares at his boyfriend feeling both betrayed and appreciative. He wants to mope and be miserable, why won’t Kon let him do so? Can’t his boyfriend see he’s indisposed, what else has he got currently going for him? On the other hand Tim is kind of pleased Kon isn’t putting up with that bullshit, Tim needs to keep his mind occupied on things that aren’t his injury and Kon knows this.

Moving his thoughts from his injury to food, he debates in his mind for what he’s fancying.

“What about Thai?” Tim suggests in the end. “We have a menu for the place down the street somewhere right”?

Kon hums and gets up off the couch. “Yeah, I think so, I’ll go and have a look.”

His boyfriend returns moments later with a takeaway menu in hand. He hands it over to Tim and together they decide on what to get, once they’ve decided Tim rings up and orders the food to be delivered.

“It’ll be about half an hour.” Tim informs Kon after hanging up on the phone.

Kon smiles and nods. “Perfect, that gives me enough time to grab a shower then.” Being mindful of his ankle which is elevated up on the couch next to him, Kon leans over and presses a kiss to his temple before getting up and going to the bathroom.

Unable to do much else Tim simply stays there on the couch. He’s got crutches beside him if he does need to move but he despises those things with a passion and uses them as little as often. He usually ends up hopping around the place, using different pieces of furniture to get by, or even gets Kon to pick him up and take him from room to room. While Kon makes a comment every time Tim knows his boyfriend secretly loves it despite what he says.

A loud knocking sound echoes throughout the apartment, it cuts through his thoughts and gets his attention. Has half an hour gone by already? Was Kon still in the bathroom? When a second knock sounds out Tim braces himself and unsteadily climbs to his feet.

He’s just about made his way around the couch when Kon’s voice suddenly calls out, “sit down, I’ll get it,” before he’s hurrying past Tim to get to the hallway where the front door is located.

Tim rolls his eyes but settles back down on the couch, having to shift quite a bit to get comfy where there’s no pressure on his ankle. Moments later Kon reappears in the living room with a plastic bag in hand and the smell of Thai food following him. He sets the bag on the coffee table and disappears yet again to get plates and cutlery. Tim takes the opportunity to sort through the food, dividing it to what they ordered separately and what they plan on sharing.

“Thanks for getting the door.” Tim says as Kon returns to the living room and sits down beside him.

Kon raises an eyebrow and pokes him in the shoulder. “Well I wasn’t about to let you wobble to the front door and get it now was I? How would you carry the food and use crutches at the same time.”

Rolling his eyes Tim shoves Kon lightly. “I would have found a way. I’m not entirely useless y’know.”

“I know you’re not. However you’re injured and that means you’re allowed to take it easy, that even includes letting someone else answer the door.”

Tim doesn’t respond to that, instead choosing to dive into his food. His previous thoughts are returning, ones of how he’s useless while injured and how he can’t do anything and the frustration of that. Once again Kon seems to be able to pick up on it.

“Tim don’t worry about it okay. You’ll heal as you always do and you’ll be back out there before you know it. It’s just a little set back that’s all.”

Ignoring his boyfriend’s attempts at comfort, because Tim doesn’t currently want it, he changes topic. Leaning forward he grabs the TV remote and turns it on. “What do you want to watch? I think we’re still halfway through season three of Stranger Things if you fancy continuing to watch that.”

His boyfriend is silent for a while and Tim could feel Kon staring at him. For a moment Tim thought Kon would push the issue but thankfully he seems to decide otherwise, probably deciding that the fight isn’t currently worth it. He moves his gaze off Tim and towards the TV in front of them. “Stranger Things sounds good.”

The two of them settle down properly as they continue to eat and begin to watch the programme. Tim knows a talk between them is coming but for now he’s happy with the mutual ignorance on the topic and happily eats his food sat next to his boyfriend.

[spookyceph]

Pull Test

Summary: Shigaraki and Kurogiri meet with the League of Villain's newest candidate.

Rating: Gen Fic, SFW

Relationships: Shigaraki & Magne

Characters: Shigaraki Tomura, Magne, Kurogiri, Giran, mentioned Dabi, mentioned Toga Himiko

Words: 2,732

Warnings: Implied/Referenced transphobia and deadnaming when Magne's background is mentioned, swearing

The manila folder dropped from the air like a dead bird, hitting the bar top with a slap. Tomura jerked back, stool wobbling beneath him, and grit his teeth as he heard the staccato sounds of his fighter taking damage in his game. Recovering balance, he hit the pause button before glaring at the warp gate that swirled into being across the way.

“Another one already?” he snapped the moment the tall figure of his caretaker stepped out of the darkness.

Kurogiri straightened both his tie and metal gorget. “I was quite impressed myself. Giran is proving to be as professional and efficient as advertised.” He motioned to the folder he’d air dropped in. “Shall we consider this new candidate together, Shigaraki Tomura?”

Tomura wasn’t in the mood to consider shit. He hadn’t been hanging around the bar for going on two hours hoping for work to come along. One of his hands strayed to his pocket. He touched the lump that was the jar of salve he’d taken to carrying at all times. The serpentine ridge of a friendship bracelet (I used red, white, and black string so it would match you, Tomura-kun!) had joined it a week ago. Of course, he’d die before admitting to lurking just to catch a glimpse of Dabi. Or that he’d agreed to let Toga show him her favorite otome games as soon as she came back from her shopping trip. He definitelycouldn’t tell the smug old ink splatter to fuck off and let him get back to his goal of a high score—not without having how wrong he’d been about those same two people rubbed in his face.

That left being a responsible leader as the only option.

Tomura growled and set his game aside. He flicked the folder open. “Fine. What’s this new asshole’s name?” Giving in didn’t require him to be gracious about it.

“Ah. About that. I believe there’s a conflicting issue in her files about that point. Her family name is Hikiishi, however, her given one, or both, may require an update.”

A look at the top of the file filled in the blanks. The picture Giran had included showed the candidate flashing a bold smile at the camera. Shoulder-length auburn hair framed prominent cheekbones. Slightly darker fuzz lined her jaw and chin. Tomura couldn’t tell what color her eyes were behind her sunglasses, but they locked with his through lenses and stock paper alike. Hikiishi Kenji, read the first line of information on the page beneath the photo. A police report, by the looks of it.

“I see. Well, for now let’s just call Hikiishi by her alias until she confirms with us.” Tomura skimmed through the info again. “Magne, right? Related to her quirk, I assume.”

The currents of Kurogiri’s mist slowed and relaxed into looser coils. “Correct.”

Tomura frowned. “What? Did you think I’d have some sort of problem with the name thing?”

“After the misunderstanding with Dabi—”

“Dabi and I talked.”

The yellow eyes glowing within the darkness widened. “Did you now?”

Fuck, he wasn’t turning red, was he? Was he? “We’re adults. We worked shit out, okay? Not everybody has a stick up their ass about being polite all the time.” He scooped up his game, more than ready to retreat into something he could control. “When are we expecting Magne?”

“Giran can bring her by tomorrow evening.”

“Fine. Let’s get the stupid meet and greet crap over with.” When only silence followed, Tomura raised his gaze from the screen to glare at Kurogiri. “What?”

The wisps curling from the smoggy bastard’s head looked suspiciously like smiles. “Nothing, Shigaraki Tomura. Nothing at all.”

-

Taptaptap.

Tomura’s finger rose and fell on the bartop fast enough to give a sewing machine needle a run for its money. The ball of his right foot bounced on the stool’s crossbar in time with it.

Taptaptap.

Giran had promised he’d be there between 9:00 and 10:00. The clock by the door pointed to 9:51.

Taptaptap.

Lots of people would be riding the trains on a Friday night. Or roaming the streets, looking for food and alcohol, karaoke, strangers to stave off loneliness. Heroes would be out in force as a result, watching for any predators stalking the herds of humanity. Tomura didn’t know how to calculate exact probability rates for shit hitting the fan, but he got the sense they were on the higher end under such conditions.

Taptaptap.

Why couldn’t he just run into party members along the way as needed, like in games? Each one would specialize in a skill, forming a well-rounded team. Everyone would follow him to the bitter end because they believed in him and not some ass goblin named Stain. Why they believed in Tomura wouldn’t matter, though money would be a reasonable guess. Idealism didn’t pay much from what he could tell.

Taptap—

“Be calm, Shigaraki Tomura. This meeting will go well.”

He bared teeth at Kurogiri. “There has to be a meeting for it to go a certain way. And I am calm, damn it.”

“So I see.” He finished wiping down the glass he held before setting it on the bar and grabbing another. “My apologies.”

Tomura twisted on the stool to give the smart ass shadow a piece of his overthinking mind.

Knock, knock, knock.

Without missing a beat, Kurogiri stuck his free hand through a small warp gate and turned the handle of the door across the room. He went back to polishing as two figures entered the bar.

For someone who charged such high fees, Giran went out of his way to look cheap and kitschy. Little round tinted lenses pinched to the bridge of his nose. A scrunched scarf like someone’s guts slung around his neck. One front tooth missing in his low-key sleazy smile. The woman following right behind him and surveying her new surroundings made for a more welcome sight. Sunglasses (her and Giran both, for fucks’ sake) hid her eyes just like in her picture, but her lips held a hint of a smile.

The essence of good manners, Kurogiri bowed to their guests. “Good evening. Welcome to our humble home.”

Tomura, to balance the scales, snorted and folded his arms across his chest. “Took you long enough.”

Giran shrugged and twirled his hand, leaving behind a smoke spiral from the tip of the cigarette between his fingers. “Our train was delayed by some prankster threatening to blow up the tracks.”

“Doesn’t sound like a prank.”

“It wouldn’t have been if the lazy bastard hadn’t been trying to pass off children’s clay as plastic explosive. One of the cops noticed the stuff was bright yellow and they rushed him. They didn’t even call in a hero.” The broker shook his head. “What’s this world coming to? People can’t be bothered to find and pay for real weapons anymore. It offends my pride as a businessman.”

Behind Father, Tomura grimaced. His short-lived venture with Stain had indeed moved people to lash out at society. The problem was most of them were fucking morons. He doubted any decent candidates the League managed to net would make up for all the secondhand embarrassment he’d suffered in the past couple of weeks from watching the news.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the woman said, tapping her chin. “I felt kinda bad for the poor guy. He looked like your average office wage-slave. I thought he was going to break down in tears when they hauled him off.”

“Serves him right for cutting corners. No conviction, no integrity these days I tell you.”

She hid a grin behind her hand. “You’re heartless, Giran.”

The broker snorted smoke from his nostrils like an exasperated dragon. “I’m practical.”

“And yet you still haven’t introduced me.”

Posture straightening, Giran tugged at his weirdly anatomical scarf. “Sorry, got sidetracked. Magne, Shigaraki Tomura and Kurogiri of the League of Villains.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Slipping off his stool, Tomura gave her a short bow. The way Kurogiri swayed slightly, as if he’d swoon from shock, made the display worth it.

“I take it I’ve earned my fee?” chimed in Giran.

Kurogiri’s misty form shuddered as he roused himself. “Of course. We’ll hear from you again soon?”

“I’ve got a few candidates lined up.” The broker sketched them a mock salute before turning and closing the door behind him.

“Please, have a seat.” Tomura motioned to the row of barstools beside him.

“Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.”

While Magne approached, he studied her movements. She strode across the hardwood floor, work boots making minimal noise with each step. Grace as well as power. She knew how to use the muscle under her shirt’s rolled up sleeves rather than relying on pure size. Although, that didn’t hurt either—Tomura put her at over ten centimeters his own height at least, and she definitely outclassed him by weight. He wondered whether she had speed to go along with strength. She slid into the next seat over and rested her chin in her hands.

“Would you care for something to drink, Miss Magne?” Kurogiri asked, jumping at the chance to play host.

“Oh, my. So formal. Sure, I’ll have whatever you recommend.”

Tomura waited until a small glass of something amber-colored had been set in front of them both (ginger ale for him) and she’d taken an approving sip before getting things rolling.

“You have quite a record, Magne.” Though he’d already memorized the relevant bits, he flipped open the folder container her information.

She glanced over, shades slipping down her nose as she scanned the first page of the police report. “Twenty-nine attempted murders, huh? Is that what they’re calling those? I’m surprised you guys bothered having me come in after reading that garbage.”

“Why?”

Like a small bird, Tomura’s stomach dipped and fluttered when Magne looked at him over the edge of her glasses. Not quite in the same way it did when he caught Dabi watching him from across the room, but close enough to classify the sensation as pleasant. Her irises shone like polished agates, made up of rich layers of browns from a starburst of mahogany around her pupils to flecks of burnished copper. Tomura suddenly understood her hiding them behind lenses. Such a beautiful detail would stick in anyone’s memory.

“Somebody who tried and failed to kill that many people would look pretty incompetent, right?” she replied. “Or like they chickened out at the last second. I don’t enjoy killing. I’ll tell you that up front. But…I didn’t hesitate with the three I did put down, let’s just say that.”

Tomura, a multiple murderer himself, examined the square set of her shoulders, the twist of scorn to her mouth towards her accusers, and found no reason to doubt her. He nodded.

“The so-called attempts were from the robberies you pulled off then?”

“Mostly, though I’m sure a few of the bullies I smacked around exaggerated just to prove what big, strong men they are.” She harumphed and took another sip from her drink.

“And the actual murders?”

Her lips puckered, as if she tasted something more bitter than whatever alcohol Kurogiri had given her. “Personal matters.”

“I see.” Tomura turned the page and ran his finger further down the information. “Your quirk has some unique parameters.”

The lines of Magne’s face eased into a smile. “Oh, the gender thing? A theory really. I haven’t had much opportunity to test it seriously. It might be nothing but my own perception…but I guess that doesn’t make it any less real, does it?” She lifted a hand from her glass and reached halfway toward him. “Care for a demonstration?”

Tomura caught himself drawing away from her, his nails latching onto the sides of his neck. Cowering—great way to display his leadership skills. “What’re you going to do?”

“Oh, just tug on your arm a little. Go ahead and put it down by your side for me.”

Resisting the urge to look to Kurogiri for reassurance, he did as asked. For safety’s sake he curled his fingers into a fist.

Magne smiled. “Ready?”

According to the knot in his stomach, no, but he nodded anyway. His arm jerked and leapt up as if it were tied by a string. Tomura gasped, almost slipping off his seat. Magne caught and steadied him.

“Sorry, honey! Got so excited to show off I put a bit too much oomph into it.” She patted his shoulder as if there weren’t dead, gray hands clutching it.

“’S’alright,” he mumbled. And it was—his skin showed no marks, his muscles and joints registered no pain. He readjusted the delicate hand decorating his wrist. Cold, waxy, and pliant. Nothing like Magne.

“So, can you manipulate people’s movements? Turn them into your puppets?”

She hummed and pushed her sunglasses back into their proper place. “Not really. I can move someone with the proper amount of push versus pull, but it’s such delicate work that they could break free pretty easily. Hold out your arm and I’ll show you what I mean.”

Still making a fist, Tomura followed her suggestion. Magne positioned her hands on either side of his forearm, spread about half a meter apart. Concentration dug a V between her brows. A thrum jolted through Tomura’s bones. He startled at the rush of tingles in his elbow and shoulder but kept his balance. Something like a low electrical current pulsed along his arm, raising its pale little hairs. Eyes wide, he watched as the limb drifted from one side to the other, then up, down—anywhere the poles of Magne’s palms guided it. He could even see, feel his skin being tugged and pressed by her quirk. Taking a deep breath, Tomura drew his fist back. He met some resistance, but didn’t have to put up any real struggle.

“Weird.” He shook his buzzing fingers out. “But kinda nice. Tingly. Like an electrical field.”

Magne tilted her head and smirked. “Oh? That’s a new one. Then again, maybe I’d have heard it before if I used my quirk for something besides bashing jerks.”

What would he have done without Father hiding the fact he blushed at the slightest fucking thing? He’d never get used to talking to people at this rate.

“Your skills would be a great asset to the League, Miss Magne,” Kurogiri said, saving Tomura from having to pretend he could be witty. “I presume Giran discussed the expenses we cover? Upon joining, you would also be welcome to claim a room upstairs, should you wish.”

Magne went still. Even her breathing stopped for a moment. “You’d let me stay here?”

Tomura knew right then he’d never live down being wrong about not letting League members move into the hideout. Kurogiri would never be crass enough to say it out loud, of course. He didn’t have to. Tomura sighed, accepting his fate.

“Two members live here already, including another woman. We can introduce you to them both before you decide.”

Gaze aimed at the ceiling, Magne touched fingers to her pursed lips. “I’ve already made up my mind.” She met Tomura’s eyes, a smile lighting up her face. “Sign me up.”

Well. He had no clue whatso-fucking-ever how they’d convinced her, but results were results. Besides, she hadn’t mentioned Stain once. She deserved free room and board for that alone.

“Ah, wonderful. We’re so delighted to have you, Miss Magne.” Kurogiri steepled his fingers. “Please let me know if you require any assistance in moving your belongings. I can warp them to whichever room you choose.”

A soft laugh huffed out of her. “No need, honey. I travel light these days. Would tomorrow evening be too soon?”

Tomura shrugged. “That’s fine. I’ll make sure Toga and Dabi are around so you can meet them.” Even if he had to staple the latter to a chair to make him comply.

“Sounds like a plan.” Magne raised her glass. “To new friends then?”

There was that word again. Offered with the same ease Toga had shown. And Dabi…he’d never said it maybe but his gift had implied…well, something. Tomura touched his pocket. The weight and shapes of the items inside it. With the same hand, he picked up his own glass and clinked it against Magne’s.

“Sure. I’ll drink to that.”

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “Living the Dream.”

I didn’t get a lot of time to write today, but I hope you all still like it :)

“No! Absolutely not!”

“This isn’t your decision to make.”

“President, this is completely insane. You have to see that.”

The two officers turned to look at the president of the UN who sat in his seat idly fiddling with a paperclip. It spun, once and then twice between the fingers of his right hand before he bothered to look up. 

The UN president was a sturdy man in his late sixties with greying hair, dark eyes and a slight paunch.  He wasn’t a man of unusual intelligence or anything like that. In fact his greatest ability and charismatic character in front of a crowd, but behind the scenes, the man was racked with indecision and uncertainty.

Admiral Kelly stepped forward and looked around the table at the other ranking officers falling lastly on the UN president who she stuck with a steady gaze, one she had been told when she was captain, had the ability to freeze even the bravest man’s blood in his veins.

“The GA has made their decision and I tend to agree with them.”

“It’s madness.” Another officer said leaning forward in his seat.

“That boy doesn’t have nearly enough experience. He was on your ship for less than a year, has only flown ten combat missions in his entire career, AND only a SINGLE ground Op.”

Another Admiral stood in agreement to back them up, “The boy is barely old enough to grow a beard much less command a ship. He has no experience.”

Admiral kelly kept her eyes narrowed. 

She knew the kind of effect she had on people. Even though she was no more than five foot five, her parents had always said her personality added another three feet.

“With all due respect, Admirals, how many of you have more than a year of experience dealing with aliens?”

The men’s jaws worked but they said nothing.

“How many of you have even fought in an alien war?”

More silence.

“How many of you have been on an alien ship?”

No one responded.

She stood from her seat, hands resting behind her back, “If you are expecting to find someone with more experience, you are kidding yourselves. And don’t come at me with some bullshit about how other officers have more combat experience. You may be right but that was against HUMANS, human conflicts and human wars. We need someone who doesn’t have their head so stuck in the past. If we send a vet in, MAYBE they will be able to deal with an alien conflict, and maybe they’d fowl it up by thinking humans are the same as aliens.” She looked around the table, “If we look at this, really look at this, he has the most experience out of ANYONE in the UNSC. He was the first one to discover aliens, he offered himself as a subject to be tested by aliens, he helped to establish communication between our species. He fought in an alien war and lived, and afterwards he came back for more.”

She turned to look around the room, her hands held wide, “The GA love him, the Chairwoman knows him by name, and they asked for him personally. Most of this isn’t even about alien conflict. We don’t have to worry about his prowess on the battlefield if there are never any battles. He doesn’t want to fight them, which means he will do everything possible to avoid war, and, most importantly, he is still loyal to the UNSC.”

She looked around at them with a very serious expression,

“I don’t need to tell you about what It took to survive operation steel eye. I know you've all read the reports. By rights that boy should be suing the UNSC for all it’s worth, but for some reason he is loyal enough to come limping back to lay at the feet of the UNSC. If I were him I would have gotten out at the first opportunity, but he’s proven a loyalty to the UNSC that we can’t just pass up. He has experience, he has guts, and he has loyalty to spare, and, lord forgive me for saying this, but if he does fail, no one will be surprised. But if he succeeds, he will be a success story the UNSC can front for the rest of this millenia.”

Looking around the table she could see that her words were making some impact on the waiting generals. She felt bad about some of the things she was saying. She hated making it out to seem like the boy was just a pawn to be used and discarded if it didn’t turn out, but that was the sort of thing these men understood. She could raise other points, the real points, but they wouldn’t be likely to listen.

She could blab at them all day about her experience with the young man. How she knew him to be ready to work, honest to a fault, funny, charismatic in an awkward sort of way, and probably the most trustworthy young man on the face of the damn planet. If there was anyone she would trust to hold the entire world in the palm of their hand, she would let him do it. Granted she would supervise him to make sure he didn’t accidentally drop it, but she KNEW that given time and some maturing the boy would make an excellent leader.

She could feel it in her bones.

Right into her marrow.

Andshe would always be there to watch him and provide her expertise if he ever needed it. 

She wasn’t worried.

Instead of saying any of this she took a deep breath, “We are going into a new age, and we need to have flexible minds. Old war dogs like us aren’t going to cut it, too setin our ways.” She turned to look around the room, “And if he fails, I will take full responsibility for his actions.”

She knew what she was doing was rash, setting her entire career on one man, and no more than a boy at that, but she had faith, and more than that, she knew who had trained him, and had to admit that he had a pretty damn good mentor.

***

Adam Vir had fallen asleep.

No one could really blame him, his flight back from Andromeda had come in late, and he hadn’t slept in over 24 hours, but still, slouched against the wall in a cheap plastic chair with his mouth open and a line of drool running down his face was hardly becoming. Despite this, no one gave him a second lance as they hurried up and down the hallway at fort harmony listening to the distant sounds of jet engines starting up on the runway crisp and cool in the early morning chill.

“Lieutenant.” Adam Vir jerked in his seat as a boot gently kicked his shoe, nearly toppling over.

“YES!”

He looked up to find Admiral Kelly standing over him, and made an undignified scrambled to his feet wiping drool from his cheek feeling red rise up from under his collar as he made a wobbly and very undignified salute.

She only smiled, “At ease, Lieutenant, and come with me.”

He let his hand dropped and he quickly followed her up the hall watching as eyes turned to look at them in mild curiosity as they passed.

Admirals didn’t often speak to lowly first lieutenants, “Where are we going, ma’am.”

She turned a corner and he nearly ran himself into the wall, dodging to the side only at the last minute and staggering a bit as he tried to keep pace with her. He was blushing madly now feeling like a clumsy idiot next to her graceful strides. 

What he wouldn’t give to be just a little bit more like her, so calm and cool and poised and…

She motioned him into the next door, and he stepped inside,holding it open for her as he did.

It was her office, which he guessed by the name plate on her desk and several shadow boxes on the wall behind her desk, each one of hem holding some medal or award or other she had received for distinguished service.

The glass on those boxes was old and mostly coated in dust not having been disturbed in a long time, as in comparison to the framed picture on her desk, which was lovingly dusted clean every morning. It looked like a picture of her family, brothers, sisters, mother and father. Her father being a very tall, very broad looking islander, while her mother was a very petite asian woman.

She clearly hadn’t interhited her father’s height, and looked more like her mother.

She Turned to sit behind the desk, hands clasped before her as the stars glittered lightly on the shoulders of her uniform.

Kelly nodded for him to sit and he did as requested.

She nodded to the yellow envelope on the desk before her, “Open it.”

He paused, and did as told, opening the envelope and tipping it’s contents out onto the desk.

His eyes were caught at first by a large folded blueprint, which he opened and spread out on half the desk before him.

It didn’t take him long to figure out what it was.

He glanced up at her, “Is this the new ship?”

She nodded.

“Next generation?” he was practically drooling, “What I wouldn’t give to fly one of these.” He looked up at her, “Are you going to be flying her, she’s beautiful.” Granted all he could see were the white lines of the blueprint but he could just imagine.”

She smiled slightly.

“Why don’t you take a look at the rest of it.”

He forced his eyes away from the blueprint and down to the rest of the packet.

On the table before him two glittering silver bars winked up at him.

He reached out with a hand and picked up the captain’ bars frowning. He then turned his attention to a pile of white papers and quickly scanned his eyes over the pages. Aam Vir may have behaved like a big idiot but he had been top of his class at the academy, and unlike the big oaf he looked like, he had pretty good reading comprehension.

Didn’t take him more than a few seconds to scan the page and…. freeze .

He blinked, re-read the lines five or six times.

Re read it again.

Looked up at kelly then back at the paper then back up at kelly.

“I…. what is this?”

She tried to contain the small smile that flickered over the front of his face, “What does it look like.”

“It…. well it LOOKS like a written recommendation for a promotion… a promotion to captain and orders to loan out for the GA…. on the next constructed interstellar ship.. .but….”

He looked up knowing what he hoped but not daring to believe.

It was when her small knowing smile was split by a grin that he knew.

His ears went suddenly muffled, his heart sped up to light speed and he thought he could hear her speaking but he couldn't hear her.

“No way!” he said 

“No way, no way no way. No friggin WAY.”

She stood, and he stood, and he found he didn’t know what to do with his hands he found himself walking in a small circle. He held the paper out to hre, “IS this serious, are you serious?”

“Serious as a heart attack.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.” “You’re serious.”

“I just said so.”

He looked down at the page and then back up again one last time, and he was suddenly so overwhelmed that he just couldn’t handle it anymore and he threw his arms around her. It was probably the most unprofessional show of emotion the UNSC had ever seen. No salute, no handshake none of that professional stuff.

Instead, he, a junior officer, was hugging the fleet commander, who he now realized was like  almost nine inches shorter than he was, and…. Was he crying?

Yep, crying like a big ugly baby, ok maybe not so bad.

He was laughing and crying and completely overwhelmed to the point of probably losing his promotion.

Luckily for him Admiral Kelly laughed with him.

Man she was was fucking amazing.

Until he eventually pulled away grinning like an idiot and not bothering to wipe his eyes..

“Take a couple deep breaths for me, Captain.”

Captain!

He loved the sound of that.

Captain Vir

Captain Adam Vir of the UNSC.

He took a few deep breaths, calmed himself down enough so he could speak, straightened up, “Thank you ma’am, I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t. Now get out of here, and pull yourself together before the promotion ceremony.”

He grinned again, “Yes Ma’am.” In his enthusiasm turning away, he nearly tripped over his pushed out chair, but managed to right himself before hand, giving a rueful smile and running from the room.

He managed to make it outside before bursting with excitement jumping up into the air and pumping his fist, before dancing around in a circle shouting and chanting.

A couple columns of marching soldiers looked very confused as they walked past him like he was some kind of lunatic, but it didn’t matter to him.

He had made it!

He had made it 

His dream had come true and he had made it. 

[gothamstodd]

would you be willing to write some bonding between tim and dick? maybe outside of bat duties?

OKAY UM I'm sorry I've been dead.. but eighty years later I got an idea for this and wrote it in like an hour haha. So anon I hope you stumble upon this and like it!!

also sorry if the formating is whack I'm on my phoneeeee.

-

When Dick arrives at the small coffee shop in the heart of Old Gotham,  just a few blocks down from WE, Tim is already waiting in line. Dick's only known Tim for a few weeks now, a month- tops- but somehow it makes absolute sense for him to arrive exactly on time, or even a few minutes early.

"Hey." He greets cheerily, sidling up the kid and ruffling his hair. Tim doesn't shove him off or duck away, only straightens his hair once Dick lets his hand drop. The older makes note of that, he's going to enjoy ruffling the kids hair until Tim inevitably gets annoyed with him for it. "How's it going?"

[[MORE]]

"Hi." Tim answers, stepping forward as someone orders their coffee and slips out of the line.

There's still one more person between the two of them and the cash register, so Dick asks again, "How's it going?"

Tim looks shocked for a moment, "Oh, you actually want to know?"

Dick chuckles, "Yeah, why else would I ask?"

Tim flushes, "I don't know, usually it's just like, an off-hand greeting, yaknow?" He scratches at the back of his neck, "But, good, I guess. How about you?"

Dick shrugs, "Good." He says, "I guess." He adds with a teasing smile. Tim rolls his eyes fondly and Dick's heart all but swells at the sight.

The person in front of them steps out of the way and they arrive at the register. Dick orders an iced vanilla latte since it's hot out and Tim asks for an iced black coffee.

Dick's a little shocked and raises his eyebrows, nudging Tim, "You can get whatever you want. On me."

Tim only shrugs, "Thanks. That is what I want, though."

The barista, who had paused to see if Tim's choice changed, picks up the cups and asks for Dick's name. When he gives it, she snorts, but scribbles it on the cups with a sharpie anyway. Dick pays and they move aside to wait for their drinks.

"I guess you get that a lot, huh?" Tim asks.

"People making fun of my name?" Dick raises his eyebrows, Tim nods. "Oh, all the time," He chuckles, "Middle school was hell."

Tim lets out a laugh, "I bet. Why don't you go by something else? Like Rick or something?"

Dick shudders, lip curling in distaste, "Doesn't feel right."

Tim nods, "I guess."

Within a minute, another barista is sliding two plastic cups onto the counter and calling out Dick's name. They pick up their respective drinks and step through the door to sit at one of the tables outside, the bell hung at the top of the door frame jingling with their exit.

"So… like… what are we doing?" Tim asks once they sit down.

Dick tilts his head, frowning, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, like, what am I supposed to be practicing? Are we waiting for someone? What should I be looking for? Just memorizing details again?" Tim says, rattling off the possibilities as his eyes scan the crowd rolling over the sidewalks.

Dick starts, "Shit, Tim this wasn't meant to be, like, a training session. I just- I wanted to try to get to know you."

Tim's frown deepens, "Get to know me?" He parrots, leaning forward in his seat and downing some coffee.

"Yeah, like; what are your interests? What's your favorite subject in school? What do you like to do for fun?" Dick supplies, drinking some of his own latte and eyeing how quickly Tim's coffee is disappearing with a spark of concern.

"Oh." Tim says simply, "Why?"

It should be an easy question, but for some reason, the answer feels loaded. Dick shrugs, "Well, I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other if, you know, you and Bruce decide you're going to be… trying on my old suit, and I don't want to be strangers."

Tim nods, "Fair enough. But we'll get to know each other through training, right?"

Dick shrugs again, "I guess so, but I don't want to just be partners in combat, I- I want us to be able to be friends, I guess. But if you don't want to hang out, I totally understand-"

Tim interrupts him, "No, I do!" He insists, "Want to hang out." He clarifies, "I just- I guess I wasn't expecting it."

Dick frowns into his latte. He'd taken too long with Jason, too wrapped up in his own jealousy and anger and abandonment issues, and they'd both paid for that mistake. Maybe if Dick had done this with Jason, if Jason had trusted him a little more, if Dick had let him be his little brother and made sure he knew Dick was someone he could count on, then- then maybe he wouldn't have-

Dick shakes himself away from that thought. He's already wallowed in that grief and guilt for longer than he thinks is healthy.

"You're thinking about him, aren't you?" Tim pulls Dick's gaze away from his coffee and back to attentive blue eyes.

"Who?" Dick hums.

"Jason." Tim says the name like it's a secret, like it's a curse word he's too young to know.

Dick sighs, leans back in his seat, and nods solemnly, "Yeah." He admits, "I- I was supposed to be his friend, maybe even his brother, I don't know. But- I was so jealous and bitter. I never really got close to him until a few months before-" Dick's voice breaks, but he forces out the words anyways, ignores the weakness and the shudder in his voice, "Before he died."

Tim reaches out and places a comforting hand on Dick's arm, which is resting on the table. Dick gives him a wobbly smile before looking away, avoiding his gaze.

Dick takes a second to gather himself, he chokes back the tears that are welling up in his eyes before turning back to Tim, "But I don't want to be your friend just because I have some guilt complex I need to address. How I reacted to Jason- that's something I learned from but it's not something I want to, I don't know, use you to make up for. I just- I want to do better, and genuinely, you seem like a great kid, really nice, smart. Jesus Tim, you're smart." 

At that, Tim beams, honest to God, beams. 

"Anyone ever told you that?"

Dick means it as part of the compliment, an expression to tack onto the end, but Tim answers anyway, "Not really." He says, blushing, "I mean, teachers, I guess. Nannies, sometimes."

Dick frowns, "Not your parents?"

Tim shrugs, making an expression like that's a strange thing to ask, as though wondering why in the world his parents would compliment him, "Not really." He answers in a questioning tone.

At that, Dick's heart aches and constricts in his chest, but he schools his expression and nods, "You should hear it more often."

Tim's grin doesn't fall, "Thanks, Dick." He takes another sip of his coffee, "For what it's worth, I think you'd make a great big brother."

And he does.

-

let me know what you thought! I hope you liked it! I don't usually write in present tense but it just came out that way haha

[anjuschiffer]

Amira Wayne - Chapter 2

Day 2 of Bio!Dad Bruce Wayne Month 2020! Woo! And, follow @biodad-bruce-month for more content!

Note: The AO3 Link to this fic will be on the first chapter only.

- 

Chapter 2: Father-Daughter Bonding

P.Tag: @theatreandcomicfreak @damianette-is-life @toodaloo-kangaroo @elijahcrevan

Tag: @vixen-uchiha @we-want-mini-mini @ramos123

-

MASTERLIST | Prev

-

Bruce looked at Amira, stumped by her wailing.

At first he thought it was because she already missed Talia, but it’s been a solid three hours since then and she never cried between that time until now. It wasn’t until he had placed her on his bed that she started to become fussy, her small hands waving all over the place.

Perhaps she adored being held?

“Master Bruce - good heavens! What is that- is that a child you have there Master Bruce?” Alfred asked as he stepped into Bruce’s bedroom with a tray of tea, appalled by the odor in the room.

“Meet Amira...my daughter.” Bruce introduced, watching as Alfred set down the tray, slowly approaching the wailing girl.

“Pardon me Master Bruce, but when was the last time you changed the young miss?”

“Changed?” Bruce asked, glancing at Alfred and then at Amira. “As in, clothes?”

“I meant her diaper.” Alfred clarified, picking up Amira and bouncing her in his arms, Bruce not liking how easily Amira stopped crying. “I will bathe the young miss while you start heading to the nearest baby store. Here’s a list of things I need you to buy.”

Alfred quickly took out his notepad and scribbled away, tearing off two sheets worth of writing and handing it to Bruce. “Hurry now. We don’t have all evening.”

And so Bruce was pushed out of his room, sent on a mission to buy... baby things…

-

“Do you need help si- Mister Wayne! Oh! I-um...how can I help you?” The store worker asked him, averting her gaze.

What was the richest person in Gotham doing in a department store like the one she worked in?!

Bruce looked at her name tag. Elizabeth. He’ll make sure to pay her for his troubles.

“Hi, I’m looking for all of these items, but I’ve searched throughout this store and can’t seem to find them.” Bruce said, handing Elizabeth the list Alfred had given him. He watched as the young girl’s eyes widened before looking at Bruce and back at the list.

“You can find all of these on our third floor, in the baby department.” Elizabeth provided, stifling a laugh when Bruce looked at her confused. 

There was a third floor? “Would you like it for someone to-”

“Please.” Bruce practically begged, Elizabeth nodding. Bruce watched as she ran to a fellow coworker, gestured at him before running back to him. Bruce noticed the way the other coworker paled when she saw him.

“Well Mister Wayne, my name is Elizabeth and I’ll be glad to be of service.”

“Thank you so much.”

-

Bruce spent the next three hours being led by Elizabeth around the baby section, only then noticing that he really wasn’t up to the task. 

When Elizabeth talked about Amira’s age, Bruce didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how old she was, what she was able to do or even eat. Vaccines? Apparently, babies needed that too. 

“I also suggest talking to your daughter frequently.” Elizabeth states, picking up another adorable outfit for Amira. You can never go wrong with dresses. “Talking to her would help enhance her speech, especially if she’s not babbling. Babbling should be common for her if she’s around six months old.”

“How do you know so much?” Bruce decided to ask, looking at the cart that was almost filled to the brim with supplies and clothes. There were bottles, sippy cups, plastic bowls, bibs, a few interactive toys, a white crib and a stroller. Oh...and diapers...lots of them.

“Well, I want to become a pediatrician, so I often find myself reading about child development and such during my time off.” Elizabeth told him with a soft smile. “And then there’s the fact that I practically raised my two younger siblings since they were newborns. I often helped my mother take care of them, absorbing all the new knowledge like a sponge. 

While it sounds like she dumped a bit of the responsibility on me, I know my mother meant well. A slice of what it meant to be a mother, to be responsible for another life.”

Bruce hummed at her answer, picking up a white pajama on the rack, wondering if Amira would even like it. Does she even know what a bee was? Did she even know what was going on? Did he even know what was going on? What his life was for him now?

“I wonder if I’m up to the task.” Bruce muttered to himself, but Elizabeth heard it loud and clear.

“No one is born knowing what they’re expected to do and be ready for.” Elizabeth said, picking up another outfit. “Sometimes, we just have to go with the flow and see where we land.”

Bruce repeated those words mentally, picking up another pajama, a yellow this time, it had a sheep on it.

Go with the flow, huh?

-

After spending hours in the baby area, Bruce was ready to go home, mentally relaying the notes Elizabeth had given him. 

He started laying out the plans he had in mind for Amira’s nursery, deciding on using the room next to his. While the only way to enter it was through the main door, he could always make another door that connected the nursery and his room for easier access.

After unloading everything from the car to inside the manor, Bruce decided to bring some fresh clothing to the last place he saw Alfred and Amira, panic setting into him when he heard wailing coming from the room.

Bruce pushed the door open, seeing Alfred with Amira in his arms, the girl reaching for something that wasn’t there.”

“Welcome back Master Bruce.” Alfred wearily said, the two noticing that Amira quickly looked over to Bruce, her small hands no longer searching for him. Her wails became hiccups as she continued to stare at Bruce. “Look, Amira. It’s your father. I told you he would be back.”

As soon as Alfred said those words, Amira began to cry again, Bruce quickly taking her from Alfred and began to walk her around the room. He then remembered that Elizabeth had told him.

He should talk to her.

“Amira. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Bruce listened as her wails grew softer. “I went to buy some things, but now I’m back.”

Bruce listened as Amira softly stopped crying, now tiny hiccups escaping her. “There, there.”

“I’ve seen you’re starting to step up to the task, Master Bruce.”

“Someone has to look after her. Who better than us, her family?” Bruce asked, then realizing that Amira had yet to be clothed. 

Bruce wandered to the bags, quickly taking out the mountain of clothing. 

He quickly sets Amira down on the bed so that he can organize the clothing. In doing so, he missed how Amira sat up. He only noticed it when she had crawled to sit in front of him. 

She can sit. And crawl. 

“If she can sit by herself and is starting to crawl, she may already be six months old.”

Bruce watched as Amira took a liking to the two clothing articles in front of her. Or rather, the two pajamas. More specially the white and yellow pajamas that Bruce had picked out - the sheep and the bee respectfully.

He watched in wonder as Amira stared at them, looking between the two for a while before patting the yellow onesie with the sheep on it. 

“Sheep it is then.” Bruce said, unbuttoning the pajama. How did he forget the onesie that goes underneath?

He quickly clothed Amira, clasping the last button to find Amira looking at him with her wide green eyes. 

“You are a natural.” Alfred decided to speak up, watching as Bruce picked up Amira with confidence. 

“Or perhaps I’m willing to learn.” Bruce stated, watching as Amira yawned, watching her start to doze off. “One day at a time.”

-

The two men luckily found out that Amira was seven months old, thanks to the birth certificate and other documents Talia had left in the baby carrier. It made certain legal procedures go more smoothly, while for others, it took some time.

As days went by, Bruce and Alfred started to notice that Amira was smarter than what she let on. 

She knew to not place anything in her mouth that wasn’t food, something that both Bruce and Alfred appreciated. Bruce quickly found out that she liked to observe items, Amira often gazing at a toy for minutes, listening to a rattle make the faintest sound as she passed it from one chubby hand to the other.

She would recognize the places she was in, lay down when she was in the crib and remain seated while she was on the couch or in a chair. Alfred found out that she adored watching him cook, her eyes following every movement he made as he prepared dinner as she sat in her highchair. 

Alfred also found out that she was very fond of strawberries and apples, Alfred melting when Amira would grace him with the largest smile possible when she would realize that Alfred had made her favorite purees. 

She would smile and frown but would never make a sound that wasn’t a cry. Even when Bruce noticed that she wanted to let out a cry, she never whimpered or sniffled. It was as if she was suppressing those emotions. Luckily, after paying Dr.Leslie Thompkins a visit, Bruce learned that it was just a habit she must have learned while she was with Talia. Thompkins assured Bruce that by talking with Amira more, it would help her unlearn that habit. Surely enough, the doc was right.

Amira soon grunted, babbled and rambled more frequently and at random points in the day. Babbling not only helped her get Bruce’s attention, but also made him smile more. Amira soon learned that ‘Dada’ made him smile even more, especially when he would not be home for longer periods of time. As much as she adored Alfred, no one beats Dada.

Now having a system of communication, Bruce would often coax Amira to come towards him, Amira standing just three steps away from him.

He would watch as she would proudly stand by herself before taking a single wobbly step towards him. Another two steps followed slowly after, Amira bursting into a giggling fit when she reached Bruce. 

Those tiny steps soon turned into hops, strides and jumps, Bruce not believing how quickly time had passed. 

He watched her grow before his eyes, feeling a smile grow on his face as he kept listening to Amira read to him. 

“-ate through one nice green leaf, and after that he felt much better.” Amira said, turning the page. “Now he wasn’t hungry anymore and- is there something wrong Dad?” Amira asked, Bruce wondering what she meant. “You’re crying.”

“Am I know?” Bruce asked, raising his hand to his eyes, wiping away what was a tear. Seems like he was. “It’s nothing. Probably some dust got into my eye.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be patrolling tonight?” Amira asked, showing Bruce himself in the form of a Batman plushie.

It’s been two years since Bruce became Batman, all thanks to a single incident that almost cost him his life. He almost left Amira in the same situation as him when he was ten...

He needed to make Gotham a safer place for his daughter, what better way than striking fear into criminals?

Some people of the general public are glad to have him, despite it being a mere eight percent. Everyone else fears him, except Gotham’s villains...and his own daughter. It didn’t take long for her to find out he was Batman. Then again, it’s not like Bruce was trying to keep it a secret from her.

As for the Batman plushie, it was a gift from Alfred to Amira, something about having Bruce always with her.

Bruce smiled at the plushie, getting up from the bed and tucking Amira in.

“As much as Gotham needs Batman, you also need me to tuck you into bed.”

“Dad, I’m seven. I can do it myself.” 

“Does that mean you don’t want me to tuck you in anymore?” He watched as Amira pursed her lips before sinking into the comforter some more.

“I still like being tucked into bed.” Amira muttered, gaining a chuckle from Bruce. “Are we still going to the circus tomorrow?” Amira asked, springing up, watching her father’s face for some type of confirmation.

“Amira,” Bruce said with a frown, tucking one of her hair strands behind her ear. “Remember what we talked about?”

Amira hung her head, looking at Batman in her hands. It was times like this that Amira wished they never lived in Gotham, that her father wasn’t a billionaire...

“If it’s a place where the public knows you or a place that I can easily be spotted, I can’t go.” Amira recited, letting a frown replace her smile. She threw herself back onto her bed, throwing her comforter over her head.

Bruce let out a heavy huff.

“Goodnight.” He whispered, deciding to let her be. As soon as he stepped out of her room, Bruce faced Alfred.

“Is Miss Amira asleep already?” Alfred asked, motioning to the tray with a cup of milk. “She usually drinks a glass before going to sleep.”

“She’s awake, but I wonder if she would even talk.” When he saw Alfred lift a brow, Bruce decided to continue. “I told her she couldn’t join me to go watch the Haly’s Circus tomorrow. The press already knows I’m going, I can’t let them know about Amira just yet.”

“With all due respect Master Bruce,” Alfred began, opening the door to walk in. “The longer you keep hiding her from the public, the harder it will be to keep it that way. You can’t keep sheltering her away from a world she deserves to see. To be in.”

Bruce was left with those words in his mind, wondering what he should do.

Ever since he was assaulted, he vowed to protect Amira, even if it meant that she could not step foot outside the manor.

When she turned three, Bruce made sure to homeschool her, teaching her the basics of English, which included reading and writing. One she was five, he taught her the basics in math and science. As a side subject, Bruce was starting to teach her French, hoping to teach her mandarin when she grows older. 

But now that Alfred was stating that Bruce should allow Amira to go out, Bruce wondered if he had been approaching this situation wrong this entire time.

But what if villains found out about her being his daughter? Of being a Way-

Bruce stood there in his thoughts for a while before an idea wouldn’t leave his head. Why didn’t he think about this sooner?

-

Amira let out a gasp as she entered the circus tent, gaping at how large it was, taken aback at how many people there were inside the tent.

There was even a second level inside the tent!

“Is it usually this crowded?” Amira asked the man next to her. Or rather, Tom Dupain - her ‘father.’

“I heard it’s like this because of Mr.Wayne visiting the circus today, but it usually is this crowded during Sunday shows.” Tom provided, watching as Amira continued to look around, a smile escaping him. 

He always wondered what it felt like to have a child, wondering if he was even up to the task.

When Bruce Wayne had reached out to him to look after his daughter, Tom Dupain accepted the honor. After all, it was thanks to Bruce that his tiny bakery in Gotham was taking off, Tom’s dream of being a well known bakery taking form. All it took was one gala and Tom’s pastries for his dream to take off, Tom knowing he owed Bruce a huge favor.

He had met the young Wayne at that very gala, the girl having snuck into the kitchen to get a taste of one of his pastries. Amira Wayne - Tom only knew her as Amira and the granddaughter of Mr.Alfred Pennyworth. Tom didn’t think Amira was Bruce’s daughter as there was no news about the young Wayne.

While Tom had only known her for a few moments before Alfred shooed her away, Tom had grown a soft spot for the child.

“Mr.Dupain-”

“Tom is fine.”

“Mr.Tom,” Amira corrected herself. “Thank you for letting me be here today.” Amira said, holding Tom’s hand with both of hers. 

Just as Tom was about to respond, the ringmaster chose that moment to begin the show.

Amira watched as the ringmaster welcomed the people and shouted out her father, seeing him across the tent, smiling when they saw each other. 

The ringmaster then introduced the Flying Graysons, Amira’s eyes widening at how high up the family was. She wondered if her own father would allow her to be that high up.

With the cheering of the crowd, Amira watched with wonder as the Grayson’s started their performance, starting with a somersault. She watched as the man caught his wife with ease, the woman sending a salut before going onto the platform. Amira watched with absolutely glee as she watched the son do two somersaults in the air before returning back to the platform. 

Amira listened as the ringmaster announced the Graysons' famous trick. Amira stood at the edge of her seat, feeling her heart thump loudly against her chest. She watched as the woman spun once, twice...thrice! But as soon as she was caught by her husband, the string of the bar snapped, Amira feeling her heart come to a stop. 

She watched as the two fell and just as they were two were mere feet away from touching the ground, her eyes were covered. 

Amira would never forget the screams she heard as she was ushered out of the tent. She heard Tom whisper to her that everything was going to be okay in rushed French. 

That everything was fine. 

That was the first and last time she was allowed to step out of the manor for a very long time.

NEXT

[popatochisssp]

if/when you get the energy/time to- im really curious; what kinda fuzzy friends do the newer skeles have? does pitch have a seeing eye-dog version of princess? or does ell and/or nemo have a fuzzy buddy to help with their anxiety or anything similar or in-between? spare fuzzy friend hcs for the poor, ma'am????

Well, you asked for it!

Ash (Undergloom Sans): A cat named Annie (Ragdoll), adopted as an emotional support buddy! She picked him, really, just ambling right on up to him, and it was love at first flop-over-his feet. Having a little sweetheart like her to take care of has really helped to pull Ash out of the doldrums and he loves her a lot. She’s a big-time cuddlebug, just like he is, and they definitely spend a ton of time napping together, everywhere and anywhere.

Annie’s Quirks: Extra chunky (master of the ‘I haven’t been fed yet 🥺’ con), stockpiles socks and undies beneath the bed, shameless catnip junkie

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): He feels like he’s not as active as he should be, lots of time spent indoors doing academic things, when there’s a whole beautiful world out there that he should be getting out to see at least sometimes... He has the idea that maybe an animal companion would be the right motivation to get up and out at least a couple times a day, and Cannoli (Pembroke Welsh Corgi) is the solution to the problem! They click pretty much immediately and are just very well-suited to each other, especially as exercise partners.

Cannoli’s Quirks: Loves (short) walks, rests his head on any feet that stay still long enough, must sleep in the same bed as the people and will hop/bark/cry if he can’t get up there himself

Brick (Horrorfell Sans):He doesn’t know too much of the story himself, he’s sure he was told in more detail but probably forgot. All he remembers is, a friend of a friend had a dog who had an accident...or maybe it got sick? Either way, it went deaf, and the dog was too big and unwieldy for them to try to retrain themselves. But they had a friend who was HoH, and that friend was active in the community with lots of other signing and HoH folks and could ask around about someone who might be up for the challenge of having and training a real big dog that couldn’t hear a word you said to it. That’s how Brick heard about it, anyway, and he’s not deaf but he’s big, and he figures he probably knows at least enough sign by now to train a dog. And that’s how Tiny (English Mastiff) comes to stay at his place. They clumsily work on understanding each other, it’s definitely a Process, but there’s plenty of fondness there to make any difficulty worth the trouble.

Tiny’s Quirks: Bit of a digging problem, gets very excited about balloons, likes to sit near people and lean his entire weight into them

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): This one may look familiar, but it’s fate-- Doomfanger (Persian) belongs with him and could find her way to him in any universe. ...But King was a little later getting to the Surface, and wasn’t there to pick her up when she was freshly on the streets. She spent awhile longer being an alleycat, a few years of living the rough life, and one day when she’s not quite fast enough to scurry out of the way of an oncoming car, it probably would’ve been the end for her... if not for the kind Samaritan skeleton who was just passing by that scooped her up off the pavement and brought her to a vet. King tried very hard not to get attached to her, especially when it was still looking like she wouldn’t make it, but he kept moving the goalpost of when he’d let himself care about her. ‘IF IT LIVES UNTIL MORNING,’ ‘IF IT MAKES IT TO THE VET,’ ‘IF SHE SURVIVES HER SURGERY,’ ‘IF--’ and then she looks at him, with her goofy drugged up face, freshly missing the foot of her back paw so that they even match now, and... And just like that, Doomfanger has a home and a devoted cat-dad owner and anything else she could possibly need.

Doomfanger’s Quirks: Likes to be raked, makes an incredible fuss when shut out of any room for any reason, very spooked by loud noises and immediately runs and hides under daddy’s bed

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): He wanted a pet, especially when things were still a little strained with his brother and the nature of his...condition...made it difficult to make friends. He was lonely and a little pal would be very welcome in his home, but he’d also really hate to curse a furry friend with the ever-present threat of being dripped on and getting nasty bone-goop stuck in their fur... Ella (Sphynx) is the workaround to this unusual problem and makes herself right at home with Merc, happy to love on him whether he’s solid or sticky.

Ella’s Quirks: Has an extensive collection of sweaters that she adores (will sit by her dresser and meow until she is clothed), great sense for emotions and tends to appear whenever she’s needed, transfixed by mirrors

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): He didn’t choose Ripley (Maine Coon), Ripley... well, he’s not even sure Ripley chose him. He definitely chose Ella, because that pretty little sweater-wearing vixen in the window is what drove him to bust into Ell and Merc’s house and start sauntering around like he owned the place. Ripley (named before they realized he was a boy-cat) was definitely feral, with a notched ear and a missing eye, but he just keeps coming around, breaking and entering, cuddling with Ella and sharing her food, and when he one day hops into Ell’s lap and curls his big fluffy body up there... Ell makes the (possibly bad) decision to just shut the doors and windows on this mean, fat bastard and make him commit to the self-domestication he’d started. Ripley’s fickle, anti-social, and nine times out of ten mean as hell, but despite it all, Ell’s attached to the fucker. Doesn’t stop him from talking mad shit about his demon-cat to anyone who’ll listen, but y’know, there’s a weird sort of love there, between them both.

Ripley’s Quirks: Hates other cats and people, with Ell and Ella as the only exceptions (Ell sometimes, Ella always), does truly heinous things to birds and rodents and even bugs if the opportunity presents itself, an escape artist who is not to be trusted around doors or windows

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): Ms. Sandy Peaches (Golden Retriever) is a service dog, trained to assist people with visual impairments in a variety of tasks. Pitch, who’d long been mulling over the idea of getting one such dog, eventually follows through, and as soon as he hears her name, he’s decided-- Sandy Peaches is the one for him! He’s been blind awhile by the time he gets her and generally knows his way around things, but she’s very helpful in his day-to-day and some of the things that were moderately inconvenient to get through before are only mildly inconvenient now, and her value as a helper and a companion is much appreciated.

Sandy’s Quirks: Gets excited when it’s time to put her vest on and go work, thinks the appropriate amount of brushing time is probably about three hours, loves to go swimming

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): He found Dizzy (American Shorthair) after an accidental click led him to a local shelter’s Instagram, where they had a video of her playing and a few hashtags that explained her condition. He learned a lot about cerebellar hypoplasia, aka ‘wobbly cat syndrome,’ and when he eventually made it back to her video and watched it again... it was too late, he was already half in love with her. He contacts the shelter and after a couple weeks making arrangements, purchasing necessities, and wobbly-cat-proofing the house, he braves the outdoors to go get her and bring her home. She’s probably 100% his baby within the first hour and he loves being able to take care of her and help a kitty that not everybody would have the time or dedication to take in. The love is very much mutual and Dizzy’s tail does the ‘omg it’s you, I love you!’ tail-quiver whenever she sees him and trots on over.

Dizzy’s Quirks: Sixth sense for when there’s clean laundry to be laid on, likes to hold extended warbling and yowling conversations with people, chews on anything that crinkles (keep plastic wrappers out of reach!)

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): As soon as he knew he wanted a dog, he knew he wanted to pick up one of the less adoptable ones. Skipper (Beagle mutt) was certainly that, with only two legs--one in front and one in back. Sunny had a play session with the little guy and admired his energy and how enthusiastically he played, like his missing legs didn’t even phase him. Whatever happened in Skipper’s past, he’s not letting it be his problem now, and needless to say, he’s adopted and taken home in pretty short order. No holds barred fetch and spontaneous frolicking in open fields are a great bonding activity for these two, probably a match made in heaven.

Skipper’s Quirks: Tennis ball fiend (literally can never have enough), chews on unattended shoes, loves to sing (read: howl) along to music

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): He wanted a guard dog, some big intimidating-looking thing that would look really, really cool guard the house. He finds Ace (Doberman/Great Dane), unfortunately with his ears already cropped (Aster wouldn’t have chosen the procedure himself), but otherwise a very handsome fellow and still definitely in need of love and a home, both of which Aster was willing and able to provide. He’s attentive with all the care and training his new pup needs, and when Ace grows up just as huge as predicted, looking like a cross between a panther and a hellhound, he’s become an extremely well-mannered and obedient dog, full to the tips of his pointy ears with love for Aster.

Ace’s Quirks: King of naps, the worst nightmare of any strangers at the door (but very affectionate and loving once they’re in!), will tell you if you’ve stopped petting him too soon, boofing and trying to put your hand back to make you resume

[tartrazeen]

Random HankCon Reverse AU Post

I wrote this on Discord some months back, and very luckily somebody fantastic helped me out by finding it! <3 <3 <3 The context was around the HK series already being a canonical type of android in the game: it's a housekeeper model, like the HK-400 Connor hunts down in his first investigation with Hank. So from that, everyone was discussing a reverse AU where Hank was an HK housekeeper, Connor was an overworked older brother taking care of his younger brother, and one of them was proposing that Connor just rent an HK to help around the house and take the load off. And from that, I came up with this roughly described - but still fun and angsty - concept. Picture reading it as I wrote it: mid-conversation, and butting in to slap this idea onto everyone. :D

Omg - Hank helping out enough in just a few ways by making lunch or something, or dinner for the next night, and Connor actually having time to go to sleep and spend time with both of them. Or Hank activating a Cranky Child Up Past His Bedtime protocol and making Connor go to bed, because the poor guy doesn't have an off-switch when every single case just needs a 'few more minutes' for him to crack it.

Connor having such a rough week that his little brother saves up cash from - pfft, I dunno, what's stupidly diabetically sweet enough for this - recycling beer bottles from around the neighbourhood, purely to rent Hank for Connor's sake AND THEN IT BECOMES LIKE SOME KINDA WEIRD-ASS DATE THAT NEITHER OF THEM SEEM TOO INTERESTED IN ENDING But then - then - they get into a bit of a routine like that. Connor's happy enough to rent Hank when his little brother needs him, but now it's grown into a... "Okay, fine, if I need him too, then that just helps both of us. That's okay." ... And then one day, his little brother's staying at a friend's house or something, and Connor's - just... bored? Lonely? Tired? He's not sure. But he flicks over to a website, sees Hank is available, and decides to rent Hank really just for himself. And it's the first time that's ever happened without a kid in the house or without Connor himself being too exhausted to function, so it officially becomes a weird-ass date of them hanging around. Maybe going outside to get air. Whatever happens. Now here's where I can draw upon some more IRL bullshit: water heater rentals. These things last ten years, you pay $40 a month to rent them, but at the end of the tenth year, you'd still have to pay to buy it out. And that - despite everything you pay - could still cost like $6,000. Even if you bought the thing outright, it would've cost $5,000.

I say that because I imagine Connor getting to the point where he's thinking... he might buy Hank. Whenever rental products go up for sale, there's usually a steep discount, so he thinks it won't cost too much. No one else rents Hank as much as he does anyway, and he's not sure how much he's spent, but surely that would knock the price down. He's still very much trying to think of this as a practical transaction to manage the purchase of a machine, after all. Except Connor is the one asking to buy Hank. The company isn't offering. So the sticker shock at the price is - just... unbelievable. To the point that Connor very much regrets even opening his mouth. And the nanny company says it's that or they throw Hank out, because - just the IRL - they can't be seen selling Hank cheaper or giving him away when they're done with him, or they'd never make any money. "People would just wait until he's thrown out and go dumpster diving." So now we have a ticking clock and Connor has a bill to pay. We could do two things from here: 1) Connor gets the money (spoiler). It isn't easy. He's already doing all the overtime he's allowed because he's volunteered for it - he can't afford to let something like sleep get in the way of catching a murderer - so he's making the most that he can. He doesn't have any vacation or sick days to cash in because he's used them all whenever he's burnt out; that's probably why he looked into getting Hank in the first place. And it's not like he has time to get a second job or anything. It's his little brother that asks, "Do we really need a car?"

So they both start selling everything. They don't really need a crappy couch. This table's been wobbly since day one. A garage full of crap that is coated in dust and grime is just enough to get them over the edge of it. And it's a weird feeling, bringing a nanny-bot back to an almost empty house. Connor might comment on how there'd be a lot less to clean, which is bullshit, but the best he can in defence of it all. So Hank takes it for what it is, slowly appreciating exactly what this meant for all of three of them. It's an empty house that's quickly become a full home. 2) Connor doesn't get the money (yesssssssssssss) Because there's just no way to pay that. It's ridiculous - even if he could afford it, he should still be arresting these people, because this is an obvious robbery. He can't make that last leap to admit this is more than a machine to help around the house, and the company - just... "Okay. You have three days to change your mind if you're interested." His little brother tries to get him to. He asks if Connor can just sell the car. Not only is that a bad idea, because how else is Connor going to get to work, but who's going to pay that much for it anyway? It's not worth it, Hank is a walking piece of plastic programmed to be friendly, and if they need a nanny-bot so bad, they can buy a new one for a third of what the rental company is charging. On the second-last day, his little brother tries the ol' "Rent Hank for Connor's sake" trick. It's a last-ditch effort to get Connor to admit that they would all feel awful losing Hank, machine or not. He's real enough to them, right? Wrong. Plastic. Money. Facts. Connor's more pissed that his little brother wasted more cash that could've gone towards paying a price they would never be able to afford anyway, and walks off to let his little brother hang out with the android for a last night. He doesn't want to draw this out for himself, and Hank had better be gone by the time Connor comes home.

Connor doesn't do much. He mostly just walks around for hours. And for way too long - eventually, he's at a park, and there's Hank emerging from the snow (oh yeah, it's snowing) to gently wait there in silence. That goes on for long enough for Connor to accept that he's going to miss Hank. It's a short conversation, and Hank's used the Cranky Kid protocol for Connor to know to start heading back, but that's all Connor says: "We'll miss you, I guess. Thanks." Hank is gone by the time Connor wakes up. The house is quiet, his little brother has his breakfast, and Connor has his lunch made. And that is what really gets to him. Hank - over and above his programming - once again took care of Connor, too. Those walls that were already dropping finally drop the rest of the way, and knowing perfectly well that he's too late, he calls the rental company up to ask if there's a payment plan or some extension or anything he can do to keep Hank. There is! Fortunately! And if Connor would like to arrange that for any of these other rental androids, the company can certainly help. What about Hank? Well, this is a business. They had a deadline and costs around that deadline, so they couldn't keep waiting around forever in the hopes that some family changed their mind about buying a standard android. It's unfortunate, but yes, Hank was appropriately disposed of. Would Connor like to buy another android that looks like Hank instead? Connor hangs up before they can give him the full sales pitch. His little brother notices. His work notices. Everyone notices that Connor's different lately. He's reached an almost terrifying level of laser focus on his work. He has all the time he wants to catch all the bad guys he feels like, and he does because who's going to stop him, really? And it goes like that while his little brother keeps asking for Connor to rent a different android, or to just buy one that's like Hank. On and on and on and on and on and on and on until Connor finally just loses it, dumps his phone on the ground, tells his brother to do whatever the hell he wants so long as he shuts up, and storms back out. He's out there for hours in the cold, half to spite Hank's memory - that he's become painfully reliant on for reasons he ascribes to guilt - and half because he knows it's not only guilt he's feeling. Everything tingles. His fingers, his nose, his ears, and he's at least considering going home to his car so he can warm up without having to do a walk-of-shame back inside. He's saving that for when his brother's asleep. This is roughly a minute before he notices Hank walking out in the snow. Not Hank. Not exactly. It's another android that looks like Hank, and that jolt in Connor's chest twists into a searing ache again. He's changed his mind and he's out here entirely for spite now, because his little brother must've called his bluff and rented another nanny and sent him to drag Connor home.

He's committed to that until Hank mentions the number of times Connor's tried to fight him on going to bed, and the grand total of zero times that Hank's lost this fight. Hank's very good at this. He's had to deal with a lot of rough families and teenagers. Hank remembers that because each family has a profile saved based on every visit: preferences, schedules, the kids' needs, memories... They've always been backed up. It's a business, after all. It takes Connor a few minutes to get it. He's still trying to decide if this android is real or not, let alone... his Hank. And Hank is perfectly willing to keep coming back to convince him. And he will, every time, for as long as Connor keeps a copy of his memories. ... But it is going to be after Connor is in bed. Connor's never been happier to get dragged away, kicking at this 1.98m cuddle-bear the whole time.

[ada-mike]

The Truth Always Comes Out - Digimon (Davis/Yolei)

Hey, guys, long time no see. Hope you’re all doing well, all things considered. I decided to dust off this blog and post a little FanFiction for a change! Fancy that. Why FanFiction for a fairly rare pair in a children’s cartoon from twenty years ago? Good question. I was honestly inspired by the work of a truly amazing writer @tanyatakaishi and their incredible story Innocent Games, whose sequel is currently in progress and definitely worth the read whether you’re into Digimon or not (but you should be into Digimon, i mean seriously?) But yeah, drop by and give Innocent Games a read, drop a comment and a kudo too while you’re at it. This short story I’m posting myself is so inspired by Innocent Games, it’s pretty safe to call it a FanFiction of a FanFiction, doesn’t really fit into any canon, and is just something I had rattling around my head that I needed to bang out. Please give it a read and let me know your thoughts! Stay safe, ya’ll.

- Mike

*******************************************************************************************

In hindsight, he really should have known better. Yolei had always possessed an inquisitive streak to put it lightly (whether or not the matter being investigated was her business was rarely a concern) and she was typically about as adept at snooping things out as Davis was poor at hiding them.

And really, on his laptop of all places?

Davis, along with the rest of their friends, had spent his fair share of time around – as well as inside of – computers, but regardless, they were still Yolei's domain through and through, her expertise. And as his father had once told him many years ago, during a family trip to the supermarket where Davis had denied, despite being caught, that he'd tried to shoplift a pack of gum down the front of his shorts: The truth always comes out.

His thoughts were scattered though as they stumbled through the front door and into the blackness of the dorm he shared with Ken. Yolei was strung over his back like a long-legged, lilac-haired knapsack – having mounted him during the elevator ride, laughing, the liquor in her belly turning her playful.

The haze of alcohol still hung heavy in Davis’s mind too, enough so that his legs wobbled dangerously as he carried her through the blackness to where he approximated the futon was.

“Is Ken here?” Her breath was warm in his hair and the heat climbed up his neck to settle in the tips of his ears.

“Nah,” He said. “He’s with his parents this weekend.”

“Perfect.” She purred.

Davis picked up the pace, stumbling over a pair of soccer cleats in the dark. He spun in a circle, pulling a fresh laugh from Yolei, before depositing them both on the sagging futon cushion. Yolei sat pinned behind him, a little squished, but regardless it was the perfect position to plant sloppy kisses on his exposed neck. Davis squirmed, his heart racing.

“It doesn’t smell in here, does it?” He asked.

“Only a little.”

“It’s the trash, I bet. I haven’t taken it out since Monday.” He moved to rise, but she pulled him back into her lap, near growling:

“Leave it.”

“Mmm,” He hummed. “You like the funk, huh? It sets the mood for you?”

“You’re about to ruin the mood if you don’t shut it.”

“Such a way with words, love.”

Love.

That word. It was enough to diffuse squabble that had been sparking.

Davis sunk back into her and she wrapped her arms around him, feeling up and down his chest, then down his gut. He seized one of her hands and brought it to his mouth, kissing her sharp knuckles, the pads of her fingers, her wrist. It was surprisingly tender for him.

And it drove her absolutely wild.

Her free hand had just wrapped around the buckle of his belt, when the door to the bedroom creaked open.

“Davish?”

They both flinched as tiny feet pounded on the floor, leapt, then thudded lightly on the futon by their side. Yolei reached and flicked on the lamp switch by her head.

“DemiVeemon!” Davis was grinning at the sight of his partner, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I thought you’d still be sleeping, buddy.”

“I had a dream that we were on a boat! I wanted to tell you about it!” The in-training Digimon clambered onto Yolei’s knee. “Yolei, your face is so red you look like a tomato!”

“It’s hot.” She explained. And it was, the compounding moments of passion followed by DemiVeemon’s interruption had them both sweating slightly.

“Where’s Poromon?” The Digimon asked, unperturbed. Fresh from his nap, he was ready to play.

“Um- He’s spending the night in the Digital World.” She dug her nails into Davis’s side, causing him to wince in pain, the soft touches suddenly gone. “I kind of thought you’d be there too.”

“Nope!” Chirped DemiVeemon. “But we could all go now!”

“Tomorrow, buddy.” Davis brushed his hands over DemiVeemon’s ears. Even if a trip to the Digital World could be fit into their agenda, the phantom feeling of Yolei's hands on him was fresh and that very likely meant that standing up anytime would be a bad move. “But hey, you know, I think I still have some Udon in the fridge from yesterday. Ya hungry?”

“Yes!”

As DemiVeemon scampered away, Davis sighed and lifted himself out from between Yolei’s legs so he could sit beside her.

“Sorry about that,” He settled his arms on her shoulders, leaning close. “But where were we?”

“Davis, no.” She pushed him back. “I told you that I was taking Poromon to the Digital World so we could be alone tonight. Why didn’t you do the same?”

“I was going to. I just – I dunno, felt bad about dumping him there.” Davis rubbed his nose. The alcohol's buzz was fading from him now, much too fast for his liking. “He’ll be in a food coma in twenty minutes though, I guarantee it. Then we can get back to -”

“Hold on,” Her eyes sharpened into knives behind her glasses “You think I dumped Poromon in the Digital World?”

“No, I-”

“I did not dump him,” She continued, shifting further away on the cushion as she sat up straighter. “He’s helping out in Primary Village. I’ll be there to pick him up again tomorrow.”

“I know!” Davis felt a fresh wave of heat roll up his ears, annoyed that she was picking apart his words tonight of all nights. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.”

“I have no reason to feel guilty.” She folded her arms and sank back, eyes settling on the kitchen where DemiVeemon’s ears were casting shadows up the wall from the light of the open refrigerator. “He’s fine, just – dammit, Davis.” A heavy sigh billowed her lips, then: “You and I just got back together, what? Three days ago? And between school and everything, you and I haven’t had time… We needed a night like this.”

It was true. This most recent “break” of theirs had been a rough one and longer than any previous up to now. Almost an entire two months had passed where they barely spoke a single word to each other, only interacting when strictly necessary for Digimon matters, or the occasional late-night message over their D-Terminals.

Davis slumped back too.

“Tonight was a good night.” He said lamely.

She just nodded.

They sat in silence for a minute as DemiVeemon finished rummaging for food. He eventually waddled past them back to Davis’s bedroom, a warm bowl nearly as big as he was balanced on his head. All dreams of boats forgotten for the time being. Whether or not he had heard the beginning of their spat, Davis wasn’t sure. Regardless, he now wished his partner had stayed to break some of the tension that hung heavy in the room.

What he really wanted was another drink.

What he needed to do was apologize.

Instead, he lurched forward, propping himself on one arm as he reached over Yolei. She opened her mouth, ready to rebuke him again, until he reached past her and snatched the clunky laptop that sat on the end table.

It was five pounds heavier and just as many years outdated for anything Yolei would have considered satisfactory, but Davis had got it for a good price in a resale shop and desperately needed a computer for school. He grunted as he settled back in his seat and flipped open the lid, determined to find a way to break the awkward silence.

“Can I – um, play some music?”

He was already scrolling through his rather extensive music library, not waiting for an answer, but Yolei nodded anyways.

“Just no dub-step, please for the love of God.”

He chuckled and something in her chest unwound. He eventually settled on something, and with a double-click the room was filed with smooth guitar and steady drums. They listened, Davis nodding his head in beat and Yolei watching him.

“The speakers on that thing are awful.”

“Yeah.”

The song transitioned, adding more varied guitar and aggressive vocals.

“I haven’t heard this one before.”

“Ken showed it to me.”

“It’s good.”

“Yeah.”

As the song started to fade, Davis reached, without looking, and rubbed a line up and down Yolei’s thigh. She unfolded her arms, but before she could move further towards him, he was lifting the laptop from his lap and moving it into her’s. He stood up.

“Gotta take a piss.” He muttered, trudging towards the bathroom, tripping over the same pair of cleats as he went.

Yolei watched him leave, long nails tapping on the plastic laptop chassis. After the bathroom door closed and she heard him emptying his bladder into the toilet through the thin wall, she sighed and began flicking through his music.

She had gotten a little too defensive earlier and she knew it.

The truth was, she did feel a little guilty for parting ways with her Digimon, even if it was only for a night. Despite the lack of crises in the Digital World needing their intervention, it sometimes felt like she was shirking responsibility by turning more attention to other aspects of her life.  

But she was older. She was busy – they all were.

Breaking up with Davis a few months ago had been a mistake, a rash decision after a stupid fight.

Drawing a good night out by coming home with him and arguing tonight had been a mistake. The wounds from the breakup were still fairly fresh. They couldn’t exactly just pickup where they left off.

Hell, maybe getting back together had been the mistake.

She wasn’t even reading the list of songs anymore as she scrolled. Her ring finger tapped a little too quickly on the arrow keys and the music program locked up from overestimation. Grumbling, she tapped more—even though she knew better—and the window was suddenly minimized, and then she was confronted with the egregious mess of folders on Davis’s desktop.

What immediately caught her eye was the folder labeled ‘Sexy Sexy Sexy’, and with that, any thought of innocently returning Davis’s music library vanished up in smoke.

Eyebrow quirked, she clicked and opened the oddly-named folder without hesitation. Of course she knew that most every guy had that particular folder stashed away. Having it on the desktop was definitely bold though.

What she saw though almost made her guffaw, and she struggled to steel herself.

The folder contained pictures upon pictures of different styles of ramen, most likely purloined from some high-end bistro’s online menu, judging by the nearly indecent high quality and their tiny watermarks in the corner of each. Nearly every photo was accompanied with an adjacent text document, containing what Yolei astutely guessed were Davis’s attempts at parsing out the recipe by looks alone.

This ramen folder was probably more organized and cared for than the one he used for homework, and a quick visit back to the desktop and to a directory simply dubbed ‘hw’ confirmed this.

Yolei glanced at the bathroom door. Things inside had gone silent, but if history and the number of sliders he ate at the bar were reliable indicators, Davis would probably be preoccupied for a few more minutes. She had plenty of time.

Yolei cruised through the rest of his desktop in record time, finding nothing of note outside of a few folders containing game roms, a second folder of his own home-brewed ramen recipes, and much to her surprise: an alarming amount of digitized Shoujo manga, definitely pirated. She filed that away for teasing ammunition later.

Now, to find the really good stuff.

Her practiced fingers danced over the keyboard, running a shell command to search for recently accessed items. Buried in several sub-folders was one entry that caught her eye, a single folder with a timestamp indicating it was opened just an hour or so before he’d picked her up for their date earlier that evening.

The folder was named ‘yolei’.

A swirl of emotions flooded her as she opened the file with her namesake, and she found it was a dumping ground of yet more photographs.

Instead of gratuitous snapshots of food however, they all featured her.

Yolei immediately recognized a series of selfies she’d sent him herself – some as early as when they had first started their on-again/off-again relationship years ago. It had never occurred to her that Davis would be the type to save them anywhere but his phone. It was surprisingly sentimental of him.

An image of Davis lying in his bed, clicking through and lovingly studying a slideshow of her, sprung to mind and she felt a warm swell of affection for him. She had done something similar on occasion, when their respective university work had kept them apart for multiple days on end.

There were other styles of pictures too. As she scrolled further, she found photos they had taken together at her high school graduation ceremony, shots of them at a beach trip, and one from her recent birthday where he’d tried to wrestle her face into the cake. She couldn’t help but laugh quietly.

She came to a stop at one photo in particular, the image’s age betrayed by how grainy it’s quality was.

They couldn’t have been older than thirteen. Davis was round-faced and grinning in the middle, one arm slung over Ken to his left and the other over a mildly miffed Kari. T.K. stood on Kari’s other side (Yolei had forgotten about that silly hat he used to wear) and on the opposite edge stood Yolei herself, all spindly limbs and thick, round glasses—stained brilliant white from the flash of the camera.

Their Digimon partners stood huddled around their feet and Yolei felt a fresh pang when her eyes fell on Hawkmon.

She scrolled further, perhaps more quickly than necessary, but then came to a screeching halt.

“Bastard.” She hissed, an angry blush spreading across her cheeks.

“What?” Davis had somehow exited the bathroom and was halfway back to his seat. Yolei had been so engrossed in her recent discovery she hadn’t even heard him flush.

Without missing a beat, she twirled the laptop around and pointed the screen at him accusatory.

“What the hell is this?”

To his credit, Davis had learned since the gum smuggling attempt in his youth that it was best not to lie when he’d be caught.

“Oh,” His mouth formed a perfect O-shape. Now he was blushing too. “I can explain-”

“You better!” She rattled the laptop at him, the hinge wobbling dangerously. “I told you to delete these, Davis!”

It had been her one demand when they had broken up most recently. He had listed several himself, including the unconditional return of the multiple sweater-shirts she’d swiped from his dorm. She considered this a devastating blow, as they made the perfect sleeping shirts in her opinion. But to be fair, he actually needed them more than she did, his winter wardrobe being sparse as it was.

“I did delete them!” He shot back.

“Oh—that is so obviously not true.” She flipped the laptop back around so she could look at them again. The photos were definitely there, present and accounted for, completely not deleted. Her eyes were flashing as she glared back up at him. “Why did you keep these?!”

“Look, you specifically asked me to delete from my phone,” He explained. “And that’s what I did.”

“Oh, so you thought you could keep these on a technicality, huh?”

“We’re back together now so why does it matter?” He threw his hands in the air. “They’re not even that bad of pictures.”

“They’re disgusting.”

Davis chose not to argue with that. Certainly most of the photos could be construed as less-than appealing.

His laptop currently contained the only copies in existence of seventeen candid photos of Yolei, caught in various stages of sleep, sickness, and general foulness.

It had started as kind of sweet. On one of the nights she had slept over he’d woken first, and had snapped a quick picture of her face as she slept rather serenely, messy hair splayed over his pillow. When he’d showed her the picture later, he’d called her beautiful. She made a show of rolling her eyes, but smiled and blushed all the same.

For the second photo, he’d caught her while she was trying to subtly pick her nose.

It had kind of snowballed from there.

“Why were you even going through my laptop anyways?” He demanded in turn.

“I was looking for music.” Yolei turned her nose up matter-of-factly.

“In my pictures? Yeah, Right.”

“You’re missing the point.” She waved her hand as if his words were a fly buzzing by her ears. “This is a major breach of privacy.”

“Now that, you’re right about.” He stepped forward finally and reached for his laptop, but she pulled it to her chest.

“I mean my privacy, you jackass.”

“I took those, so they’re actually mine.”

“But they’re not pictures of you, are they?” She looked down, scrutinizing one of her in an unseemly, homemade guacamole facemask, filename: ‘she-hulk’. She had seen all these pictures before at one point or another, usually accompanied with some gentle ribbing at her expense, but seeing the collage now felt entirely different. “Davis, how could I ever trust you again? You promised me that you’d get rid of these.”

She was right of course, and that caused the words to sting all the more. Davis was near a hundred percent sober now, but his vision still blurred. Hot tears of shame, and a heaping dose of frustration, pricking his eyes. He fought and managed to keep his voice level, mostly:

“Yeah, well... how am I supposed to just go around like it’s nothing when you could be sniffing through my drawers every time I turn my back?”

She didn’t have an answer for that.

A half minute passed where neither said anything. The music from the laptop was still playing passively, shuffling through Davis’s library automatically and currently playing some upbeat video game OST Yolei didn’t recognize. Eventually he moved and sank down onto the futon with her again, a few inches of space between them, and both their eyes settled on the gallery of photos still on display on the glowing screen in Yolei’s arms.

Davis remembered telling his friends oh so recently that he and Yolei were back together. Tai and Izzy had exchanged a quick glance, a silent exchange of barely-contained, mild exasperation. He imaged them placing bets on how long he and Yolei would last this time and pictured money exchanging hands when he broke the news that they were surely once again parting ways-

“That was the most sick I’d ever been in my entire life.” Yolei muttered suddenly, indicating one of the pictures. “I literally thought I was dying.”

He chuckled despite himself.

“Your nose is so red there.”

“Yeah, the tissues from I-Mart were like sandpaper. They still are.”

“Red looks good on you though.” Their eyes met then, and Davis continued quickly, stammering slightly. “I mean, not many people can pull off crimson flight pants, but- um… you did.. for years.”

Her face had an unreadable quality to it, and it seemed as if she might respond with something, but then she turned away and began scrolling through his computer again. He noticed her eyes weren’t focused though and he didn’t have it in him to try and dissuade her from searching still. There was nothing else to find anyway.

“Why do you even have this folder?” She asked, eyes forward.

He debated with himself for a few seconds, then decided on the truth.

“I like… having photos. You know, of you.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “And when we broke up last time, and you told me to delete all those ugly pics of you, I did.” Yolei’s mouth opened to object, but he continued before she could interject. “I really did. I honestly just forgot that they were on my laptop with everything else too, and when I saw them later, I just… couldn’t get rid of them.” He stared at her profile, tracing with his eyes the lines of her cheek, the bump on her nose. “I really thought this last time was the real deal.”

“Me too.”

“Do you think we should break up again?”

“I don’t know.” Even though they weren’t quite touching, Yolei felt him stiffen by her side. She closed her eyes, and said her next words to the blackness of her eyelids. “I don’t want to.”

He breathed out, the air leaving him as if released from a balloon.

“God, me neither.”

She twisted on her seat, opening her eyes to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry for looking through your laptop. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s okay.” He responded quickly.

Yolei continued anyways.

“If I’m being honest too, I was looking to see what kind of porn you had saved on here.”

“What?” Davis balked. “Seriously? Why would you think I had… that stuff… on there? I don’t even…” He shook his head, the image of incredulity. “I don’t even watch that.” Yolei watched him steadily, a single brow raised. “What? I don’t!”

“Sure. We’ll talk about that some other time.” She was only half teasing.

The promise of ‘some other time’ bolstered his spirits quickly. He eyed his laptop in her hands, suddenly loathing the pathetic thing and how he’d used it to hide away the secret vestiges of what he had once thought would be all that remained of his and Yolei’s relationship. She had owned up to her transgressions.

What he needed to do was apologize.

Standing, he pulled the laptop from her slack grip before she could argue, and looking her dead in the eyes, gripped each half of the computer and snapped it in half along the hinge. The music died with a pitiful wheeze and splinters of plastic flew everywhere, a few bouncing off Yolei’s glasses to disappear into the fibers of the rug at her feet.

“Davis!”

“I shouldn’t have kept those pictures.” He discarded the broken halves of the computer, speaking passionately. “I want us to start over fresh, okay? I don’t want any dumb secrets or anything like that to cause any problems. I want you to trust me, because I trust you – I really do.” He swallowed hard. “I still love you, Yolei.”

Her eyes shone and laughter bubbled in her throat.

“But you computer-”

“I needed a new one anyways. You can help me pick one out!”

“Yeah, but,” She wiped her eyes clear. “What about all the other pictures? My graduation, the Digimon?”

“I still have those on my phone, no worries.”

“And your homework?”

“My homework?” It took a second for Davis’s brain to catch up. His eyes passed from one broken piece of the laptop to the other, then his hands rose to bury themselves in his hair. “Oh shit, shit. My mid-term paper is saved on there...”

Yolei wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, but instead she reached out and pulled him to her. She gently unwound his fingers from his hair and twined them with hers. She kissed him and kept pulling until he was climbing onto the battered futon with her, then over her.

In the morning, she would take off the back panel of his broken computer and pull the hard drive. She’d help him recover his homework and maybe, just maybe, a couple of the more agreeable photos that she would allow him to keep.

For now though, he didn’t need any of the digital keepsakes. As far as either of them were concerned, any number of pictures paled in comparison to the real thing.

For now though, she held him close and breathed in his ear.

“I love you too.”

When DemiVeemon bounced back into the living area sometime later, he found the pair asleep and huddled under a blanket together on the futon. The small Digimon took in the mess on the floor, the couple’s mussed hair, their slow and steady breaths, chests rising as one. Of course, he had heard every word of their argument from Davis’s bedroom, but he was used to the ruckus by now and too preoccupied with his noodles to care. Anyways, no doubt there would be many such squabbles in the future for him to witness.

He decided to let them sleep for now and bounded to the kitchen in search of a mid-night snack. He would just have tell Davis about his dream some other time.