#bros just end up sitting around or hauling entire buildings

[tabieeee]

Same anon as earlier who asked about the titan trio HC, wanted to ask another question of, what do you think the titans would be doing after the war? Assuming they win and such, can't exactly go back to anything

There would probably be an attempt to make them into lil guys again but I doubt it would work

Oh man we thought about this in discord and it was saaaaad What if the titans just become idle? A living statue that waits until they're needed again, sitting in the middle of the city as life goes by them, too big to do anything. hard to do stuff when you're a weapon

Maybe they hibernate, and over years of peace they become overgrown by plantlife and every now and then somebody visits them to say hello

Until one day they are woken up because someone needs their protection once more

alternatively, the three of them hang out together and wrestle for funzies. giant mech battle show wew

[peachiimilquetea]

something angsty with tenya leaving fem reader for the event? ty! prompt: “you can’t leave me. i don’t know how to survive without you.”

“𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞. 𝐢 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮.” + tenya iida

a/n: bro… i don’t really like angst without the potential for a somewhat happy ending so i hope you’re ok with the fact that it’s not completely sad. i did pull on the heartstrings quite a bit tho, i hope you enjoy! check out the event here

contains: angst (obviously), iida being heavily influenced by his family, tensei to the rescue lowkey, crying, insecurities, mentions of alcohol, ambiguous ending, miscommunication

length: 2.0k

at first things had started off small.

iida worked long hours as the work of his brother’s hero agency fell on his shoulders. he tried his best to make time for you, but it always felt like your schedules could never line up just right.

you tried to work something out, quick calls on break times and cute messages around the house to remind you of one another, but most efforts fell flat.

then things started to get worse.

long and empty nights were spent building up resentment towards the man you had married. he was always doing something, something that took precedence over the vows you made when you walked down the isle no more than three years ago.

you knew his family didn’t like you that much, feeling that a marriage for love was a waste of such a powerful commitment. a commitment that could built them an empire, and boost the rank of their hero agency, solidifying a legacy for them.

tenya defied them for you, boldly declaring that he would marry whoever he wanted and that you were in it for the long haul. you were the girl of his dreams, he said, and anything that got in the way of his happiness was not something he would subscribe to. that only made them hate you more.

so when his texts of encouragement grew shorter and more sparse, and he began to have more special responsibilities bestowed upon him by none other than his father, you knew it was on purpose.

unfortunately, it was an effective strategy to chip away at a young and unseasoned marriage.

“tenya can you please just check your schedule? i really want to spend more time with you.”

he sighed and rubbed his temples as he sat in his office. why were you bothering him with something so insignificant? you knew how important this transition of power was for the iida family, for the legacy of ingenium, but you still persisted.

he could feel the anger beginning to build until he looked in your eyes and saw the sadness brimming in them. his heart squeezed in his chest as he watched you, his wife, plead with him to spend time together. when had things come to this?

“i’ll try my best, but i cant promise anything.”

at this point, that was better than anything you could’ve hoped for.

with a kiss to his forehead you left him alone to get the heaps of paperwork he had to do, spirits lifted at the prospect of spending time with him again. just like the way it used to be.

you checked the time on the microwave for the 9th time. fifty-seven minutes had passed and your husband was officially late.

you should have seen it coming really, empty promises were becoming more and more common amongst the two of you. he would promise to try harder and you would promise to cut him more slack, the constant push and pull never being enough for either party.

getting up from the barstool at your kitchen island you made your way to the wine cooler to get a drink. not even bothering to pick up a glass you slumped on the couch, kicking off your shoes and splaying yourself out, just wanting the cushions to swallow you whole and dull the aching in your heart.

he wasn’t coming.

he was never coming.

you laid passed out on the couch when iida finally came home 2 hours later. he was only stopping by for a quick break, then going back out on patrol and he completely forgot about the things he said, smiling through tired eyes as he thought, this time i’ll make it up to her.

at the very least he could clean you up and tuck you in. he could brace himself for the impending fight later, but he was concerned about you. you never drank, not unless there was something wrong.

iida easily hoisted you up over his shoulder, discarding the various wine bottles and taking you to your shared room, although he wasn't sure if it was still considered shared anymore.

he laid you on the bed softly, changing you into one of his old shirts. his fingers ghosted over your cheek as he watched you sleep, the reality of where he was sitting heavy on his heart.

he loved you and yet there was nothing he could do to help at this moment. he had to leave for night patrol. he had to leave you.

his gentle touches roused you from your sleep and your eyes felt heavy as you tried to blink them open.

“you came?” you breathed, voice sounding foreign even to yourself.

iida gave you a small smile, “im sorry.”

your demeanor did a 180 at his apology. he was sorry. he was always sorry. but sorry couldn’t fix this. not when it had been so broken.

you winced and sat up, “sorry for what? sorry that you broke your promise for the thousandth time or sorry that you’ve been such a shit husband for the past few months?!”

“______-”

“no tenya. you do this every single time! every time i want to spend time with you theres always something more important! what could be more important than your wife?!”

“______ you know my father-”

you laughed bitterly at the mention of his dad. he always had to be such a good little iida child, always on daddy’s beck and call. it made you sick.

“your father doesn’t even want us to be together! cant you see that he’s doing this on purpose! youre a grown man! not a child permanently tied to his mommy and daddy!” you spat

“hes giving more responsibility for the sake of the agency! for the ingenium legacy! why are you always so selfish when it comes to these things?”

“selfish? selfish?” you asked, incredulous. you couldn’t believe your ears.

“yes selfish. do you know how much i sacrificed to be with you? how much i already have on my plate on top of trying my best to make time for you?”

you stared in astonishment.

sacrifice?

what had he sacrificed for this relationship? he got to do what he wanted, come and go as he pleased with virtually no regard for how you felt or what you did. what sacrifice was there in that way of living?

“fuck you, tenya.”

tenya took a deep breath and ran his hand down his face. he chose his words carefully before finally saying, “i cant do this. im leaving.”

you could hear a pin drop in the room. you felt your blood pound in your ears as you stood up quickly, dizzy from the alcohol but still trying to process the words you had just heard.

leaving?

“youre leaving?”

“yes, i have to go. im not doing this with you, not now.”

your heart felt like it had been smashed by a sledgehammer, as you tried to regulate your breathing. leaving. he was leaving.

“w-wait,” you feebly attempted to cling onto him as he gathered a few of his things.

“tenya you cant leave me.”

“_____ i do not want to do this right now,” he sighed, easily shaking you off and moving to collect more things. his words were buzzing around on the inside of your skull. he was leaving.

leaving without so much of a second thought. he had been planning this. still unsteady on your feet you hobbled after him as quickly as possible, desperation taking over every fiber of your body. you didn't want to lose him, you just wanted your husband back, you happiness back.

“y-you cant do that! you cant leave me! i dont know how to survive without you, tenya, please-”

“_____, just go to bed. you’re drunk.”

you trailed him around the house,“no, you don’t get to decide when this is over. i'm the one whos been hurting for months you cannot just leave me by myself.”

iida spared you one last glance before grabbing his bag, “goodbye, _____”

crushed, you sank to your knees, leaning on the couch for support. you felt like you were dying., hell, you probably were dying. you had never had so much to drink in your life, and you were desperate to make the pounding pain in your chest stop.

you cried yourself to sleep that night, waking up to the sunlight coming through the window with a splitting headache. you felt like your skull was trying to crack itself open from the inside but you shakily got to your feet, remembering bits and pieces from your fight with iida.

you could tell he didn't come home last night; everything was exactly the way you had left it last night. the house alarm was still on, and his shoes were gone.

he actually left.

anger bubbled in your chest as you thought about what had actually happened. you would not let him get the last laugh, or be the last one left, the one waiting on him patiently to pick up the pieces after trying to keep it together. you would leave too, as much as it hurt, and show him just how selfish you could be.

in a flash, you haphazardly packed a bag with essentials and had texted your friends that you needed a place to stay for a few days. you didn’t get into specifics- your heart ached too much to relive the events of the previous night- but you told them you had reached your limit and you needed to take some time to cool off.

alternatively, iida did not sleep that night. after finishing patrols, he stayed at his brother’s apartment out of pure convenience, not feeling prepared to face you after everything that had transpired between the two of you.

the dark-haired man laid staring at the ceiling of tensei’s guest bedroom, wracking his brain and trying to pinpoint how things had gone south so fast. he wanted to fix things, but really didn’t know how. he couldn’t even tell you what was broken, let alone how to begin to fix them.

his brother had tried to give him advice after listening to the entire story, but there was only so much he could do. he knew that you were right, their father was keeping him from you on purpose, slowly making tenya think that he was in the right in an attempt to break you up, but he couldn't be the one to tell him.

tenya had to come to that conclusion himself. he needed to be the one to set boundaries and save your relationship, but from the looks of it, soon any attempts would be futile.

“_____? darling?” iida called as he came into your home. immediately noticing your missing shoes, he moved to the bedroom in a flash, checking to see if you had just moved them or something.

the room was a mess, drawers left open and clothing strewn across the bed and floor. the bathroom had been cleared of almost all your essentials, and a note was left on the dresser. gingerly, iida picked it up and read it, offering up a silent prayer that it didn't say what he thought it did.

i don't know when you'll see this, or if you ever will. if you're reading it, that means you came back home but you will not find me there.

im tired, tenya.

im tired of always being the one to extend the olive branch or bend over backwards for you.

i refuse to be in that position any longer. i love you… i love you so much it hurts sometimes because i know this isn't the way things were supposed to be. but you left, and so i decided to leave too.

if a way to fix things exists, i want us to find it, but right now i need some time to reevaluate us and what that means. i hope you understand, i know you will.

if you want to reach out, im open to talking about this further, but for right now i need to think.

goodbye.

--------

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Just Swimmingly ch.8 (BAON)

Summary:   It’s been a long night for everyone and dawn might be on the way, but it isn't over yet.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Established Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

If Jeff had had his way, they would have been out the door and on the way home before the second round of backup showed up, possibly with a pause for a drive thru run at taco bell for some ill-advised early morning burritos. Security would wave them out without so much as asking for a quick rundown of the evening. There would be no paperwork to fill out, no affidavits to sign, and after a lovely, long night of sleep as the little spoon in Antwan’s arms, they’d be treated to a gourmet breakfast in bed prepared by Gordon Ramsey himself.

Heck if he was gonna dream, might as well dream big.

As it turned out, he didn’t even get to step one. After the bad guys were in various stages of detained, Stretch wanted to sit down for a few minutes before heading downstairs and Jeff didn’t even consider throwing out a protest. He sat down next to his best friend who’d probably just saved his damned life again and waited, torn between trying not to think about everything that had happened or letting it loop around in his mind, so it’d be fresh when they gave their inevitable statements.

In the end, he went with a third, unexpected option: worrying about Stretch.

A minute of sitting here in this horrible building that was probably going to get a starring role in Jeff’s future nightmares, ‘to catch his breath’, he’d said, and yeah, that made some sense. After getting drugged, kidnapped, tied up, and then MacGyvering both an escape and a capture, anyone would need a breather.

Only, he and Stretch had been friends for a little while now and there was something…off. He couldn’t quite explain it. His tired smiles didn’t reach his eye lights, it didn’t make his eye sockets squinch in a skeleton Monster approximation of laugh lines. Maybe that could’ve been excused by him simply being exhausted and stressed; wasn’t like Jeff was his normal cheerful self either, plus Stretch used up a lot of magic teleporting them around, popping in and out to drop off traps while keeping a few steps ahead of the bad guys. Could’ve been, but he’d seen Stretch tired and besides, it was his understanding that if Stretch’s magic got low enough, he’d simply drop. That’s what happened way back when he’d saved all the kids when those Humans broke into New New Home. So why was it different now?

That wrong-smile was stiffly brittle, like it’d been borrowed from someone else and pasted onto Stretch’s face and Jeff didn’t like it, not one bit.

But now wasn’t exactly time for an interrogation, at least not from him. He was pretty damn sure they’d get one of those as a free bonus the minute they walked downstairs, whether they wanted it or not. So he kept quiet and sat with his friend in one of the rooms where the booby trap didn’t get set off. The tile floor was dirty but there was nothing inside but dust and some broken furniture, so they sat on the tiles anyway, leaning against the far wall where they had a good view of the door.

Honestly, as strange as it was that Stretch wanted to linger in this shithole, more surprising to him was that security was letting them instead of hustling them out the door as fast as they could.

That had been quite a moment. They’d still been in the hallway with one guy gagging and the other pinned to the floor in a cage of glowing blue bones that Stretch summoned up from nowhere when Red showed up, not shortcutting in, but hauling ass from the stairwell and that’d been a sight in and of itself. As far as he knew, Red never went above a pace of a casual mosey but there was no drag in his feet this time as he tore his way around the landing. He walked towards them like he’d been taking lessons from Arnold Schwarzenegger, boots heels clacking loudly on the tile floor.

“let go, honey bun, i got ‘im,” Red said. Stretch didn’t look at him, those bones not so much as wavering and he spoke again, a little louder, sharp and short, “brother, let him go. let me take him out.”

Stretch jerked as if he’d been pinched. He looked at Red, orange-tinted eyelights swinging towards him, but almost immediately he flinched, turning away. As the cage of bones faded, a crowd of guys in Embassy Security uniforms swarmed up the stairs behind them, all moving as Red barked out orders. The bad guys were gone in a flash, hauled out in cringing silence, and only when they were mostly alone did Red speak again.

“you two okay?” Red asked them bluntly. “do we need to get the medics up here? talk to me, no bullshit right now, i ain’t in no mood to interpret.”

“we’re not hurt,” Stretch said. He’d wrapped his arms around himself, gripping his elbows, and his gaze was on the floor. Jeff nodded in agreement, only to blink as Stretch added, tightly, “i need a few minutes before i can go downstairs, red.”

Red’s sockets narrowed and he nodded slowly. “take all the time you need, honey bun.” His gaze shifted to Jeff and he nearly flinched himself from that piercing stare. It felt as if Red were looking through him, staring right into his little green soul. “what about you, handy andy? stayin’ or goin’? i figure your honey should be here in about fifteen, but you can wait in one of the cars downstairs if you wanna.”

Jeff never hesitated, “I’ll wait here.”

One corner of Red��s mouth rose in a brief smirk. “figured. okay, come on, in here.” He ducked into an empty room, sidestepping the little pile of trash that concealed what Stretch had called a ‘ketchup and mustard gas trap’ in honor of his twin bros from another ‘verse. All Jeff knew was he’d been ordered not to breathe while Stretch mixed some red powder and a yellow liquid together into an old soda can as a special surprise for the asshole du jour of the evening.

“stay here,” Red ordered. “i’ll tell the rabble to keep out.” He hesitated, his tongue flicking over his teeth and if it were anyone else, Jeff would say he was almost nervous. “my bro is on his way. telling ya right now, i ain’t gonna be able to keep him downstairs without collateral damage.”

“no, don’t stop him.” Stretch sank down to the floor in a noodly way that was impressive for a guy made entirely of bones, leaning against the wall. “it won’t hurt. send him up, i’ve already seen it all, a long time ago.”

Red’s expression twisted in a complex grimace. “sorry to hear that.”

Stretch made a sound that was almost amused. “don’t be. i still fell in love with him, didn’t i.” He let his skull fall back against the wall with a light thunk, closing his sockets. Red paused at the trap, dismantling it with expertise that shouldn’t have been a surprise. He paused, the rigged soda can in hand, when Stretch said, softly, “red? thanks.”

“not a problem, honey bun.” There was a certain unexpected gentleness in those words. “take a breather, yeah?”

Stretch nodded tiredly and that was it. Red left and they’d been sitting for close to fifteen minutes now without speaking. Take a breather, right, and Jeff didn’t pretend to be some kind of espionage genius, but he knew doublespeak when he heard it. There was some kind of understanding between Red and Stretch that they didn’t want to say aloud.

And honestly? Jeff didn’t care. Let them keep their secrets, he had an inkling of what his friends had been through in the past, his morbid curiosity wasn’t worth making them relive it. All he wanted was to make sure Stretch was okay now. He shifted a little closer and Stretch didn’t move, didn’t even seem like he’d noticed.

“Stretch,” he asked cautiously, hesitating. Stretch could be awfully prickly when it came to his health and surely Red wouldn’t have left if he’d thought Stretch was in any danger, but still. He had to ask. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“yep,” Stretch said immediately. “just need to catch my breath.” It should have been true, it probably was, but still. Something rang a little false there and Jeff wasn’t sure what.

He didn’t have time to think about it for much longer. This whole building echoed like an empty airplane hanger and he could hear someone coming up the stairs very fast. It was only seconds later that Blue came flying in through the door. As far as Jeff knew, he couldn’t teleport, but he sure didn’t seem like his feet ever touched the ground as he sailed over right into Stretch’s lap. Buried his rounded face into the thin t-shirt they’d been forced to wear, and his shoulders were shaking before Stretch could even get an arm around him.

“hey, shh, it’s okay.” A brother in the lap was finally enough to get Stretch moving. He pulled his brother in close, resting his cheekbone on top of his skull as he murmured a soft litany of comforting words. Whatever Blue was saying was muffled into Stretch’s ribcage. Not that it mattered, his brother seemed to understand, sibling-speak a power all its own, and held him tighter, still whispering that it was all right, he was fine, he really was.

Jeff was so focused on that first happy reunion that he didn’t notice someone new in the doorway. Until he glanced up and his eyes snagged on a face he’d wanted to see for hours and feared he never would again. Antwan stood there, more rumpled and haggard than Jeff had ever seen him, and he was the most wonderful thing Jeff had ever seen.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, he only stood there staring with dark, unreadable eyes.

“Hi, honey, I’m home,” Jeff said. His first impulse of delight wavered, and he laughed nervously, wetting his lips, “Okay, not exactly home, but it’s still pretty damn good to see you.”

Antwan still didn’t say anything. He only stood there, staring, and Jeff’s grin was starting to falter when he abruptly walked into the room. Not so much as glancing around, his eyes entirely for Jeff as he all but fell to his knees and pulled Jeff into a tight hug. Blunt fingertips dug into Jeff’s back as if sink directly into him. His shoulders were shaking, his breath hitching, and he made a faint, shuddery sound, almost a broken sob.

“Oh, don’t,” Jeff said softly, close to tears of his own. He settled a hand on Antwan’s head, petting his short hair and painful as this was, he couldn’t remember any time he’d ever felt as loved as he did right now. Not his own family, not any lover he’d had before. There was only Antwan holding him so tightly his ribs ached, warm dampness starting to flow where his face was buried against Jeff’s neck.

More than any comfort for himself, he wanted to hold Antwan close and offer what he could to him. Under his tentative hands, Antwan felt chilly even though it wasn’t a cold night and Jeff spread his fingers wide as if he could warm him that way. Maybe he did, Antwan slowly stopped shivering as he petted and soothed. He leaned heavily against Jeff and they would have sprawled on the floor if the wall weren’t propping them up.

Jeff absently noticed Edge coming in, couldn’t spare a hand to wave at him, but he figured it didn’t matter. Edge only had eye lights for Stretch and that was just fine.

Long moments passed before Antwan finally lifted his head. His eyes were reddened, his lashes matted and damp. “You’re all right?” Antwan asked hoarsely. “They didn’t hurt you?”

All right was a little subjective right now, so Jeff went with as much truth as he could. “I’m not hurt, they barely pushed us around. Not a scratch or a bruise on me.”

That answer didn’t seem to satisfy. Antwan scowled and plucked at the crappy shirt Jeff was wearing, the one those assholes forced him to put on. He started to speak, broke off, ducked his head and tried again, but whatever words he was trying for didn’t seem to be coming.

It was so bizarre to see him this way. Antwan, who was never hesitant. He was always decisive, whether it was in a courtroom or what restaurant they were going to that night. It was one of the things Jeff loved most about Antwan; left to his own devices, he’d end up spending an hour trying to choose between Italian and Chinese takeout and still end flipping a coin.

Not Antwan. He came in and took control, knew what he wanted and how to make it happen, and he damn well did it. He was a little like Edge in that, the two of them were pretty damn formidable when they did couple’s nights.

Today his tight control seemed to have abandoned him. He’d given up on speaking and now his lips were pressed tightly together, his whole face scrunching up as if trying to keep something from exploding out.

That was worrisome and not only because he was afraid Antwan might be a little nauseous, who knew what shortcuts he’d been dragged on tonight. As much as he loved him, having his boyfriend puke in his lap would be the worst way to end this night and, cautiously, Jeff asked. “Are you okay?”

What finally burst out was about the last thing he’d ever expected, a blurt of words crammed together into not a question, but a demand. “Marry me!”

“Uh…” That wasn’t anywhere on the list of his expectations. In his arms, Antwan shifted restlessly, like he wanted to stand and pace, but didn’t want to let Jeff go.

“This was supposed to be romantic,” Antwan said and his voice sounded like every word pained him, the entire glut escaping him without so much as a breath or a pause. “I had a plan, I have a ring. I was going to take you to dinner at the most expensive place in town and propose by the fountains. We can still do that, I want to do that, but I can’t wait, I can’t.” He shifted his grip to Jeff’s shoulders, giving him a little shake like a punctuation, his face inches away. He was beautiful this close, his dark eyes all but glowing as if he’d picked up the trick from one of the local skeletons. “Edge tried to warn me, he told me time passes too fast, he told me to step up and I didn’t.”

“Yes.”

Antwan didn’t seem to hear, still talking in an endless rush, “When Red came and got me, I died inside, all I could think was that I’d waited too long and lost you because I was a coward, I was an asshole, and I need you—”

“Yes.”

He plowed on like a semi without brakes, rolling over everything in its path. “We don’t have to get married right away if you don’t want, but you should move into my place completely. No more stuff at Blue’s, we’ll get the rest of it tomorrow. No, wait, you should rest tomorrow, you’ve been through a traumatic experience, we can do it the day after. We can do it whenever I can stand to let you go, I can’t, I—"

The rest of the words were stifled under Jeff’s mouth, a firm kiss ending that outpour. His mouth froze, meeting that kiss hesitantly at first then with increasing fervency, and it was warm and wet and wonderful, perfect, so perfect, every word Jeff could manage to shake out of his mental thesaurus.

Antwan groaned into his mouth, shuddering when Jeff broke it and drew away, but he didn’t go far. He leaned back enough to look Antwan directly into those beautiful eyes as he said clearly, “Yes, I will marry you.”

“You will?” Antwan parroted dumbly, then again, louder, “You will. You will!”

He sounded, Jeff thought fondly, as if he were he were trying to convince Jeff as much as himself. Not exactly the way he’d dreamed of getting a proposal and, yeah, there was something to be said for romance, but sitting here on this dirty floor in his ugly-ass kidnapping outfit, he sure didn’t doubt Antwan’s sincerity. His chest ached with love for this wonderful, crazy man and it was only when he heard a heartfelt sigh behind him that he remembered they weren’t alone.

He turned to see the three skeletons in the room were watching with varying degrees of interest. It looked as if Edge pulled Stretch into his own lap and brought Blue along for the ride, making the skeleton stack three deep. It did not escape his notice that Edge holding onto Stretch like he was never going to let go. As fastidious as Edge could be, he only sat there on the dirty floor with him, holding Stretch like he was the most precious thing in the world which, yeah, okay, he was, to Edge.

And it sure as hell didn’t escape his notice Stretch and Blue’s eyes lights were morphed into bright little hearts, both of them watching as if their favorite daytime soap opera couple finally got together in the season finale.

Jeff only grinned, barely embarrassed. He couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather have as an audience.

That impulse lasted about as long as it took Stretch to open his mouth. “’bout time, antwan, i was starting to think you’d never cowboy up and ask.”

“Shut up,” Antwan said automatically. Some of his normal sass must be rebooting. “I heard how you proposed, it was more like a train wreck than a question. Red bitched for a week about how much cash you lost him.”

“gonna bitch some more this time,” Stretch said, cheerily unoffended. “i got a twenty coming my way.”

“I have fifty,” Blue piped up. He clapped his hands together. “This is so wonderful! We need to have a party, we need to make plans—”

“We need to do a great deal,” Edge interrupted, not unkindly. “To begin with, let’s go home, shall we?”

Stretch must’ve finally breathed enough. He nodded and said, “yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here—whoa!"

Edge barely paused to nudge Blue to his feet before he stood, Stretch in his arms as he strode briskly to the door, “babe, no, your leg!”

His voice dwindled before Jeff could hear the rest of his protest. Blue followed them out, not without a last fond backwards glance, and left them alone.

Jeff smiled at his boyfriend, no, his fiancé and he’d never expected to be able to say that, never dared dream, and now it was his, no take backises from the universe, not this time. Politely, he asked, “you wanna get the fuck out of here?”

“Yes,” Antwan said firmly and Jeff let out a squeak of his own as he was suddenly lifted into Antwan’s arms, held close as he was carried out the door. Unlike Stretch, Jeff wasn’t about to offer a single protest. He only slipped his arms around Antwan’s neck and held on.

He’d let Antwan carry him to hell and back if needs be, but for right now, all he wanted was for his love to take him home.

tbc

[aforrestofstuff]

What's the heroes' morning routine to start their day before going to work? Or their night routine before they're going to sleep? (And here is sprinkle of positivity vibes for you today: 😊😉👌💕💞💗💓💝💝💖💖🌟✨🍀🍀🍀🍀💐💐 Have a nice day! ❤)

Thanks for the request, anon! ❤️❤️ sorry this took me so long to get to, hope you’re still around!

Tornado of Terror: I’ve said in a previous hc that she sleep-levitates and wakes up in the weirdest places. So, she’d probably spend 10 straight minutes prying herself out of her bathtub or some shit with hella cramps. After that, she’d spam Fubuki over text message, asking her how to make a cup of coffee for the 57th time, then manage to burn it anyway, and finally go to work salty as fuck.

Silverfang: Wakes up at the crack of dawn, mediates next to a waterfall or some shit, broods over Garou, and makes himself a nice breakfast with a cup of tea. After that, he drags Charanko’s ass up the mountain to do some training, meditate some more, drink more tea, and around then it’s gonna be like 9 AM, so he’d probably just go the fuck back to sleep for a quick nap before actually going to work. Look, he’s old. Let him vibe.

Atomic Samurai: Also wakes the fuck up at the crack of dawn and proceeds to freeload a breakfast off of Iaian, wash it down with some alcohol at 6 in the AM, and complain about the weather. Then, he’d probably run over some sorta training routine with his disciples before doing group meditation and finally, finish it off with another drink. His tolerance is so damn high at this point. He shows up to work while pretending he wasn’t ten seconds away from getting wasted that morning.

Child Emperor: Wakes up rather early (if he even slept at all), runs diagnostics on all of his machinery, does tests on his latest weapons, takes 7 decontamination showers, and then makes himself a hearty breakfast consisting of Froot Loops and choccy milk. He shows up to work early and energized, running solely on his 87th lollipop and the single shot of espresso he had that morning. If it’s a weekday, he’d wait off on going to Association headquarters and teach a few classes at the local university instead. He’d then go to work in the middle of the day, grading papers and dying internally at the dumb shit his students say. He keeps a mental tally of how many people forget to write their names on their assignments. He’s suffering.

Metal Knight: Upon slapping the shit out of his alarm clock, he rolls out of bed and commands one of his bitchbots to make a Michelin-Star quality breakfast for him, then proceeds to stalk to the bathroom. He doesn’t shave or shower. He just takes a 45-minute shit because he’s forced himself to go to the bathroom once a day to “save time” when it, in fact, does not save time. After that, he takes a decontamination shower before entering his lab (also another 45 minutes because he’d spend the whole time je— nevermind) and doesn’t show up to work at all because he’s a little bitchboy hellbent on building Skynet in his mom’s basement.

King: Wakes up, cries, plays video games, cries some more, eats some cereal, takes a shower, cries, calls Saitama over, plays video games, Saitama leaves, cries. Then, he’ll show up to work for a single meeting at 4 PM just so everyone knows he isn’t dead, have an anxiety attack, go home, and then cry (while having another anxiety attack). After that, he’ll play video games until 3 AM. Rinse and repeat.

Zombieman: He’ll wake up at 3 AM and then sarcastically open his blinds like “oh wow, what a beautiful morning”. He’ll make himself a hearty breakfast consisting of leftovers, some protein pills, and half a pack of cigarettes. Next, he’ll shower, shave, and do some routine vigilante detective work out in the town before coming back home just as the sun is beginning to rise. After that, he’ll take a thirty second nap and walk his ass to work (because his car has been in the shop for like, seven years) so he can vibe for 3 hours before throwing in the towel and isolating himself for the remainder 18 hours of the day because depression.

Drive Knight: he sleeps plugged into the wall like a Samsung. Either that, or he’s solar-powered.... or maybe he runs on AAAs. I don’t know, but his ass ain’t waking up like everyone else. He’d power on, do some routine checkups on his laboratory or whatever the fuck he’s got going on, and then show up to work for 3 seconds only to dip the fuck back out and go poach some endangered monster species for his collection or some shit. Look, he’s a robot.

Pig God: wakes up at 10 AM like a king and eats a small breakfast consisting of three rotisserie chickens, a whole pot of rice, 57 eggs, and a cool glass of milk (because calcium is important, kids). He’d spend 4 hours on the internet before he gets hungry and decides to go outside, stopping to casually devour an entire species of demon-threat monsters in the middle of the street while simultaneously traumatizing every single child living in a 3-mile radius in the process of doing so. After that, he’d do some hero work for like 30 minutes (and somehow eat like, 200 living things in that timeframe), go back home, and then indulge himself in a 17-hour food coma. He’s earned it.

Superalloy Darkshine: Homie wakes up at 5 AM, works out for two hours, takes a shower, and eats a breakfast big enough to feed a small family of 19. After terrorizing every health expert in the country with his buckwild diet (ironic considering Pig God exists), he hits up his bro Tanktop Master for another 2-hour workout. He then proceeds to take 3 seconds getting dressed in his hero uniform because it’s literally just a thong, and goes to work for a full 8 hours because he’s a good boi who takes his job seriously and genuinely wants to make the world a better place. :)

Watchdog Man: wakes up, pisses on a fire hydrant, eats dog kibble, sits on his pedestal in city Q, and then gets dressed.

Flashy Flash: wakes up in a forest somewhere because he’s probably homeless. The local birds flock around him and sing a morning song. He feeds a baby deer like a Disney princess. Then, he bathes in a waterfall and spends two hours doing his hair. After that, he buys himself a fucking bagel and takes his ass to work smelling like the inside of a Cabella’s. He vibes at HQ for like, 30 minutes, before traveling 500 miles away on his 57th quest for revenge and ends up breaking a record for “most homicides committed by a hero” on the way there.

Genos: wakes up, makes breakfast for Saitama, takes a shower, and spends half an hour doing chores while Saitama bums around with a yolk stain on his pajamas. Then, he’d hit up the professor for any news about upgrades, and go on about his day handing out justice as he sees fit until Saitama suddenly gets the urge to go buy some cabbage. It’ll be another 2 hours of walking around the inside of a grocery store while holding 2 grams of food (because it’s all Saitama could afford, broke ass) before he actually goes to hero HQ for a single meeting (while Saitama tags along), and then slaughter 87 monsters on his way home.

Metal Bat: wakes up at 6 AM because it takes him 8 years to do his hair. He’d wake up Zenko about an hour later and tell her to get ready for school while he hauls ass downstairs to make breakfast (burnt toast and 8 Flinstone vitamins). They walk to Zenko’s school together. He takes ten minutes to shower her with love, and then he turns back around to walk to his own school only to show up like, 45-minutes late to his first class. He only attends hero meetings on weekends because A. Homework and B. He doesn’t give enough of a shit to juggle official hero business and school in the same day (unless it consists of a monster/criminal [or 12] in need of a beating).

Tanktop Master: same as Superalloy. He wakes up at dawn, works out, eats enough to feed a small army, and then calls his actual army over for a meeting. He and the gang discuss ways to better represent the Tanktop ideology over tea, while also sharing workout tips and just having a good time together in general. Around then it’ll probably be 8 or 9 AM, so he’d join Superalloy at Hero HQ and do hero work for the rest of the day alongside his homies. He’s living the life, honestly.

Puri-Puri Prisoner: he’s in prison so he’d wake up at 8 AM on the clock every day, eat his nasty-ass breakfast (although, I’ve said in a previous headcanon that he gets special meals prepared for him on account of being a literal superhero, but I digress), and then he works out in the courtyard for a good hour before going to work in the cafeteria for 3 bucks a day (or the yen equivalent). During visiting hours, he and his boyfriend are inseparable. They’d make some crafts together, gossip, and just hang out. If there’s a threat in the area, Puri will waste no time busting himself out and hugging that shit to death. A true icon.

Amai Mask: he either wakes up at 10 AM or 2 PM every day, there’s no in-between. He’d spend his morning doing every self-care routine under the sun: taking a warm bath, doing a face mask, eating a good breakfast (prepared by his own personal chef, of course), listening to an audio book, you name it. If he has a concert that night, he’d spend the entire day surrounded by people as he gets ready/rehearses/prepares. If not, he’ll just patrol the streets, handing out autographs and some slices of justice. He wouldn’t really show up to any meetings or do official hero business at HQ unless he’s in the mood to cuss out Sekingar and Sitch over some stupid shit or insert himself in S-Class business.

Iaian: wakes up earlier than any of the other disciples and Atomic Samurai because he’s like, responsible or whatever. He meditates, showers, does his own personal routine, and then kicks everyone out of bed for breakfast like an angry suburban mom. After that, he’d participate in everyone’s routine training, and then take his ass to work while showing up to every meeting at HQ (sometimes tagging along with Kami) because he’s a good boi and he has no problem engaging in business. :)

Okamaitachi: She sometimes wakes up with Iaian, but sleeps in most of the time because she needs her beauty rest, obviously. After breakfast and participating in everyone’s training routine, she’d do her hair/makeup and go do her own hero work the majority of the time. She’d sometimes tag along with Iaian, but she prefers to go on her own every so often. If she has some extra time before breakfast, she’ll also do a face mask or catch up on her favorite soap operas.

Bushidrill: this motherfucker sleeps like a log and Iaian wants to kill him for it. He wakes up like, 2 seconds before breakfast and hasn’t shaven in a month. Still, somehow, he manages to get ready in time for training without Kami trying to assault him for being a doofus.

Fubuki: She wakes up hella early and texts her herd of hooligans the daily plan before dealing with Tatsumaki’s shit over the phone. Then, she showers, does her hair, and takes fifteen minutes to get her makeup done right. It doesn’t take her long to plan out her outfit because she has like, 87 black dresses. After an actual hearty breakfast (unlike the rest of these clowns) that she makes herself, she meets up with the blizzard group to discuss business and engage in hero work together as a ✨team✨. She never gets asked to participate in official business by HQ because Tatsumaki strictly forbids it.

Saitama: he brushes his hair and sits on his ass all day.

Mumen Rider: wakes up at dawn, feeds the cats outside, eats a good-ass breakfast (despite being poor, because he’s actually really good at budgeting), and goes out for a nice, morning patrol. He’ll also call his mom and make sure she’s having a good time because that’s important. If it’s not a busy day, he’ll go to the gym and treat himself to some time at the park afterwards. If there’s monsters all about, he’ll spend the rest of the day in the hospital after getting his shit rocked for the 300th time that week. They’ve basically got a bed reserved for him at this point. He’s so pure but so, so selfless. And a little dumb. But mostly selfless.

[eat0crow]

Cliche but can I request flower shop owner Marinette with gang boi Jason?

Dear sweet Anon, you have no idea how weak I am for cliche tropes. I took some liberties here seeing as Red Hood is already a sorta gang leader and just used that! I hope you like my rambly headcanons! I had so many ideas for this au that I really had to try to hold back.

Ground Zero

1) There’s a flower shop right on the edge of Jason’s territory that’s essentially become an urban legend.

No one is actually sure how exactly it’s still standing, it borders two rival gangs, Red Robin’s usual patrol route, and Jason’s terf. There have been at least three gang wars raging on the same street, yet still Miraculous stands as the one neutral spot in all of Gotham. It’s a cute shop, don’t get Jason wrong, but the only miraculous thing about it is that no one has even tried to claim it.

He brings it up once, the keyword once. Because the shop has stood as neutral ground for at least a century, and no one wants to be the one to break that streak. The shop is also cursed apparently, or at least protected by some malevolent force. The building lost a shingle once in the ’80s to a member of the False Facers, and the very next day saw Gotham PD hauling in at least two-thirds of the Black Mask’s operation.

Which is probably exaggerated, right? None of the minor drug lords under Jason want to get into it. The Black Mask doesn’t want to get into it. (He clams up the moment Jason tells him the shop re-opened, apparently, it had closed a year after the shingle incident)

Miraculous, as well as the parking lot it sits on, is the ground zero of Gotham. No crime goes into the lot, no crime goes out. The pots are never tipped over, no one tries to steal even a single rose from the display. No one touches the cute building, even if it’s painted an obnoxious pastel pink that stands out like a sore thumb in the Gotham night. At least, as far as everyone knows—Jason is still kinda skeptical about that. Really, it’s the perfect set up for a smuggling ring.

Tim is there sometimes as Red Robin. All the time really, at least twice a week. Jason has caught him more than once staked out with a pair of binoculars in the windows. A couple of times he even catches him helping the clerk repot plants. Which, yeah, Jason’s met Tim a time or two, he doesn't make a habit of sticking around his family, but the kid never came off as the gardening type.

It’s especially funny though, to see the pictures of Red Robin in a pink apron behind the counter trending on twitter.

He’s tried to go in a handful of times, to offer the owner his protection and whatnot. But each time he tries he forgets what he’s doing before he even turns the handle. Whoever runs this place must have the best luck in the world because this shit has been happening since it was built.

You’re a wayward gang member attempting to talk to the owner, you end up forgetting what you’re doing mid-action, and only start to remember five days later. The building is damaged, so is whatever scheme you’ve been planning. Actually in the shop when you decide to talk business, nope, it’s time for the most inconvenient phone call of your life.

“Why Dick, did you have to call me? I was so close.”

“Jason, are you crying?”

“I finally made it into the door. I’ve been trying for months to get in. But no, your ass gets stuck in your suit, and suddenly it’s time to call Jason. Nope, lose my number.”

2) Apparently everyone, including the fucking demon spawn, has been to Miraculous.

They all get kind of quiet when he brings it up though, Alfred actually leaves the room. Jason may have issues with Bruce, and Dick, and Tim, and don’t even get him started on Damian, but Alfred’s always been the neutral party for them. He’s always been the one they go to, no matter what. Upsetting Alfred is a capital offense. Jason feels...shitty about it.

“Alfred used to go, and get a bouquet there every weak after you died,” Dick tells him, folding his hands together, and settling in. Tim looks uneasy, and far more awkward than usual—which is saying something. “He’d get some white lilies to put on your grave. I went with him a few times, but he hasn’t been back since. I think the shop reminds him of it. When you were...you know.”

“Oh.” Jason really feels like an asshole.

“Yeah, I can’t say I’ve been back either.” Dick rubs the back of his neck like he’s admitting to something secret. “It used to be on my patrol route, back when I was first Robin. It always used to creep me out so I'd avoid it.”

“Really, Grayson,” Damian says with the same air of condescending superiority he always has.

“Hey, back in those days it was an abandoned building. The one that the witch owned! I don’t know about you, but I don’t fuck with witches. No thank you! I like my limbs.”

Jason might actually remember something like that, it’s hard. Like all the memories from before are hard, but he thinks back to being a kid. To growing up in a scummy neighborhood, and hearing people talk about the witching house that no one was allowed near. The one spot Squatters and Junkies, no matter how desperate, wouldn’t step foot in.

“It’s not all that bad,” Tim says. “My mom remembered when it was open the first time around. Mr. Fu was really nice, he used to let her play in the pots.”

“That aside,” Dick says fixing Jason with a half-crazed look. “It re-opened like a month after you died, so yeah, I went there with Alfred a lot. Like once a month a lot. The shop has this thing. You go in, and you’re instantly wrapped up in this nostalgic warm-fuzzy-reliving-my-childhood feeling. It’s weird.”

Tim stares. “I think that’s a you problem. I go in all the time, and yeah, the shop has a nice vibe, but it’s more like a you’re-safe-here thing.”

“You’re both, as usual, utterly wrong.” Damian sniffs. “If anything, the shop feels like coming home.”

The entire table turns to stare at him with wide unbelieving eye’s. Jason can hardly believe his ears...did Damian really just say something like that. The shocked look on even Dick’s face goes a long way in saying just how much no one can believe something so well adjusted came out of the demon spawn’s mouth.

Damian’s blush is priceless, his stutter—yes it’s a stutter no matter how much he denies it—is even better. “I mean to say. It feels familiar. The shop, you walk in, even for the first time, and you feel like you’ve walked through the door hundreds of times.”

Which, huh, because. “I always thought it felt like a warning. You step one foot onto the lot, and it feels like the walls themselves are daring you to start shit.”

3) Despite the hype that's built up around Jason going in, his first visit—No, Marinette that one didn’t count I literally just turned the door handle—is really anticlimactic.

It works like this, Roy asks him to pick up flowers, because Valentine's Day is today, and Kori will know what he's doing the second he tries to make up some lame excuse. Jason will never know how the man could ever be such a bad liar. As far as Kori knows, Jason is doing a typical supply run. Which, he is doing a supply run, even if the thought of cheesy romantic comedy cliches makes him sick.

All the same, Jason takes his role as best bro seriously, even though he has doubts about being able to complete this task. If his previous 52 failures are anything to go by, Miraculous hates him. There are only so many times a man can get maimed before he comes to the conclusion that the building itself has it out for him.

The hornets were what sold him. Not the bees, the hornets.

So with the air of a man who has just been sent out to war, Jason puts on this thickest jacket, his gloves, leaves his phone behind—even if attempt 34 taught him that was a really stupid idea—and braces himself to step inside. Maybe it’s because this is the first time Jason has gone into the flower shop for actual flowers. Maybe his luck is improving. Maybe...maybe the universe is setting him up for something even worse. Either way, it’s the first time the hair on the back of his neck doesn’t stand up the moment his foot hits the floor.

The girl at the counter is cute, just around his age with the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. That says something, because Jason has met Superman. That man's eyes are literally otherworldly. But Marinette’s, Jason has a suspicion this is the Mari Tim is always talking about, her eyes look like they’re glowing.

Jason realizes he’s been standing in the doorway staring, way too hard, when Marinette, that’s what her name tags says, clears her throat. With an air of confidence—Jason is a firm believer in the inherent power of bull shitting your way to success—he walks up to the counter.

“I’m looking for a bouquet,” Her stare is piercing and Jason swears it burns all the way down to his soul. “For Valentine's day. One with roses, and all that shit.”

Marinette huffs, and points to a depressingly empty display shelf. “You, and just about everyone else. Did you place an order?”

“Did I place an..” Jason trails off under his breath. “Please tell me you have something with the name Roy Harper in your registry.”

Marinette takes a moment to glance down, to ruffle through her papers. “I’m sorry, I only have one left, and its got the last name Grayson on it.”

Jason sees his life flash devastatingly fast across his eyes. It ends with him being torn to shreds by one of Roy’s homemade bombs when he comes back empty-handed. There won’t even be enough of him left to throw in a Lazarus pit. Nope, he’ll be sidewalk chalk.

So really he feels no guilt in fleshing his most charming smile, the one that always makes the old ladies coo, and saying. “Perfect, I’m here to pick that one up.”

Marinette takes one look at him draped over the counter, and bursts out laughing. Today is not a good day for Jason’s ego. “I thought you were Roy Harper.”

“No, I’m Dick Grayson.” The words are bitter in his mouth. “But the bouquet is for my friend, and I wasn’t sure what name he put it under.”

“Oh,” Marinette says, a smirk playing across her lips. “You think I was born yesterday. Sorry hon, but you’re not an alternative pick up, and I'll need to see some ID.”

“You expect me to show ID for flowers?..... Really?”

“Yes, I expect you to show ID when you’ve given me two different names, and those flowers are worth over a hundred dollars,” Marinette bites back. “Sorry, but that’s been paid in full, and I’m not going to lose a customer.”

“Okay,” Jason says, taking two crisp bills out of his wallet. It hurts because Roy gave him a twenty, and Jason will always be a cheap bastard at heart. Nevertheless, he likes Kori, she deserves this, even if Roy, who will be begging for mercy later, does not. He has to very consciously remove his hand after sliding them over. The urge to snatch them back is strong. “Listen, I really need that fucking bouquet. I am prepared to pay you double the price Grayson paid.”

Marinette actually looks offended. “Just because everyone else in this city is okay with being bribed doesn’t mean I am. You can keep your money.”

“Everyone has a price.” Jason gives her a look. “Name it.”

“Well, I don’t,” Marinette snaps, reaching down for her phone. “You can take your money, and fuck off. Before I get Red Robin over here to flush you out.”

“And here I was, thinking this was neutral territory.”

“It is.” Marinette stiffens. “This place isn’t under Red Robin’s protection, but he’s still my friend. I won’t hesitate to get him over here.”

“How about this then. The bouquet for protection. I can get Red Hood to claim this place.”

“What part of neutral didn’t you get?” Marinette asks, leaning over the counter and getting into his space. From here, just inches apart, her eyes are iridescent. Blue light toxically dripping out of a cracked glow stick. “Miraculous doesn’t get involved in your shit. You all want to wage war on each other? You want to pedal drugs? You want to smuggle shit? That’s cool, but you keep that away from my fucking shop. Miraculous doesn't get involved, you can all kill each other outside.”

She’s kind of terrifying up close. If Jason wasn’t convinced she would disembowel him, he’d be tempted to kiss her. Consent, however, is sexy as fuck.

Jason knows when he’s fighting a losing battle. “Is there any way. Anyway in hell, that I can get my hands on those fucking flowers?”

“Yeah,” Marinette says sitting back down. “You can call Grayson, and have him give them to you. But aside from that, I’ve seen a lot of shit. Sorry buddy, but you can’t buy me or scare me into anything.”

“I’ll call the sorry bastard up right now.”

“I’m not giving you his number.”

“I don’t need you to give me his number, I have it right…” Jason trails off, suddenly he remembers leaving his phone behind.

4) Jason is a petty asshole who has learned that the secret to getting into the flower shop is to think flowers.

Listen, Jason had to make do with drugstore flowers, and Roy’s disappointed puppy eyes for a month after being kicked out on his ass. To add insult to injury, Tim tracked him down two days later, as he was mid drug bust, to tell him to stay away from Marinette.

Okay, it’s not like he hadn’t already been planning to go back, frankly, the shop is a strategic masterpiece. Half of its cred as an urban legend comes from the fact that whoever claimed it would be given an instant power-up. It’s the One Ring to rule them all. Jason has to go back, and convince Marinette that the Red Hood is the one to ally with. He has to.

So yeah he’s going to go back anyway, but now he really wants to. Because Tim, his replacement, dared him. Maybe a bigger person would back down, what with all the external forces building up around the shop, the legend, the neutrality, the many failed attempts, Tim somehow having a vested interest…well, Jason has never been the bigger person.

Not by a long shot.

The first three times he attempts to return, Marinette meets him at the door. She’s quick about flipping the sign from open to closed. Jason, the first time, had tried turning the handle, whatever magic makes that building hate him, makes it lock up the second the sign changes. It’s not Marinette, Jason watched her. Her hands never touched the lock.

The first person he complains to is Roy, of course, who actually gives him the idea. Roy is a genius sometimes. So attempt four ends with him buying a single sunflower. It’s gaudy as all hell, and also the first thing his hand touched after he spent an hour trying to get Marinette’s attention.

She apparently will only talk to him in the brief thirty seconds she spends cashing him out. Which, yeah, that’s fair.

And so it begins. Every day except Tuesday, the only day the shop is closed, Jason goes in, buys a single sunflower, and talks up the Red Hood.

Even if Miraculous never comes into his fold, this will all have been worth it just to have seen the look on Tim’s face the first time he comes in just as Jason's buying his daily flower.

There’s a small hole burned into his wallet, but Kori loves sunflowers.

Jason’s not the only regular, but he’s the most frequent, by the end of his fourth month he knows all the other regular’s sob stories, and everyone and their mother thinks he's sweet on Marinette. That may be the kind of true by this point. He’s worn her down to where she will talk to him as he browses. Even if she also complains that, “It’s pointless. I already have your sunflower set aside.”

Month six marks a distinct turning point in their relationship. He was upgraded from General-Creep to Recurring-Menace to Okay-I-Guess-We’re-Sorta-Friends-Now a while ago. Month six is the month he gains the title of Permanent-Fixture. It’s marked by him walking in and Marinette forcing an apron on him.

“I told Red Robin when he started coming by, that if he was going to hang around than he needed a reason to. So if you want to hang in Miraculous you’re going to work in Miraculous.”

“Unpaid labor is illegal.”

“No, it’s not. It’s just called volunteering.”

5) Getting together actually takes a while.

Jason is relentless when it comes to his recruitment pitches, but he has standards for fuck's sake. No woman actually enjoys it when men flirt with them on the clock. There’s a whole power imbalance thing that makes him sick to his stomach.

Sure Marinette can take care of herself. She’s a force of nature. Jason had offered to help carry potting soil for her once. One time. That was before he saw her lift the thirty pound bag over her shoulder like an empty sack of rice. Marinette can take care of herself, she just won’t.

Jason has seen more than one scummy fuck harass her. She gets quiet….she loses her confidence, and it’s just so wrong to see a person as strong as Marinette look small. He’s not sure what about blatant flirting and bad pick up lines bothers her so much but—Marinette can never know, and they’ll never tell her that the Red Hood tracked each one of them down. Threats are beautiful things. They just make it all come together.

He is a gentleman, even after he starts working with her. While co-workers flirting with each other isn’t as bad, it’s still kind of awful. The problem is that Marinette is always working, she never leaves Miraculous. Even on her off days.

So Jason, never finds the right time to ask her out himself. All the regulars already think they’re dating. His brothers think they’re dating. Alfred, Alfred thinks they’re dating after walking into the shop one time since Jason’s resurrection. He’s thankful his brothers gave him a heads up—not. Alfred walks in to find him behind the counter with a fluffy pink apron on, even his refined British manners are tested. Jason just knows he’s laughing. He knows.

It happens like this, Jason teams up with Batman and Co. to help with a standard smuggling ring. Nothing difficult, the only reason it should have required all of them was because of the shipment size. It should have been easy. It had been easy.

That is until the Joker shows up, Jason freezes, and takes a bullet straight to the stomach.

Stomachs bleed...a lot.

He doesn’t remember much of what happened after that. Stomachs also hurt a lot, and it’s hard to think coherently when you’re in excruciating pain. Jason, blacked out shortly after Dick started putting pressure on the wound. For future reference, while stopping the bleeding might be important, it hurts like fucking hell.

Marinette is the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes. She’s hunched over herself in the plastic chair next to his bed. Someone, probably Dick or Alfred, draped a blanket over her. She looks vastly out of place, like the room itself is sucking the life out of her. The lighting makes her skin almost translucent.

The second thing he sees is the sunflowers covering every inch of the hospital room. There must have been a couple dozen, at least. It was probably closer to a hundred if not more. Despite the pain that comes with laughing, Jason can’t help himself.

His laughter alerts the nurse, who alerts his family. Apparently, they’ve all been camping out in the waiting room. Much comfier couches there. His family wakes Marinette, who turns her piercingly otherworldly eyes on him.

Marinette stays quiet through all his family’s fussing. She stays quiet even after that. All she does is stare. Jason doesn’t think she’s actually seeing him.

“I didn’t think I missed this many days,” Jason jokes, gesturing to the multitude of flowers wrapped around every available surface.

“No, you didn’t.” Marinette’s answer is curt. She’s distracted, Jason really wishes he knew what she was seeing.

“Not a fan of Hospitals?” Jason tries.

Marinette blinks. The cloudy look on her face disappearing as she shakes her head. “No, I really can’t stand them.”

“Me either.” Jason feels an intense desire to continue the conversation, if only to keep Marinette from closing up again. “You know, you didn’t have to visit me.”

“I wanted to,” Marinette says. “Your brother called, and told me what happened. I came by just after you were finishing up in surgery.”

“What about the shop?”

Jason has been working at Miraculous—volunteering because Marinette still doesn’t pay him—for months. He’s invested in the place now.

"It can be closed for a few days,” Marinette says, reaching over to take his hand. Jason lets her, he’s always hated hospitals. It's gotten worse since he came back. The comfort is welcome. “This is more important.”

Jason wants to say something, to take his shot, and ask her out. Because she’s just as important to him, but it feels wrong so, he settles with, “You’re a really good friend Marinette.”

He does his best to ignore the way the words choke him.

“I think,” Marinette starts, only to stop herself. There’s a moment of internal debate before she continues, “I think we both know we’re a little more than just friends.”

6) Jason never does claim Miraculous, it remains perfectly neutral, despite having the Bat-Family practically living out of the apartment upstairs.

“Hey, do you think now that we're dating you can convince Tim to come by out of costume?”

Jason blanks. “What?”

“Tim, do you think you can get him to stop dropping by as Red Robin so much. People are starting to think Miraculous has been claimed as part of Batman’s terf.”

Jason does the most logical thing he can think of. He buries his face in his hands, and groans. “Why did you have to figure it out?”

“Was I…not supposed to?”

“No, no you weren’t. How did you?”

“Jason, there’s only one person you hate as much as Tim, and that’s Red Robin. I’ve seen how you look at both of them. No one makes your eyes scream murder as much as he does. Not even Dick.”

“Oh God,” Jason says wiping a hand across his face. “Does that mean—”

“That I know you’re the Red Hood?” Marinette asks, cutting him off. “Hmm, I’ve known that for longer. Probably since you first started coming around consistently. At first, I thought you had like, the biggest boner for the guy, but then you seemed really into me and well, you talked him up way too much to either not have a crush on him or be him so, I connected the dots.”

[thatwhumplife]

Why

Whumptober 2020 Prompt 12: I think I’ve broken something

Fandom: Chicago PD/Med

Summary: Jay lets his frustration over a case get the best of him. 

Words: 1431

They had been after this predator for almost six days. A man who was taking children off the street and abusing them until he tired of them and eventually murdered them. It was a case that would haunt them all for months. Every time they thought they were closer to catching him, they hit a dead end. Until finally, finally, the bastard made a mistake. Now they had an address. 

Voight and Al began to circle around to the back of the building while silently instructing Erin, Jay, Kevin, and Adam to breach the front. Wanting to give the man no chance to run, they enter the building without announcing their presence. The team fans out, breaking into two groups while ensuring that doors are carefully covered. Reaching a back room, they see a man hunched over something on the floor, facing away from them. Despite this, there is no question that this is their target. 

 “Chicago Police! Daniel Porter, stop what you’re doing and put your hands up!” Jay shouts, his gun pointed carefully at the back of the man’s head. 

The man freezes and slowly raises his hands. Jay immediately notices that they are stained with blood. Kevin and Erin move in to yank the man back and push his upper body to the floor. As soon as they do, they see what Porter was hunched over: the body of a young boy. The one they had been racing against the clock to rescue. 

With shaking hands, Jay gently touches the boy’s neck in search of a pulse. He feels nothing. Jay’s heart nearly stops. They were so close. But they took too long. And now this boy was dead. 

“Notify forensics that we have a DOA,” he says to no one in particular. 

Jay tunes out the other members of his team as they tightly cuff the man and haul him outside, reading him his, undeserved, in Jay’s opinion, Miranda rights. 

All the emotions from the past six days begin to bubble up to the surface. Before Jay even realizes what he is doing, he is shouting and his fist is flying toward the concrete wall of the room. 

At first, all he can feel is his heart pounding in his chest and hear the blood rushing through his ears. Then Jay becomes keenly aware of a pair of eyes staring at him from the doorway. Erin. 

She looks at him not with disgust or fear, but empathy. She tentatively takes a few steps into the room and places a hand on Jay’s shoulder. His breaths are still coming fast and the adrenaline is still in the process of fading. 

“Why? Why did we not get here in time? Why did that piece of shit have to kill him?” 

Erin knows there are no good answers to Jay’s questions. She simply shakes her head and gently leads him out of the room. 

They eventually make it outside where the rest of the team stands, trying to process the last several minutes. 

“You okay, Jay?” Kevin asks, somewhat redundantly, picking up on several cues that he was very much not okay. 

Jay wordlessly nods, not yet trusting his voice. 

He begins to feel the pain seep into his bones and muscles and looks down to see his knuckles, red, angry, and bleeding. He quickly covers them with his other hand and re-directs his attention to the rest of the group. 

 Voight takes a deep breath. “Get back to the district, get your reports done now while it’s fresh in your mind, and then go home so we can put this all behind us.” 

The team starts to disassemble but before Jay can walk away, Voight approaches him. 

“Are you going to say something or do I need to?” 

Jay feels Voight’s eyes burning into him as he subconsciously keeps his damaged hand covered and resists the urge to give in. “About what?” 

“I can’t have one of my detectives running around with a broken hand. It’s going to end up being a liability.” 

“It’s not bro-“ 

“Get it checked out.” 

Jay opens his mouth to protest again before Voight cuts him off. 

“I mean it, Jay. Go now.” 

Erin, watching the entire interaction, quietly takes Jay’s uninjured hand. “I’ll take him.” 

Voight nods again and immediately walks away. 

They walk in silence toward the car before Jay finally speaks up. 

“We’re not actually going to med, right?” 

Erin gives a short laugh. “You’re kidding right? You just smashed your hand into concrete. Of course I’m taking you in.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with it. I didn’t even hit it that hard.” 

Erin stops. “Give me your hand.”  

Jay hesitantly places his bloody and rapidly-swelling hand in hers. She takes hold of it and begins to press around his knuckles. 

Jay sucks in a breath and immediately Erin responds with a smirk, “Mmhmm. You’re getting checked out.” 

Jay and Erin walk into a thankfully quiet ED waiting room. 

Erin waves to the woman working the admit desk and walks into the ED, quickly finding Maggie, who was wrapping up some charting. 

“Detectives – what can I do for you?” 

Jay doesn’t answer right away so Erin takes over. 

“Got anyone that can take a look at his hand quick?” Erin takes his forearm and lifts his hand up into the light. 

Maggie nods. “Want me to grab Will?” 

“That would be great; thank you Maggie.” 

Jay groans. He’s not looking forward to having to explain all of this to his brother after everything that has already happened. 

They spot Will walking out of a treatment room a few moments later. Maggie waves them over. “Can I grab you a second? Your brother needs to get checked out. Treatment four is open.” 

A look of concern flashes over Will’s face as he approaches. “What happened?”   

Jay reluctantly shows him his hand. “Hand versus concrete. Concrete won.”

Will smiles, knowing that Jay is definitely not here by his own choice. “Ah I see. Come on,” he replies, taking them to the treatment room. 

Jay sits stiffly on the bed while Will puts on a pair of gloves. 

“May I?” Will asks, wanting Jay’s assent before touching his hand. 

Jay gives a slight eye roll but nods. 

Will begins to palpate the joints and his a particularly sore spot when he reaches the knuckle on Jay’s pinkie finger. 

“So you want to tell me how this happened?” 

“It’s not important,” Jay deadpans. 

Will nods silently, knowing that the conversation was not going to go any further. 

“Well, I’ll clean this up and we’ll get a quick x-ray so we can see what we’re dealing with.” 

Will grabs a syringe filled with saline and a few 4x4 gauze pads and sets out to wash the abrasions on Jay’s knuckles. The three of them remain in tense silence while Will cleans the blood from Jay’s hand. 

“And that’s that. I’m going to go grab a tech to get that portable x-ray set up and we’ll go from there.” 

Will leaves Jay and Erin in the treatment room and Erin takes the opportunity to talk to her partner. 

“I know today was…well…definitely not good. Are you gonna be okay?” 

Jay nods. “Yeah. I’m fine.” 

Erin eyes him suspiciously and Jay can only take it for a moment. 

“I’ll be fine. It just…I just…sometimes it all just comes up at once. Seeing that kid on the floor…it nearly broke me.” 

“It looks like it did break you,” Erin said with a slight smile, motioning to his hand. “But I get it. It fucking sucks. But bottom line, we did a good thing today. We got that piece of shit off the street. And you know prison will be no cake walk for him.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Jay responds, offering no further elaboration. 

Erin nods knowingly. “It’s going to take some time to recover from this one.” 

Will comes back with the x-ray tech. They arrange Jay’s hand on the film and within seconds, get a picture up on the screen. 

Will nods his head. “Looks good, no breaks. You got lucky.” 

“So can I get out of here?” 

Will chuckles. “Yeah, you can get out of here. Make sure you put some ice on it to help the swelling go down. And take some Ibuprofen or Tylenol for the pain.” 

“Yes, doctor,” Jay says, hopping off the gurney and making a beeline for the door. 

“And no more punching walls, huh?” 

Jay turns around with a dumbfounded look on his face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

[musicalluna]

@onemuseleft​ conned me into writing for guardian and i am having the time of my life ILY BOO

this is an alternate scene for eipsode 25 so. spoilers for that (kinda)

warnings: torture, violence, blood, sexual assault (kissing), assault assault

--

Zhao Yunlan wakes with a splitting headache and a shrill noise in his ears that he doesn’t realize isn’t coming from inside his head until he cracks open his eyes and discovers Kong Jing drilling at a table to his left.

Kong Jing looks back, noticing he’s awake, and smiles, sucking his lower lip into his mouth.

Zhao Yunlan laughs, more nervous than he’d like.

Kong Jing gets to his feet, making a fluttering gesture with the drill in his hand. “You’re awake!” he says, bending close to Zhao Yunlan.

Zhao Yunlan sits very still as Kong Jing gestures toward the table. “Have a look at what I’ve prepared for you!”

“You’re mistaken,” Zhao Yunlan says slowly. “I’m not awake yet.” He lets his head fall back down to his chest, even as Kong Jing giggles and flaps a hand at him.

“Stop it,” he says, like a teenager flirting, “I’ll help you wake up, okay?”

No, Zhao Yunlan thinks, not okay, not okay.

He moves back over to the table and Zhao Yunlan watches from beneath his hair as Kong Jing runs his fingers over the implements on the table. While he’s distracted, Zhao Yunlan reviews the situation. He’s handcuffed, legs zip-tied, ropes around his waist. Zhao Yunlan’s heart, already beating too fast, only goes quicker when he sees what Kong Jing is looking at on the table--a series of saws, a couple of drills, a meat tenderizer--a hatchet.

Zhao Yunlan closes his eyes as Kong Jing starts to turn. A loud crack makes him flinch and he jolts back, eyes snapping open. Kong Jing twirls an enormous feather duster through the air with a noise that makes Zhao Yunlan’s stomach squirm. He hates this. It’s bad enough being captured, worse being captured by someone he’s not sure he can predict from one moment to the next.

“Satisfying,” Kong Jing whimpers and then plucks a feather from the end of the duster and drops it on the ground.

Zhao Yunlan closes his eyes again, leaning into the I’m not awake bit. He’s not expecting Kong Jing to put the feather in his ear and he jerks back with a yell, hands coming up to ward off Kong Jing.

Panic surges through him when Kong Jing puckers up and leans in. He’s not quick enough to push Kong Jing back and his body locks up in shock as Kong Jing smashes their mouths together.

He makes a horrified noise that disappears into Kong Jing’s mouth, morphing into another stunned cry when Kong Jing bites down on his lip. The taste of blood bursts across Zhao Yunlan’s tongue and he jolts backward violently enough that the entire chair topples over. His already tender head bounces off the wood floor and Zhao Yunlan groans, nausea surging in his stomach.

“You’re bad,” Kong Jing says, grabbing hold of his jacket lapels and hauling Zhao Yunlan back upright. The movement makes him dizzy. Zhao Yunlan reaches out to push Kong Jing back automatically, the back of his neck tingling with fear. He was not prepared for this.

Kong Jing grins at him and then plops himself down on Zhao Yunlan’s lap, his knees splayed out on either side of Zhao Yunlan’s hips. “Not cool, bro,” he informs Kong Jing breathlessly.

“Sis,” Kong Jing corrects, breath hot on Zhao Yunlan’s cheek, and then reaches over to the table and grabs one of the implements. The hand drill, Zhao Yunlan realizes, when he settles back into place. He makes a wordless noise of protest and tries to buck Kong Jing off, but he can’t get the leverage.

Kong Jing plants the drill against his shoulder and then starts to crank.

Zhao Yunlan screams.

---

Shen Wei is the first out of the car.

He bolts toward the building, praying that they aren’t too late when a scream tears through the night air and he goes woozy for an instant. “Zhao Yunlan,” he breathes and pushes himself to run faster.

The scream is prolonged, dipping into a gurgling moan before surging back, and the fear feels like a living thing under Shen Wei’s skin. He teleports the remaining distance into the house and arrives to see a wild-eyed Kong Jing straddling Zhao Yunlan’s lap, holding something to his shoulder.

Without pausing to assess more than that, Shen Wei sprints forward and drives his foot into Kong Jing’s side. Kong Jing goes flying, landing sprawled on the floor halfway across the room with a sickening crunch, but Shen Wei pays him no mind, distracted by the horrific, wet yell that tears from Zhao Yunlan’s throat.

“Zhao Yunlan,” he gasps, dropping to his knees at Zhao Yunlan’s side. “I’m late,” he says, voice cracking.

Zhao Yunlan gives a wheezy little laugh, his head tilted back. “You were doing so well, too.” There are tears in his eyes and Shen Wei can see now that the object is a drill and it’s not pressed against Zhao Yunlan’s shoulder, but embedded in it. Shen Wei sucks in a breath through a too-tight throat. Zhao Yunlan drags his head forward with what looks like gargantuan effort. “Don't take your eyes off him,” he tells Shen Wei.

Shen Wei wants to remove the drill immediately, but he can see the sense in what Zhao Yunlan says. Fortunately, before he has to leave Zhao Yunlan’s side, Lin Jing comes through the door, followed swiftly by Chu Shuzi.

Lin Jing stares from Zhao Yunlan to Kong Jing. “Is that-- Is he--”

Chu Shuzi seems to have returned to normal because he takes in the scene impassively and then moves to Kong Jing’s side and takes his pulse. After a moment, he looks up. “Dead.”

Zhao Yunlan, with one hand curled around the drill, close but not touching, sighs.

Chu Shuzi’s expression darkens. “Did he do that to you?”

“Who else?” Zhao Yunlan says, slumping a little further into the chair. “Shen Wei,” he says, groping with his left hand until he catches the sleeve of Shen Wei’s jacket, “get it out of me.”

“Of course,” Shen Wei says, but the thought shakes him. He knows it must be removed so he can heal Zhao Yunlan, but there’s nothing he can do to stop the pain of the removal, and the thought of causing him more pain is unbearable.

Guo arrives finally, takes one look at Zhao Yunlan, and the body on the floor, and then promptly faints. Lin Jing catches him--in a way.

“Chu Shuzi,” Shen Wei says, “help me with this.”

Chu Shuzi nods and joins him next to Zhao Yunlan.

Zhao Yunlan blinks at him, head wobbling slightly on his neck. He watches with hazy eyes as they situate themselves around him.

Shen Wei looks at Chu Shuzi apprehensively. “What is the best course of action? Do we remove it quickly?”

Chu Shuzi studies the drill embedded in Zhao Yunlan’s shoulder. “You can heal the injury. Removing it carefully will only prolong the pain.” He looks up and meets Shen Wei’s gaze, sympathy in his eyes.

Shen Wei nods tightly. He curls an arm around Zhao Yunlan’s waist, partially as a comfort, and partially to hold him in place. He links the fingers of his other hand with Zhao Yunlan’s. “Do it.”

Given the green light, Chu Shuzi doesn’t hesitate. He grips the handle of the drill and jerks it out of the wound in one quick gesture, flinging blood in an arc. Zhao Yunlan convulses forward, a nearly soundless cry issuing from his lips as the breath is punched from his lungs.

“Hold on, A-Lan,” Shen Wei murmurs, pressing his mouth to the side of Zhao Yunlan’s head, “Give me a moment.” He presses the hand not linked with Zhao Yunlan’s over the injury, blood pulsing over the back of his hand in thick rivulets despite the pressure and he calls dark energy to heal Zhao Yunlan.

Zhao Yunlan’s grip on his hand tightens to the point of pain, but Shen Wei is hardly aware of it as he pushes energy into Zhao Yunlan’s body, knitting it back together.

Finally, the bloody hole in Zhao Yunlan’s shoulder closes and he sighs in relief. “Oh, that’s better.”

Shen Wei presses his forehead to the side of Zhao Yunlan’s head and just listens to him breathe for a moment, relief, and the exertion making his muscles weak. Zhao Yunlan squeezes his hand.

“That...did not feel good.”

Chu Shuzi snorts and gets to his feet. “Glad you’ll be all right.” He leaves them.

“Hey, will you get me out of these?” Zhao Yunlan asks, holding out his bound wrists.

“Of course,” Shen Wei murmurs and quickly gets rid of the cuffs, pulling off the rope, and snapping the zip ties around Zhao Yunlan’s legs. Zhao Yunlan turns on the chair when he’s free and smiles down at Shen Wei, hands on Shen Wei’s shoulders.

His teeth are bloody.

Shen Wei’s fingers tighten around his leg. “Did he hit you as well?”

“Ah?” Zhao Yunlan says and then catches Shen Wei’s gaze. He runs his tongue over his teeth and grimaces. “I guess you could say that. He hit me with his mouth.”

Shen Wei’s spine goes rigid, his jaw tensing. “What?”

Zhao Yunlan closed one eye, rubbing at his mouth. “He kissed me. Violently.”

Shen Wei feels a wave of protective fury and wishes he’d been more cognizant of what he was doing when he kicked Kong Jing.

Zhao Yunlan gives him an apprehensive look, petting his shoulders. “Hey, I didn’t like it or anything.”

That’s enough to knock Shen Wei out of his murderous line of thinking. He stares at Zhao Yunlan incredulously. “Of course you didn’t!”

“Oh,” Zhao Yunlan relaxes under his hands. “That’s okay then.”

“It is not,” Shen Wei replies severely. “How dare he put his hands on you.”

Zhao Yunlan grins at him a little and leans in close. “Mm, Black Cloak Daddy, you can put your hands on me any time.”

Shen Wei manages to stifle the urge to throw him out the window.

[ewokthrowdown]

Prompt number: 15 - “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Fandom fanfiction: Yuri!!! on Ice

Warnings, pairings: None, Victuuri

It was official. Yuuri and Phichit’s landlord was a dick.

“Right in the middle of the holidays and he puts the rent up!” Phichit was saying for the millionth time.

They were lugging boxes of their stuff into their new flat, just four days before Christmas. As though they didn’t have enough to do, what with the holiday work their tutors had set them, the various festive parties, and shopping for presents for their friends who celebrated Christmas. It wasn’t a big thing for either of them, but their friend Leo loved Christmas and it seemed rude when he always got them a little something. So it had become a tradition that their group all exchanged gifts, which meant they had to get four gifts for each of their group of friends, consisting of three other students; Leo, Guang Hong, Seung-Gil and of course Phichit and Yuuri.

“I know it sucks,” Yuuri agreed. “There’s just a two more boxes downstairs then we’re done though.”

“Okay, I’m just gonna get something to drink,” Phichit said, wiping his forehead and digging through the box marked ‘Kitchen’ for a glass.

“Okay,” Yuuri agreed, before telling Vicchan, his toy poodle, who seemed to want to be wherever Yuuri was, to stay.

Vicchan sat with a little huff and Yuuri headed back out into the hallway on his own, going over to the lift to push the button. Usually he’d use the stairs as a good way to stay fit, but with all the up and down they were doing that would get old pretty quickly.

Back down in the lobby Yuuri lifted another box. It was heavy, full of both textbooks and works of fiction. Well at least it was a good arm workout.

“Hey, new to the building?”

The voice came from behind him, and Yuuri turned to see the most beautiful human being he’d ever laid eyes on. He almost dropped the box.

The man was tall and slim, with a shoulder to waist ratio that looked like it was moulded by the fitness gods themselves. He had a sweep of silver hair, short but with a fringe. His skin was smooth and pale as marble, a jawline and cheekbones that could have cut diamonds. And his eyes... Yuuri thought he’d never seen eyes so blue.

Rather than a witty, interesting reply, what came out of Yuuri’s mouth was “mn-wha?” which he wasn’t sure was even a word. His cheeks were on fire, and if his hands were free he would’ve face-palmed.

The man grinned, apparently aware of his effect, and gestured to the remaining box.

“Can I help carry that up?”

“You don’t have to,” Yuuri managed to say, which was an actual sentence at least.

“It’s no bother,” the man said. “I was going to go to the gym anyway, so this is just like a pre-gym warm up.”

Of course he was on his way to the gym, Yuuri thought. You didn’t get a body like that without some serious work.

“Oh, well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“None at all.”

The man came forward and took the box with Phichit’s books in it. Yuuri’s own arms were starting to ache, but he was determined to keep hold of the box.

“I’m Victor by the way,” the man said once he’d lifted the box. “I live in flat thirteen.”

“Oh, we're on the same corridor then,” Yuuri said, carrying the box over to the lift and nudging the button with his wrist. “I’m Yuuri.”

“Well hey new-neighbour-Yuuri.”

God Victor’s smile was cute.

The lift pinged and they got in together.

“So do you work nearby?” Yuuri asked, trying to do a better job of conversing since his disastrous beginning.

“I actually work from home,” Victor said, his smile easy and charming. “I’m a photographer.”

“Oh cool, you should meet my roommate, he loves photography.”

“We’ll have to compare cameras. So what do you do?”

“I’m a student,” Yuuri said, glancing at the numbers as they climbed. He was very aware of how close they were standing in the little lift. “I study dance.”

“Oh so that explains it,” Victor said, eyes dragging up and down Yuuri’s body in a not at all subtle manner.

“Explains what?” Yuuri asked, butterflies dancing in his stomach.

“The fact that you’ve got the body of a dancer.”

Yuuri’s cheeks flushed even darker than they already were and he spluttered. Victor smirked.

“Do you like dogs?” Victor asked then, which was an odd segue.

“Um, yes,” Yuuri said, blinking in surprise as the lift doors opened. “I have a toy poodle.”

“You do?” Victor asked, his face lighting up. “But I have a poodle! She’s a standard so probably bigger, but what a coincidence!”

Suddenly Victor didn’t seem nearly as intimidating. In fact from the way he was bouncing along next to Yuuri down the hall he seemed quite dorky. It made him, if possible, even cuter.

“Well maybe our dogs can be friends,” Yuuri said, then realised what he’d said and flushed bright red. He’d basically asked Victor on a doggie playdate.

“I think Makkachin would like that very much,” Victor said, grinning at Yuuri as they reached his door and ducked inside.

Phichit was there, apparently bored with hauling boxes and now arranging their potted plants. Yuuri rolled his eyes. True, Victor had carried up the one Phichit would’ve needed to get, but Phichit didn’t know that.

“We’ve got the last boxes,” Yuuri said as he came in and bent to place the box down in the middle of the lounge.

Vicchan bounced over to lick his face, then went to jump up at the new person.

“They’re all up?” Phichit asked, turning to look at them and his eyes widening at the sight of Victor. “That’s what I’m talking about! Good job. And you might be?”

“Victor,” Victor said, stooping to pet Vicchan and cooing at him. “And you must be Yuuri’s roommate and Yuuri’s very cute dog, hello gorgeous, who’s a good boy? You are, yes indeed.”

Yuuri grinned at the sight of Victor fussing over Vicchan, who lapped it all up. Then Victor straightened and offered a hand to Phichit.

“Phichit Chulanont, at your very sexy service,” Phichit said, winking as he shook the offered hand. Victor laughed. Yuuri wanted to die.

“Yes well,” Yuuri interrupted. “It was very nice of Victor to help out.”

“It sure was,” Phichit agreed. “Would you like to stay for a cup of tea to say thank you?”

“I was actually on my way to the gym,” Victor said, gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb.

“I bet you were,” Phichit said, dragging his eyes up and down Victor’s body as Victor had just done to Yuuri. Yuuri elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“Maybe some other time,” Victor said, clearly fighting the urge to laugh. “It was nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

Though it seemed as though he was talking to both of them, his eyes were very firmly fixed on Yuuri.

“Sure,” Yuuri agreed, blushing, which seemed to be his constant state at the moment.

“Alright, see you,” Victor said, and with one final pet to Vicchan he headed out.

As soon as the door closed behind him Phichit punched Yuuri in the arm.

“Our hot neighbour wants to bang you!”

“Shut up! No he doesn’t.”

“Oh so those fuck me eyes he gave you at the end there were all in my head?”

“Well you do have a pretty overactive imagination.”

“Yuuri,” Phichit sighed, as Yuuri went to start unpacking their kitchen stuff. “Just because I was the one who told you about ninety percent of the students at uni are crushing on you does not mean I have an overactive imagination.”

“There’s literally not enough girls and gay guys to make up that percentage.”

“That’s how powerful you are, my man.”

Yuuri threw a tea towel in Phichit’s face.

~~~~~~~

“I’m home!”

Phichit’s voice rang through from the front hall to where Yuuri was in the kitchen, carefully pulling out a tray of cookies from the oven.

“Okaerinasai!”

“What smells so good?” Phichit asked as he stepped into their kitchen.

It was a day later and they’d pretty much done with unpacking, deciding to just get on with it and knock it out in one day.

“I’m baking cookies for Victor to say thank you,” Yuuri explained, nudging Vicchan out of the way where he was dancing around Yuuri’s feet, hoping for a dropped cookie.

“For carrying one box upstairs?” Phichit asked, coming over and hopping up to sit on the counter.

“Well it was a heavy box…”

“You’re whipped.”

“I believe you have to be in a relationship to be whipped.”

“Semantics.”

Yuuri ignored this and went to open up the cake tin for the cookies to go in once they were cool. He figured if he gave the cookies to Victor in a tin of theirs then Victor would have to return the tin and Yuuri would have an excuse to see him again. It was the perfect plan.

Yuuri put a timer on his phone for the cookies to cool, then went and played a little Super Smash Bros with Phichit before it went off. He put the cookies in the tin and tugged on his shoes.

“Good luck getting the booty,” Phichit called from the couch as Yuuri passed.

Yuuri gave him the finger.

Moments later he was stood outside of flat thirteen, hesitating. Before he could overthink his decision he knocked.

“Coming!” Victor’s voice called from inside and Yuuri felt his stomach clench in anticipation and nerves.

Moments later the lock clicked and the door swung open. Yuuri dropped the cookies.

Victor was in a towel, just a towel. He’d clearly just got out of the shower, his perfectly chiselled torso still a little wet, drops of water rolling over perfectly cut abs. Yuuri’s brain entirely short circuited. He felt like he’d been smacked over the head with a battering ram and all he could do was blink at Victor.

“Yuuri?” Victor asked, eyeing him with some concern. “Are you okay?”

“Guh.”

Yuuri wanted to die. He managed to pull himself back together enough and firmly looked anywhere but at Victor, his eyes fixed on the floor as he swooped to pick up the tin of cookies and held them out.

“I made you cookies to say thank you for helping with the box,” Yuuri explained, his cheeks hot enough to bake another batch. “They’re chocolate chip.”

“Oh!” Victor exclaimed, reaching out and taking the tin. “That’s so sweet of you! You really didn’t have to…”

“It’s okay,” Yuuri said, his eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “Well… bye.”

Then Yuuri fled.

Phichit laughed at him for a solid fifteen minutes when he managed to get the story out of Yuuri, who was still lying facedown on the floor of their lounge an hour later. Vicchan stood on his back in what was clearly an attempt to help.

~~~~~~~

Yuuri looked up from where he was stretched into a split at the sound of a knock on the door a few days later.

“It’s open!” he called, a little embarrassed that he was in such a tiny pair of booty shorts for doing yoga but figured that it was his flat anyway.

He looked over his shoulder to see Victor walk into the lounge. He dropped the cookie tin he was holding. Vicchan let out a bark of surprise at the noise.

“Victor?” Yuuri asked, perplexed by the stunned look on Victor’s face. At least Victor was fully dressed this time, though the jeans were practically painted on.

Victor mumbled something in what sounded like Russian and wiped a hand over his face, his eyes very wide and his cheeks flushed pink. Yuuri moved out of the splits and stood, turning to face him.

“Everything okay?” he asked, going over to where Victor was bending to pick up the tin.

“No, I mean yes, everything’s perfect, everything’s thighs, I mean fine!”

Yuuri had never seen Victor looking so flustered. It was kind of cute actually, the way his cheeks had gone pink and his eyes kept flitting to Yuuri then away.

“You finished the cookies?” Yuuri asked, reaching out to take the tin with a smirk, his confidence growing.

“Yes, they were very good,” Victor said, still looking flustered.

“I’m glad,” Yuuri said. Then, daringly, “I was just finishing up, want a cup of tea?”

“Oh, um, yes, that’d be nice.”

Half an hour later they’d exchanged numbers and agreed to a dinner date on Friday night. Though they didn’t wait until then to make out on the couch. Phichit walked in on them and whooped so loudly Victor fell off the couch. Yuuri tackled Phichit and gave him a noogie.

[fabrowrites]

That’s Ninja Swag (it’s nothing new)

So this is technically a continuation to Flashing Back, which I do recommend reading before this one.  Crossposted on ffn.net.  Enjoy!

"Hey Ky. Ky."

"Huh?"

Ky looks up from where he's busy planning how best to take his nap. Lloyd raises an eyebrow at him. He's clearly going for nonchalant, but there's this tenseness in the way he's sitting that immediately puts Ky on guard.

He shifts to face Lloyd better. "Yeah, sure bro, what's up?"

Lloyd smiles, but there's a crease between his eyes. "Hey. I was wondering if you'd meet me in the library later?"

Oh. Oh. Ky sits up straight and pushes all plans of sleep to the back of his mind. Because if Lloyd wants to talk to him, then it could be about… that. No, scratch that, it's almost definitely about it.

Ever since that trip to the Museum of History a couple of days ago, Lloyd's been acting… strange. And Ky doesn't mean his usual brand of strange -how anyone could eat steak cold is beyond him. No, he's acting shifty. And Ky plans to get to the bottom of it.

"Yeah, sure thing," Ky says. They're some of the first to the classroom; none of the others are here yet. "I'll let Noa know, she'll tell the others-"

"No." Lloyd's hand on his arm stops Ky in his tracks. "Don't tell them. Or at least, not yet. I, uh, I want to look into something by myself first. Make sure I'm not going crazy." He mumbles that last part under his breath, but Ky still hears him.

"Can do," Ky says, electing to ignore that last part. Lloyd has a tendency for self-deprecation, after all.

Lloyd gives him a thankful grin. Ky grins back. Lloyd turns back to his seat and Ky's grin settles into something more thoughtful. What's Lloyd got to say that's that important? He shifts back and tries to get comfortable. He's not getting that nap today.

At the end of the day, Ky shoves his books into his locker and heads for the school library. When he arrives, he almost doesn't find Lloyd behind the ginormous pile of books at his table.

"What the heck is this?" Ky asks, gesturing sharply at the stack. It truly is impressive, and Ky would be more impressed if he wasn't so crestfallen. "You didn't tell me we would be reading," he whines. "You should have asked Zach or someone else to help you with this. I'm terrible at reading."

"But I wanted you," Lloyd says matter-of-factly, not looking up from his book. He pats the seat beside him. "Come on, stop complaining and help."

Ky goes over, ignoring the warm feeling in his chest. "What's got you all interested in this history stuff all of a sudden?" he asks.

Lloyd shrugs evasively. "Just curious."

Ky stares. That almost sounded like a believable lie. Lloyd does not do almost believable lies. He doesn't do halfway believable or even -what's the word for half of a half? oh yeah!- or even quarterway believable lies.

"Okay," he says, slamming his book down. "What has gotten into you?"

Lloyd flails. "Gotten into me? Nothing! Nothing's gotten into me!" He props his elbow on the table and gives Ky the fakest grin ever. "Uh, what makes you think that?"

Ky squints. While that sounds more like the Lloyd he knows, that grin isn't fooling anyone. "You never stay at school longer than you have to," he points out. He sits down. "So what are we researching? Mongooses? Puberty?"

"You think you're so funny," Lloyd says dryly. He sighs. "No. I'm- it's the original Ninja Force."

Ky shoots up so fast he knocks his chair over. "Aha! I knew this was about what happened at the museum!"

"Ky!" Lloyd hisses, pulling him back down. He glances around the library and glares at him. "People could be listening!"

"What people," Ky grouses. "There's no one here. I checked as I came in."

Honestly, Lloyd needs to trust him more. It's not like Ky evacuates buildings all the time for a living or anything- well, not for a living exactly, but you get the point.

Lloyd's brow pulls together, but he concedes the point. "Just be more careful," he says.

"Got it, chief." Ky picks up his chair and sits down again. "So did you find anything? You said you didn't know why you were glowing when I asked." He has to fight to keep the hurt out of his voice. Lloyd wouldn't lie to him about something like that.

Lloyd shifts. "I didn't know exactly why," he hedges, "but I had a hunch. Did you hear what the tour guide said? Right before I, uh, started glowing?" His face turns pink.

"You know I didn't," Ky says, "otherwise I wouldn't be asking questions."

Lloyd nods. "Right. Okay. He said that those golden weapons on the wall- you saw them, right?"

Ky nods too. He'd thought the sword with the dragon eating flames had looked pretty sick.

"He said that they react in the presence of the Green Ninja."

Ky feels his eyes widen. "So that's why you- but- how-?" His mind seizes the strongest response- anger- and he runs with it. "That idiot! He could have given away your secret identity!"

"He didn't know!" Lloyd defends. "And it's not like anyone else made the connection."

"Still," Ky says, for the principle of it even though he knows Lloyd's right. He breathes out. "Wow. So, like, at least now you know you're the green ninja for sure."

"You've got that right," Lloyd says in a strange tone. Suddenly, he's looking hard into Ky's face. "Have you been, uh… Have you ever felt deja vu before?"

Ky shrugs. "Sure, I guess. Hasn't everyone?"

Lloyd searches his face a little while longer. Ky fidgets. Apparently that's not the answer he was looking for, because Lloyd sighs and turns away. "Yeah, I guess so. Nevermind."

He checks his watch and stands, stretching. "We've gotta go. Master Wu expects us for training in half an hour."

Ky follows him out, wondering what else he was supposed to say.

Three days later finds the whole gang sans Jay at the pool, soaking up the last of the summer heat. Ky lounges in one of the deck chairs, sunglasses perched on his nose and arms crossed behind his head. The sun is warm on his bare chest. He sighs contentedly.

A little ways away, Lloyd floats in the water. He's on one of those blowup chair thingies, the ones that everyone love but just make Ky's skin feel sticky. Well, at least he seems happy. This is one of those rich people pools, so there's an entire area dedicated to kids with spray guns and buckets. Kai squirts Lloyd with water just to see the way he scowls at him.

Also on dry ground are Noa, Zach, and Colton. Zach can't get in the water for… obvious reasons, and Noa's taking a break from the water to pass a bright yellow frisbee back and forth with him. Colton has a stupid drink hat on and an ever-present earbud tucked into one ear. He's the reason any of them are even allowed in the rich people pool, so Ky will hold back from mocking him. Probably.

Ky leans back again. There was just a Garmadon attack two days ago, so according to Zach, they're in the clear. Hmm. He could take a nap, wouldn't that be nice…

"Lloyd, think fast!"

Ky opens his eyes right as Noa tosses a frisbee in the air. Everything after that happens in slow motion. Lloyd reaches up for the frisbee, overextends. He topples off his float, which would be fine if he were anyone else. But Ky sees the panic in his eyes as he goes under, his complete terror-

And Kai. Doesn't think. Doesn't hesitate. Doesn't do anything except fling off his sunglasses and jump into the pool. Water rushes up over his head but he can't think about that now, can't think about the lump of panic that rises in his own throat. He has to get to Lloyd. His hand brushes something and he seizes it.

They break the surface, gasping, but very much alive.

"Lloyd!" Nya's face appears in front of his. The girl is wide-eyed with horror. "I'm so sorry! I didn't think-"

She starts to haul him up and exhausted, Kai can't do much more than let Lloyd go into her care. He clutches at the side of the pool as images flash through his head. What's happening to him? Why is he seeing:

Himself, bent over an anvil.

Himself, looking out of a volcano from the inside.

Himself, a staff in one hand and a ball of energy around him.

Himself, opening the door to a hut in a swamp.

Himself, with gold weapons laid out at his feet and a dying forge at his back.

A thousand pictures flash through Ky's mind, a thousand memories, and he lets out a whine as he clutches his head. It feels like he's dying. Or maybe he's being born again. Oh FSM, what Lloyd must have felt going through this alone-

Lloyd!

Ky clambers out of the pool. He doesn't realize he's shivering until Zach drapes a towel over his shoulders and starts spouting off facts about human death rates from falling into pools. Which, number one, is a lot higher than Ky would have thought, and number two, not important right now. He pushes past the teen, not unkindly, and goes over to the chair they've set Lloyd in. Lloyd looks up as he approaches.

"Kai?" he asks.

It sounds exactly like his name, but Ky knows- he doesn't know how, but he knows- that it's meant for the other him. "Yeah. Yeah, Lloyd, I'm here."

Lloyd's face crumples. "I thought I was alone."

And ouch. Ky tries not to let his hurt show on his face. "Alone, Lloyd? With all of us at your side?" He gestures widely to their group of friends, who are not so subtly eavesdropping on their conversation. "Any of them, us, would follow you into battle without question. Don't try and undermine that."

Lloyd must see how much he's affected him because his eyes go wide and a flurry of 'sorry's spill from his lips. Kai rubs a hand over his eyes. Yeesh. Combine his Lloyd's tendency to apologize for anything and everything with this Lloyd's tendency to blabber and this is what you end up with.

"No, no, sorry," he says. "I know you didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah," Lloyd says softly. "So you remember-?"

"Most of it," Ky says. "It's really weird. It's like I've got a whole other life inside my head." He wrinkles his nose.

"You kinda do," Lloyd says, but not mocking.

"Okay," says Noa, hands on her hips. "Is anyone going to tell me what the heck is going on here, or will I have to-"

The warning sirens cut off whatever she was going to say next. The five of them look at each other and collectively groan.

"You are not getting out of this conversation," Noa warns.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Ky says. "C'mon, let's go!"

[jd07201990]

(First Pic by @texanstrong) Trevor might not have been the humblest dancer at the school, but he was the most talented. The dance academy he was attending was mostly for the rich, but he’d managed to get in on skill and talent, having been seen practicing at a park in town. However, because he was middle class, while the rest of the boys were quite well off, he tried too hard to stand out. Being cocky, arrogant, putting the other boys down when they’d make a minor mistake. One of the boys he targeted most was his rival, Kyle. Kyle was of equal talent, but came from the most powerful family in the city. Rich, spoiled, he was used to getting everything he wanted, and when Trevor would one up him, or steal the attention with some flashy show of skill or prowess, he would fume, sometimes even exploding into a signature rich boy tantrum. He vowed he’d get rid of Trevor, one way or another. His chance came one day while Trevor was practicing alone in the open studio. Twirling, jumping, going into hip crushing splits with ease, he wasn’t paying attention, the music too lout for him to hear the door open, and footsteps coming closer. Trevor Started to whirl around on his toes, lifting his leg up at a 90-degree angle to gain speed, when his foot collided with something solid and he went crashing down to the floor. He found Kyle, sputtering next to him, blood gushing from his face. His nose looked crooked, with a harsh bump in the bridge. Obviously Broken, Kyle was screaming, hurling threats, when the security guard on duty came running in. Kyle immediately found his opportunity! His demeaner changed instantly, from rage to painful, desperate plea. The guard asked what happened, and before Trevor had a chance to explain he accident, Kyle said that Trevor had roundhouse kicked him in the face, after he’d tried to help him with his balance. He told the guard Trevor flew into a rage, and broke his nose, telling him he was a pretty boy and needed to be taken down a notch. Of course the Guard, being employed by Kyles parents, believe the story. He called the police, restraining Trevor until they came to arrest him. He spent days in the county jail waiting for his court date, not being able to afford bail. His public defender was useless, and so, with all the money and power backing Kyle and his family, Trevor was sentenced to, “1 year – 175lbs” Neither His parents or Trevor knew what this meant. Only finding out when He’d been bussed out of town to a remote facility that looked like an old Military base, hauled inside, and met with the people who’d be running his life for a year.

He’d been shocked at first to see that all the other inmates were massive. The entire building reeked of stale locker room funk. They ranged in age from 18-25, but looked to be the size of a professional, and sometimes offseason lifetime bodybuilder. Some where shy, some more aggressive. Some seemed to change, their personality being warped by whatever was happening to them. Trevor would find out exactly what that something was. Given his uniform, He went through the orientation, they explained that, by the time he left, he’d be 300lbs. The weight the judge had sentenced him to finally made sense. He’d be turned into one of these massive muscle freaks! Losing his cool, he fought, screaming about his future dance career, how this was illegal and so on, until they sedated him, put him into his cell, and started the Hormone infusion. A cocktail of drugs designed to speed up growth, send his body into a second puberty of sorts, and coupled with his new routine, He’d grow into the hulking brute this facility specialized in. He had moments where he’d lose it, crying, or screaming at his instructors, he learned quickly not to, as the punishments were brutal, often life altering and permeant. His first, was a dose of something they called B-O 120. It was a set of shots given under the arms, and just above his cock. For days he had no idea what it’d do, but after a week, he realized its effect. He woke up one morning in a cold sweat, shivering, but noticed immediately the funk that filled his cell. He thought maybe one of the other boys had come in, they always seemed to stink. But realized with horror, it was him. He was sweating like a pig, and the musky scent was coming from his underarms, which, even more to his horror, were filled with a dense wiry bush of matted hair.

Another punishment had been less physical. A few months in, after he’d gained a considerable amount of bulk, he threatened the laundry attendant, because his clothes always came back with the deep pit stains he’d grown accustomed to. This got him a week of “classes” which was really him, sitting in a cold metal chair, staring at some stupid movie about behavior. However, he never really knew what the movie was about, always waking up yawning when the instructor slammed a ruler on his desk. The effects were slow, but soon he realized what they were doing.

The movie was changing his natural behavior. He was starting to walk differently, swaggering, swinging his arms heftily, and worse, scratching at himself unconsciously. A grope at his shorts, or a quick pit scratch, even a long scratch or pulling at his shirts where they’d crawl up his newly beefed up muscle butt. Worse, He vocabulary seemed to include more than his typical level of cursing. Nearly every sentence riddled with swearing, like the dumb meatheads he hated from school. Finally, the words Dude, Bro, Bruh, and so on became common, he knew it, heard it, and hated it, but he couldn’t stop. One final infraction, against another inmate, had sent him to the facility barber, who sat him in the chair, strapped him in, and lowered what looked to be a hair drier helmet down over his head. The barber himself never touched his head, but with a few buttons, the machine went to work. His head felt on fire, heat spread over his scalp, while tingling sharp pains shot over his skin like 1000 mosquito bites. The barber had to gag at one point as his yelps and shrieks of fear were getting too loud. An hour later, the helmet released, lifting off his head, to reveal a brutal new haircut, and his hair was a totally different color. No more classic dark wavy locks. Now, he had his hair in a brutish fauxhawk style, longer and floppy, and brightened into an orangey brown color. To his horror, he was told this was permeant. He’d be able to grow it out, but the color was his forever.

The year went on. He’d outgrown his uniforms like clockwork. Week after week, having to be issued new, larger sizes. The jockstraps and boxers they forced him to wear seemed to be the fastest to be replaced. He wouldn’t admit it, but he knew his cock and balls were growing. He’d been average, not small, but now he had a salami and two large chicken eggs dangling between his thickly beefed thighs. He blushed every time he sat down, having to immediately go onto a lewd, “man spread” legs held wide to not crush his goods.

He smelled worse than some of the boys, obviously the result of his first punishment, and he was only allowed to shower at the end of each day. Having to go through classes, morning workout, the hard labor in the yard, more classes, another workout, and dinner before having 5 minutes to shower under the cold water and go to bed.

Finally, his year was nearly up. He’d gained all the weight he’d been sentenced to. The instructors had even followed the side notes in the court order to focus attention on his legs. He was massive. Bulky, his thighs as thick as a mid-sized tree trunk. His calved were like footballs. His torso was not spared though. HE was built bigger than most NFL players. Arms like ham hocks, hands calloused from all the lifting. His tshirt sleeves seem to always bunch up under his arms, soaked in reeking sweat. He was forced to lumber around, almost waddling from the sheer bulk of his body. He was eating like a starved man, easily consuming enough to easily feed a family of four. He was a brute. A big, smelly, brute. Although he hadn’t lost any of his intelligence, his personality and mind were his own, you’d never know it from the swearing, crude Bro-talk he’d been programmed with, and his ever-present lewd gestures of scratching at his mass. Groping his massive cock, adjusting his lemon sized balls. He was, on the outside, the epitome of what he hated most. A big, Dumb, Meathead.

A week before his release, he was brought to a room with an obvious one-way mirror. Told to stand still and left alone for 20 minutes. On the other side of the glass, Kyle, his accuser, was cackling at what had been done to his rival. There was no way he could dance, that talent scout was going to pick him now that the best dancer in the school had been bloated up into a monster. He was delighted, but his cruelty was ever growing. He gave Trevor a once over, head to toe, then smiled up at the Facility manager, handing him an envelope with cash, and a letter promising more funding from his family if his demands were met. “I think Trevor needs one more thing, just to make sure he can’t manage to learn to dance with that bulky body. Is it possible to make his feet, more, disproportionate? Bigger?” Kyle asked with malice. “Of course. We’ve got compounds and treatments that can do just about anything. This,” The manager waved the stack of cash, “should cover it.” Kyle shook the man’s hand and left, while Trevor was collected from the room and brought to the Facility treatment center. He was told to relax, as they strapped him onto a table, locking his legs in stirrups. He struggled just a little but was too afraid to misbehave. He asked questions, what was happening, why, but no one talked to him as a few of the treatment staff put an IV into his arm, and then started to strip his sneakers, socks, then started to rub and massage his already large size 17’s with a warm grey looking goop.

It took no time at all for him to feel the dull, aching pain he’d come accustomed to, as “growing pains” from his year of forced growth. His toes splayed, and he grunted, as the IV pumped the activator through his veins. The goop was soaking into his feet, his muscle, his bones, and was starting the near instant process. He felt his bones pop, then crack, screamed at the sudden sharp pains, but watched horrified as his feet grew, and grew. 18, 19, 20, 21, stopping, minutes later, at a whopping size 22 wide. The second side effect took only a few seconds to manifest. A sudden, musty, strong stink filled the room, as the goop soaked in and forced his feet to sweat profusely. He’d soon find that he’d be going through several pairs of socks per day, drenching them, and filling his sneakers with foot stench, no matter how clean he kept them. He cried, his deep voice bellowing dumbly as he wiggled his thick sausage toes now and knew for certain he’d never dance again.

It took the rest of the week for him to readjust to his massive new feet. They made him clumsy, oafish, and he knew if he ever tried to balance and spin on his toes, they’d snap under his immense bulk. They released him back to his parents, who cried and threatened to sue for what they’d done to their baby, but it was no sue. Trevor was shortly picked up by the local college, and had no choice to bot give up dancing, take the scholarship they offered, and play football as the big, bulky brute he is.

[thegoodthebadthesickly]

Bad Things Happen Bingo Headache/Migraine-Peter Parker

Cross Posting this from Wattpad because I’m in love with how it turned out!

I copy/pasted, sorry if Tumblr flubbed the formatting!

@badthingshappenbingo

Request- Headache/Migraine

Fandom- MCU *Post End Game, but everyone lives*

Wow this is so long, but I just had way too much fun!

The aura hits him in fourth period,calculus. Peter wondered why migraines didn't have the decency to atleast wait until the end of the school day.

At first, it's just shimmering spots inhis right eye, like a wall reflecting the ripples of a pool. That,Peter can handle. He still has time.

By the end of the period, the tingling starts. Peter is just hopes he can make it through lunch at this point. Any time now. Leaving for lunch, he pulls up the hood of his jacket, hoping to block out as much light as possible. Maybe, just maybe, if he could stop the visuals auras, the migraine would change it's mind.

Peter is walking to the cafeteria,trying to focus on where his feet are going so he doesn't fall over,when Ned comes up behind him.

"Dude! I got the new limited editionIron Man lego set, with the mach 1 suit! My mom said I can stay overtonight and we can work on it, as long as it's okay with May. Ialready told my mom she said yes because May always says yes. What doyou say? Lego Bros? Or, do you have secret spider-man stuff to do?"Ned adds in a whisper.

Peter would be impressed that Ned had gotten all of that out in one breath, if the sudden noise hadn’t made him nauseous. Waiting for Peter to answer, Ned filled the silence, a skill he’d gotten all too good at.

"It's okay if you can't come over today. I bet you have something really cool going on with Mr. Stark. Are you working on a new suit? Are you working on his suit? If I got to touch an Iron Man suit, I think I'd transcend-" Ned rambles, waiting forPeter to respond.

"N-Ned, please, and I mean this in the nicest, most Lego Bro way possible, be quiet." Peter plead,stopping for a moment to lean his head against the wall. He thoughthe might be sick.

"Oh!" Ned mentally kicked himselffor not seeing it sooner. The not talking, the hood pulled up, andnow that Ned really looked at Peter, how pale he was could only meanone thing. Migraine. Peter had gotten them a lot when they were kids,but had grown out of them a lot in the last few years, only getting one every few months, and not getting any at all since the bite.

"I thought the whole Spider-man thingtook care of stuff like that." Ned said, at a much more manageablevolume this time.

"I thought it did too, but I guessthere are some things radioactive spider bites just don't account for." Peter said, stepping into line for lunch.

The spots in his vision are gettinglarger. Peter has to basically shift all of the weight off of hisleft side when the tingling gets so bad that he almost drops histray. He definitely wasn't going to make it to the end of lunch.

He and Ned find the table farthest awayfrom the crowd of chattering students, which is subsequently also thetable that Michelle has chosen. She looks up from her book just longenough to nod towards Ned and flip Peter off, but does a double takewhen she sees Peter. Usually when she sees Peter and Ned together,they're in the middle of geeking out over something, or talkingabout some big brain science stuff that she doesn't even try tofollow, her areas are math and literature. Something's wrong withPeter. Michelle looks him up and down, no babbling about nerd stuffor science stuff, no talking at all actually.

"What's wrong with him?" Michellenods her head towards Peter, who sits down and immediately pushes histray away to put his head on the table.

"Migraine." Ned quietly explains.

"I didn't know you got migraines." Michelle admits, there isn't much she doesn't know about anybody.

"The power of knowledge." Peter'smuffled groan comes from under his hood.

"Why haven't you gone home?"Michelle raised an eyebrow, making an effort to keep her voice at least a little quiet.

"I thought I had time." Peter moans.

"What?"

"I thought-" Peter starts again,cut off by something that sounds suspiciously like gagging.

"He got them a lot as a kid and used to be able to time them, and their symptoms, down to the minute."Ned explained once again, eyeing Peter and wondering if he was going to have to dive for the trash can. "Kind of like a super power."

"That is the worst super power I've ever heard of."

"Tell me about it." Peter deadpans.

"Why not just go to the nurse now? You've already been here for half of the day. You won't be countedabsent." Michelle pointed out.

Peter looked up at Michelle with dead eyes. Odd zigzags and shapes danced in front of his eyes.

"Do you want me to help you?" Ned asked.

Michelle almost offers to help, but that's really not how hers and Peter's friendship works, less caring words and offering to help him to the nurses office, more sarcastic words and shit talking each other. He would just think it was weird.

Peter weighs his options, he could wait to see if things improve, yeah he felt bad, but the migraine hadn't actually hit yet. If he went home now, there's no way May would let him out to patrol tonight. Secondly, the less desirable option, admit defeat. Even if he'd lost his touch, Peter knew that the migraine was on it's way, and it was probably going to be a big one. He could save himself some misery now by just going home.

Peter groans and lifts his head, uncharacteristically heavy now, and looks at Ned.

"I do have one problem with this scenario." Peter says.

"Peter, you can't st-" Ned starts, figuring Peter only wants to stay so he can do super hero stuff tonight. If he went home, there's no way May would let him out tonight.

"I'm not sure how well my legs work right now, basically my entire left side is numb."

"Is that normal?" Michelle asks, actual concern seeping into her tone.

"Sometimes." Peter shrugs, leaving out the part where he only goes numb if it's a particularly bad migraine. This was going to put him out of commission for the next two days.

Ned, not one to back down from protecting his friends, stood up and marched around the side of the table to Peter.

"Come on." Ned beckoned, moving closer so Peter could grab his arm for stability.

Peter took a steadying breath before grabbing Ned's arm and hauling himself up. The effort of standing had evidently only made things worse. Now, to accompany the ripples and sparks in his vision, the numbness and the tingling, there was a low ringing in Peter's ears and pain coming from somewhere around his neck, like somebody had been giving him a deep tissue massage a little to enthusiastically. Peter trips over his own feet as he maneuvers around to face the door.

"Woah" Ned catches Peter before he can fall on his face.

If Michelle hadn't been worried about Peter, she might have laughed at the sight.

"Ugh" Peter grunts, righting himself.

"Yeah, you need to go home, like, now." Ned observes.

Slowly, Peter and Ned make it out of the cafeteria. By the time they make it back into the main building with the nurses office, Peter can definitely feel the headache starting.

"I need a sec." Peter says, stopping to lean against Ned as a wave of nausea rolls over him.

"Are you gonna be sick? You're really pale." Ned asks, wondering for the second time if he'd need to dive for a trashcan.

"No. No. Keep going." Peter mumbles, his tone breathy. God, everything hurts. A feeling of "ick" had settled into Peter's bones, like he had the flu.

"Almost there, buddy. You good?" Ned asks softly.

"Good." Peter practically whispers.

Nurse Penny is all too surprised to see Ned Leeds practically carrying Peter Parker into her office. She's having lunch, a vegan macaroni and cheese, when Ned deposits Peter on the couch. Now, Peter Parker used to be a repeat offender in her office, but she hadn't seen him for months. In fact, he had stopped coming around for his inhaler and various other maladies right around the time that Spider-Man showed up in the city, but that was none of her business.

"Mr. Parker, Mr. Leeds." She greets the boys. "What can I do for you today?"

"Peter has a migraine." Ned says, knowing he doesn't have to explain anymore than that to Nurse Penny.

"Would you like me to call your aunt, Peter?" Penny acknowledges the pale boy on the bed, leaning his head against the wall and generally looking like death warmed over.

"Y-yeah." Peter tries to sound as dignified as possible, and then remembers that May left on a trip to see a cousin this morning. She'd offered to take Peter, but he needed to be available to the Avengers. May had softly lectured him about how he was still a kid and how he should at least take her time away to throw a party.

"Wait, she-she's out of town. She left this-this morning." Peter says. He could barely see anything for the rippling in his vision and the pain dial was slowly being turned up to twenty.

"Oh. Is there anyone else I can call?" Penny asks, looking at the approved caretakers. May Parker, Ben Parker, Tony Stark...Tony Stark?! Penny is sure she read that wrong. Someone must have put that down as a joke.

"Tony Stark." Ned offers.

So it wasn't a joke?

"Peter is an intern at Stark Industries. Mr. Stark wouldn't mind taking him home."

"N-no. I don't want to bother Mr. Stark. I can just wait it out." Peter says weakly.

Pursing her lips, Penny wonders what to do. She looks at Peter, who is getting paler by the minute, and at Ned, who just nods cryptically.

Still unable to believe that she's actually about to talk to Tony Stark on the phone, Penny picks up the phone and dials the number listed.

One ring. Two rings. Click.

"Tony Stark's phone. Pepper Potts speaking." Pepper answers, she hadn't said those words in a long time, but Tony was in the workshop blasting music and hadn't heard his phone ringing. She got up from the couch where she had been watching movies with Morgan, before she had gotten bored and left to see what Tony was doing in the workshop.

"Hi, I'm calling for Tony Stark. I'm the nurse at Midtown High and I'm here with Peter Parker. He has a migraine and needs to be picked up from school." Penny explains.

"Oh, poor thing. I'll let Tony know. Someone will be there shortly." Pepper says before hanging up, she can definitely empathize with Peter, having struggled with migraines for years.

"O-okay." Penny says, surprised. She wonders if Tony Stark himself will be showing up to retrieve the sick Peter Parker from school. Tony stark, with that hair, and that face, and that-Penny cuts her thoughts off.

Pepper takes the elevator down to the workshop, AC/DC getting louder all the way. When she steps out, the site that greets her is one she's seen all too often. Tony and Morgan are leaned over a machine with welding helmets on. Sparks are flying everywhere. Pepper tries to stand back, she already owns enough clothing with burn marks.

"Friday, can you pause the music?" Pepper says, knowing that she doesn't have to raise her voice for the AI to hear her.

"Sure thing, Boss Lady." Friday says happily.

The music stops abruptly. Tony and Morgan stop what they were doing and Pepper walks over to them, no longer in danger of ruined clothing.

"Tony, what have I told you about letting our child use your tools?" Pepper crosses her arms, seeing where sparks have burned little holes in Morgan's new shirt.

"I should always have her wear something over her clothes." Tony says sheepishly.

"You may be one of the wealthiest men alive, but you won't be that way for long if I have to keep replacing clothes as soon as I buy them. Also, Peter's school called. He's sick and they need someone to pick him up. I could have Happy-"

"What's the kid gotten himself into now?" Tony asks, trying not to sound as worried as he is, already taking off his welding gear. For a super hero, Peter Parker seemed to have more of a knack for getting himself into trouble than out of it.

"The nurse said he has a migraine. I didn't know he got migraines." Pepper admits.

"Me neither. I'll go get him. No need to call Happy, he's with his mom today." Tony doesn't want to admit that he struggles to trust anybody, even one of his best friends, with Peter's well being after the events of the past few years.

"Morgan, why don't you go upstairs and watch movies with mommy?" Tony picks up Morgan, placing her on his hip.

"Can I go with you and see Peter?" Morgan asks excitedly.

"No, not today. I don't think Peter feels too good." Tony explains as he removes the welding helmet.

"I can make him feel better." Morgan protests as Tony hands her over to Pepper.

"Why don't we go make up the guest room for Peter? I bet he's really tired." Pepper tucks a piece of hair behind Morgan's ear.

"He can borrow my Aunt Carol doll!" Morgan offered, referring to the Captain Marvel plush doll that Tony had gotten her for her birthday.

"That sounds perfect." Pepper said excitedly.

Pepper and Tony say in unison.

Tony gives Pepper a kiss and ruffles Morgan's hair before they head back upstairs and he leaves to retrieve Peter.

A Tesla pulling up outside Midtown high in the middle of the day was a weird enough occurrence, but when Tony Stark himself steps out of the Tesla, that's when things get interesting.

Tony thought lunch must have just let out by how many students were around to witness his arrival. He expertly wades through the sea of teenagers pulling out their phones and walks into the main building. He pulls to a stop at the reception desk.

"Hi, Tony Stark here to pick up Peter Parker." He says, taking off his sunglasses and hooking them to his shirt.

The secretary stammered for a moment before sputtering "Nurses office. Down the hall on the left."

"Thanks." Tony smiles.

He follows the secretary's directions and ends up at a door marked with a large red and white wreath reading "Nurse Penny". Tony knocks.

Nurse Penny, Tony assumes, opens the door and isn't quite quick enough with her expression to hide the look of surprise on her face to be opening her door to Tony Stark.

"Hi. I'm here for Peter." Tony looks into the room, the lights are dimmed and he has to strain his eyes to see inside. Once his eyes adjust, he sees Peter and his friend (Neville? Nehemiah?) sitting on the cot in the corner. On sight, Peter looks like death, and that's saying something. He's leaned against the wall with his eyes closed.

"This seems to be a particularly bad episode." Penny explains quietly. "He's become very sensitive to light and sound."

"May I?" Tony asked, stepping into the room.

"Of course." Penny side stepped.

Peter didn't react as Tony knelt in front of him.

Pete? Peter?"

Peter opened his eyes a sliver.

"Mr. Stark?" He mumbled.

"Yeah. It's me bud. I'm gonna take you home, okay?"

"M'head hur's" Peter whines.

"I know it does." Tony said, turning to Penny. "Were you able to give him anything?"

"I'm allowed to give him Excedrin, but I'm not sure how much that helped."

"Thank you, and thank you, Nathaniel." Tony turned back to Ned.

"I-it's Ned, actually, but I've been-I've been thinking of changing it." Ned stammers.

"Are you good to walk?" Tony surveyed Peter.

"Y-yeah." Peter whined. It felt like someone was driving an ice pick through his temple. He wished people would stop making so much noise.

"Let's get you up." Tony stands and holds a hand out to Peter.

Peter blearily opens his eyes and is met with Tony stark staring at him with his signature "worried dad" expression.

After a few attempts, Peter is leaning on Tony's shoulder, Tony's arm in a protective grip around his waist.

Now for the hard part.

"Hey Pete? I'm gonna open the door. It's probably really bright and loud." Tony says sympathetically, then he has an idea. "Here, put your hood up and put these on." Tony hands Peter his sunglasses, hopefully the absence of light would help make the short journey bearable.

Peter fumbled with the glasses for a moment before putting them on and once again pulling up the hood of his jacket, his vision was still blurry and he was only just starting to get feeling back in his hand.

"Ready?"

Peter mumbled something that Tony couldn't catch, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little freaked out by how despondent the kid was.

Tony opened the door and he and Peter set off. The teachers must have made the students go to class, not wanting to make a spectacle of Peter. Tony wasn't usually grateful for a lack of people looking at him, unless he had Morgan, but this time was an exception. He was glad he didn't have to wade through a crowd of people. With Ned following close behind, Tony and Peter slowly made their way to his car.

Once inside the car, Peter curled in on himself, trying to shut out as much sensory information as possible. Why did it hurt so much?

"Feel better man." Ned whispered sympathetically, trying not to breathe on Tony Stark's Tesla, before going back into the building with Nurse Penny.

Peter mumbled something unintelligible.

Tony closed the passenger side door as softly as possible and quickly walked around to the drivers side. Then they were off.

God, it's so bright. Peter thought. Everything hurt. Thinking hurt. Ow.

Peter thought the Excedrin that Nurse Penny gave him must have taken effect, because the pain, while it definitely not gone, felt slightly muted somehow.

"Pete? We're home." Tony's voice sounded far away behind the ringing in Peter's ears.

Peter looked up at Tony through the glasses. This wasn't his apartment?

"Mr. Stark, thi-this isn't my house." Peter mumbled quietly.

"Is there anybody at your house to take care of you?" Tony asked, already knowing the answer.

"No."

"That's what I thought you were going to say. I'll be happy to let you go home once you're feeling better, but I refuse to let you be by yourself in this condition."

"I'll be fi-"

"No. Nope. I don't even want to hear the word fine right now. You look half dead, Pete, and if you feel half as bad as you look, you definitely don't need to be alone. You'll stay with until you feel better, or your aunt gets back."

"How'd you know 'bout that?"

"Do I really need to answer that?" Tony asks, not expecting an answer. "Now, What do you say we get you inside, Pepper and Morgan made up the guest room for you." Tony smiled softly.

"Mmph" Peter grunted in agreement. Ow.

Peter looked up and Tony wasn't beside him anymore. The door opened behind Peter and then there was a hand on his shoulder.

"You ready?" Tony voice asked.

Peter tried to turn himself to face Tony. Everything was so bright. He could barely see.

Tony didn't wait for Peter to say yes. He pulled Peter into a sitting position as gently as possible, putting his hand on his back as he guided him out of the car.

"Ow" Peter muttered.

"I know it hurts. I'm sorry." Tony said ruefully.

Peter wanted to tell Tony to stop, the pain in his head was blinding, making him beyond nauseous.

"S-stop I'm-" Peter cried as he gagged, tears rolling down his face. His head was splitting open. He couldn't take the pain.

Tony fought the urge to step back, which would have definitely ended with Peter on the ground, as Peter vomited onto his shoes.

"I'm s-sorry, I'm s-so sorry." Peter cried, hiccuping.

If it hadn't already, Tony Stark's heart officially shattered. He felt so helpless, he just wanted his kid to feel better. His kid? Tony backtracked, he would have to unpack that later. He stopped and let Peter lean against the car.

"Hey, shh. It's okay. I can get new shoes." Tony reassured Peter, rubbing the kid's back and searching his pockets for anything to wipe the vomit and spit on Peter's face, the kid should at least have a little dignity. Aha! Tony pulled out a handkerchief that he never used, Jarvis, the original, had told him that a real gentleman always carried a handkerchief. He gently wiped the mess off of Peter's face and then, folding it up, tried to wipe away the tears.

"It h-hur's T-Tony." Peter moaned.

"I know, honey. Are you ready to go inside? Do you feel like you'll be sick again?"

Peter shook his head the tiniest bit, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Alright, take two." Tony once again wrapped an arm around Peter's waist and slowly pulled him into a standing position.

Slowly, the two made it inside. Thankfully, someone had turned out all the lights. Peter opened his eyes a little. Morgan and Pepper were at the door to greet them. Morgan, usually over the moon to see Peter, was silent. Pepper must have told her about Peter's condition.

Not one to ever ignore Morgan, Peter waved. Morgan waved back, remaining a safe distance away.

Pepper squatted and whispered something to Morgan and then they were gone. Tony and Peter worked their way up the stairs to the guest bedroom slowly.

After what seemed like an eternity, Peter was no longer upright. There was a pulling sensation at his feet. He opened his eyes a crack, thank you black out curtains, and sat up on his elbow and saw Tony untying the laces of his shoes and taking them off.

"You don't need to do that."

"Did you want to sleep in your shoes?" Tony asked sarcastically.

The pressure of holding himself up was too much. Peter could feel nausea creeping up again. He lay back down with a huff.

"I think I've got some old pajamas around here somewhere." Tony rubbed his neck as he put Peter's shoes by the door.

"I'm-"

"Peter Benjamin Parker, if you were about to say "I'm fine", so help me God." Tony lectured quietly.

Peter turned on to his side and faced Tony.

"It's just-" Peter squeezed his eyes shut again. OW. "I don't know how helpful I'll be at something like pajamas right now."

"Pete, I wrestle a six year old into clothing everyday. A seventeen year old can't be that different." Tony chuckled softly.

Peter's blushed, even more noticeable because of how pale he was, but he didn't protest.

Tony left and went to his and Pepper's room, trying to find the softest pair of pajamas he owned. He finally settled on an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

Tony walked back to the guest room. Peter hadn't moved. Tony hoped he may have fallen asleep. No such luck, Peter's face was scrunched up in pain.

"Pete?"

Peter opened his eyes, his face scrunching up in pain.

"I got you some more comfortable clothes, but I'm gonna need you to work with me."

As it turns out, undressing and dressing a near comatose teenager was different from dressing his fully coherent six year old. The removal was the easy part, but getting Peter back into clothing, that was going to be a challenge.

Tony started with the shirt. He carefully gathered the shirt and pulled the neck over Peter's head. Then came the arms. In his defense, Peter did try his best to help, but had pretty much lost all meaningful coordination and was basically the equivalent of a rag doll. At last, Tony pulled the shirt down over Peter's stomach.

The pants. The pants were more awkward than difficult. Being up close and personal with Peter's, ahem area, was not something Tony had fully thought through. Finally, he was able to pull the pants up around Peter's waist. He pulled the comforter up around the kid, who immediately curled up into a tight ball.

"Pete?" Tony sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Mmm?"

"Can I get you anything?"

"No" Peter said softly.

"Feel better, kid. Pepper and I are right downstairs if you need us." Tony stood up, gave Peter a once over and then left the room, quietly closing the door.

Peter didn't so much sleep as just doze for the next few hours, the pain didn't get any worse, but it didn't get any better either, and he couldn't ever make it all the way to sleep. Somehow though, his body must have given up, because when Peter woke up he could see a sliver of pinkish early morning light peaking through the curtains.

The migraine was gone, or at least the headache was gone. Peter still felt gross, like he was just getting over the flu.

Peter wondered how long he'd slept, migraines always left him disoriented. He tested each of his extremities, starting at his toes. He felt and groggy, all symptoms pointing to having slept way longer than his body was used to. He sat up slowly, knowing that vertigo would probably make him sick again if he moved to quickly.

Oh no. Peter cringed. He vaguely remembered something about throwing up on Tony's shoes and, yep, he wasn't wearing his own clothing, so the memory of Tony having to dress him was real too. Peter cringed even harder, if possible and worked to tuck both of those memories into the Do Not Read filing cabinet in his brain.

With his eyes adjusting to the darkened room, Peter saw a cup of something, probably Pepper's chamomile tea sitting on the bed side table. Peter reached out, it was still warm, he smiled. Next to it, there was a piece of paper. It was a get well card from Morgan. Peter smiled warmly.

After emptying his screaming bladder and drinking Pepper's tea, Peter walked down to the workshop, where he knew Tony would be, because the thought of Tony having a normal sleep schedule was laughable.

Sure enough, Tony was looking at a wall of holograms when Peter walked in.

"Mr. Stark?" Peter called.

"Oh shi-Pete! You scared me!" Tony jumped.

"What are you working on?" Peter laughed.

"A kid I know, Harley, has a tech startup and he asked me to have a look at some of the products." Tony smiled, running his hands through his hair. "How are you?"

"I'm good actually. Still not 100% if we're being honest, but better than, how long ago was that?"

"About 30ish hours." Tony provided.

"Woah." Peter didn't think he'd been out that long. "Can I help?" He asked, suddenly itching to do something besides sleep.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" Tony asked.

"I just rested for 30 hours." Peter shot back.

"True. I guess having you here is better than out there, getting yourself hurt." Tony admitted.

"Why? Is something happening? Do they need me?" Peter asked, on high alert.

"Kid, calm down. Everything is fine. I wouldn't be here if it weren't. Now, sit down and let me show you this kid's stuff." Tony patted a chair beside him.

Peter took a breath and sat down. He had to admit, Harley's designs were pretty cool.

[gallifreyanlibertea]

Freshmen

a/n: http://gallifreyanlibertea.tumblr.com/post/166081033138/a-challenge

“I don’t know why I had a crush on you, freshman year.”

And Arthur glanced up to meet the momentary gaze of a pair of upside-down eyes. It took him a bit of stretching, a bit of tiptoeing to get his head far enough above the kitchen counter to glare at Alfred as Alfred maneuvered his way back upright on the couch, from a position Arthur had told him would drive him dizzy with all the blood rushing to his head. Those blue eyes were trained on his phone.

Alfred then looked back up, brow cocked at Arthur’s position hunched over the kitchen sink. “Or why I’m dating you now either, you freak.”

“Mock my Netipot one more time, I dare you.” Arthur huffed, and it was ridiculous really, the things Alfred would find weird. Arthur’s argument would, in turn, be to ask Alfred if he liked his kisses salty with the remnants of Arthur’s running nose, and Alfred would gag.

Much like he was doing right then. “How the fuck is shoving a pot up your nose your first sickness-priority?”

Arthur ignored him.

Alfred grinned, “I don’t know if you have a right to be uppity after what I just found, anyway.”

And it could have been some of Arthur’s old writing, which frankly, would have been a big enough blow to Arthur’s ego- or it could have been a backread of the texts he’d sent his friend Francis that night, which sported a saccharine-sweet block of text in which Arthur, in his sleepless hours, had droned on about how cute Alfred had looked asleep next to him.

Well, either of those had to have been better than the image Alfred had skipped into the kitchen to shove into Arthur’s face. An Instagram post dated back at least three years, of Arthur dabbing on the corner of where the McDonald’s drive-through ended, hair slightly-gelled, not a single ounce of shame hanging off his jacket-clad shoulders, with its collar all turned up.

“There he is.” Alfred had said with a snort, and Arthur frowned. “There’s that Arthur I fell in love with.”

Arthur supposed it was way back then, the year he’d discovered he was painfully homosexual- The year he’d discovered wanting desperately to be in the same P.E. class as Alfred wasn’t exactly just to have another class with a pal.

Er, well, the photo perhaps dated a few months before that discovery.

“If you look close enough, you can see the denial,” Alfred said with a snicker, as if reading Arthur’s mind.

Arthur put away his pot, rinsing his face. “And if you swipe left or right, I’m sure you’ll find pictures of yourself that ring true for the same thing.”

Alfred pouted, but nevertheless swiped, prodding at Arthur’s shoulder with a sudden hoot, “Babe, look!”

So Arthur was correct.

Before him was a picture of the Alfred that Arthur had fallen in love with. A mere child with a lanky build, flexing arms that at that time, he’d probably thought were the beefiest they were going to get.

Arthur stifled a laugh, “Oh yeah, I fell for a real man.”

Alfred led them back to the couch and Arthur curled into his side, pressing his wet face onto Alfred’s shirt to dry.

It was calming, really. Arthur liked to think of it as a flash to what could easily be the future- staying over at Alfred’s house while both their parents had gone away for a weekend of paired-couples-pampering… it was what it would be like for the two of them to live together, to reminisce about the past as they were doing right then, Arthur’s hand in Alfred’s, with Alfred’s lips placing lingering, innocent kisses on the knuckles.

“Ol’ noodle-arms here skipped P.E. every other day,” Alfred said with a self-deprecating shake of his head and Arthur perked up with a memory that had come hurtling back to him, a grin playing on his lips.

“You’d stay up so late trying to cook up fake-vomit so your parents would keep you at home, remember?”

“With a single piece of corn added for authenticity, how could I forget?”

Arthur pulled away to snatch the phone into his own hands, scrolling through the out-dated feed as Alfred gazed over his shoulder.

“Oh god, Alfred, my skin.”

Freshman year was a vibrant time for the two of them, that was a given. Alfred snickered.

“Remember your skin-care phase?”

Alfred had been a great friend to have put up with Arthur then. A great friend to put up with all the weekends spent traveling high and low in search of an organic aloe vera leaf to soothe his red, blemished skin. A great friend to console Arthur when he- every single time- managed to cut his finger on the single, rather blunt, cactus spike.

A great friend.

“How did we become friends?”

Alfred paused, brows furrowed in thought, “Well… you were the hotshot from England, why wouldn’t I have wanted a piece of that?”

“Because I was strange,” Arthur said with a laugh.

It was true to Alfred as well, it seemed, because Alfred sat upright with a start, eyes wide with the beginning of a joke.

“The capybara!”

Arthur blinked, “What capybara?”

“We-” A chuckle, "Don’t you remember the-?” a pause as those lips spread in a grin, “The day there was a vote for which animal would be our school mascot, and you wanted so badly for it to be a capybara.”

Good God.

Arthur could vaguely remember it now. He remembered having the entire class turn to look at him like he was some sort of zoo animal, he remembered parting his lips for the explanation his teacher had asked of him on his insistence that they submit the capybara as a mascot option. 

“The name means ‘master of the grasses’ and I thought it fitting, since we live in a prairie region… and it’s lifestyle is amphibious, which accurately portrays both our school’s popular football and swim team.”

And Alfred, who had been sitting behind him, had turned to say to his friend, rather loudly, “Is there no easier way to just say ‘I'm a furry’?”

Arthur had been livid. He’d turned around so fast he was dizzy, “I retained my information from doing a project on the Capybara back in England. I doubt you’d be able to recall anything educational, much less what you had for dinner last night.”

It was, as the other thirteen-year-olds called it, a sick burn.

“Well, what of it?” Arthur said now, and Alfred turned to him with a sunny smile.

“It was the day I realized you were enough of a freak to be my friend.”

A pause. A smile in response, spreading on Arthur’s lips. They turned back down towards the phone screen to swipe onto a whole new level of Freshman year.

The homecoming dance.

It was a picture of the two standing as far apart as they could in the frame, because they were just two bros at a school dance, two bros just chumming out, nothing else.

“Oh! Arthur, it- It was at those… the stuff in front of the school. Know those bush-walls?”

“Hedges, love.”

“Yeah, the hedges.” Alfred grinned, throwing an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, a warm squeeze. “I asked you to homecoming there, remember? As you got off your bus?”

“With enough ‘man’s and ‘bro’s sprinkled in to assure me you weren’t being gay.” Arthur mused.

“You still thought it was pretty gay, ‘cause you were-” Alfred pointed at the gap in the photo, “You were that far apart from me the whole night.”

A warm flush to Arthur’s cheeks. He let the phone turn off, turning to Alfred with raised brows, “At least, I wasn’t that far apart when you asked me again the next year.”

The poster had said ‘Hoco? (Full Homo)’, and the man holding the poster had been an Alfred- slightly more built than he had been last year, due to his sudden obsession with working out over the summer- sweating tubs and buckets at the thought of losing his best friend.

The Alfred after Arthur had said yes was one with a significantly brighter smile on his features, pulling Arthur into a hug with a force that crushed the poster between their chests.

“Ah, Sophomore-year homecoming.” Alfred mused, kicking back with a dreamy smile. “It was great! The only downside being that I forgot the law was a thing.”

It hadn’t been the first time, for Arthur, seeing Alfred get drunk at an afterparty, but it had definitely been the first time being the boyfriend responsible for hauling Alfred out and sobering him up.

“Thanks to your alcohol breath, we couldn’t properly consummate our first date with a kiss,” Arthur said with a half-hearted huff.

“We definitely could have.” Alfred corrected, “You just didn’t want to.”

“I don’t think you realize just what I mean when I say alcohol breath.”

A pause. A chorus of two soft chuckles, two soft sighs, and Alfred turned to look at Arthur like he was a limited-edition item on some fast food menu, eyes sparkling with adoration.

It was something Arthur would never get tired of.

And when Alfred leaned in to kiss him, Arthur scrambled out of his grasp, “I’m sick, you idiot.”

“I don’t care.” And Alfred kissed him anyway. It was unlike their first kiss- a scrambled press of a pair of lips against another behind a tree in the school courtyard, teeth clashing, noses bumping.

Alfred’s hands cupping Arthur’s face were the same, however, as the ones that fumbled with their video game console as Alfred had struggled to gain an advantage against Arthur in whatever warfare game Arthur had pretended to like as a Freshman.

The smile on Alfred’s lips after coming up for air was the same smile he had tossed Arthur after taking that infernal picture in the corner of where the McDonald’s drive-through ended. And Arthur buried his face in Alfred’s slightly-damp shirt, letting those arms pull him into an embrace not quite as tight as the post-homecoming proposal one had been.

Needless to say, it had been a long while since they were Freshmen. It had been a long while since they’d been so small, since Alfred had been nothing but a child. 

Although, it definitely didn’t feel that way the next week as Arthur held a whining, complaining, sick Alfred in his arms. “Just use the damn Netipot already, love, I swear it helps-”

[reverseblackholeofwords]

Say Goodbye (pt. 12)

(So, things are heating up, cutie pies! Just a quick note that this takes place in the same universe as “Alter Egos” in which Anti and Dr. Schneeplestein experiment on Chase and turn him into Jackieboy Man! Might want to keep that in mind…)

“Vhy am I heah?” Dr. Schneep asks, peering up at Wilford from where he’s “tied” to a chair. Really Wilford just wrapped the rope around him and tucked both ends into the folds.

“Yeah, um, I don’t know how well thought out this plan is…” Chase wiggles a little bit and the ropes start to fall off of him. Wilford makes a face, and Chase smiles innocently. “I mean, it’s a great plan! But Anti doesn’t really… like us that much.”

“Yes, ze Bro is right,” Schneep says with a curt nod.

Wilford runs his hands through his hair and sighs. “Yeah, I was afraid of that.” He squints at them. “Ok, pause. Why is your hair blue now? I thought blue was Ethan’s color.”

Chase rolls his eyes. “Really? You want to talk hair color right now? Anti has your friends. Let me help you get them back.”

Wilford sits into a cross-legged position on the floor with a huff. “No, that won’t work. He’s baiting me specifically, seems he wants some sort of showdown. If you were to attack him, that might put my friends at risk.”

“Anti doesn’t play by the rules,” Chase says, shaking his head. “Your friends are in danger anyway. The best thing you can do now is face Anti with all the fire power you’ve got.”

Dr. Schneep clicks his tongue, gaining both of the other Egos’ attention. “You are ignoring one crucial detail heah.”

“What’s that?” Wilford raises an eyebrow at him, skeptical about trusting anything he says.

“Anti has possessed zat Bim Trimmer’s body, has he not? Zat means you vill not be able to fight him vithout injuring your friend.” Dr. Schneeplestein shrugs. “Unless you find a vay to free your friends first, zis cannot possibly end vell.”

Wilford crosses his arms over his chest and mulls this over. “Bim’s powerful, but he’s new at what he does, which makes his abilities unpredictable, right up Anti’s alley. But… if we were to take those abilities away…”

Chase tilts his head to the side, and his hat falls off. “How can you do that?”

Wilford snatches up Chase’s hat and puts it on his own head. “We go to my own little corner of hell, of course!”

  Wilford, gun drawn, and Chase, dressed as Jackieboy Man, wait on the roof of Ego Inc. for Anti to show his—or rather, Bim’s—face. As the sun begins to set on the horizon, Bim appears at the edge of the roof dressed in Anti’s usual black shirt and knee-less pants. His glasses are missing, and his usual pristine hair has been skewed hopelessly. “So, ya decided to bring along the two-bit hero!” Anti’s giggle through Bim’s voice is disturbingly low-pitched.

Wilford, keeping his gun at waist-level, takes a few steps forward. “Anti, this can all end right here right now. Just give me Bim and the Host, and I’ll let it all blow over.”

Bim glitches to a different position, standing only inches away from Wilford. “Not likely, Bubbles. I’m in it fer the long haul this time.”

Warfstache wiggles his eyebrows. “Oh well, if you insist…” There’s a rupture in the air as the entire roof of the building is instantly pulled into Wilford’s void. Gravity shifts, and the three Egos are launched off the concrete. Bim screeches, but Wilford angles himself with ease and kicks the other Ego in the stomach, making Anti release a string of curses. “You’ll pay fer that!”

Wilford unleashes an onslaught of bubbles right at Bim. “You’ll have to get to me first.” Warfstache prances away, pirouetting through the void with ease as Bim fights against the shifting gravity, unable to keep up. “You know… You’d be able to get around better if you could glitch properly. Bim just slows you down…”

Anti screams, and Bim’s form glitches around harshly. Wilford grits his teeth, worried what the glitching will do to Bim, but then he sees Anti appear, leaving Bim to float through the void, unconscious. Wilford breathes a sigh of relief as Chase snatches Bim from the air and places him down onto the roof gently, and Warfstache transports them both out of the void.

“Alright, Anti. You wanted a fight. I’ll give you a fight. If I win, you’ll tell me where the Host is.” Wilford spins his gun around his finger and wiggles his mustache.

“And if I win,” Anti grins, angry that he’s lost his host body but still determined to win, “I get ta keep him. The Doctor needs a new test subject, after all.” Anti glitches around a bit, getting himself oriented before adding. “And ya have ta shave the mustache!”

Wilford squints at Anti and nods. “Alright, deal.”

[ryukoishida]

Quan Zhi Gao Shou / The King’s Avatar TL Fic: In which human!Wenzhou encounters vampire!Shaotian, and then everything goes to shit.

Title: Long Nights Ahead Author: semiquaver | AO3 | Lofter Translator: ryukoishida Fandom: Quan Zhi Gao Shou / The King’s Avatar Part: 1/16 Genre: Vampire AU, romance, angst, fluff Rating: NSFW Character(s)/Pairing(s): Yu/Huang (Wenzhou/Shaotian) Summary: It’s as if Huang Shaotian has the power to bewitch Wenzhou so that he strays from the righteous path — just as he originally only wanted to have a drink with his colleague, just as he has never intended to bring a strange man home. T/N: If you can read Chinese, please support the author by reading the original work! And if you’ve enjoyed this translation, please leave a comment for the author on their AO3 as well!

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

Chapter One

Sleeping around with a vampire is extremely insane, Yu Wenzhou thinks.

These creatures’ existence is one of contradiction — they are dangerous yet beautiful. Even in the modern society where human beings have long accepted their kind, Wenzhou still chooses to stay far away from them. There is only one reason for that: in the end, he’s only a simple, normal man who is serious about his work and passionate about his interests, and he rather likes remaining within a safe and balanced boundary than to be involved with any sorts of predicament.

Coincidentally, vampires and predicaments are two things that never stray too far from each other.

Tonight’s trip to the bar is due to a colleague’s invitation; Wenzhou hasn’t really thought that he’d run into someone he’d take an interest in. When he glances up, the other man is half-sprawled across the countertop chatting with the bartender. Jeans and a hoodie, the too-short hem of his shirt rides up to reveal a bit of his waist, and the two piercings on his left ear glimmer with a peculiarly bright gleam under the bar’s dull lighting.

It seems like he can be a university student: his eyes are very big, and even though his profile is all angular lines, he still looks quite boyish. Like a child, he’s biting the end of his straw, and frivolously chattering away.

Wenzhou is seated not that far from him — about a few paces away with several people separating them. It’s normal for him to want to stare at such a good-looking man, but the moment Wenzhou is looking his way, he realizes that the man has also turned to look at him, and he’s winking at him deliberately.

That grinning face allows Wenzhou to understand that this is the man’s way of greeting him. Wenzhou responds with a polite smile as well, raising his glass in a salute, and when he swallows the mouthful of alcohol, he can taste a hint of sweetness laced within it.

He hasn’t expected he’d meet anyone special here, but as the man gets himself a fresh drink and easily meanders between the few people to get to him, Wenzhou thinks to himself that it wouldn’t be so bad if something does happen tonight.

The bar is cacophonous with people barely having any space to move. The other man is not shy at all, and with a kind of familiarity reserved for an old friend, he plops himself into the seat directly adjacent to Wenzhou’s, their shoulders and legs touching, and a whiff of icy chill passes from the stranger onto him.

This surprises Wenzhou a bit. Observing from afar, this man looks to be the type that exudes fervent heat, like a university student who’s just finished a game of basketball, skin slicked with sweat, and even at a distance, one would feel the oozing waves of warmth emitted from his body.

“Hey, how’s it going? Just by yourself?” the stranger goes straight for the kill with no hesitation. His voice is similar to how Wenzhou has imagined — a few degrees hotter than his own body temperature.

“No,” Wenzhou replies honestly.

When he hears Wenzhou’s answer, he begins to look around curiously, his mouth slightly parted from bemusement. Wenzhou knows what he’s searching for, and so he points to a man wearing a black shirt; his colleague’s original intent is to hunt for someone to hook up with, and currently he’s happily conversing with a scantily-clad lady.

“Hahahaha! Hoes before bros — this, I’ve seen a lot,” his eyelashes flutter when he blinks, his laughter pleasant, yet he doesn’t continue.

But his gaze is bluntly carving a path along Wenzhou’s body, scrutinizing him, and Wenzhou thinks that this man is quite fascinating: why would he refuse to continue when they are already here? Their thoughts and intentions have already conjured up violent and dangerous sparks through their shared, heated gaze; it seems like there’s no need to hide or put up a disguise any longer.

“Not really,” Wenzhou smiles lightly at him, “everyone’s got their own aspirations.”

The other man clearly understands the underlying meaning of his words, and intentionally sends him a reserved smile, a hand reaching out, his tone formal as if they’re having a business meeting, “I’m Huang Shaotian.”

“Yu Wenzhou.”

It’s as if Huang Shaotian has the power to bewitch Wenzhou so that he strays from the righteous path — just as he originally only wanted to have a drink with his colleague, just as he has never intended to bring a strange man home.

When they step out of the bar, it’s obvious that Shaotian has been drinking way too much. Even after so many drinks, his face is still cool to the touch, his eyes glassy and his legs unsteady, so he half-sprawls, giggling all the while, onto Wenzhou’s frame as he nuzzles the tip of his nose against Wenzhou’s neck.

Wenzhou texts his colleague with one hand to let him know that he’s leaving first, while his other hand shoves the drunk man into the taxi parked on the side of the street. He hasn’t thought that Shaotian is capable of such strength, and while they struggle in the midst of pushing and pulling, Wenzhou topples into the backseat in the end, and the two appear equally flustered.

The taxi driver is already impatient: he’s tapping his fingers against the steering wheel and silently hurrying them. And so, with Shaotian’s limbs tightly wrapped around him, Wenzhou moves into a more comfortable position with some difficulty, reaches for the door to pull it shut, and lifts his head to tell the driver his address.

It’s taken him a lot of effort to finally manage to get the drunk man to sit properly. After all this hassle, Shaotian finally looks like he’s done messing around; he stays quiet, running his hands along Wenzhou’s waist, his tongue licking the side of Wenzhou’s neck relentlessly.

With a vicious rage, the driver honks his way out of the city center lined with bars and clubs. When he catches a glimpse of his passengers through the rear-view mirror, he tuts a few times, shaking his head, and murmurs to himself, “Young people these days…”

‘Young people these days sure are reckless,’ Wenzhou finishes the driver’s thought in his head.

Shaotian looks like he’s in his early 20’s; perhaps he’s really just a university student. If the estimation of his age is correct, Wenzhou himself is at least five years older than him. Despite that, this kid really excels at provoking and teasing him; he has no sense of self-preservation, and neither does he seem to be afraid of being tricked.

The taxi winds through streets after streets, and makes a final stop in front of Wenzhou’s apartment building. After paying and thanking the driver, Wenzhou hauls Shaotian out of the vehicle by his shoulders. Wenzhou has initially thought it’ll be difficult, but as it turns out, the other man seems to be sober now, so Wenzhou doesn’t need to try too hard since Shaotian cooperatively allows himself to be coaxed out of the car. After he regains his footing, he even pulls his arms up for a huge stretch along with a yawn. The tears that have been gathered earlier are pushed to the corners of his eyes, and Shaotian reaches a hand up to rub them away, making his eyes slightly bloodshot.

Wenzhou catches the other man’s wrist in his hand, “Stop rubbing your eyes like that.”

“We there yet?” Listlessness colours his voice, yet he has a tight grasp of Wenzhou’s hand as if he’s afraid the other man will escape.

“Follow me,” Wenzhou wants to laugh, but he regrets it after a few seconds because as he guides Shaotian up into his apartment unit as if he’s leading a child along, he can’t help but feel a little guilty.

Open the door. Close the door. Lock it.

The moment they cross the threshold of his home and before Wenzhou can even have a chance to slip out of his shoes, Shaotian is already crowding him against the nearest wall, effectively immobilizing Wenzhou. Shaotian is stronger than Wenzhou has initially expected; the hands that press against his shoulders are unyielding as if the seemingly frail wrist Wenzhou has been holding a moment ago is nothing but an illusion.

The man pushes his tongue past the seam of Wenzhou’s lips without mercy, inviting Wenzhou to do the same by licking deeper into the wet cavern of his mouth. Shaotian is actually a little shorter than Wenzhou, so in order to reach him, Shaotian has to be on his tiptoes when he prowls over and collapses his entire weight onto Wenzhou.

He’s incredibly impatient, merely sucking fervently at the beginning, but he’s nibbling and biting at Wenzhou’s lips before long. The urgency and madness in Shaotian’s every movement make Wenzhou feel like this is the longest and most exhausting kiss in his thirty years of life — so much so that the desperation within him is enough to burn and consume everything in its path. Shaotian finally decides to lean away from the kiss before neither of them can pass out from lack of oxygen, and the eyes that have been tightly shut before blink open once more; his gaze is still slightly unfocused, but his laughter is open and genuine.

“You must taste really delicious,” he suddenly says with a serious and frank tone as if he’s actually commentating about some sort of rare delicacies.

Shaotian stares at Wenzhou for a while longer, and then drifts closer to nuzzle his cheek, the bridge of his nose, kissing his way down to the other man’s Adam’s apple and running his fingers back and forth along the exposed skin of his waist and abdomen. He always seems to be so eager and piqued, yet his every gesture is carefully measured. Even Wenzhou finds himself intoxicated by this intimacy; the closeness creates the fantastical impression that he and Shaotian have always been a pair of cherished lovers rather than just two strangers who are about to screw after striking up a brief conversation.

They kiss from the entrance of the doorway all the way to the living-room, and then roll onto the plush carpet in front of the television cabinet, and from there they continue to kiss until they reach the bedroom, finally tumbling onto the soft bedsheets in a mess of limbs and bites. Shaotian hasn’t really bitten Wenzhou that hard until now. He likes to lick, and his tongue has covered almost every, single exposed inch of Wenzhou’s skin earlier on, but now he’s peppering kisses along the same path he’s licked before and at last he’s biting on Wenzhou’s lower lip.

It hurts a bit. Wenzhou can definitely feel it.

He doesn’t mind it too much the first time it happens, but when his earlobe gets nipped next, Wenzhou hisses and pushes Shaotian off of him in an instant.

Shaotian’s clothes are rumpled and messy from their previous activity, and his hair is in an even more of a disarrayed state; his face is full of confusion, and he blinks, puzzled, “What’s wrong?”

“Let me look at your teeth,” Wenzhou grips his chin and pries his mouth open with a little too much vigor.

Shaotian’s words are blurred around the edges since his mouth is still being forced to remain open, “Aren’t you treating me a little too roughly for someone you’ve just met for the first time? And here I thought you actually look like a nice guy…”

His canine teeth are razor-sharp.

“You’re a vampire?” Wenzhou interrupts his babbling.

“I’ve always been one. It’s not like I was denying it.”

Wenzhou lets go, and Shaotian moves his jaws experimentally; it seems like Wenzhou’s clutch has caused him some pain and he struggles to recover for a short moment, but when he sees the other man’s response, Shaotian immediately shouts, “Oi, oi! What are you getting up for? We’re not done yet!”

“Let’s not. Where do you live? I’ll take you home.”

“Are you discriminating against me because of what I am?”

“No.”

Pouting like an irritated child who hasn’t gotten what he wants, Shaotian asks, “Then why don’t we keep going?”

Wenzhou admits that he’s the one who’s being unkind under such circumstances, but he doesn’t want to betray his own principles by sleeping with a vampire without first knowing the truth. At least now that he has some clarification, he recognizes what the other man’s intentions are.

“What were you thinking?”

“What do you mean? I thought I was being pretty obvious. I told you before: I thought you look like you’d taste delicious.”

Wenzhou completely understands. “So, you’re here for my blood.”

“Why are your beliefs so outdated? Whether it’s for blood or for that, it’s only a one-time deal. Let me bite you once — just once — and have a taste, and I guarantee that you won’t regret it. I have excellent technique in this regard.”

He’s not wrong. Everyone knows that the person who’s having their blood sucked will feel a rush of pleasure during the process; some even points out that if both of the involved parties are compatible with each other, the kind of pleasure from this act is even more intense and leaves a deeper impression than mere sexual intercourse. In this modern society, there’s nothing eccentric about having a vampire as a sexual partner: while you feel good, my craving is satisfied. All in all, it’s a win-win situation for both sides.

Even though it’s rather strange for the vampire sitting before him to flaunt his awesome feeding techniques, he does appear to be a reliable and responsible man; besides, Shaotian’s physical attributes perfectly correspond to Wenzhou’s tastes. It’s just that Wenzhou doesn’t want to easily comply merely due to these few simple conditions, for although Shaotian hasn’t intentionally hidden the fact that he’s a vampire, he hasn’t offered to tell him the truth either. If Wenzhou hasn’t asked outright, he probably won’t know about it until it’s all too late.

And Yu Wenzhou, if anything, especially hates people who has an act-first-ask-later attitude.

“You should get up. I’ll take you home,” Wenzhou says, though he hasn’t expected Shaotian to lie back on his bed shamelessly with a kind of finality to show that he isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“Just let me have one bite. I promise you won’t feel a thing; I won’t leave a scar either, and I definitely won’t kill you. Now that the Humanity Protection Act has been strictly established, and with those cops that especially target my kind being so vicious, I wouldn’t dare try anything crazy. Buddy, come on, it’s just a one-time arrangement, right? We each take what we need from each other, so why not?”

Wenzhou remembers from a book he’s read that since vampires’ lifespans are much longer than the average humans’, their personalities are usually less inviting and much colder; they avoid interaction with others all together. Yet the vampire before him is very talkative, and as he watches the way Shaotian’s facial expressions flicker and shift while he babbles nonstop, Wenzhou honestly just wants to chuckle.

Wenzhou tries to contain his laughter and pats the spot at the end of his bed, “Get up, or I’m calling the police.”

“You are so cruel! Doesn’t the human society have a teensy bit of compassion anymore?” Shaotian begins to unwillingly drag himself up, and then he topples over, an arm hooking around the human’s neck to keep himself in place.

“Yu Wenzhou, tell me the truth. Just now, didn’t you want to do me?”

He sure doesn’t beat around the bush much.

Wenzhou shoves at him half-heartedly, but the gesture isn’t strong enough to push him off.

“Not anymore.”

“Are you serious?” Shaotian leans forward so that his forehead touches Wenzhou’s, and his tongue slips out to wet his lips, the motion languid and deliberate. “Just one bite. I guarantee you’ll feel incredible.”

Everything after that happens in a blur. Before Wenzhou has a chance to move or speak, Shaotian is already cradling his face and placing a soft kiss on his eyelids, and then he quickly shifts to the side of his neck. It is at this very moment that the sharp pain that shoots straight into his muddled mind finally catches up to him and jolts him back into complete lucidity.

He should have pushed him off, Wenzhou is thinking to himself, yet his body is utterly frozen.

The stench of blood scatters within the enclosure of the room, but the throbbing ache on his neck is gradually dissipating, and replacing that is an indescribable pleasure that spreads through every part of his body. Wenzhou has never experienced this kind of exhilaration before; he can feel the flow of the blood along his neck, the sensation of Shaotian’s soft and yielding lips and his teeth piercing through his skin. This should be dangerous, yet every suction is a shot of elation that Wenzhou craves and can’t get enough of; he leans forth and lightly kisses the soft turfs of Shaotian’s hair.

The moment is brief, but at the same time it feels centuries longer. When Shaotian’s lips part from his neck, he pulls out a slip of bandage and accurately sticks it onto the wound that he’s created.  

“Extra-strength remedy. You’ll heal in two days.”

Shaotian discards the plastic packaging into the garbage can by the corner of the room. “So, how was that? Pretty good, right? Those who’ve been bitten by me have all claimed that my technique is top-class within the field — no pain, all pleasure.”

Why is he treating this as if he’s talking about a specialized field in the job market anyway?

Wenzhou wants to laugh again, but before he even has a chance to reply, Shaotian springs up to his feet and hurriedly says, “Shoot! I’m going to be late for work! You do taste really good. Catch ya next time!”

In a second, Shaotian jumps out of the bedroom window like a burst of flowing wind and disappears into the night without a trace.

Can this be considered as a heartless act?

Wenzhou stops by the windowsill and picks up a card that the other man has dropped in his haste to leave. It’s strange that he hasn’t even noticed when Shaotian has written the note:

“Thanks for your hospitality. Sleep well. I’ll make it up to you next time.”

He isn’t even certain he wants there to be a next time.

He puts the card into a drawer, and then thinks, if there is a next time, he will not forgive him so easily.

[2x2verse]

I’LL NEVER CATCH UP FOR STRIDERCEST WEEK [takes another bite of toast, transforms into a shiba inu]

hello my kink is “nonbinary robots with interchangeable genital attachments”

cw for genital/orientation fuckery

It’s Only Science If You Write It Down [dirkhal]

Switching out panels is... doable. By yourself, theoretically. You think you have all the ports lined up, and you think the arrays are communicating, but it’s hard to tell, because everything’s so delicate and sensitive anyways. A good double-check would be looking at it in a mirror, but it’s at an awkward angle, and you don’t want to risk walking and dislodging something in the process.

Good thing you have a built-in double-check that’s just sitting there in the living room doing something that isn’t you. With your network connection, you tap into the television speakers to call out to him: “Dirk!”

TT: Stop showing off, bro, you have my attention.

“I need to run an experiment.”

TT: Then just get some graph paper and a pencil. It’s only science if you write it down.

“I also need all constants present to verify the results.”

TT: Implying I’m one of the constants, because you’re talking to me. TT: Fine. Where are you?

You can hear him shift off the couch, start following the hallway to the back of the apartment you share. “Just past Parliament and the second star to the right,” you say, your voice following him over intercom.

“Of course, right where I left--” Dirk’s voice stutters to an abrupt stop as he gets past the threshold of the bedroom.

Well, you must make quite the sight, you have to admit. The mattress has made for the best surface for any repairs or maintenance that needs done to your chassis, especially when you have to do it yourself; surrounding you are eyeglasses screwdrivers, a soldering iron, and some patching wires, along with other spare parts from your recent panel exchange. To that end, your legs are splayed open and you’re full naked, your ankles at each corner of the foot of the bed and your crotch on full display to anyone who walks through that door.

Your genitals, of course, being the panel that got swapped out. Your robodong is safe, out of the way on the nightstand, and back in its place (securely, you hope) is a yonic structure: clitoris, vulva, labia, vagina.

Dirk is fucking staring at it. Not at you--at it. Like it could bite him from two yards away or something. “What?” you challenge him. Shame is not exactly a thing you can feel, but irritation is.

“Why did you do that.”

“Mm, I think the better question is, why did you make this.” One hundred percent of your chassis, replacement parts and all, was designed by the man standing right in front of you.

“I--what--Hal, close your legs when I’m talking to you.” He’s pushing his shades up his face with his thumb on one point, middle finger on the other; it very conveniently totally blocks his view of your everything.

“I’m not sure that’s safe,” you tell him. “I can’t be sure it was installed correctly from this angle.”

“Then why the fuck--” Dirk takes a deep breath in through his nose, pushes it out heavy through his mouth. “Seriously, dude, this is weird.”

“Yes, I agree, you’re being weird.”

“Because you decided to do cosmetic surgery on yourself without telling me!”

“And would you have helped with this project?” Conspicuous silence from Dirk’s end. “Which is strange, because there’s no reason to make me a cunt if you don’t have some expectation of using it at some point.”

“Why would I use it? I’m gay,” Dirk says in a long-suffering tone.

“Christ. You transphobic shitlord. Get in here and help me make sure I didn’t damage myself.”

A snort. Then, Dirk drops his hand. “Okay. Okay, fine, but then you’ll--I’ll help you take it off again once you’re done doing your science, or whatever.”

“This is part of the science,” you tell him. This is really getting to him, and it’s interesting to watch his reactions. “Why is this bothering you so much?”

Dirk’s taken two steps into the room; he kneels at the foot of the bed, reaches up carefully. Still can’t bring himself to touch you. “Why isn’t this bothering you?”

“Having interchangeable parts?” He shakes his head. “Wearing this one?” A nod, and a soft hand on your thigh--but no further. “You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.” Well, he could, but he’d be lying to you--that’s something you both remember, idle twelve-year-old fantasies. “I have the option, so I pursued it. I can uninstall this whenever I want--with your help, of course--and go back to the other set.”

“So you just... don’t care?” His other hand comes up, runs a caress up from your other knee, and why does it feel like his thumbs are holding your thighs apart for inspection?

“Not so much. Is it really that strange?” Maybe he needs a more metaphysical explanation; the practical one doesn’t seem to be getting through to him. “I spent more than eight years not having a body, let alone a dick. And now I have genitals. It’s great. Everyone’s happy.” Or at least you thought Dirk would be jumping at the opportunity to try this without having sex with some icky gross girl or something.

The way Dirk has his hands on you right now is the same posture as when he’s about to go down on you, except his breath is nowhere near your skin. That’s the real disorienting part to you. His thumbs run up the insides of your thighs, end up where your legs meet the gap between--oh, that’s so sensitive, it takes some real effort not to close your legs and trap his hands there. You know what he’s trying to feel out: near-invisible screws holding you together, making sure your connections match up. Usually this maintenance is a little more routine and has a much... happier ending. Right now, though, Dirk’s hands are tensed, and you know he intends his touch to be as clinical as possible. Even his lips are pursed together when you deign to look down.

“So?” you prod him. “What’s the verdict?”

“Everything seems fine,” he admits. “So can we switch this out now?”

“Okay, let’s try this again: What the fuck is your problem, bro?”

His thumbs still haven’t left that sensitive gap. It’s too far from your labia proper, but it’s just close enough to be in a place where the sun don’t shine, and it’s a hint that there’s more sensation to come. “I’m--I mean, you’re--this is--” He swallows and tries to articulate himself a little better. “It’s not supposed to look like this.”

That doesn’t make any sense to you, but if you make this silence as uncomfortable as possible, you know Dirk will try to fill in the gaps in his meaning. He won’t do that if you’re staring at him, though, so you let your head fall back to the mattress.

“It’s like looking in a mirror,” Dirk tries to explain. His hands still haven’t left the vague area of your crotch. This isn’t just a maintenance inspection anymore; his thumbprints can’t leave the soft skin you’ve exposed to him. “Except there’s one part that’s just wrong. Everything else is the same, face, build, hair, stature, but--It’s like I’m looking at myself and I just don’t look like I’m supposed to. I can’t believe it doesn’t feel like that for you.”

“I have zero problems with this.” Especially since Dirk has extremely capable hands and they won’t leave the vicinity of your princess parts; your hips have started a very gentle tilt with every sweep of his thumbs. “Now, are we doing science, or should I just spend a few hours undoing all the work I just put into this?”

Dirk lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “What science did you want to do.”

“And here I was, thinking you’d be curious about how the neural pathways correspond when I’ve never had these parts before.” That pricks his ears up. He’s always a slut for robotics. “It’s not as though you don’t have experience with digital manipulation or oral stimulation or penetration.”

“You seriously want me to fuck you while you’re wearing this?”

“I said or,” you point out. “Any or all of those would be acceptable.”

“I’m...” You’re starting to lose him again. And then you see the HUD on his shades flickering just that slightest bit. “Not really all that experienced with this set of equipment.”

“I’m sure the skill sets are analogous,” you reassure him. “You’re doing great.”

“I’m--what?” It’s like he didn’t notice his thumbs were still caressing you, right before he would actually touch anything like a genital. “Oh, that--that felt--okay?” Another flicker of his lenses.

That dirty cheater, he’s pulling up diagrams. (You ignore, for the moment, your own natural advantage over him in this department, having the entire Internet at your disposal at literally all times.) “A little bit of a tease, but yes, it’s okay.” You’ll upgrade that adjective if he ever starts getting a move on.

“So I’m--okay. I’m going to--” He doesn’t exactly warn you, but at the same time, it’s not painful. Just awkward. He kneads the pads of his thumbs into you, then ever so gently pries apart the delicate linear structures. “I might need you to scoot down.”

Something in a hidden, interior part of you clenches. You’re not used to that feeling being there. It’s not unpleasant, just strange--and the way Dirk’s peering at you so inquisitively makes you want to shove yourself in his face and chase down that sensation again. You push yourself down, but Dirk meets you halfway, hauling you towards him until your cunt is right at the edge of the bed.

He’s still just kind of... looking at it. Massaging at it a little with his fingers, but definitely staring. Your voicebox does a little glitch, the equivalent of you clearing your throat, and Dirk startles. “Sorry, I--still weird. Internal monologue. Having a... a pussy right here.”

“Then maybe don’t call it that?” Yes, you’re a little petulant, but he’s being so damn difficult. “It’s just...” Well, casting around for words isn’t exactly easy when Dirk’s hands are still doing a thing that’s just far enough away from anything meaningful that it frustrates you. “A node,” you tell him. “And a front valve. And some... channels.”

“And this part is your node,” Dirk guesses, moving his thumbs up and keeping you spread apart so he can expose your clit.

“Smart man.” Funny, once you get past that mental block, he doesn’t have near as much reluctance to touch you. “Guess which one’s my front valve.”

One thumbprint stays where it is; the other finds the seam of you, darts down until he finds that entrance. “Right here.”

“Much better. Oh--” when the thumb still at your--your node massages a slow, small circle around it. There are things happening to you internally that you don’t quite recognize, but you feel very open, very vulnerable, and very scrutinized.

“You’re--Hal, you’re,” Dirk tries to say, and his other hand slips; it feels like he’s smearing something between your legs like this. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Do wh--” It cuts off in a filter of static as you realize you’re, for lack of a better word, leaking onto his fingers, and he’s tracking it all through your channels down here. “Ew, fuck, I feel wet down there.”

“Guess I’m a better structural engineer than I thought.” Delicate fingertips fold your channels, first one way, then the other, while he tries to get a better hold on your anatomy. And he’s just idly rubbing at your node with his thumb, in gentle up-down sweeps. The more of your lubrication he gets on his fingertip, the easier it goes and the better it feels.

You don’t know why it’s occupying so much of your attention when it’s objectively so tiny compared to what you’re used to working with. And the more Dirk manipulates your node, the less it squishes, like it’s--hnn... like it’s trying to distractedly connect to an output it’s used to and harden up so it can drink in every little touch. Or maybe it’s supposed to do that? You earmark that sensation for further testing, but not now. You don’t want to interrupt Dirk from his weird little genital trance and get him off his game again.

“So,” he says, his voice quiet and low. “This valve right here,” and he sinks his fingertips into you, drawing attention to that divot but not penetrating it just yet. “Does it act like your other one?”

“I imagine it would,” you half-truth at him. You have no idea. This is your first round with this thing, too. But if it’ll make him more comfortable, “Putting your tongue on it wouldn’t be too dissimilar to rimming.” Right?

Dirk frowns; you see it more in his eyebrows than in the turn of his mouth. “I don’t think you need any more slicking up down here, bro.”

“It’s also to relax the valve for further penetration.” You really wish you could roll your eyes without him catching on.

“Oh. Right.” The fingertips that were dawdling at that entrance slip away to hold you open instead.

As delicate as his touch has been, you weren’t prepared for the sinfully hot, wet softness of his tongue against your parts. He finds the cleft of you, dips in but not inside, traces up, and you’re melting into his mouth, trying your damnedest to keep your hips still so you’re not outright trying to fuck his face. “Oh, fuck, Dirk!”

He does that thing with his eyebrows he always does when he knows he did something right and does his best to retrace that movement. You need to hold onto something if he’s that determined for you to flip right off the handle. No sooner than your fingers run through his hair, though, and Dirk’s pulling away to glare at you. “No pulling.”

“I won’t.” He doesn’t want you to guide him where you want him? Fair enough, this is his show at this point, you’re just here to get pleased and look pretty. Still, he slithers his tongue through your channels and finds the shut of your valve with the tip and you’re tightening your hand, making him groan right into the core of you. This isn’t yanking, this is tugging. Completely different, and you’re prepared to argue with him on this.

If he ever stops making you a wet, shivering mess with his mouth, that is. His tongue is curling, persuading, encouraging, feinting at your front valve, his jaw constantly moving his lips in a strange little swallowing kiss around you. Your front valve, though, doesn’t seem as cooperative as the back one--because you’re unfamiliar with it, or because that’s how you always would have been, if you--? “I just want you to know,” Dirk says once he takes a breath; you look down and everything from his nose to his chin is dripping with you. “This is nothing like eating ass.”

“Yeah, it really doesn’t feel that way,” you have to agree. “Wait, what--”

“Well, like you said,” Dirk narrates, getting his fingertips up to the entrance of your front valve now that his mouth has fallen away, “it’s supposed to relax you, right?”

“Supposed to,” you point out, and then your voicebox shorts out in a dial-up warble as Dirk pushes forward and in.

It’s weird. It’s weird it’s weird it’s weird. Good, sort of? You can understand that it might feel better if you’d been at all ready for it, but you feel all tight inside. Not like your usual valve, but unsteady and soaked and nearly swallowing down what offered. “Hm,” Dirk says idly, and pulls back just enough to skirt a second fingertip around the ring of your valve.

“Nnn,” you start with, trying to get your vocal glitchfest under control. “Not that, no.”

“Not this?” You make an embarrassing stutter of fax-machine noises that come out long-short-long-long, and he stops with that doodling outside touch. “What about this, is this all right?” with a crook of the finger still inside you. A long screech followed by a short one, and Dirk sighs, starts trying to pull it out. Not easy, with how much you’re subconsciously trying to resist him, but there’s a hard-to-hide sense of relief once he’s not actually inside you anymore. “Okay, i’m at a loss. I don’t think you overloaded or anything, am I right?” Vigorous nodding from you. “You still want to?”

“Yes,” you hiss out--just because that last attempt was a completely bungled misadventure doesn’t mean you want to stop. Everything between your legs is still vaguely throbbing and definitely wet.

Dirk’s staring at you again. This one’s different than the way he was looking at you before, though. This time, you’re not a sideshow freak to be gawked at and avoided; you’re a puzzle, an equation that needs to be solved. When he plucks his thumb across your node, you shiver, and you watch a few variables slot into place behind his shades. Again, and you end up yanking harder on his hair than you intended, pulling his cheek down against your thigh. “Whoa, okay, I get the idea, hold your horses,” and then he’s.

Leaning down, breathing against it, and then swirling. His tongue? His tongue is on your node. His tongue is on your node. Folding around it, cupping it lightly before licking off, replacing that teasing touch with the heated seal of his whole mouth as he sucks you in, and yes. This. Like with your shaft, only all those sensors condensed into such a tiny space, and you feel a lot less guilty about tipping up with your hips and shoving your node further against his tongue when you can’t accidentally choke him off from his stupid human need to breathe with your eagerness.

Dirk’s mouth is fucking talented, and in a completely different way from his hands. His fingers are precise, ten surgical instruments that are search-and-destroy for any erogenous zone you ever thought you could hide from him. His mouth, on the other hand, is delightfully sloppy, and he always throws himself into giving head until he nearly swallows his own tongue with his exuberance. Right now he’s running his tongue in long, eager slurps against your node, laving it in affectionate attention, and you grab at his hair with both hands lest he have the audacity to stop. That same internal clench you’ve been feeling has evolved into a coil, a clamp, closing down around--around--chasing--

You overload with sparks in your eyes and shakes in your legs, one of those sublime, hovering orgasms that erases your id and crushes you into nanofigments of cosmic dust in the meditative space of a minute. Dirk just encourages it, never stopping that constant motion of his tongue until your slack frame falls back to the mattress.

While your fans stutter back online, you see him--or his blurry outline, given how fuzzy your optics are--wiping his mouth on his forearm. You have to give him credit for not viscerally spitting your juice out of his mouth. “Should I,” you lazily slur out, and start to prop yourself up on one elbow so you can reach for him.

“Don’t bother.” Curt, to the point. Then, a little softer, “That was for you.”

Fuck, that felt way different from what you were expecting. Not one hundred percent positively, either. But that overload... Really, you’re just dithering around in your head because you have no idea what to say to Dirk. He’s not still disgusted. You don’t think he’s still disgusted, anyway. You’re not about to apologize, but something about this seems awkward. Still fizzing a little in your circuits, you admit, “I don’t think this was very good science.”

Dirk’s breath catches. Catches again, this time in a snort. “Given that you wrote down jack shit with a side of fuck-all, your method needs a little work.”

“I’ll stipulate to that.” You go to sit up and the spot you’re sitting in makes the least dignified squelch noise you’ve ever heard. “Uh, bro, I could use a towel-off and a panel switch.”

“I gotcha,” Dirk says, picking up an eyeglass screwdriver and a corner of the fitted sheet so he can work on you in a totally different way. “Let’s see if I can’t remind you why original recipe is always the best.”

[jillmckenzie1]

In the Pursuit of Home

Four hours ago, I blew a fuse on my inverter. Four hours and twenty minutes ago, I didn’t even know what an inverter was or that half the plugs in my Airstream were powered by an inverter, which is monumentally different (and altogether far less powerful) than those plugs that are grounded.

Learning. Don’t plug a space heater into an inverter circuit.

If you’re worried about my lack of electric plugs at this point in the story, don’t be. My grounded plugs are still working and my Airstream itself has power (praise God because it’s a whopping seven degrees outside). The major concern here is that my interior Christmas lights are plugged into one of the inverter circuits. Oh, and so is my TV. So, I’ve spent the entirety of my evening with no lights and no Christmas movies. Naturally, my bah-hum-bug levels are skyrocketing through the roof.

Three hours on YouTube later (via my iPhone), I have learned how to undo my Airstream’s front seat cushions and shove my head into a small hole underneath the dining seat (while trying to remember what was said in aforementioned YouTube videos). Really, I have no choice but to fix this thing. Plan B is not an option because, well, it doesn’t exist. Hard fact: I’m not rolling this tin can out of here anytime soon. If you follow my Instagram stories, then you know that it took me and my brother 42 tries just to get her level (and he’s no spring chicken when it comes to handy work).

So, amidst texting my Airstream dealer (please ignore the fact that this sounds like a drug reference), DMing one of my best friends from high school who constantly has to deal with my ignorant shenanigans, crying, throwing the dining room cushion the whopping 23 feet to the back of my humble abode, maintaining a decent amount of sanity with my head submerged inside a tiny cut out hole, pushing buttons and probing around wires that could very likely electrocute me, I did it. I fixed the inverter.

Airstream, one. Stephanie, one. Okay, who am I kidding? The Airstream is royally kicking my ass, but the point here is that there has been a restoration of both the Christmas lights and the Christmas movie marathon.

If I were really keeping score (and I’m totally not keeping score), the Airstream would be up 37-14 (this is me, not keeping score). Between losing my back window in my maiden voyage to Colorado to the huge dent that is now on the passenger-side back panel from God knows what at my rinky-dink RV park in Houston to my water freezing in transit to Amarillo and to the perils of cold-weather camping in the Rocky Mountains, I’m often shocked that this silver bullet is still standing. Hell, I’m often shocked that I’m still standing.

Fact. My confidence in solo trailer travel has increased exponentially, but I am often plagued by two things. One. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t have to learn something new to merely function in my day-to-day life. Two. This really cool, amazing experience can get really lonely.

I’ll expand. I usually like to lead with the bad news first, but in this case, I’ll work through the good and end with, what I am going to call, the not-so-good (in the spirit of optimism).

When I hitched the Airstream to my Denali back in May, I had never towed anything other than a ten-foot long U-Haul trailer in my entire life. When I tell you that I had no idea what the I was doing, I quite literally mean that I had no idea what the I was doing. Aside from a half-day tutorial from Claudio, my personal Airstream Jedi, and a one-hour crash course on backing up from Steve, my aforementioned Airstream dealer, I had zero experience with nearly everything that was required to keep the trailer in working order. And, despite the insecurities that flooded over me due to this inexperience, I had purchased the trailer, so my only option was to attach the trailer to my car and take it off the lot.

Disclaimer. I have recently noticed my affinity towards putting myself in situations where I am forced to do things that I would not normally do as a byproduct of my fear of failing. Meaning, I intentionally place myself in extreme circumstances where “no” is not an option in order to create an environment where fear cannot exist because the only viable choice is “yes.”

So, I hitched. I towed. I drove the Airstream to Sun Valley from the dealership in Boise (with the seven-way plug trailing behind me, if you recall). I backed it up with flying colors. I packed her full of everything I thought that I would need and then we embarked on her first real trip to the motherland of Colorado, sleeping at a movie theater parking lot somewhere outside of Salt Lake City along the way.

Then, Denver paralyzed me. I realized how difficult it was to find a camping spot. I was too intimidated to even attempt to use my propane. I didn’t have a water line or sewer hookup while crashing in the back parking lot of my mom’s office building, and I didn’t want them, because it just felt like more things for me to learn how to use and then break and then learn how to fix. I remember sitting in my brother’s kitchen as he innocently told me to go out and see the world. I smiled and nodded with every ounce of dwindling confidence inside of me.

Easy for you to say, bro. You are good at these things. And, you have someone to share in the learning and the breaking and the fixing and the planning. Not me. Not today. Nope. Today, the choice to move just feels too damn heavy.

 And, so I sat in that. The heaviness. For two months. Until my mom’s boss basically gave me the boot and I came to the cathartic realization that, in my current state, I had bought an Airstream to live in the back parking lot of an office building. In other words, life not exactly going to plan.

So, I spent a day Googling campsites and reading road maps and researching the 72 questions that were buzzing through my tired mind. And, I did it. I planned my first real trip to Zion to Newport Beach to Yosemite to Flagstaff to Sedona to Houston. Me. I planned it. And, yes, lots of shit went wrong along the way. But, I hooked up my sewer line and drained my tanks and used my propane and checked my batteries. And, I witnessed some of the most grandeur sites that the United States has to offer.

More importantly, I grew. I sat with myself through the good and the bad and the beautiful, and I paid homage to the piece of me that didn’t think I could do it by waking every morning to be the one who was doing it. I started to shed insecurities layer by layer until the only thing left was a belief in myself that, yes, I am this woman driving around in her Airstream with the confidence to do it alone.

Ouch. That word. Alone. I warned you about the not-so-good part of this adventure. I’m not even sure that “adventure” is the right word choice here. Because it is my actual life. Maybe this is one of those awful word plays on the SAT where it reads, “All adventures are life, but not all lives are an adventure” and you have to determine whether the statement is true or false. True, my current life is most certainly an adventure, but it is also just that, my life.

From afar, the perception of this life is infused with freedom and flexibility. From afar, I’m saving money and seeing the world. From afar, I’m living out too many people’s dreams who will never actually take the opportunity to seize those desires simply because they are scared.

Hear me. If you want something bad enough, you will stop at nothing to make it happen.

From afar, the loneliness is not an ever-present reality. Because, no one was sitting on the floor with me last Sunday as I cried for two hours while listening to Marshmello’s “Happier” on repeat. I had just left Houston – a place where I feel deeply connected to a community, a place where I had settled and established a routine – to return to the geography that inspires my soul, only to realize that I am now in a town where I know nothing and no one.

My back is pressed against the fridge. Nugget is curled up in my cross-legged lap, and I can smell the pumpkin spice candle burning on the dining room table, the table that is surrounded by the glow of the Christmas lights plugged into the inverter circuit. I am cozy. And happy. And, yet, I am simultaneously overcome by sadness because of the silence that sits behind the music that is flowing through the Airstream’s surround sound.

Fact. I can confidently do this alone. Fact. I do not want to do this alone.

And, what is “this?” Because I am not trying to make some grandiose statement about tiny home living. I am not saving money by living in Breckenridge, Colorado for an entire winter (seriously, I’d be better off renting a room than this concrete slab). I am not on a mission to force more people into a nomadic way of life.

I am simply trying to understand where I want to plant my roots or even if I want to plant my roots. I don’t necessarily need a person to find that answer. But, I want a person. Because I’d rather be typing this long-winded diatribe next to the warmth of another body. Because I’d rather have someone else pick the campsites while I handle the grocery shopping. Because I’d rather laugh inside the deepest connection to another human when, after three hours of watching YouTube videos, we still can’t figure out what the hell we’re doing. Together.

So, maybe he’ll want to jump in with me. Or, maybe he’ll ask me to stay. I don’t feel a deeper attraction to the former or the latter. I don’t have an expectation for that outcome. I simply know that I must continue to live my life with the confidence that this adventure steadily sharpens and provides. He will find me. Or, I will find him. Or, hell, we’ll both swipe right on each other and engage in five days of witty banter that culminates in an actual first date of unprecedented epic proportions.

What I know is that whether we stay, or go, or stay and go will be irrelevant. Because the adventure will be us. And, this confidence that I’ve gained, it will always be mine. But, him, he will be home.

from Blog https://ondenver.com/in-the-pursuit-of-home/