#finally cold enough to start knitting sweaters again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[shiorimakibawrites]

Baking with Love

Last-minute final entry to Mandy's Sweater Weather Challenge presented by @she-likesorchids.

This one uses the prompts - baking/cooking together combined with the "You taste like cinnamon" and "Your hands are freezing."

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Word Count: 1,287

Summary: Matt Murdock and You make pumpkin bread and cookies.

Tags/ Warnings: Established Matt / Reader relationship, Tooth-rotting fluff

Tagging: @bellaxgiornata thought you might enjoy some Matty fluff.

Baking with Love

You sighed with relief when you entered Matt’s building. You were very happy to be out of the wind. It hadn’t been a long walk but your cheeks, nose, and ears felt like they had been scrapped raw by the biting wind. Your hands weren’t much better. You had tried to switch your tote between your hands so each got the chance to hide in your pocket but it hadn’t helped much.

The door to Matt’s apartment swung open just as you were about to reach for the knob. Matt, of course, having likely between aware of your approach for at least a block. He did this trick all the time but it still managed to make you jump each time. Judging by the grin on his face, Matt found your reaction just as amusing as he always did.

Along with any other time he sneaked up on you. Which happened a lot. Because in addition to being a lawyer, Matt was also a ninja. You keep threatening to make him wear a bell. Which only made him laugh harder. He is so lucky that he’s cute.

He looked especially cute today. First, he was smiling wide enough for the dimples to come out. That was always going to be adorable. Second, since he was at home and neither of you was planning to go anywhere until later, he hadn’t put on his dark glasses. So you got to see his lovely hazel eyes sparkling with mirth. Third, he was wearing a snuggle sweater.

Cable-knit and dark brown in color, it looked incredibly soft. You hoped you’d get to find out later. There were plans to snuggle together on the couch under the blankets, after the baking was done, but you knew how easily those plans could get disrupted for either lawyer or vigilante reasons.

If the former, you would sigh but accept the situation. Unless it was Burke, Winthrop, & Associates being themselves again. If you had to spent your snuggle time working through another pile of motions that dance right up to the edge of being frivolous from those bastards, you might actually kill someone.

As for the later . . . Daredevil might end up being the last of their worries. You might not have Matt’s fighting skills but you had connections. The benefit of feeding the local vigilantes like the semi-feral cats that they are. You could delegate your vengeance.

You also enjoyed how that sweater clung to those board shoulders and hinted at the solid muscle of his torso. That he had paired with jeans that showed off his perfect ass was just a bonus.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Matt greeted you as he ushered you into his apartment. It was toasty warm in there. You sat down your tote on the bench and flexed your hands. Then winced. It might have been a short walk but it was long enough and air was cold enough to leave your hands stiff and aching.

You did another little startled jump when your hands were engulfed by Matt’s hands. His big, wonderfully warm hands. He started massaging the backs of your hands with his thumbs.

“Your hands are freezing,” he said. “Still can’t find your gloves?”

“No,” you said. And sighed. “I’ll find them eventually. I know they are somewhere in my apartment. They have to be.”

“Not giving up?” he asked, almost casual. As if we weren’t discussing the gloves he had given you for Christmas. The ones you distinctively remembered packing when you put away your fall and winter clothes this spring but were inexplicably missing from the box when you opened it last week.

“No,” you said firmly. “I really like those gloves. I’m not giving up on them.”

You silently prayed that Matt got the message that you weren’t just talking about your gloves.

“Thank you,” he said softly, squeezing your hands and looking a little misty-eyed.

You smiled. Looks like he got it. You squeezed his hands back. “Hey mister, where’s my kiss?”

He laughed as he dropped your hands in favor of cupping your face. His thumbs stroked your cheeks, then he leaned in and pressed his lips against yours. It was a slow but thorough kiss. The kind of kiss that soon had your hands gripping his upper arms. That sweater was just as soft as it looked. Definitely going to kill anyone who prevented snuggle time.

The unfortunate need for air meant the kiss had to end. You tried not to pout about that.

Matt kissed your forehead and murmured, “You taste like cinnamon.”

You hummed, then remembered. “The coffee cake has cinnamon in the streusel topping.”

“And you didn’t bring me any?” he asked with a mock pout.

“Sorry but I was running out of space in the tote,” you said. You leaned up and kissed his forehead. “Maybe one of these cold night, Daredevil will come to my apartment looking for a little snack.”

“Maybe he will,” Matt said with a grin. A grin that shifted into something coy. “And afterward, he might also have some cake.”

You felt your face get warm. Along with the first stirrings of arousal. Your voice was a little breathy when you answered, “Sounds like a plan. I look forward to seeing it in action.”

Matt smirked, the cocky smug one. He knew the effect he was having on you. But he let his hands fall away from your face. He stepped to the side of you and reached the tote bag. Curiously weighted it in one hand.

“What’s all in here?”

“Cookbook, mini-loaf pan, cookie sheets, parchment paper, pumpkin puree, apples –”

“I thought we making pumpkin bread?”

“We are but I saw a recipe that I want to try for apple cinnamon oatmeal cookies. Thought that we could make those too.”

“Those do sound good,” Matt said with smile.

You both got to work.

Since the whine of the motor in your hand-mixer, especially at point-blank range, made Matt wince, the butter and sugar would need to be creamed by hand. Since Matt had giant arm muscles and superhero stamina while you didn’t, you gave him that job.

While he did that, you peeled, cored, and chopped apples. Then tossed them with a little lemon juice to prevent them from oxidizing and because it enhanced the favor of the tart apples. You might occasionally gotten distracted by Matt’s . . . everything.

Like that play of muscles under that sweater while he did the creaming.

Or his ass when he had to bend down to retrieve a larger bowl – you had underestimated how big of a bowl you need for the pumpkin bread dough. Which, it seemed to you, happened a lot with pumpkin. At least it wasn’t pumpkin pie. You always seemed to end up with more batter than you had pie shells.

But what caught you eye the most was that sweet, dopey smile that kept returning to his face. This was the most relaxed you had seen Matt in a while. You supported what he did but that didn’t meant you liked seeing him frustrated and stressed.

But the soft, loving look in his eyes after you kissed his forehead and said “I love you” that – that really made your heart flutter. And it was in that moment that you knew you wanted to marry him.

Matt’s predication proved to be accurate. The cookies were delicious. You are definitely adding those to your fall treats, you thought as you snuggled against Matt on the couch. Your predication about the sweater was also accurate. It was wonderfully soft.

“What are we watching, sweetheart?” Matt asked. It was your turn to pick the movie.

“Hocus Pocus.”

Ending Note

They are making the pumpkin bread and cookies for Foggy, Karen, Marci, Claire as well as their circle of vigilante friends – the Defenders, Frank Castle, and Spider-Man.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

So like I’m taking that,,, Blanche doesn’t take betrayal lightly like,, at all,, givrn how he has killed all of his ex friends, so like would he kill reader if they actually betrayed him like the others?? Like Yves would be there no matter what, you could try to kill him and he would still stick beside you, but with Blanche, I feel like he would ACTUALLY go there given the old “friends” he killed 😭

Tw; murder and death, angst? yandere themes obviously

Unlikely, because he did say that you are his one true friend. So you are special and the only exemption from the rule. He already knew his ex "friends" were playing the slow game to try and use him, it's only when they took a step too far and actually carried out their plan of hurting him (I.e., literally cyberbullying him, stealing his money, using him as a maid and still being an asshole to him), he brings out the brass knuckles and compost bucket.

None of them ever proved themselves to be trustworthy or truly kind from the get-go. Blanche is Yves's brother and that fuckery is genetically passed on, of course his deductive skills will immediately weed out the bad ones no matter how discrete they're trying to be. But instead of nipping the problem in the bud like how his brother would, Blanche would just let it be until it grows and grows to an unbearable degree: it gives him an excuse to pulverize them.

If you were to betray Blanche, you wouldn't get killed at first. Because he's now damn delusional, thinking that you're just so young and naive, you didn't know that this is hurting him. Blanche must guide you through life as an elder, you need him as your eyes, you need him. You still love him and he loves you too, so he would have you sit down and have a serious talk as to why it isn't okay to try and poison the cake he worked so hard on. Or why it isn't okay to just hit him unprovoked until his eye is swollen shut.

Perhaps you're sick? A wormy parasite attacking your brain and causing you to be this unrecognizable monster? It's alright, Blanche will cure you with his herbs and natural remedies. Everything will return to normal and you will enjoy his hugs and kisses again. But that wouldn't be the case most of the time...

Blanche then would start begging, kneeling, clasping, and shaking his hands in front of you as he wept. Pleading you to stop being so cruel towards him, to love him again. What did he do wrong? Why are you doing this to him? All he ever wanted was to be your companion. Please stop, please stop hitting him. Please stop saying all those horrible, horrible things to him. He is so desperate to be loved again, to have your gentle strokes instead of your harsh strikes, Blanche would do anything for you as long as he gets an iota of positive or at least, neutral attention from you.

He would take a good amount of abuse until he became fed up, tired of waiting for you to grow up and stop with your immature behavior. Blanche will be drugging you with one of his herbs, just enough to keep you pliant, but not enough to remove your consciousness. After that, he will show you exactly the fate of his ex friends who hurt him. He will bring you to the rot shed, where you will smell the stench of decomposition and misery.

Blanche will scold and berate with tears rolling down his face. Threatening to turn you into compost if you kept hurting him like this. He didn't want to traumatize you, but you left him no choice. He has to save his beloved friend from themselves, you have to realize that whatever you're doing has consequences.

And if you choose to ignore his final warning... well.

Let's hope you wouldn't mind being preserved into a doll that will never decompose. 'You' would spend eternity in his cottage, eating, cuddling, dancing and sleeping. Just like the good ol' days.

Blanche may have empty eyes and a hollow heart as he held your pristine, lifeless body in his arms as he knitted another sweater for you; he didn't like how you're always so cold to him, literally. But at least you stopped hitting him and calling him hurtful names.

[astroboots]

Something Old, Something Borrowed

Summary: You wear Frankie’s clothes a lot and Santiago has feelings about that.

A/N: This was going to be a desperate sexy oneshot and then I wrote it and decided, it doesn't need the sex (I DO NOT EVEN KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE). Fluff, aaaaaall fluff.

Pairing: Santiago x female reader (you) x (hints of Frankie)

Wordcount: 4.1k words

Homecoming Universe | Astroboot’s Masterlist

You wear Frankie’s clothing a lot around the house. It’s not a complaint. It’s a very good look on you, Santiago thinks. 

Softworn flannel shirts in chequered patterns of loud screechy red, or blue and yellows that Santiago cannot resist making fun of Frankie for wearing. You’ll sit on the couch, wearing one with a book in your lap and a warm cup of chocolate. On you those ugly fashion crimes look soft and inviting like you were wrapped in one big comfort blanket. 

There are also old knitted sweaters that you wear whenever you do house chores. They’re washed out and threading at the seams. Oversized enough to be little bit too big on Frankie, never mind on you, but he still loves them on you. 

Frankie’s old corduroy jacket that smells of worn leather and wood chips, that he wraps around your shoulders when you’re out and the Florida climate gets a bit too chilly in the evening. 

Santiago has a special kind of fondness for all of them. His favorite though? It’s the old military sweatshirt, a standardized edition they were issued with back in basics when they first joined. It’s a drab old thing. Grey cotton, loose-fitting without any shape or form. 

Santiago has the same one. He hates it. It’s scratchy and uncomfortable, the material is not even 100% cotton, some weird cheap polyester and wool blend that left him with red bumps every time he used to wear it. It’s why he had left it with his mom in the early days, stuffed in one of the mountain-pile of boxes packed away in his mom’s old attic along with all his other worldly possessions that he couldn’t carry on his back as he found himself increasingly on foot, never stationary long enough in one place to call it a home.

It’s a horrible sweatshirt. But it’s your favorite and in some odd way, that makes it his favorite too. 

You wear it all the time. 

On chilly mornings, when you’ve made up your mind to stay inside the house to take care of chores and lazily lounge on the sofa watching some new Netflix show. Whenever you’re down with a cold or a flu, sucking on lemon drops and nursing hot tea. 

Back when he was still on missions, taking on long strings of soul-crushing assignments, finding himself in an endless series of forgettable motels and safeholds in one nameless place after another that all congealed into an abstract concept of not home, he’d start feeling homesick. Not for Florida, not for a place, just… maybe, you, and maybe Frankie. Your voices, and your face. There would be a handful of occasions when he finally gave into temptation and just called you (too chicken shit to call Frankie in case he’d still be mad at Santiago for leaving in the first place). 

On those occasions, when the dial tone clicked and you finally answered his video call, more often than not the battered old grey sweatshirt would fill his phone screen. 

It’s why, when Santiago thinks of that sweatshirt, he thinks of home. 

“Shit,” you exclaim.  

You’re holding up Frankie’s grey army sweatshirt, inspecting it in your hands, as your face scrunches up tight with a frown. 

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s a hole in the sweatshirt. Gonna have to ask Molly to help me mend it again. I swear lately everytime I fix up one hole on this thing, two more appears.” 

Santiago leans down, grabbing the old garment from you. He runs the fabric between his fingers as he inspects it. Close up like this, he really takes a new appreciation for how old and worn this thing has become. There are soy sauce stains that haven’t quite come off during the wash. Fraying threads, the shoulder’s stretched and drooping. There’s clear evidence of your previous attempts to hold this tattered old thing together, patches of threadwork that are starting to wear in the seams along the arm. 

It makes him sad to look at it. Even sadder to see you tending to the garment like it’s a wounded bleeding creature. Favorite or not, it’s a lost cause. It needs to go. 

“You should throw the old thing out,” Santiago says. “Pretty sure you can just order something similar online.” 

You take the sweatshirt back from him, hugging it close to your chest with an indignant huff and puff of your chest. “Yeah, thanks, no. I like this one.”

“Fine, I can ask one of my buddies still in the army to get you the same one.” 

“It won’t be the same one, there is just the one,” you mutter as you cling onto the old rag. 

Stubborn. 

“It’s just a sweatshirt Boa, not even a very good one. I’m pretty sure with the money and effort you’ve wasted patching this old thing up you can get ten of these”.

Santiago looks at you, your fingers brushing against the grey material that’s grown lint all over and the same pang of sadness, of watching you hold onto something old and broken and past its usage hits him all over again. He doesn’t want to look at it. 

It’s more than he can bear as he plasters on a grin, to make a joke and make it all go away. 

“Stop holding onto old trash, or you’ll become a hoarder like your mom.” 

Fuck. 

That was definitely the wrong thing to say. 

You walk out the room without so much as another word to him. All he gets is a scathing glare that’s cold enough to hit below the freezing point for water, and that’s how Santiago knows he’s in the dog house. 

On contemplation, it was a shitty thing to say. He always forgets that you and him, for all your similarities are also very different. Santiago doesn’t hold onto sentimental belongings, the army ironed that out of him before he reached 18. People don’t get to keep personal belongings there period. Any sentimentality and individuality is scrubbed right out of you after basics, they make sure of that. 

You, on the other hand, wrap yourself in nostalgia and memorabilia. Trinkets or any old and quirky knick-knacks that make you happy. Anyone who stepped into your home would barely make it three steps before they learned that about you. There are photos of your closest friends hung all over the hallway walls, bookshelves crammed full of photo albums, books, and souvenirs and novelty coffee mugs you’ve picked up from antique markets and gas stations from your road trips with Frankie. You hoard them like little treasures. 

So telling you to throw away your husband’s sweatshirt that you practically wear every day, that you’ve had with you through thick and thin through the last ten years, and jokingly calling it trash was… probably not Santiago’s best moment. 

It’s how he ends up doing the unthinkable. 

Calling his sister. 

It shouldn't be as scary as it is. Something as simple as asking his oldest sister if she had held onto his things after selling their mom’s house. It should in theory lead to a simple yes or no answer. It’s not exactly a loaded question. 

Except it absolutely fucking is.

And this is Santiago’s second, not brightest moment of the day. 

“I’ve always known you’re an idiot, but everytime I talk to you, I’m surprised by just how much of an idiot you can be.”

It’s just the kind of thing you want to hear from your family. 

Santiago closes his eyes, teeth clamping down on the tip of his tongue for calm. This is how every conversation between the two of them goes. It's the curse of being the youngest and only son in a family of three sisters. Every question is treated like an accusation. Every sentence of his, a crime. 

Santiago is pretty sure he can ask about something as harmless as the weather and still earn himself an earful from his sister, about how the weather has treated her more kindly than Santiago. 

Calm, he needs to stay calm. 

“Look, Martina, can we just– I was just asking a question. Do you have my boxes or not? There is no need for you to get on my ass like this. I’m only asking because when we sold mom’s house, you took most of the things–”

“I’m sorry, are you accusing me of stealing mom’s things?”

For a millisecond, Santiago's sure his heart stops beating. Blood in his veins freezing cold. Fuck him.

“No, no! That’s not what I was saying at all– I was just asking if you–” 

There’s yelling. So much yelling through the earpiece of his phone. His only choice is to put down the receiver against the kitchen counter and wait it out unless he wants to get permanent tinnitus. Hunching across the kitchen counter, he rests his face against the palm of his hand, trying to rub out the tension that’s built between his temples. Getting out of bed today, might have been a mistake for Santiago cause it's proving to be a disaster from start to finish.

The kitchen porch door slides open letting in a draft that draws Santiago’s eyes up far enough to see Frankie enter the house. 

The man takes one look at Santiago’s miserably hunched up form then eyes the screaming phone and shoots him a quizzing look. 

“Martina,” Santiago offers. It’s the only word of explanation he gives Frankie, but it doesn’t seem like Frankie needs anything else to know what’s going on. 

He simply nods, with a sympathetic expression. “She called just to yell at you?”

Santiago eyes the phone where it’s at the counter, it shouldn’t be picking up his and Frankie’s conversation, face down as it is, but he’s not taking risks. He flips the phone face up and mutes it, before continuing. 

“No, I called her. Wanted to ask her if she still had my old stuff from mom’s attic.”

In the background Santiago can still hear his sister’s voice shouting and screaming even from a distance. There’s a creative stream of expletives blended seamlessly in English and Spanish until it’s baked into one well-cooked, fuck-you-Santiago-sandwich. 

“Pope”, Frankie calls out, pulling Santiago’s attention back to him. “Your boxes are upstairs.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Boa took the boxes when your sisters sold the house.”

“She did? Why?”

Frankie hums, one hand sliding over to his forehead to pull off his cap as he cocks his head to look at Santiago like he’s an idiot, before shaking his head at him.  

Geez, everyone has it out for him today it seems. 

“Your sister was threatening to take them out into her backyard and use them as kindle for a bonfire party. So Boa had me drive over. Thought we should hold onto it because you might still want your stuff someday. Guess she was right.”  

Santiago ignores the stab of guilt in his chest, doesn't want to look at it right now. Instead, he picks his phone back up, unmuting it with a quick, “Martina I have to go,” as he presses the end button not a second too soon. 

The attic is musty and hot, the smell of sawdust and plain dust hanging in the air. There’s a few humane mouse traps strategically placed in all corners of the space. Not that it seems to be doing any good (the humane ones rarely are, but neither you or Frankie would ever consider changing them for the other option). There’s mouse droppings scattered here and there. 

Frankie walks ahead to the middle of the room, pulling a large moth-eaten sheet that reveals a mountain of boxes, with your handwriting scribbled on top marked with his name and descriptors like ‘clothes’, ‘LPs’, ‘school memories’, ‘books’ and finally ‘army stuff.’

There's a strange feeling brewing in his chest that he can't quite define at seeing all his old belongings stored up in yours and Frankie (and now, his) home. Boxes upon boxes, piled up together, the way they used to be in his mom's old place.

A quiet little voice in him that tells him, guess this is home now, and is completely at peace with it-- and Santiago is willfully ignoring the agitation in him at just how at ease he is with it, as he walks towards the boxes.

“This the one?,” Frankie asks as he taps the side of the one box marked 'army stuff', and as he does, a shimmer of dust rises and swirls in the air, leaving his hand coated in a sheen of white-grey soot. 

At Santiago’s nod, Frankie drags the box out from the cluster and places it on the middle of the floor. “You wanna do this here or take it downstairs?”

It is one of the smaller boxes, barely spanning the breadth of Frankie's chest. For as much time as the army has been a domineering presence in his life, Santiago always imagined that the physical space it would leave behind would be much bigger than this small box. Even more surprised by how few things eleven years left behind. 

“Here is fine.” 

Frankie cuts the old tape open with a boxcutter knife, and unfolds the flap, as they both peek into it. There’s an old tin box. Medals that are kept in pristine condition in a glass case. His old service uniform, and other trinkets rattling around in the old cardbox. What is not here, however, is his old army sweatshirt.  

“So is what you're looking for in here?” Frankie asks, as he picks up the small tin box and gently shakes it to his ear. Even without opening it Santiago can recognize the sound of the metal chain of his dog tag jingling inside. 

"Nothing special," Santiago says, evading the question because he doesn't want to explain how he managed to upset you with his careless comments. Instead, he takes the box from Frankie and opens it.  

There’s an old polaroid photo in the metal tin. It’s a bit weathered around the corners, the colors so faded that the blue skies and yellow sand have blended into a muted sepia glaze. 

It's a photo of them at the beach, Frankie sitting in the sand, wearing only swim trunks and sunglasses, squinting like the sun is plaguing his eyes, and a grin spreads wide on Santiago's face.

"Holy crap."

From behind him, Frankie leans over, resting his jaw on Santiago's shoulder so he can take a peek at the photo too. "That's a blast from the past. How long ago was that now?"

"Summer before Redfly retired, so that must've been what? seven, eight years ago?" Santiago muses, still smiling at the photo as the memory of the warm heat of the Tunisian sun was blistering at his back, the relieving breeze from the ocean against his forehead like he's being transported right back into the moment and place.

“Remember when Benny nearly broke his leg jumping off the rocks to dive in and Will had to come get him.”

Frankie laughs, "thought Redfly was going to kill them both."

“I can’t even remember holding onto this one," Santiago says, as his fingers rub at the corner of the faded photo, unable to tamper down the smile tugging at his lips as he thinks of the memories. "We should frame this one and put it up with the other polaroids downstairs."

Frankie looks at him, still smiling, but there's a shift in his eyes into something warm and almost glowing. 

“It was a good day,” Frankie says, looking down at the photo with a smile on his face that makes Santiago's veins buzz pleasantly.

"Can’t believe you and Boa didn’t just throw all this junk away," Santiago says, more to himself than even Frankie.

Frankie merely shrugs, as his hand reaches over and dips into the box, holding up Santiago's old dog tag and inspects it. “She's a sentimental person. She likes to hold onto things that reminds her of the people she cares about. Makes them feel like they're here even when they're not, she says."

It's a fraction of a millisecond. So brief, Santiago can't even make out fully what the flash of an image he's seeing is. A blurry form trying to rise up to the surface, that he pushes down. Brown eyes, a sharp nose, the same thick hair Santiago's supposedly inherited.

Santiago snaps the tin box in his hand shut. “Whether you hold onto things or not, they're still gone,” Santiago says. 

Frankie looks away from the dog tag, eyes scrutinizing Santiago's face with something akin to concern, before he shakes his head and lets out a small chuckle. It's the quiet little laugh he has for Santiago, when Frankie sees something going on in him that Santiago can't himself. The one that tells Santiago, he needs a little bit more time to catch up before he sees it. It used to upset him, a strike to his stubborn pride. Nowadays, he's just made peace with the fact that this is a feeling he's going to constantly encounter when he is living with two people who know him better than he knows himself.  

Frankie hums, taking the box from Santiago and carefully folding Santiago's dog tags back into the tin box.

Santiago looks around himself, eyeing the boxes. "My junk must take up what? At least one third of this space. Wouldn't have blamed her if she had just let Martina torch it up."

"I don’t know. I think part of her kept onto it hoping this day would come. You living here, with us.”  He gets to his feet, observing the attic and casts one last look into the open box.  “What are you looking for anyway?”

“Nothing important. Just uhm–" Santiago hesitates again. He doesn't know why he's being so coy about this, so he fesses up. "My old army sweatshirt. It’s stupid. We had a–" Santiago stops himself, it's not a fight, a tiff at best. But he feels silly as a grown man to call it that. He shakes his head.

"I said something stupid to her this morning, and I wanted to make it up to her. Thought I was going to dig up my old sweatshirt as a peace offering.” 

Frankie's eyes squint, head cocking to the side as he regards Santiago with a puzzled look on his face. “Well Boa’s already wearing it isn’t she?”

For a moment, Santiago must've heard him wrong. When would you have had time to get up in the attic, unbox his things, grab his sweatshirt, put it on, and for Frankie to have seen you wear it?

“What do you mean?”

From across, Frankie's folding his arm, back leaning against one of the beams that go from floor to ceiling in the attic. He's giving Santiago that look. The one that tells Santiago that at this moment Frankie wonders if he really used to work in intelligence.

“She’s always wearing it. It's her favorite. Think I saw her with it this morning in the kitchen trying to patch up the latest hole.” 

"It's your sweatshirt, Frankie."

"No, I threw mine out after the first year. The material is itchy as hell, gave me rashes all over... Everything okay, Santiago?"

You're standing by the washing machine, putting in another load of laundry, wearing his (not Frankie's) grey army sweatshirt. A warm surge rises in his chest, it spreads along his arms and legs until his fingers go numb with it.

He gets it now. Why he couldn't stand to look at the sweatshirt then. Why it bothered him so much. The way you looked at it, with the same expression in your eyes that you had every time you saw him off at the airport.

Idiot, he's a fucking idiot.

He strides over the length of the floor separating you. You turn when he's not even halfway there yet, his hands already outstretched, reaching for you. One hand cupping the back of your neck, pulling you close to him, the rest of the way, his other settling on the dip of your hip as he drags you closer still.

There's a hitch of a breath. A surprised and muffled attempt at saying his name that gets cut off. His head tilts down, claiming your lips with his, pouring everything he has to say, with a grace that his words can never achieve.

I love you, it says as he slips his tongue into your parted mouth and licks into you.

I'm here now, he promises, thumb caressing the dimple of your cheek.

You're everything to me.

The tension in your shoulder thaws, the rigidness in your back softens until you're humming on his tongue. You melt for him.

You part, and Santiago rests his forehead on yours as he lets you catch your breath, taking a moment to remember, etching the image of your half-lidded eyes and a blissed-out smile into his memory. No photograph or memorabilia could ever do this justice. Not when he gets to have the real thing every day.

"You don't need the sweatshirt," he says.

The warm shade in your eyes cools, specks of annoyance bleeding into them.

"Santiago" His name is a low simmering growl in your throat. The start of a warning that you do not want to have this discussion--and if Santiago keeps pushing it could very well escalate into an argument.

"You don't need it," he continues, eyes fixed on yours, hand gripping just the tiniest bit harder around you, "because I'm not going anywhere anymore."

You freeze on the spot. Eyes blinking, and Santiago can see how you've stopped breathing entirely.

"Santiago," you start, and he pauses, giving you the time for once to find what it is you want to say. But your mouth press close again, a slight trembling of your lower lip, then you look down at your feet without another word.

His heart breaks for you. You're always so put together that sometimes he forgets. You need assurances too.

He's never said anything.

Never made promises.

It's been a year and a half since he stayed, a part of him just assumed (the way he always does) that it'd be clear by now. That you, who know him better than anyone, would know that he's here to stay now.

It's unfair to you that he just assumes.

His hand comes to your chin, tilting you up to his eyes. "You don't need that sweatshirt to remind you of me," Santiago says.

You nod. But he can see it, the way the glossiness of your eyes shimmers in the light from the wet sheen there. Tears threatening to spill, and the same sadness he felt this morning, creeps up at him, clawing at his chest.

"I'm here. I'm not going away again. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before."

A sole tear escapes down your cheek, leaving a wet trail behind and his thumb comes up to brush it away. He's expecting the all familiar self-loathing at making you cry to settle in his spine, but it never comes, never has the chance to, because you choke back a smile, sweet and relieved. The back of your hand wipes away the rest of your tears, the grey matted sleeve, scratching against your soft skin.

He swears to God, if that thing makes you break out in hives. 

Dipping down again, he presses his lips to your forehead.

"It's a shitty sweatshirt Boa, it's going to give you rashes, and I'm pretty sure it has asbestos in the threads," he jokes.

This time, instead of storming away, a peal of quiet laughter escapes your lips, and that makes him smile even wider. "But if you still want to hang onto it, next time it goes to pieces, I'll mend it for you. I'll fix it. Everytime it breaks okay?"

You nod against his head, and he just holds you, arms wrapped around you tight like a cocoon, unwilling to let this moment slip away.

"I have other sweatshirts too, you know," he murmurs into your hairline. "Better ones. Sweaters too. Better than Frankie's ugly grandma sweaters ones anyhow."

You laugh again, and a rush of happiness bubbles up his spine as he hears the small contented sigh on your lips that makes him know things are going to be okay before the word leaves your mouth.

"Okay," you murmur. "You fix the sweatshirt and I’ll wear some of your other stuff"

“Deal.” 

Dedication and Credits:

@frannyzooey who has been so encouraging and opened a whole new world to me when she decided to harass me with her asks and it's led me to have so much fun with opening up my inbox to requests and prompts for the first time in my life and it's made writing so freeing. I love you and adore you! You are everything. I'm so sorry I butchered your beautiful ask about finding an old smexy photo of Frankie amongst Santiago's army stuff into this abomination. THERE IS NOT EVEN ANY SEX IN HERE.

@thirstworldproblemss the other person that had me going ohfuckingyes I can't wait for her to read this! She is the fuel to my motor, the electricity to my batteries. She is everything you could ever ask for in a friend and so much more.

[1ivinqdeadqir1]

Porcelain Doll

Walter White x Student! Reader

a/n: this is shorter than usual for my fics but lmk if you guys would like chapter two as this was sooooooooo fun to write (one where maybe Walt makes a move on the reader after arguing with Skyler about Ted... ;) )

word count: 1.8k

WARNING(s): Teacher - Student relationship, the reader is big brain, Walt is conflicted icl but when is he not conflicted? nothing inappropriate yet just an allusion to mutual sexual and romantic attraction. READER IS 18 but she is STILL a student so it's a taboo relationship nonetheless

“Are you listening to me?”

You looked up at the man standing in front of your desk, his weight pivoted to one side as his arms were crossed and folded. His green knit sweater looked warm, smiling, you wondered what it’d look like on you, and whether or not he’d find it attractive to see one of his best students wearing his clothes.

“Yes, sorry, I just… zoned out for a moment” he sighed and brought a hand to his chin, where his forefinger and thumb grazed the scruff of brown facial hair in thought.

“I don’t think you are, y/n”

You go to open your mouth but close it again when he raises his hand as if to tell you to be quiet.

“Your grades are slipping again, you’ve gone from an A+ to a D in less than a few weeks, we’ve only just gone over the molecular structures and bonding and you seem to have gotten the working out right but answers wrong… I don’t get it, it’s like-“ and then there’s a pause, and you fiddle with your nails- eyes staring down at your lap as Mr White seeks out the right way to put it, “it’s like… you know what to do, but you’re just intentionally changing the answers from your correct working out”

You scoff, and he furrows his brows, glasses catching the artificial light in their lenses. “Maybe I just don’t understand what to do with my working out once I’ve finished with it,” you argue “There are so many different routes you have to pursue to find the final answer, maybe I just picked the wrong one” shrugging, you rest your forearms on the desk, tipping forward slightly as you do. You draw shapes across the cold surface with your fingers.

“Yes but you set it out in such a way that it doesn't make sense for you to pick the wrong one, there are other students who make a mess organizing their answers- they scribble out and write over until it’s almost impossible to make sense of,” his hands motion toward two imaginary groups as he illustrates his point, the hair above his upper lip shifts as he speaks.

“But your answers are structured in a way it’d be near enough impossible for you to not know which answer is the final one, do you understand my concern?” You nod, and the embarrassment of being found out seeps through the wall of pride you’d tried to sustain. “You’re my brightest student, so it’s just surprising to see such an obscure mistake in your work”

Your cheeks burn warm and red, you hope he doesn’t notice- it’s pathetic, really. Crushing on your teacher, a cliche that a lot of people found insulting. You’d tried to suppress your feelings for him, but the little chemistry jokes he’d make sometimes in class alongside how enthusiastic he was about the subject was enough to make you swoon. It was adorable, and you wanted to just pinch his cheeks. He’d acknowledge your potential in the past: ‘excellent as always’ along with other kind messages was scribbled across a majority of your homework and tests, a crudely drawn smiley face with glasses doodled alongside in matching red ink.

But as of recently, he’d been paying less attention to you and your work. Occasionally, you’d stay behind once the bell had rung to ask him chemistry questions and chat, but now whenever you did he’d just shut you down with a dismissive ‘I’m busy’ or a ‘maybe tomorrow’ despite ‘tomorrow’ sometimes being a Saturday.

You knew he’d still speak to Barry for failing, so you figured that maybe you’d have to start messing up for him to start talking to you again. It was selfish, sure, but you wanted him to like you, to like talking to you as you did with him.

“I-I’m sorry, I’ve just been a bit..” you try to find an excuse, but when you can’t you purse your lips together- your eyes scrunched shut as you prepare yourself for what you’re about to ask, “Mr. White, have I done something wrong? I-I know that’s weird to ask but- hear me out, okay?”

His green eyes widen momentarily, he stumbles for a reply but eventually finds that an ‘Alright’ slips past his lips with as much decorum as a baby giraffe trying to find its feet.

“I like your lessons, a lot, they’re my favorite part of the day, and-” your hands tremble against the surface of the table, so you ball them up and push them down to rest atop your thighs. “I can imagine you're busy, but I feel like I’ve done something to annoy you- you know? Like when I used to ask questions after lessons and we’d talk…” your eyes don’t dare meet his, and you feel like you’re going to start crying as the shame and embarrassment bubbles in your chest.

“You’re the only person I actually feel comfortable opening up to, and I know you still talk to Barry about his work when he messes up, so I figured I’d-“

“-You decided to intentionally write the wrong answers on the tests to get my attention…” he’s in disbelief, and you look up, eyes meeting him as he shifts his weight onto his left leg and pinches the bridge between his nose.

“Yes, it’s stupid, but I really like talking to you, Mr. White, I like talking with you about Chemistry and I like listening to your… weird teacher stories, and shitty-“ fuck, “-interesting, jokes… I love spending time with you"

You exhale, finally, as it feels like you’ve been holding your breath for the last five minutes. Relief overtakes the shame you’d felt, and the anxiety of opening up. It was done now, there was nothing you could do to take back what you’d just said. It wasn’t an outright statement admitting your unrequited feelings for him, but he was smart enough to infer that you liked him more than you’d liked anyone else.

“I-I’m sorry for making you feel like that, Miss l/n” he starts, leaning against his desk as you meet his stare- one that’s so familiar but now is like looking at a stranger. “I’ve been busy, I- you know I’ve told you about my wife, right?”

Swallowing back the word you’d been trying to ignore, you nod, “yes,”

“Well, you know that it’s been hard to stick around here after hours because of the baby- there’s just a lot going on at the moment,” and the fact his wife is cheating on him, but he refrains from mentioning that.

“Oh, congratulations” in an ill attempt to sound happy for the man you were in love with, you manage to sound more disheartened than you would’ve initially.

“Thank you,”

There’s another awkward silence, you look down at your feet, picking at your fingers. Walter moves from his desk to around the side of yours, he leans his hand on the table and sighs, you hadn’t even noticed he was there until his Clark wallabee shoes slip into your peripheral.

“Look, you’re a lovely young lady and I enjoy talking to you, but you’re my student, you're smart enough to know how wrong that is,” he waits for a reaction, and you nod, glancing at him as you take your teeth between your lower lip. Now you really feel like crying. This is a nightmare, you should’ve just said your imaginary dog died, maybe then you’d avoid this awkward conversation.

“And believe me when I say I’m flattered,” more than flattered, actually. You were an attractive young woman and he’d be lying if he denied having thoughts about you that were similar to those of when he’d first set eyes upon his now wife. Yet still, he valued his job, and he loved his family. Despite how much of a bitch skyler had been recently, they were married, and if someone found out about him having an affair - let alone an affair with a STUDENT - he’d be done for.

“you’re young, you should be focusing on yourself and your future, with that head on your shoulders you’ll without a doubt do amazing things. And I’m not ‘just saying that’ to appease you.”

You look up at him, and he’s smiling in a way you’d smile at someone who’s just lost something precious and dear to them.

“I-I didn’t mean to feel like this, I just… I love everything about you it’s hard not to like you, I- I've always liked older guys, no offense or anything but.. it really is difficult,” you pause, and he goes to add something but you cut him off before he can, “This was stupid, a stupid idea I know and I should’ve just waited it out, but… can I ask you a question? And be honest with me, please, I won’t tell anyone.”

For a moment he contemplates, but eventually gives in. The look of desperation that glimmers in your eyes as they glaze over with tears was enough to push him over that edge. You had this crush on him, you really did think he was perfect. God, he felt horrible. How little you knew of what he’d done.

“Do you- if-“ you sigh, turn to face him, hands in your lap as your cheeks flush- almost matching the red ink that graces your failed test paper, which still sits on the table between the both of you. “If I wasn’t your student, hypothetically, and you saw me in a bar or out in public and I talked to you, would you like me back?”

He wants to say no, but deceiving you after all that is dishonorable. He figured that you deserved the truth after being so open and honest with him now.

“Yes, I think”

You forget you’re sitting in a classroom when you move your hand to his left, which is pressed against the table. Tracing the pads of your fingers over his knuckles- feeling the gold wedding band that fits him perfectly, you smile and he smiles back.

It does boost your ego a little to know that had you not been his student, you would’ve had a chance with this man. God, it sounded silly now. Crushing on your 50-year-old chemistry teacher. He was a person behind that facade, a father and a husband.

Despite how selfish you could be, you wouldn't force him from that. He was a good man, intelligent- you valued his word.

“You… don’t think… less of me now, do you?”

He chuckles, it’s low within his chest and he reaches to brush your hair back with his fingers. You close your eyes and melt into the warmth that’s there. He does it with such care and delicacy, as though you’d break beneath the slightest amount of pressure.

A porcelain doll, pure and fragile.

A/N: alright that's that! let me know what you guys think down below and lmk if you're all up for a part 2...

[whumble-beeee]

A New Enemy Has Entered The Arena

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 6

Content: disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, tied up/handcuffs, (brief) dissociation, noncon partial undressing, noncon touch, attempted noncon

* * * * * * * *

Except from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters Dr. Vaughn Verhulst

["Make them fear the wrath of god, then remind them the only god they should fear is you."]

* * * * * * * *

“So, this is the capture, huh?” The new voice drawled. Despite the exhaustion and the agony lacing throughout every part of his body, Stan's managed a look up at the new situation. Directly into a pair of steel blue eyes that made his breath stutter. “Not much to look at, huh?”

Stan scooted backward, but Deeby seemed to beat him to the same idea, stepping in front of the man and completely blocking him from view.

“There's no way you're the one doing the pickup. What are you doing here?”

The new man tried to side-step Deeby. “Don't worry, I'm not trying to interrupt your smooch-fest, just wanna make sure you aren't breaking our new toy–”

Deeby stepped in front of the man again, the man barely stopping short of crashing directly into him, just long enough for Stan to gather his scattered bearings and realize there was a new person here and all the distinct possibilities of what that meant for him.

And suddenly he felt lightheaded again.

“Dude…”

“What.” Deeby insisted slowly. “Are you doing here?”

This new guy… honestly, not much to look at himself, from what Stan saw. He couldn't have been too much older than Stan, fluffy light brown hair, an accent he couldn't quite place, but… probably European? He also wasn't wearing any sort of mask or anything to hide his face, which was only vaguely concerning, Stan decided to believe. Not to mention, this new guy had been wearing a knit sweater vest? It looked soft. Stan almost had to remind himself that the guy must be a threat, just like Deeby, or why would he even be here?

He just looked so corporate.

“I told you, checking on the capture, getting some intel. Making sure you didn't crap up the very simple plan, or kill him. It’s a real concern with you, I'm sure you understand.”

The man tried to side-step Deeby once again, and once again the mercenary blocked him. Stan started to scoot back away from the two, his ankle chain softly clanking as it dragged across the floor. Whatever was going on between them, he wanted no part of it.

“He's secure. And alive. Not fatally wounded, and will continue to stay that way.” Deeby stated. “You can leave now.”

Sweater-vest ventured an exaggerated glance over Deeby's shoulder, just barely giving Stan another view of his steel-colored eyes. Something about them made his heart skip a beat.

“You sure about that, big man? Kid doesn't seem to be doing so hot.

“Yup.” Deeby didn't even entertain a glance back. “Buh-bye now.”

Stan could practically hear the eye-roll that accompanied the groan that Sweater-vest let out. “Well excuse me for not trusting you as far as I can throw you. Look, I'm not just here to mess with you, I'm here on Lana's orders. She wants you to call her.”

Stan stopped scooting dead, an icy coldness surging through his chest, a sudden darkness swirling around his head. Lana. That sounded like a real name. Why was this man using real names? Deeby didn't use a real name, he was very dead set on that! Why was this new man using real names?! Real names were bad why was he using real names–?!

Deeby also stiffened at the name. He hand clenched for just a fraction of a second. Then he shook his head and brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Why didn't she just call me instead of sending your sorry ass to deliver the message?” Deeby finally seemed to settle on.

Sweater-vest's eyes flicked over Deeby, up and down, before an unnerving grin spread across his face. “I know something you don't know~” he sang slowly, like some sort of horror movie villain.

“You planning on telling me? Or you just gonna stand there like a skin-walker.” Deeby look just about ready to blow.

“Soon as I verify the little super lives up to our wildest hopes and dreams.”

“Y’know, technically we’re supposed to be on the same side.”

The man sidestepped Deeby one last time, and this time, the mercenary just let him pass by. Stan shrank back as the piercing gaze of Sweater-vest appraised him, looking him up and down as he slowly walked closer.

“A bit worse for wear, no?” Sweater-vest noted, almost to himself.

“Yeah, little shit tried to escape. Got pretty far too, he's stronger than I thought. Got me right–” Then he noticed Stan had backed up halfway across the room instead of stayingin place on the floor right behind him. And sighed. “Kinda a wuss though…”

“Die.” Stan growled, scowling at the mercenary even as he clutched his knees to his chest.

“Oooooh” Sweater-vest cooed, and Stan nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized how close the man had gotten to him. “Feisty little guy, huh?”

Stan kicked out at him and skittered back, only to realize he was almost out of room to skitter. So he reluctantly stood his ground. Well, sat his ground. “Get away from me!”

“He's mostly talk,” Deeby called again. “Mostly…”

Stan barely even registered what Deeby said. His vision completely tunneled on Sweater-vest as he slowly advanced on Stan, like a predator stalking its prey.

“Dang, Dick Biscuits, you really got a handle of him, don’t you?” Sweater-vest's eyes never once left Stan's. “Leashed and collared, like a little puppy dog… “

Stans cheeks turned a bright red. He glared at the man as hard as he could, jaw clenched so hard it could have broken, because honestly, how dare he?!

Deeby sighed, like he'd rather be anywhere but where he was now. Stan could relate.

“Yeah… It's necessary.”

“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly.”

The man crouched directly in front of the trembling Stan. “Hi,” he said softly, disarmingly, giving Stan just the slightest tilt of the head. “My name's Vaughn, its–”

“Christ man, would you cut it out with the names!” Deeby yelled, causing the both of the smaller men to jump as he marched over. Stan reflexively curled up into a little ball, gut swirling with a new and terrifying form of dread and suddenly very aware of his restraints once more, while Sweater-vest–... Vaughn… sprung up to face down Deeby.

As much as Stan was absolutely terrified of Deeby, he had to admit he agreed with the bounty hunter on this one. The way Sweater-vest threw out names like that felt… Dangerous. On a visceral level. He hugged his legs closer to his chest.

“Why?” Sweater-vest taunted. “It's not like he's gonna live to tell anyone.”

“Nothing's ever 100% with these things,” he growled. “Unless you want to get fifty to life here as well. You'd be doing me a huge favor, honestly, and bring Lana down with you while you’re at it. But leave me out of it.”

Sweater-vest hummed, considering. Glanced Deeby up and down. Then scoffed. “Don't you have an important phone call to get to, Deeby? I’d hate to have to tell Lana that her least favorite ex disobeyed her direct orders and needs to be dealt with.”

The mercenary stared down Sweater-vest. The intensity of it almost entranced Stan, it seemed to go on for an eternity. Then, finally, Deeby let out a small grunt, and took a slow, deep breath.

“Stan!” he yelled. Stan nearly yelped. “If he tries anything, kill him, he deserves it. And you.” he turned his attention right back to Sweater-vest before Stan could stutter out some sort of question or affirmation. “Don't fuck with him.”

“Aw, so protective, falling in love already?”

“I'll be back in a few, don't try anything!” He yelled as he made his way toward the door. Then, only slightly under his breath, “Pinche pendejo.”

The smile on Sweater-vest's face immediately dropped and he whirled around.

“Krijg de tering, vuile teringleier!”

The door slammed shut, the crack of metal against metal deafening in the sudden silence. And they were alone. Together.

Stan stared at the floor and clenched his fists, trying to calm his racing nerves. Did his best to keep his breathing even. Be still, not show weakness while also not challenging the man he was now alone with. He never thought he would ever actually miss Deeby's presence. But here they were.

“Brute.” Sweater-vest seethed under his breath as he sauntered back over to Stan. “Should've just put him out of his misery years ago, swear to God.”

Then his demeanor completely shifted once more as he stood over Stan. More professional, more cold, more demanding.

“Anyway, stand up, let me get a look at you.”

“Are you ‘The Guy?’” Stan blurted out before he had time to even realize he was doing it. Anything to break the sudden unbearable tension.

Sweater-vest tilted his head with a raised eyebrow and a small laugh. “The Guy?”

“Yeah…” Wow, suddenly he wished he never said anything. “The uh, the guy. You know the guy…” Stan's voice wavered as the man scrunch his nose at him. As if Stan was speaking an entirely different language. “Like. Like the guy. The guy who, uh, who…”

He took a deep breath, and blurted out “The boss guy who had me kidnapped!”

A brief pause. The man stared at him.

“No,” he snorted. “No, I'm not ‘the guy’, as you so eloquently put it. And your ‘guy’ is actually a lady, the lovely Ms. Lana who I mentioned earlier. And I'm Dr. Vaughn Verhulst, you can call me Vaughn. Pleasure to meet you.”

Stan shrank into himself slightly. “Oh…”

Again with the names. They made his skin crawl, like tiny ants crawling up and down his arms. The full name this time too, Dr. Verhulst. And Lana. Where had he heard that name before? Lana...

Stan didn't have time to ponder the question, though, as the man surged forward and reached down toward Stan's vulnerable neck, and Stan screeched and jolted back trying to get away.

But the man was surprisingly fast for a guy who could be mistaken for an office drone.

“Alright now, stand up.”

Then suddenly Stan was choking as the two fingers looped under his collar and dragged him upward, squeezing Stan's windpipe fully shut with Stan gasping and clutching at the collar trying to free himself and allow his body the sweet air it so desperately begged for the whole short distance up. And when he was finally standing and the collar loosened just slightly, Stan coughed and wheezed and tried to double over on himself to lessen the pain, if only the man wasn't still holding him straight up by the collar. He finally managed to get his own fingers under the collar just enough to pull it away from flush against his throat, his body shifting from world-shaking coughs and gasps for air to shuddering wheezes and shivers, and only then did he realize that Vaughn’s other hand wasn't just sitting idly by. No, instead it settled on his arms and ribcage, pressing into the tender bruised flesh that marred his entire body.

He felt a sudden sharp pain at his side and twitched away from it, only for a steadying hand to fall on straight onto another bruise on his waist and press in, clutch at it, holding him in place and sending jolts throughout his entire body that made him dizzy. All the breath left his body. He froze.

“What– What're you–?... Stop, let go…” It felt almost taboo to break the sudden stillness. He tried to pull away, but the grip on his collar just tightened, knuckles pressing harder into his neck as Sweater-vest continued to press into his side.

“Shhhhhh, dropje. Just let me do my work.”

“Your work?...” The hand pressed into his broken rib, and Stan yelped out and shoved the offending hand away from the tender area.

“STOP! Stop touching me! Stop!” Stan cried. This was too much. What was even happening here?

Vaughn's dark gaze fixed on the place that had made Stan cry out, calculating, jaw set. Stan withdrew into himself sightly before he remembered himself, and stared defiantly right back. Then the gaze drifted slightly lower, softening with an almost mischievous smile and a low hum before he finally, finally, looked Stan square in the eyes.

“Take your shirt off.”

Stan's heart turned to ice.

“WHAT?! No! You’re insane!”

Stan managed to rip free of his grip and launch backwards, only for his back to slam directly into the wall. Damn it. He saw stars, and the world rocked around him.

He pressed into it regardless, held his cuffed hands up in front of his torso as some sort of measly defense. “Get– Get away from me! I'm not taking my shirt off! You're crazy, get away!”

He scowled, then reached into his pocket with a deep sigh. A glint of steel gleamed in the light as Vaughn pull out a pair of very sharp-looking scissors and waved them lazily at Stan's chest.

“You are.” Sweater-vest stated simply. “I'm a doctor, dropje, I have to take a look at your body, make sure that ass didn't leave any lasting damage. You worry too much.”

Sweater-vest suddenly went to reach around his arms and get at the top button of his shirt, and Stan slapped them away, earning himself a glare from the man as he stepped closer once more and boxed him in completely.

“Stan… Schatje…” he spoke lowly, voice sickeningly sweet. The scissors drifted so close to his throat. “I'm going to make this so simple for you, yeah? I'm cutting your shirt off now. If you make things difficult, then your shirt won't be the only thing cut, got it?”

Stan squeezed his eyes shut and tried to become so small. Small enough that the threat wouldn't see him anymore and he could run away and never have to deal with it again. This was insane. This was insane, right? This guy was insane!

“No, no, no, no, no, don't, get away from me, get away from me.” He tried to inject as much hissing venom as possible into the words, but they still didn't come out much above a squeaking, shaky whisper.

Vaughn reached for his top button, and though Stan pressed into the wall as much as he could, arms up and ready to strike at any moment, this time his fingers weren't stopped from undoing the top button. Then continuing down from there. Then he gently grabbed Stan's wrists and moved them downward and continued unfastening, all the way down until the front of his shirt was completely open, the cool air giving Stan goosebumps.

“Oh.” Vaughn said, almost to himself, running his finger over the strap of Stan's chest binder. “I didn't realize you were transgender, Stan.”

The swirling mass of thoughts in Stan’s head finally meet the one overwhelming his gut and crashing down upon him, breaking the fragile spell keeping him paralyzed.

“DEEBY! HELP!!” Stan cried out, loud as he possibly could. As if Deeby would ever help him. As if he would save him. All Stan knew was that in that very moment, he would prefer the physically abusive mercenary a hundred times over this guy, the guy who looked at him like a lion at an antelope, the man who feigned kindness, whose smile seemed just a bit too perfect, who made weird cryptic comments and who threw names around as if it didn't matter whether or not Stan knew them. As if Stan would never live to escape. As if the horrors Stan would endure were cursed to echo the walls in which they occurred, never to be heard by another soul.

“Oh calm down, Stanny, he's not going to come save you.” Vaughn dismissed, quickly pulling down the sleeve of his shirt and cutting it open down the seam, the quick repetitive snip snip snip of the scissors filling the room completely. Stan's weak attempts to slap away the scissors or otherwise stop his disrobing were all but brushed off by the ‘doctor.’ A quick but very intentional blade to the neck was all he needed to freeze Stan up and allow him to continue.

Very soon, Vaughn had the shredded fabric that used to make up Stan's shirt sprawled across the floor at their feet. Stan didn't even feel the coolness of the room goosebumping his skin anymore, not with the burning red in his cheeks and the again wandering hands of Sweater-vest to keep him unbearably warm.

He could scarcely breathe. His brain started to feel farther and farther away from his body. His hair was standing on end, shivers running throughout his entire body making him twitch. And he wondered if he should even put in the effort to ground himself. Maybe it would be easier if he was far, far away for all of this anyway.

“It's not like I care, Stan. It doesn't matter to me. I'll even let you keep your chest binder thing on, if that’d make you more comfortable... Hey.”

He snapped a few times in front of Stan's eyes, and Stan despairingly snapped back to reality. So close too. Just for Sweater-vest to smile his weird creepy smile at him. There was no way to misconstrue the malicious gleam in his eyes, the one that made Stan's own eyes go wide and his breath halt entirely as he stared into them. His other hand was on Stan's back now. He was practically holding Stan in a facsimile of a hug. Pressing in his lower back. Lower. Just a bit too low for comfort.

“I'm serious, I can work with that,” he reassured, hand now dipping under Stan's waistband, and before Stan could react, he pulled the captive in close to him, pressing his pelvis securely into Stan's lower stomach while brushing to closed blades of the scissors along Stan's jawline and up his cheek. “It's not what I was expecting, but it doesn't change what I'm going to do to you.”

And that's when Stan pulled back and punched him square in the jaw.

* * * * * * * *

Next

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy | @pirefyrelight | @cakeinthevoid

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 30 - "Creature Comforts" (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure)

A wholesome one for today's @whumptober fic

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Prompt Used: Borrowed Cloathing Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5 Characters: Team Bucciarati

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Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

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1: Abbacchio

Bruno Bucciarati had seen a lot of desperate men in his line of work, but few who looked as depressing as Leone Abbacchio, standing in the foyer of his apartment, soaked to the skin and dripping like a stray cat.

"You can shower if you'd like—there might still be hot water this time of night," Bruno told him, tucking the umbrella beside the door. "I'll find you something dry to wear."

The man shook himself and nodded, taking a hesitant step toward the bathroom door as Bucciarati pointed it out.

One he had provided him with a towel and showed him how the shower worked, Bruno hurried to his room and tried to find something for their guest to wear that might actually fit—Fugo definitely wouldn't have anything.

Bruno sighed, rummaging through his drawers, pulling out a pair of sweat pants that were slightly long on him and a plain t-shirt.

It was then he found the lump in the back of his drawer, fingers tangling in soft knitted cables. He hesitated slightly, but pulled the sweater out, holding it up. It was still definitely too big for Bruno, always had been.

Part of him wanted to put it back in the drawer and keep it for himself, but his father had also instilled in him the importance of helping those in need. So, Bruno would pass it on to someone more in need than him.

When he heard the water turn off in the bathroom, he knocked on the door. "I'm leaving some clothes out here for you. You can come to the kitchen when you're done and I'll get you something to eat."

He set the stack of clothing down and headed to the kitchen to start making some coffee. Even he was chilled after being out that night and he'd remembered the umbrella.

It was a few more minutes before Abbacchio showed up with wet hair and the too-short sweatpants. The sweater however—a dark blue wool with chunky cabling down the front and an open ribbed collar—fit him just about right. If not slightly long in the sleeves.

"Can I get you some coffee?" Bruno asked.

Abbacchio winced, still standing there as if unsure of what to do. "I—thanks, sure," he mumbled. "Thanks for the clothes too. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

"It's not a problem," Bruno assured him as he went to fill a cup. "Cream or sugar?"

Abbacchio shook his head. Bruno set the cup on the table, urging him to sit down. Abbacchio took a hesitant step before he finally took a seat, tugging at the sweater. "This is really nice, I'll get it back to you once I can get back to my apartment tomorrow."

Bruno hesitated, but finally waved his hand. "Keep it. It was always too big on me anyway, and I'm sure you could use some warmer clothes? Besides, wool keeps you warm even when its wet So if you forget an umbrella again…"

Abbacchio looked up at him with some confusion for a long moment before he pulled the cup of coffee closer and took a sip. "Okay then. Thanks. I appreciate it."

Bruno smiled back and decided he was glad that the sweater would finally get some use.

2. Fugo

It had been a long stakeout in the cold. Stealth had prohibited them from turning the heater on in the car, and Abbacchio felt pretty terrible seeing just how much Fugo was shivering by the time they finished, the drive home with the heater on full blast hadn't even been enough to thaw either of them out.

Not to mention that their heater wasn't functioning fantastically in the apartment either, so it wasn't much warmer there.

"I'll make some tea, you should go get something warm on," Abbacchio told the kid worriedly. Fugo was so skinny that Abbacchio was afraid he might catch cold—though he would never say that to Fugo's face unless he wanted his nose broken.

He went to throw on a sweatshirt and thick socks before he started boiling some water.

Fugo showed up in a few minutes, still shivering, in a long-sleeved shirt with a thin cardigan over it and a pair of sweat pants.

Abbacchio eyed him briefly, but didn't want to embarrass the kid by asking him if he was warm enough. He simply took out two mugs and some tea bags and poured the water over them when it started to boil.

"Want to work on the report together?" Abbacchio asked him.

"Sure," Fugo replied, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He went to get paper and pen and Abbacchio sat down with his notebook where he had written down observations and snatches of conversation that night.

The tea worked to warm Abbacchio's core and he got to work compiling info with Fugo for their report.

He reached for a pen at the same time Fugo reached for his tea and Abbacchio's hand brushed his, feeling like ice.

"Jesus, kid," he hissed, pulling his hand away sharply. "You're actually freezing!"

Fugo glowered, hunching his shoulders as he pulled his hands back and clasped them around his mug, still shaking every once in a while. "It is freezing in here, you know."

"Don't you have anything warmer to wear?" Abbacchio asked genuinely.

"Nothing comfortable," Fugo huffed. "Just my overcoat."

Abbacchio frowned and stood up. "Hold on, I'll be back."

He went to rummage around in his closet, trying to find something warm for Fugo to wear. That was when he spotted the dark blue sweater. He'd almost forgotten about it—the one Bucciarati had given him the first night he'd dragged him back to this apartment. That would be warm enough.

Abbacchio brought it back out and handed it over to Fugo. "Here, try this."

Fugo took the sweater, looking somewhat embarrassed, but he tugged it on and pushed the sleeves up over his hands. Abbacchio watched as his shivering finally stopped all together and Fugo let out a soft sigh of relief. "Thanks. That is better."

"No problem," Abbacchio replied and nodded to the sweater. "You can keep that too, it was just something Bucciarati gave me. You'll need it if the heater doesn't get fixed soon."

Fugo offered a very small smile, huddling into the sweater as they continued with their work.

3. Narancia

"I'm…so sorry."

"Just shut up," Fugo snapped, feeling mud squelch in his shoes—they were probably ruined by now. But at least the mud had been relegated to his lower half. Narancia was practically covered in it. He didn't even realize you could find that much mud within the city limits but any calamity seemed possible with their new recruit around.

He fumbled his keys out of his pocket and opened the apartment up, cringing at the thought of all the mud they were about to track inside. The car was already a disaster.

"Just don't touch anything you don't have to," Fugo muttered.

Narancia tip-toed delicately into the apartment after ditching his shoes by the door.

"Probably the best thing is to dump the muddy clothes into the bathtub so we can rinse them out before putting them into the washing machine," Fugo said.

"Uh, yeah okay," Narancia replied. "But, um, problem—I don't have anything else to wear. I left my wash in the washing machine and I only have my pajamas pants.

Fugo sighed tiredly. "Just…throw your stuff into the tub and I'll loan you something to wear."

Narancia perked up and Fugo hurried to dump his clothes in the bathroom, washing briefly before grabbing a towel to wrap around himself to go find something clean to wear.

He dressed quickly, hearing Narancia swearing as he struggled with his mud-covered clothes then turned with a sigh to his dresser, digging around for something Narancia could wear.

A bundle of dark wool caught his eye and he pulled the sweater out, remembering how Abbacchio had given it to him when he had been freezing that one night. It had kept him warm through the winter, but he could do with passing it on now, especially since Narancia really didn't have that many clothes.

He grabbed a pair of his sweatpants as well and set the neatly folded pile outside the bathroom door.

"Clothes are outside," he said before going to make a call to Bucciarati to tell him the mission was finished.

He was just grabbing the laundry basket in prep to take the clothes down to the washers when Narancia reappeared, practically swimming in the sweater, sleeves slipping down over his hands. But he was grinning, waving the floppy sleeves around.

"Dude this is so cozy! Thanks for loaning it to me."

"Oh, you can keep it actually," Fugo replied. "Abbacchio gave it to me so…it's not really mine."

"Really? Thanks man!" Narancia hurried off as Fugo yelled at his back.

"Narancia get back here! You have to go finish your own laundry—I'm not going to do it for you!"

Narancia hurried back and grabbed the basket from Fugo. "Yeah, yeah, I'll meet you down there."

Fugo shook his head and went to gather the muddy stuff before he realized Narancia had run off with the laundry basket.

4. Mista

Narancia wasn't entirely sure what to think of the new guy yet. He'd been nice enough if not a little out of place with all of them, and Narancia didn't exactly understand why he hated the number 4 so much but he wasn't one to judge.

Still, Guido Mista had a habit of moping around when he wasn't given a task. Narancia could understand that. He'd been the same after getting out of prison. It was hard to adjust back to normal living when you'd had your days so regimented for a long time.

Narancia was currently relegated to the apartment due to a minor injury and that day it was just him and Mista there. The new recruit puttered around in the kitchen getting coffee for a while in the morning before he sat on the old couch in the living room, staring at the wall.

It was…kind of driving Narancia nuts. He didn't understand how someone could sit still like that doing nothing. At least Fugo was usually reading, he could understand that; even if reading didn't keep Narancia's attention for long, it was still doing something.

He didn't want to be annoying, but he poked his head into the living room.

"Hey, um, can I do anything for you?"

Mista looked up. "Nah. I'm good."

Narancia fidgeted. "Aren't you like…bored?"

Mista shrugged. "I don't know. It's just nice to be out of prison." He stood up. "I guess I'd like to take a shower though."

Narancia nodded and went to make lunch as he heard the shower running. Mista returned when he was halfway through eating in just his pajama bottoms and a towel slung over his shoulders.

"Hey, um…I still need to go shopping for some new clothes. Could I borrow some change so I can do a wash?"

"Oh sure," Narancia said quickly and pointed over to a jar on the counter. "Bucciarati keeps that for laundry and stuff."

"Thanks." Mista said and hurried out of the apartment.

Narancia thought about what he had said, and got up to head to his room. He grabbed a box of VHS tapes from under his bed and rummaged in his drawer until he found the oversized sweater he was looking for.

When Mista returned, Narancia tossed him the sweater.

"Here! You can have this for now," he said.

Mista held the sweater up, surprised. "Oh, hey, thanks man. I really appreciate it."

He slipped it on, tugging it down. "This is really nice. You sure you want me to have this?"

Narancia nodded. "It kinda gets passed around between us. You can use it for as long as you want. But only if you answer a question."

Mista cocked an eyebrow as Narancia presented the box he had been holding under his arm. "Do you like movies?"

Mista's face lit up. "I love movies! Hey, you got some great stuff in here!"

"Then let's watch something! Then you don't have to just sit around doing nothing all day," Narancia said. "Pick whatever you want, I'll grab some snacks."

They spent the rest of the afternoon watching movies and chatting and Narancia thought that he and the new guy were probably going to get along really well.

5. Giorno

Mista roamed the safehouse after everyone had gone to sleep, making sure everyone was okay. He checked in on Narancia last, but the kid was sleeping soundly, knocked out from pain pills and exhausted from his still-healing body. He'd been able to leave their makeshift infirmary yesterday though so he was doing a lot better.

Speaking of…

Mista headed down the stairs to the guest room they had made into their designated infirmary while their teammates were recovering. Bucciarati and Abbacchio were still usually unconscious and hooked up to IVs aside from a few times they had woken.

Giorno was sitting beside Bucciarati's bed as Mista figured he would be. The blond had been watching tirelessly since they had gotten to the house three days ago and had barely left the room.

He looked up briefly as Mista poked his head in.

"Hey, can I get you anything?"

Giorno shook his head, reaching up to rub his face. "No. I'm okay."

Mista nodded slowly, taking in Giorno's exhausted frame. "You really should sleep. They'll be okay for the night. They're stable, right?"

"Yeah, I just…" Giorno sighed, before he finally stood up. "Maybe you're right. I'll catch a couple hours on the couch."

Mista frowned as Giorno passed him, noticing that he was still wearing the same lavender suit he had been wearing the whole mission. It had the look of being washed, water thinned bloodstains visible around a couple tears, but Mista realized he'd never seen Giorno put on anything else.

"Hey, um…you want me to wash and fix that suit?" Mista asked. "I think there's a sewing kit somewhere. At least until you can get a new one?"

Giorno looked down at the suit. "I, um…I don't really have anything else to wear."

"Oh." Mista blinked and then realized Giorno hadn't brought so much as a backpack with him. "Hey, I'm sorry man, I should have asked earlier."

Giorno shrugged. "It's not really a big deal. I'll get something soon."

"No way, you need to be comfortable. Stay here, I'll be right back."

Mista hurried up to his room and dug through his duffle bag until he found—ah, there it was.

He took the bundled sweater and a pair of sweatpants down to Giorno, dropping them into his arms.

"Keep these. I've got more changes of clothes."

Giorno smiled gratefully. "Thank you, Mista. I really appreciate it."

Mista gave him a salute and a grin. "Anytime. How about I make you a cup of tea? I was just gonna get one myself."

"Sure."

Mista headed to the kitchen and by the time he got to the living room Giorno was curled on the couch, bundled into the big sweater, fast asleep.

Mista chuckled and set Giorno's mug down on the coffee table before throwing a blanket over him.

"Sleep well, GioGio."

6. Trish

Giorno was up late reading one night when he heard the back patio door open and shut. It was right below his bedroom and he had his window open. He figured someone might just be getting some fresh air, but then he heard the soft, unmistakable sounds of someone crying and frowned, getting up to go see what might be wrong.

He pulled on the heavy sweater Mista had given him and padded downstairs and toward the back of the house.

Through the glass door he could see Trish huddled on the steps leading into the garden, shoulders shaking. Giorno hesitated a second, not sure if he would be intruding or not, but he ultimately decided that Trish shouldn't have to be alone if she was upset and if it turned out she really wanted him to leave, he would go.

He stepped outside, the sound of the door opening causing Trish to turn around, hurriedly wiping her eyes.

"Oh, hey," she said quietly.

Giorno silently went to sit next to her. "Hey. Are you okay?" he asked.

Trish looked away, wrapping her arms around herself. "I…I guess."

"If you don't mind me saying so, you don't really look okay," Giorno responded. "Anything you want to talk about?"

Trish took a shuddering breath and scrubbed a hand against her wet eyes. "It's just…Now that everything's settled down it's kind of hitting me, you know? That I'm not going home—that I don't even have a home anymore."

"I know it's a lot," Giorno said quietly. "I didn't…really have anything to leave, but I can understand how you must feel, being forced to leave everything."

Trish sniffed. "And I miss my mom. I didn't even really have the time to mourn her, so…I guess it's all hitting now, three months later."

She curled around herself, shaking slightly, breath hitching.

Giorno didn't know if she was cold or not, but the weight of the sweater was comforting to him so he tugged it off and looped it over Trish's head.

She looked up in surprise, before a small smile turned up one corner of her lips as she sniffed. "Thanks." She tucked her arms into the sleeves, letting them fall past her hands as she dabbed her eyes on the sweater.

"I'm sorry about your mother," Giorno told her quietly. "But you're wrong, you know."

Trish sniffed again. "About what?" she asked sounding slightly offended.

"That you don't have a home," Giorno replied, nodding back to the house. "This is your home. It's all of our home, and you never need to go anywhere else unless you want to."

Trish looked at him for a long moment, eyes wavering, before she simply leaned forward and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

"Giorno that's…that's such a sweet thing to say," she said shakily.

Giorno smiled, hugging her back, letting her cry for a few more minutes before she pulled away and wiped at her eyes again.

"Thank you, that…I feel better now," she said.

"I'm glad," Giorno replied. "I'm always here to talk if you need."

"I appreciate it," Trish said as she stood. "Thanks for letting me borrow the sweater too. It's…really comforting."

Giorno waved his hand as he also stood. "Keep it for now. Mista gave it to me when we first got here, but you should use it now."

Trish smiled with a grateful blush and waved to him as they got inside. "Good night, Giorno. And thanks again."

"Good night, Trish."

7. Bucciarati

Trish was having a hard time sleeping that night and decided to run down to the library to grab something to read.

She had thought everyone had already gone to bed, so she was surprised to find Bucciarati sitting in there in the middle of the floor in his pajamas, a box of photos open and spread in front of him.

He startled as she walked in and Trish stopped.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were up."

A look passed over his face and Bucciarati cleared his throat and said, "It's okay. Can't sleep?"

Trish shook her head, feeling a little like she was intruding as she cautiously stepped into the room. "Not really. You either?"

Bruno gave her a small, sad smile. "Just…looking through some old memories."

Curious, Trish came over and knelt beside him. "May I?"

Bruno waved a hand and Trish picked up a picture of a young boy holding a large fish up proudly. His black hair and blue eyes told Trish that it was obviously the man beside her.

"This was you?" she asked with a smile. "You were adorable!"

Bruno let out a light laugh. "Thank you. It was… a long time ago. I…haven't looked at these for a while but…"

There was a weight to his words and Trish watched him carefully, finally realizing that his eyes were slightly red, the lashes damp as if he had been crying.

"Bucciarati? Are you okay?" she asked quietly.

He cleared his throat again. "I'll be okay, Trish. I…it's been four years today since he died. I just thought…I would take a moment to remember him."

"Oh, Bucciarati, I didn't know," Trish said softly, reaching out to take his hand, squeezing.

"I usually keep it to myself," Bruno replied simply.

Trish was silent, wondering if he wanted to be alone, but, she thought about how she felt when she remembered her mom. How alone it felt. And it was too sad to think of going to bed when Bucciarati was sitting here alone with the pictures of his past.

"Would it…be okay if I stayed here to look at the pictures with you?" Trish asked hesitantly. "Unless you'd rather be alone."

"I wouldn't actually," Bucciarati replied, voice slightly raw.

Trish felt a little relieved, but stood. "Okay, I'll be right back, I promise."

She hurried away to make some hot chocolate, and as an afterthought, ran to get the sweater Giorno had loaned her a while back when had had found her crying. She always put it on when she was feeling bad now and thought that maybe it would comfort Bucciarati too.

She brought the items back to the library and Bucciarati looked up in surprise.

"I made hot chocolate—thought you could use some," she told him with a small smile, setting down the mugs before holding out the sweater. "And this. It's so warm and cozy it…"

She trailed off at the look on Bruno's face when he saw the sweater, eyes wide, mouth parted as if in awe.

"Bucciarati?"

He reached out to take it from her, holding it carefully in his hands, fingers curling into the chunky knitting.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"Um…well, Giorno gave it to me, he said Mista gave it to him before that."

Bruno laughed lightly, eyes wet. "And I gave it to Abbacchio a long time ago." He turned to Trish with a small smile. "It was my father's. I had…actually forgotten about it but it seems to have made its way through the team somehow."

"And back to you," Trish replied. "Where it should be."

Bruno slowly tugged the sweater on over his t-shirt, running his fingers over the hem, eyes full of nostalgia. "Funny how things have a way of coming full circle when it means the most." He turned back to her, eyes wet. "Thank you, Trish."

Trish couldn't help herself and threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly in the comfy sweater. "I'm glad it came back to you when you needed it most," she told him.

"It did. But anyone is welcome to borrow it at any time," Bruno said. "Perhaps it's best that it belongs to all of us." He smiled "I think that's what my father would have wanted."

Trish hugged him more firmly and genuinely felt at home.

~~~~~~~

Check out my Whumptober Masterpost HERE for more stories!

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[thesofiavaldez]

♚ The young woman's fingers twisted around one another as she stood by the edge of the stage, having to remind herself to breath as the cold air of a winter weather she had never known knocked her knees together beneath the dress her sister had pulled her into at the airport. Sofia had been ready to rush to Micah in Scooby Doo sweatpants and a T-Shirt that said 'thank fuck i was born a scorpio' but, fortunately, her sister had better sense. Better but not perfect, the sweater she wore over everything with it's shredded knit fabric not at all enough to keep her warm.

♚ It didn't matter though, Sofia could shiver by the stages edge for hours staring at him, the presence of him on the stage one she hadn't ever seen at this magnitude. One song and he went from small parties in the Colorado town they'd met to concert venues in another country. It should have felt shocking but it didn't, just seeing the way he smiled on stage, likely unable to see her due to the spotlights on him, she knew he was the type of person who could drawn people in with whatever element of his heart he shared.

♚ Sofia wondered momentarily, as he sang to the crowd that cheered before him, vibrating the stage with the amps surrounding the band, if she had worried him the past few days. Usually Sofia texted Micah throughout the day, calling him in moments of privacy, but with everything that had happened, with jumping on a plane so suddenly, she hadn't been able to message him since their protection barrier had fallen. Her phone didn't even work presently, only able to connect to wifi long enough at the airport to find the location of his concert. She'd been concerned when she approached that maybe he had not left her name at the door, something he'd always done back home even if she'd never been able to take him up on it, but this was another country. She hadn't needed to be. Upon saying her name to someone by the back entrance, she was quickly granted entry, another member of the crew leading her backstage midway through the concert. If he had worried hopefully, when the lights faded and he left the stage with the rest of the Forgotten he would be relieved.

♚ Perhaps more than relieved even. Sofia knew all the things she wanted to say, had been repeating them in her head on the plane, been given suggestions by her sister between movies. They all felt like gibberish in her mind. Thumb rubbing the tattoo on her wrist she tried to fathom the words, the ink detailing a small jar filled with a detailed crown. The words didn't find their way through, instead the lyrics he sang to the crowd filled her mind and her muscles started to relax somewhat, fingers no longer twisting with one another. Sofia's confidence - ego or whatever it was - returning in part, though unable to fulling shake the fact her mind and body were adjusting to the reality of what was happening. Her sister was in danger again. She was in a place unfamiliar to her with no money. She was doing something she'd only fantasised about with him on the phone. It was overwhelming her every ion.

♚ Whatever she said though, whatever fell from her lips the moment he left his stage, Sofia was unwavering in her trust in the results. The painful lonely weight in her chest that had held her down would lighten, and she would lighten whatever weight her absence had left in his. They could finally fully love.

@museinitalics

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Whumpril 2023 - Day 23

Bastian is seven feet tall and Mariano is six feet tall, you know what prompt I'm doing.

TWs: illness, fever

Smoke | Bloodstains | Sharing Clothes

The chattering and clicking just wouldn't stop. Mariano leaned up against the window of Bastian's van, his fevered forehead pressed to the cold glass as he shivered. Even as his temperature spiked, he wrapped his arms around himself, crossing his legs in an attempt to keep himself warm. "S-sorr-ry. Jus-st can't w-warm-m up."

"I know." Bastian said, reaching over to slide his hand along Mariano's upper back. "We're just a few hours from home."

Mariano hadn't been feeling well during the last day of their vacation, and he'd hardly slept the night before. He'd only gotten worse over the first two hours of the drive, too. In the beginning he'd been tired and uncomfortable as aches settled into his joints, but now he was shuddering in the passenger seat. Even with the heater blasting, it was like nothing helped.

Pulling his hand away, Bastian reached towards the back seat, feeling his zipper of his suitcase. It was easy enough to get it unzipped enough to dip his hand inside. There was a specific sweater he was looking for, one that he almost hadn't bothered to bring but had tossed in anyway.

"What if it gets colder? You'll want that for a hike." Mariano had said when they were packing.

"Mariano, I'm a dragon. I don't get cold in an hour like you do, especially if I'm walking." He'd argued.

And he'd been right. He wasn't cold on that hike. The sweater had stayed packed away.

He was glad he'd brought it though. It was Mariano's favorite. On cold days, the dark red sweater was at the highest risk of being stolen by his mage than anything else in his closet. Finally, his fingertips brushed the soft knit and he pulled it out.

Tossing it over to Mariano, he grinned. "There, throw that on. See if that helps."

Mariano didn't even argue as he sat up to pull the oversized sweater over the one he was already wearing. "Th-thank y-you." He muttered, curling in on himself again as he leaned up against the door. Over the next few miles, Bastian heard the chattering of Mariano's teeth start to die down.

Half an hour later when Bastian glanced over to ask if he needed a stretch break, Mariano was still and calm in the passenger seat, all but swallowed in the sweater. Eyes closed and with a rolling, congested snore, Mariano was finally getting some sleep. Something about how the collar of it dipped so low over Mariano's chest, or how the sleeves easily covered his fingertips made his heart feel just a little bit fuller.

That was fine. Bastian had driven longer with no stretch breaks before. Pressing the gas pedal a little harder, Bastian kept speed as snow started to fall. If letting Mariano sleep would get them home faster and prevent him from sounding pathetic, then Mariano would stay asleep.

[lazulian-devil]

The bells of winter

I found another prompt I fucked around with and Im sure whoever wrote it meant something entirely different by it, but I dont care :p Enjoy!

Part 1 about a retiring pirate

(3K characters)

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It had been an incredibly cold winter that left the wood half frozen when you brought it in the house. The ice crawled onto the windows, the snow sat in front of the doors and your breath was like cigarette smoke, hurting all the same in your throat and lungs. I didnt quite like it, but then again, nobody did.

It was a slow kind of terror that came with the wind, but decided to stay and wander our village. We hadnt invited it but none of us knew how to make it leave. And it was followed by all its children: Fear of hunger. Of freezing. Of pain. Of being unable to repair what would inevitably break under the ice pressure. Fear of loosing someone. Of loosing everyone. No amount of mittens, coats, hats, lined trousers and shoes could safe you from a cold that would freeze your beard if you didnt cover it. Or snowblind your eyes if you went out for too long. As I said. I didnt quite like it.

But I remember vividly the small green something that had broken through the snow in february. Everything was still so white, every step making that distinct crunching noise I never quite knew to put in words, my mittens more hole than cloth. But there it was, like a wound in the snow. Vivid. Green. Alive. Surrounded on all sides by slumbering trees and bushes. And the endless, all swallowing white of the world. The small blade of green had pushed away the snow around it, piercing through the blanket with more vigor and hope than I had felt in the last weeks. I didnt want to believe it yet. I didnt want to be hopeful. I had been, a few times before. When the elders told of the feelings in their bones, when a few birds came looking for seeds in our barn, when Maria finished spinning her threads of wool and started knitting me the itchiest and yet warmest sweater yet, so I could finally make the journey to Rivan without freezing to death. But all that hope had died on me not shortly after. The bones of the elders didnt mean anything when the storm hit. The birds were eaten. And Rivan was just as barren as our village. Nobody wanted to trade except for the children. They needed new knucklebones for their games. Something I at least could provide them with.

So, looking at that green wonder growing next to my trampled paths in the snow, I closed the door again and tried to forget about it. There were always outliers. It wasnt warm enough yet. How could it be.

By the next day, there were seven of them. Tiny knives, stabbing the snow. Soon enough, the first one I had found grew another blade and another, until a small blossom stretched itself towards the sun, its head opening up to a beautiful white bell, hanging and swaying in the wind. "Snowdrops." Maria said at the door and I agreed, a stack of firewood in my hand. Then she hushered me inside. The wind shouldnt get in after all.

And then, by the day, there were more. First a handful. Then a few dozen. Then hundreds. They grew wherever we hadnt trampled the snow down, always in bundles of four or five, as if they were holding on to one another when the winds came to shake the white bells they had for heads. I wondered if the other plants could hear them chime. "Look." They were saying to all the slumbering seeds under ground. "It will be over soon."

I agreed, reluctantly. Cautiously. My trust in the sun had been shaken a little too much. But I continued on regardless. And soon, when the snow started melting, leaving a patchwork of dirt and white and grass behind, things changed again. By the time the last snow drops blossomed in March, they were accompanied by others that had followed their call.

I wish I could have preserved them. But then again, I wouldnt need to look at them in summer, when everything is still green or in autumn, when everything is color. They are, all things concidered, quite boring little flowers. But when the timing is just right, they are the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

[seijorhi]

Fracture

i apologise in advance.

Miya Osamu x female reader

TW non-con, dub-con, psuedo-infidelity, referenced character death, angst, drunk reader, gaslighting, age gap, the slightest hint of nsfw

‘Yer still coming home for summer, right?’

How many weeks had your sister spent lovingly bullying you into coming down? How many hours had you spent listening to her gush over the phone about how excited she was?

And until about three months ago, you’d been excited too. 

Despite the ten or so years between the two of you, there was nobody on earth you loved more than your sister. When you were sixteen years old and your parents passed away in a car accident, she was the one who stepped up to take care of you, putting a roof over your head, making sure you ate, slept and kept up your grades, balancing two jobs to do it. 

And she grumbled and you fought, but she’s the only reason you managed to keep it all together enough to graduate high school, and when it came time for you to leave home for university, she was the one blinking back tears and loudly complaining about you ‘abandoning your poor older sister in her time of need’.

As if she hadn’t sat with you for hours, pouring over your options and gently nudging you in the direction of Tokyo. 

“It’s just a few hours away,” you’d told her. “I’ll come back and visit you all the time.”

There was truth to that. The first six months of uni, you came home every other weekend arms full of expensive textbooks and mountains of assignments to write, but then she met Osamu.

You’ve never seen anybody fall so hopelessly in love as quickly as she had. Miya Osamu may as well have hung the damn moon in the sky for how your sister looked at him. And you suppose you can’t really blame her; he was stupidly tall, broad shouldered and handsome. Even back then his restaurant was a wild success, the man was talented and clearly knew how to cook. Nice was the wrong word to describe him, but Miya Osamu was good, and so long as he made your sister happy, that was enough for you.

And it wasn’t like he was the one to drive you away. 

Osamu liked you – he let you camp out in his restaurant and work on your assignments when you desperately needed a change of scenery, stopping to humour you with conversation if it was quiet. He made you laugh, he was interesting, and the more your sister brought him around, the more you realised that you actually kinda liked the guy. 

Things were just easy between the two of you, you never had to pretend to be anything but what you were.

You were the one who started putting space between you and her. It wasn’t intentional, at least not on their part, but somewhere along the way you’d started to realise that Osamu wasn’t the odd one out anymore; you were. She was building a life with him, and fortnightly visits turned into monthly ones, and then eventually it became once every few months and after that only on holidays and special occasions – their wedding being one of them.

At Christmas, cheeks flushed with alcohol, she’d pulled you into a one armed hug, pouting into your sweater. “You never come visit us anymore,” she’d sniffled dramatically, “I miss you.”

But it was Osamu – fingers laced with your sister’s, a hint of a smile curling at his lips – who’d voiced it. “Come spend yer summer break with us.”

Three months later you’d awoken to a call telling you that there’d been an accident. Your sister was dead.

Weeks pass by in a blur. Your classes are a haze of droning voices and mindless typing, you submit papers you don’t remember writing and you get good marks anyway. Your friends don’t know how to act around you, everything feels surreal, like you’re moving around in a dream, nothing touches you anymore. It hurts, but you’ve wrapped up that pain and put it someplace safe, seeking it out only when you’re alone and you just can’t bear the numbness a second longer.

The trip you’d promised to take back home to Osaka is the furthest thing from your mind, at least until Osamu calls you in the early hours of the morning, a week or so before the semester ends.

“Yer still coming home for summer, right?”

The word ‘no’ lingers on the tip of your tongue. The last time you’d seen each other was at the funeral, his face blank and hollow, eyes rimmed in red. He’d barely spoken more than a few sentences to you, but he’d stayed by your side the entire time, calmly thanking those who came up to express their condolences. 

You’d lost your sister, but he’d lost his wife. 

“Do you still want me to?” you ask him quietly instead. If you were in his shoes, you’re not so sure that you would. 

Yet Osamu sighs heavily, and you catch a faint clinking sound on the other end of the line, like a bottle being set back against the marble countertop. “I just–” but he breaks off and something inside of your chest tugs. “I want ya here. The house is empty… she’s gone and I… I want ya here. Please.” 

How could you possibly say no after that? Maybe you’ve been selfish, so wrapped up in your own grief and misery. You’d assumed that because Osamu had Atsumu he’d be okay. Not right away, of course, but he’d have that support around him – a support system that you were without.

It didn’t enter your mind that perhaps he was struggling too. That he was spending night after night alone in a house etched with memories of her. And just as you’d thought that Tsumu was the one keeping his head above water, maybe he was offering a hand to do the same for you. 

—

He’s waiting for you on the porch when your taxi pulls up on the kerb. The driver’s nice enough to help you with your bags, but Osamu is quick to intercept, waving off the help with an impatient huff that almost makes you laugh.

“Yer here,” he says once he sets them down on the porch, grinning as he tugs you into a warm embrace.

It’s then that you get a good look at him, a proper look – and for a moment, you’re taken aback. You haven’t seen him since the funeral a few months back, granted, but Osamu doesn’t look the way you imagined him to – especially after your call the other night. There’s no hint of pallid skin, no bloodshot eyes with heavy bags underneath or a 5 o’clock shadow on his face. No, even with his dark hair still a mess, dressed in jeans and his Onigiri Miya tee, Osamu looks good. Healthy even, if the way the sleeves of his shirt cling to his biceps is any indication. 

It takes you a second to realise that you’re staring, because Samu chuckles, brushing past you to bring your stuff inside.

“Y’know, most people start with a hello,” he calls over his shoulder. 

Your cheeks heat, a hint of shame curling inside of you. Were you expecting him to be an inconsolable wreck? You know better than most that grief messes with people differently, and it’s not fair of you to judge him, however unintentionally, for not fitting that image of the grieving husband.

It’s a good sign. 

“Hi, Samu,” you reply somewhat sheepishly, following him inside.

He’s already walking towards your old bedroom, the ‘guest room’ now (though you and he both know it’s always been yours), leaving you to trail behind the older man. Your intention is to stop him from going to too much effort, but as you walk past the living room, something catches your eye.

Or rather, the absence of something. Faltering in your step, it takes you a second to realise what’s missing, but as you glance around, brows furrowing in confusion, it hits you. 

The pictures of you and your sister, the cute ones with her and Samu, the old family snaps that used to line the walls and sit on the TV unit, they’re gone. And it’s not just the pictures. The artwork your sister had painted that used to hang by the wall next to the kitchen, the little pot plants she’d doted on like children, hell, the throw that she’d knitted one winter that was always lying on the couch; they’re all gone.

The room feels almost alien without them, unfamiliar and cold. He’d hung up some cool photography stuff to fill in some of the spaces, but instead of homey it just felt… modern. Like the pictures you see in magazines of staged houses that nobody actually lives in. 

And you must have been standing there for a while, because you don’t notice it when Samu comes back to find you still holding your purse, gazing around like a lost child.

“I didn’t get rid of ‘em, if that’s what yer thinking.”

You turn to face him, except Osamu isn’t looking at you. He’s gazing at the walls around you both, his face strangely impassive – except for his eyes. It’s impossible for you to miss the hurt that swims there, the faint sheen they didn’t hold only moments ago. “I packed them away – they’re in yer room if ya want to look through any of it, it’s just…” he trails off, finally glancing back to look at you. And once again, you feel that flicker of guilt slowly eating away at you. “It was painful, seeing her face everywhere.”

Before you left your apartment that morning, you swore to yourself that you wouldn’t cry today – but the tears come unbidden, and one moment you’re standing there staring at him and the next you’re choking on a sob, hand coming to your lips to try and stifle it.

Osamu’s there in a second, solid arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. He doesn’t say a word (what’s there to say anymore?) he just hums softly, stroking your back with a gentle hand as you fall apart once more.

—

It’s surprisingly easy for the two of you to fall into a rhythm. There’d been some part of you that was hesitant about this whole thing – despite having a relatively good relationship with your brother in law, you knew that the only real connection between the two of you was your sister.

Without her, living in the same space and trying to navigate around the holes that she’d left, you’d expected it to be at least a little awkward between the two of you. But with Osamu working full time, it was kind of a non-issue. Aside from the first day when he’d taken the morning off to help you get settled, he was usually gone before you woke up, and most nights he wasn’t home until nine or ten. How he worked such long hours six days a week without collapsing out of sheer exhaustion was beyond you, but you tried to make things easier for him, cooking dinner for the two of you.

“Y’know ya don’t have to do this every night, right?” he asks you one night, sticking the leftover chicken into the microwave. “I have a restaurant, I can sort out my own dinner.”

You don’t tell him that despite being a rather terrible cook, it was one of the things your sister made sure to do every night in the weeks following your parents’ death. You’d spend most of your day holed up in your room if you weren’t at school, but dinner was the one time you’d sit and talk with her. It became a ritual; something sacred and special between the two of you.

You’re a better cook than she was by far, no comparison for Osamu, of course, but it’s the only way you really know how to help with… whatever this is. 

Instead, you just offer him a wry look from your position on the couch, “And yet, you never do.”

He scoffs at that, a hint of a smirk curling at his lips, “Why would I eat there when I know yer cookin’ for me?”

—

Of course, as easy as it is to slip into living with Osamu, you can’t escape what happened there forever. 

It doesn’t slip your notice the first night you spend there; the spare toothbrush in your bathroom, the decidedly masculine body wash in the shower, or how one of the shelves in the vanity was stocked with shaving cream and cologne and a few odd skin care products. You’d assumed that they were Atsumu’s, spares stashed away for the odd nights he crashed here. There’s another bathroom off the master bedroom, so you know it can’t be Samu’s stuff.

Except you find yourself proven wrong one night, when fresh from your shower and clad only in a fluffy white towel, you open the door to find a shirtless Osamu filling the space, one arm propped up on the doorframe. 

“Anyone ever tell ya yer a bit of a bathroom hog?” he asks, smirking down at you.

And you’re so taken aback, utterly confused as to why he’s standing there half dressed, why it matters how long you take in the bathroom – never mind that the only thing covering you from complete nakedness is your towel – that you can only stand there, gaping like a fish as he laughs, takes you by the shoulders and physically shifts you out of the way as he slides on past.

It takes you until the following morning – Osamu’s sole day off – to ask him about it, clutching nervously at your cup of coffee while he busies himself making breakfast for the two of you. 

“Samu, um, about last night…” you timidly begin. 

He glances up at you from the stove, a single eyebrow raised. “What about it?”

Your cheeks are already burning, eyes darting between his face and the mug in your hands as you struggle to find the right words to bring it up without making things weird. “Well, I-I was just wondering… um, why you were using my bathroom?”

You’re not sure what kind of reaction that you’re expecting, but the dark look that flashes across his face isn’t it. For a split second, your insides clench, terrified that you’ve said the wrong thing–

But as quickly as it appeared, Osamu’s expression smooths over. He exhales heavily, setting down the spoon in his hand as he turns to face you properly, and when your eyes flicker up once more, you realise with a start that it’s pity that’s taken its place. 

And a second too late, the pieces inside your head fall into place.

“Oh.”

Osamu nods only once. “I can’t go in without seeing her lyin’ there… I thought ya knew.”

And it’s like all the air’s been sucked out of the room. She’d died in their bathroom – slipped on the wet tiles and cracked her head open on the edge of their bath, and Samu had been the one to find her. 

Weakly your eyes flutter shut, bitter nausea churning in your gut. How could he stay here, sleep in the next room when–

“Hey, hey, calm down, I gotcha,” Samu’s voice is at your ear, and your head’s spinning, pounding, and you can’t breathe. The mug in your hand tumbles to the floor, your coffee spilling across the wooden floorboards as weak fingers clutch at empty air, and then those arms are around you once more and Osamu’s trying to soothe you.

Breakfast is forgotten as he tugs you towards the couch to sit. And as he holds you, speaks to you in that calm, unwavering voice you try to focus on the scent of him (masculine and earthy, a hint of spice and cedar), the fabric of his shirt under your cheek and the gentle, almost lazy circles he rubs into your side and not the mental image of your sister, lying broken and bleeding on the bathroom floor.

—

It doesn’t take much effort to find the stash of your sister’s things that Samu set aside in your room. You lose hours flicking through pictures of her, smiling through your tears as they dredge up old, happy memories of the two of you.

Even the ones of her and Samu, his arms looped around her waist, resting his chin on the top of her head; she’s always wearing that bright grin that makes your heart ache.

There are a few of the three of you – one from the last time they’d come to visit you in Tokyo and you’d dragged them off to Disneyland. You’re standing between the two of them, beaming at the camera while Samu’s arm hangs off your shoulder and your sister, grinning widely and wearing the minnie mouse ears she’d bought at the first opportunity, tosses up a peace sign. 

Softly wiping away your tears, you set it aside. You’ll have to ask Samu if you can take that one home with you.

—

“What’re ya doin’ tomorrow?”

It’s late, and the two of you are sprawled out on the couch, watching TV with a bowl of snacks between you like the old days when he asks.

“Not much,” you reply. “I was going to go to the markets at some point in the morning and maybe head to the beach after that, why?”

Grey-ish brown eyes flicker across to you, “A few of my old teammates are in town, we’re meetin’ up for some drinks. I want ya to come with me.”

“Oh,” the word slips out before you can stop yourself. “Um, yeah… if you want?”

It ends up sounding more like a question, a fact that doesn’t slip past Osamu if the amused little snort he gives in response is any indication. And it’s not that you don’t want to give up your plans in favour of going with him; you get along pretty well with Atsumu and you’ve met most of his old teammates at least once or twice, it’s just that you’re a little confused as to why he’d want you there to begin with.

They’re all at least twelve years older than you, and while it occurs to you that maybe he’s just inviting you along to be polite (not that that’s ever been his style before) the last thing you want is to be stuck feeling like an afterthought, all but ignored as he and his friends catch up.

“I said I wanted ya there, didn’t I?” He doesn’t wait for a response, “‘sides, Tsumu already asked if you were comin’.”

Which is how you find yourself dressed up for the first time in months, fingers smoothing out the hem of your dress as Samu tosses you a lazy grin from the driver’s seat. “Relax, wouldja? They ain’t gonna bite.”

You know that. They’re good guys, but no matter how much rationalising you try to do, you can’t seem to quell the anxiety eating you up, and the frustrating thing is that you don’t know why you’re feeling it.

He’d neglected to tell you that they weren’t meeting at some bar or restaurant, but at Atsumu’s condo in the city (‘Showy fuckin’ bastard’ Samu’d huffed as he’d pulled up in front of the building), but you suppose it really doesn’t make much of a difference.

“Ya look good,” he compliments, eyeing you for a moment while the two of you wait for the elevator. 

Cheeks warming, you drop your gaze and stutter out a quiet thank you. Apparently unsatisfied, he leans closer, reaching one large hand up to gently ruffle your hair – grinning in satisfaction when you shriek and try to pry it away. “Relax,” he whispers again, the warmth of his breath tickling the bare skin of your neck. “Yer too wound up.”

Distracted by the arrival of the elevator, you fail to notice that instead of returning back to his side, his hand drops to your shoulder.

And it should be easier to do just that once you have a drink in hand. Atsumu greets you with a one armed hug, the only hint of anything out of the ordinary being the way his gaze lingers a beat too long as he studies your face, his eyes sharp and missing nothing. But whatever he sees (or doesn’t see) his expression softens into a smile, “Glad ya came.”

But even as you’re greeted by the others, falling into an easy conversation with Kita and Aran you can’t seem to shift the uneasiness in your stomach. There’s something in the air, a tension nobody really wants to admit to.

And you can’t quite tell if the others are surprised that Samu brought you at all, or if it’s just because you’re a living reminder of a tragedy that’s still fresh and raw, and everyone’s trying to pretend that it’s not. You don’t blame them for it, of course, they only mean the best. But you can see it in the way Suna side eyes you every now and then, how skilfully Akagi skirts anything that could touch a nerve when he comes up to chat.

It’s like they’re all walking on eggshells – though whether it’s for your benefit or Osamu’s, you’re not entirely sure. For his part, Samu sticks close, keeping your drink topped up, an arm slung over your shoulders as the afternoon wears into the evening. 

Yet despite that, the alcohol you’re drinking far too quickly starts to work its magic, filling your body with a warm, pleasant little buzz, and you actually start to enjoy yourself. You laugh easier, giggling when the twins start to bicker, gasping in wicked delight when Suna offers to show you certain embarrassing photos of both of them on his phone (he has quite the collection), even letting Gin and Tsumu drag you into taking shots with them.

And all the while, Samu watches you, a soft smirk playing at his lips.

—

By the time he unlocks the front door and you stumble back inside, you’re absolutely plastered, giggling at nothing and tripping over your own feet.

As always, Samu’s there to catch you, strong, muscular arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against him. “Careful there, princess,” he laughs.

You grin up at him, carefree and heartbreakingly beautiful. For the first time in months you feel light, you feel amazing and you don’t want this to end. Kicking your heels off, you skip inside, leading him by the hand. “Samu,” you call back over your shoulder. “I wanna dance.”

“Nobody’s stopping ya.”

“But there’s no music,” you pout, and once again he chuckles, letting you go to settle back into the leather couch as he pulls out his phone. A moment later a familiar, lively melody floods the living room, and you let yourself become lost to it. It doesn’t matter that you’re drunk and dancing alone, Samu’s dark eyes following your every move, you’ve never felt so free.

Arms raised in the air, hips swaying hypnotically to the beat, you lose track of time. It could’ve been minutes or seconds or a whole hour, but suddenly you’re not alone anymore – Samu’s there with you. His cologne invades your senses, why does he always smell so good? His body’s warm, almost hot as he slots himself behind you, caging you against him. 

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his voice sending shivers running down your spine. “Yer a little tease, ya know that?”

And there’s something wrong with that, you know there is, but you can’t seem to think of what it is – not when the weight of his hold’s impeding your movement. A pout adorns your face, a soft, almost petulant whine escaping your lips as you try in vain to untangle yourself, “Samu, lemme go. I wanna dance.”

He huffs out a laugh, but that doesn’t sound right either. “Don’t wanna dance with you, pretty girl.”

There’s something hard pressing against your lower back, and his hot breath ghosts over your neck a moment before lips descend to suck on the sensitive flesh.

In a split second, all that blissful, warm, drunken happiness evaporates. Samu groans lowly, his chest rumbling at your back, but there’s a pit of something cold and urgent that’s seeping through your veins, distant, foggy alarm bells tolling inside of your head and you don’t understand what’s happening, but you know that you don’t like it.

You want it to stop.

“S-Samu,” you whine, shifting uncomfortably against his hold. 

This time he listens, drawing back just enough that he can turn you around to face him. And those familiar eyes are hooded and dark, burning with an intensity that makes you want to recoil even as he stares down at you, taking your cheek in hand.

You don’t even realise that you’re crying until his thumb’s brushing away your tears. There’s nothing comforting or pleasant (nothing of the Samu you know) on his face as he studies your fearful expression, but eventually he lets out a heavy sigh.

“She was positive I was cheatin’ on her,” he admits. “Did she ever tell ya that?” He pauses for a beat waiting for a reply, but when it’s clear that you don’t have one for him, he just scoffs, “No, ‘course not. That’d be admitting that not everything about our life was picture perfect, and heaven fuckin’ forbid we do that. Y’know, that's why she wanted ya back here so bad. She needed a buffer.”

Bitterness clings to every word like poison and you flinch, renewing your struggles to get away. Not that he lets you – the moment you start to squirm the arm around your waist tugs you closer, anchoring you against him. The tears come faster, followed by soft, hiccuping sobs, but Samu seems beyond caring at that point.

“Stupid bitch never could see what was right in front of her face. That’s what we were fightin’ about that night; she said she was gonna leave me.”

Your heart clenches, fear pooling in your gut, but Samu just smiles at you, a mockery of sweet tenderness, reaching back to tuck a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. “But you know I’d never hurt my pretty girl, don’t ya, baby?” he asks. “Just want a taste tonight.”

You don’t even have time to suck in a breath before he’s kissing you, cradling the back of your head as his mouth moves hungrily against yours.

And all you can taste is the whiskey on his tongue.

—

You can’t tear your eyes away from your reflection in the mirror, the faint, reddish blemish colouring your neck.

A hickey.

Tentatively, as if trying to prove that it’s real and not a figment of your imagination, you prod at the mark, only to wince at the tenderness. Definitely real.

You’d woken up to an empty house – unsurprising considering it was well past ten and you knew Osamu had work today – with your head pounding and your mouth uncomfortably dry. Wracking your brain, you can’t seem to conjure up a rational explanation for the bruise. Granted, you can’t really remember much of last night, only fragments of being at Atsumu’s place, and certainly nothing after you’d started taking those shots.

Which doesn’t make the uneasiness sitting heavy in your stomach any easier to take, because you know that you hadn’t been cosying up to anybody before you’d lost track of the night, and if it had happened after, then surely Samu or one of the others would have stepped in and put a stop to it.

And that should’ve been more of a comforting thought than it was, because if it didn’t happen at Atsumu’s then that meant it happened afterwards, when you were here with Samu.

Your heart thumps unevenly against your ribs.

Osamu. Your dead sister’s husband, your brother in law. 

A hickey on your neck isn’t just a kiss. It’s not a simple, drunken peck against your lips, it meant that somebody had sucked on the skin, bitten at it, kissed until blood vessels broke – it’s not the kind of thing that happens accidentally. 

A wave of nausea threatens to overtake you, and you barely manage to make it to the bathroom before you’re violently emptying the contents of your stomach into the porcelain bowl. And you know as you collapse onto the cool tiled floor, shaking just a little, that this time at least, the alcohol isn’t to blame.

You know Samu; you trust him implicitly. Whatever happened, it must have been a mistake or something. You’d both been drinking, and he’s still grieving and–

There’s no point jumping to conclusions or working yourself up any more than you already have. You’ll just bring it up with him when he gets home, you decide. 

Yet anxiety and guilt gnaw at you as the hours crawl by, you’re half tempted to pick up your phone and just call him to ask point blank. The clock feels like it’s mocking you every time you glance up, and while you try your best to distract yourself with household chores and then busying yourself with dinner, none of it works for long.

By the time he does stride through the door, a little before ten, you’re an anxious wreck, all but wringing your fingers as you sit rigid and tense at the table. Most nights you eat before he gets home, hunger getting the better of you, but tonight you don’t seem to have much of an appetite. 

“Smells good,” he comments with an easy grin, toeing off his shoes and dropping his wallet and keys by the door.

You open your mouth, but the words seem to get stuck in your throat as he drops a kiss down on the top of your head and walks on past to grab a bowl from the kitchen.

“I’m starving.”

Instead, you just swallow nervously as he pulls out the seat next to you and sits, not wasting another second before digging in. Your eyes quickly dart over to study him, but you don’t see any hint of guilt or unease on his face. He just looks like the same old Samu, a little tired maybe, but otherwise totally normal, and so you force yourself to pick up your spoon and follow suit. 

And he’s never been one to fill silences with meaningless chatter, but tonight the quiet between the two of you feels oppressive, every clink of metal against ceramic echoing too loudly, every chew, every swallow setting you on edge. You can’t even taste the food, your stomach too twisted in knots for you to feel anything but nauseous after a few bites. 

“… Is everything okay?” he asks after a few minutes, and it’s so sudden amongst the tense silence that you visibly jerk, almost dropping the spoon you’d been toying with. 

You glance up to find him staring, brows furrowed in concern, and once again your stomach flips. It’s now or never.

“Um… did anything happen last night?” you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Osamu’s frown deepens fractionally, and he tilts his head as your fingers twist in your lap, “What d’ya mean?”

Did we kiss? The words dangle on the tip of your tongue, but as you nervously meet his eyes, you find nothing but confusion and concern there. And for a moment, you almost speak them, but then Samu’s reaching across the table to take your hand in his, and as his warm palm swallows up yours, you lose your nerve.

“You sure yer okay?”

Whatever happened, he doesn’t remember it and neither do you. 

Smiling tightly, you nod. “Yeah, it’s nothing. Nevermind.”

There’s no reason for you to drag him through the mud for this, you’re already feeling enough guilt and shame for the both of you.

—

You try to put it out of your mind, but it’s not that easy.

Lying awake in bed at night, your brain unwittingly turns over possibilities of what else could’ve caused the mark if not Osamu. Guilt gnaws at you every second that you’re around him and all the while he’s painfully oblivious to it all.

He’s always been affectionate with you, but all those stray, unthinking touches now carry a different weight with them. You find yourself ducking away from them more often than not, pretending that you don’t see the almost wounded look in those greyish-brown eyes when you do. You start to avoid him, finding other places to be whenever he’s home.

And you hate yourself for it, because Osamu’s been nothing but faithful to your sister for as long as you’ve known him. You’re the one acting like there’s something wrong between the two of you, like he’s treating you any differently than he always has when you know that’s not the case.

You know that, but when you catch sight of the fading bruise in the mirror, your stomach twists into knots all the same. 

There are excuses and justifications aplenty, but none of them make you feel any better. You still find yourself sniffling into your pillow, swallowed up by your guilt when you imagine how devastated your sister would be if she knew.

You’d let her husband kiss you. Being drunk and miserable and grieving didn’t change that. Whether he knew it was you or mistook you for her; it doesn’t matter. Maybe it was a mistake, letting him talk you into coming.

Things were still too raw, too fresh. You’d thought that coming here would help, but so far it’s only made everything worse, and unintentionally or not, you can’t kid yourself that your presence is doing anything to help Osamu anymore.

You need to go back to Tokyo.

Somewhat selfishly, you’re tempted to put it off until the weekend, because you know that Onigiri Miya has a stall for the beginning of the summer festival and he’ll be too preoccupied with that to think about anything else – but you just can’t bring yourself to do that to him. 

No, it’s better to rip it off like a bandaid; nice and quick. 

You’d planned on breaking the news over dinner, but as you pick your way through your noodles, you notice that Samu’s quieter than he usually is. Every time you risk a glance up he’s staring at the table, looking entirely lost in thought, and it just doesn’t feel like the right time to bring it up.

Tomorrow, you decide, you’ll cook his favourite for dinner and tell him then.

—

The knocking startles you from your sleep with a jolt. It’s quiet, hesitant almost, but you’ve always been a light sleeper.

“Samu?” you croak out, fumbling blindly for the phone at your bedside to see what time it is. 

The door opens, a crack of light from the hallway spilling into your room as Osamu looks in. “Sorry,” he murmurs, “I know it’s late, but I need to talk to ya ‘bout somethin’.”

He’s shirtless, clad only in a pair of cotton pyjama pants, but he doesn’t look to be in any immediate kind of trouble. Still, he wouldn’t have disturbed you in the middle of the night if it wasn’t something important, so you blearily wipe the sleep from your eyes and force yourself to sit up as he slips into your room and shuts the door behind him.

“What’s wrong?”

He hasn’t bothered to turn on the light, and even with the moonlight streaming in through your window, his face is cast in shadow as he takes a seat on the edge of your bed. And it’s silly, especially considering he’s the one who’s shirtless right now but it’s hard not to flush at the realisation that you’re only wearing a thin, satiny slip. You feel almost naked – he’s seen you in bikinis before, but it feels different here, when he’s the one in your bedroom.

“You asked me the other day about what happened the night we went to Tsumu’s,” he begins, his voice quiet and soft in the early hours of the morning, and suddenly your state of dress is the last thing on your mind. 

Swallowing tightly, your pulse quickens and you still, waiting for him to continue.

And you feel, rather than see, the way he stares at you, inching a fraction closer when you don’t immediately answer. “And I lied. Or I didn’t exactly tell ya the full truth.”

“Which is?” you force out.

Samu’s shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep, slow breath in and exhales heavily. “You were drunk and ya came onto me, tried to kiss me.” You flinch, a choked sound escaping your throat at the blunt admission, but he’s quick to reach for you, his hand coming to rest on your knee, squeezing it reassuringly. “And in the heat of the moment, I let ya.”

Hot tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but the moment you try to turn away from him, biting your lip and trying to blink back the tears, he stops you. 

“Osamu–”

“‘Cause I’ve spent years waiting to kiss those lips, an’ I’m tired of pretending we both don’t want this.”

And he’s kissing you; soft and sweet and gentle, his lips molding to yours as he cups the back of your neck. You wonder if he can feel your pulse racing under his fingertips as he draws himself closer, groaning into your mouth.

It doesn’t matter that your hands are on his bare chest, pushing at him, hitting him – those muscles aren’t just for show; he’s immovable. The more you squirm, trying to extricate yourself so that you can plead with him to stop–

This is a mistake. A horrible, awful misunderstanding. He’s upset and grieving and not thinking clearly and you have to stop this.

He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

– the more his grip tightens until it starts to hurt and you’re whimpering into the kiss. Your tears are wetting his cheeks, but he doesn’t care, won’t stop and there’s a panic that rises within you every second that you’re entangled with him.

“Don’t do this,” he mutters, breaking the kiss as a sob rips its way free from your throat, “Don’t pretend ya don’t want this, baby. I know ya do. Stop being a little fuckin’ tease.”

He leans back in, intent on capturing your lips again, and in an act of desperation you reach for his face, cradling his cheek in your hand. “Samu, please,” you beg, wide, imploring eyes searching his face for any hint of a reprieve. “You’re scaring me. Stop, please, j-just for a second.”

Just a second, that’s all you need to try and snap him out of whatever the hell this is. One second. 

Osamu stills, his face mere inches from your own, his body hovering atop yours. His breath, ragged and uneven, ghosts over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, but you don’t dare move as he leans into the touch, grey eyes fluttering shut.

He sighs, the sound almost like a shiver. “Ya don’t need to be scared, ‘m gonna take good care of my girl.”

He doesn’t give you the chance to say anything else, not as he forces himself onto you once more. You used to marvel a little at Osamu. Tall, handsome and strong, even in his mid thirties; Samu was fit. Now, straddling your waist, pinning your wrists to the wall with one hand, the other palming at your tits, he dwarfs you entirely. He isn’t impatient, not as he kisses you languidly, not as he slides the soft, satin up your thigh, revealing your underwear.

Your hiccuping sniffles aren’t enough to move him, you’re not strong enough to physically fight him off. He doesn’t pay the tearful, breathless pleas sobbed out between kisses any mind. 

Osamu grabs you by the waist and flips you onto your front, lips brushing at the nape of your neck as he smooths your hair back, and you’re utterly helpless to stop him. 

And as his hand runs down your side and he coaxes your hips up into the air, you almost wish that he was rough. Because this pretense of gentleness, glinting steel masquerading as silk – it’s too intimate, and you feel complicit.

Like you’re willing.

Like you want this with him.

An act of love as he tugs your panties down to your knees and hums in quiet satisfaction at the sight of your bare cunt, glistening just for him.

There’s a voice in your head telling you you should be screaming and kicking and snarling like a wild, feral thing, but Osamu’s grabbing at your ass, spreading it to get a better look, his thumb gliding along your slit and all you can think about is the picture he’d packed away, the one of the three of you at Disneyland. 

Samu’s arm slung over your shoulder, and your sister’s bright smile.

He spits; a warm, fat glob of saliva hitting your pussy, and as it slowly dribbles down the only sound that leaves your lips is a soft, broken whine. You don’t fight him when he takes his cock in hand and guides the flushed head, pre-cum already oozing at the tip, along your cunt, you just lie there, a toy for him to move and manipulate however he wants.

“You’ll forgive me for this, I know ya will,” he murmurs, softly squeezing your hip just once as something thick and blunt presses at your entrance. 

But it doesn’t matter, not as his cock sheaths itself inside of you with one hard, brutal thrust, because you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to forgive yourself.

[shokosmokes]

FINALLY AN OPEN ASK BOX W(`0`)W

I request a scenario where Megumi helps reader sleep by singing?? This is inspired by a Megumi Fushiguro Sleep aid I’m OBSESSED with. Anyways yeah, thank you and have a good day/night/afternoon （＾∇＾）

OMG THIS IS SO CUTE (send a link to the sleep aid hehe) apologies for this being posted so late agh

-best friend megumi

-mutual pining

-gumi’s whipped for uuu

-not proof read srry for any typos

you’re mindlessly scrolling through tumblr, watching the clock pass yet another hour

trying to keep your mind occupied to keep you from dreading the stress of tomorrow

refreshing your feed to find some sort of new stimuli for what seems to be the millionth time tonight

‘why are you still up’

another notification flashes

‘and don’t try to pretend to be asleep now i saw you were active on twt like 3 minutes ago’

breathing a giggle to yourself you open megumi’s message

‘i could ask YOU the same >:0’

‘im up studying - what’s your excuse’

‘can’t sleep-wanna come over and watch a movie? :D’

‘i just told you im studying’

‘ah, srry gumi - good luck remember to take water breaks’

your heart sinks a little and you roll over to your side letting out a deep sigh

you flip your pillow over yet again searching for a cold spot to soothe your skin

kicking your feet you think about making the walk to a convenience store to grab a bottle of melatonin

after awhile your phone pings again

‘im outside’

and your heart leaps a little and you’re quickly fumbling out of bed and practically skipping to your door

you swing the door open seeing megumi standing in a slightly oversized black knitted sweater and grey sweats, holding a plastic baggie

“hi” he gives you a small smile reaching the plastic baggie out to you “i got you some sleepy time tea and melatonin gummies, i thought it might help… with a couple of snacks for that movie you promised”

you pull him in a tight hug pulling him through your doorway and your pupils have turned into hearts at this point

“you’re the best gumi”

he starts on your tea, heating a kettle as you settle yourself down flitting through documentaries you think megumi might like

your mattress sinks in and you flick your gaze up to find a mug being outstretched to you

“it’s lavender, it’s supposed to calm you”

blowing on the purple tinted liquid you scoot your way closer to megumi till you’re resting against him and take slow sips

you don’t realize the proximity till his knee bumps into yours causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach

his gaze is fixated on the screen but his ears are burning pink giving him away

god he’s so cute

“stop staring at me”

now you’re the one with flushed cheeks

the sight making a smirk grow on his face

he takes the mug from your hands replacing it by plopping a couple melatonin gummies into your palm

and you can’t ignore the way his hands linger on yours

how warm they are and how your chest yearns for more of his warmth

you paw at his sweater pulling him in closer to snuggle, just barely missing the way his cheeks heat up with blush

you snuggle your face into the crook of his neck, melting into his warmth

breathing in his scent, your breath tickling his neck making his chest flutter

“sing to me, gumi”

“what?” he asks with wide eyes and his face is bright red

“i know you can sing i hear you humming while you’re cooking”

you lift your face to meet his and bat your eyes

“please gumi for me, it’ll help me fall asleep”

he’s silent for a minute avoiding eye contact, scratching his neck, blush as prominent as ever

“fine” he groans rolling you over so you’ve laid down with your back pressed against his chest “just don’t look at me”

he lets out a nervous cough and wraps an arm around your torso

he begins humming and you can feel the his voice vibrating through his chest

his voice is deep and he sings at a faint volume, loud enough for only you to hear

so soft and so pretty

everything about him is so so soft and pretty you think

your eyes begin to flutter shut and you feel yourself finally relaxing and slipping into a sleep

he smiles to himself once he hears the soft snores coming from you

softly placing a kiss to your temple before he’s quietly shuffling to head out

as he’s leaving he leaves his sweater tucked next to you for you to snuggle into for whenever he’s not there

[hb-writes]

Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Beat It

Summary: Charlie Specter is a lot like her older brother, or at least she tries to be like him. She works hard. She takes extra courses at university. She works part-time at his law firm. She even speaks fluently in the language of obscure movie quotes. Charlie always thought it was a good thing, being like Harvey, but she's starting to think she's not cut out for it. And maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Characters: Harvey Specter & Charlie Specter (OC) & Donna Paulsen

A/N: Sort of requested. I picked the prompt— “How are you?” “I’m doing quite well at the moment.” —from this list and an anon suggested Harvey Specter, so here it is.

Here's the AO3 link if you prefer to do your reading over there.

"What are you wearing?"

Donna’s eyes didn't lift from her computer screen and Charlie pushed herself away from the desk, looking down at her outfit as Donna continued typing.

Charlie didn’t see anything particularly wrong with her choice of attire, not on a frigid and rainy day when she’d managed to attend three classes, turn in a term paper—albeit a little late—and show up to work—again, albeit a little late—but still… She'd done it. Done it all well enough without getting even a single minute of sleep the night before.

And Charlie quite liked the knee-length dress made of a deep emerald green fabric that laid smooth and soft against her skin. It was a favorite of her most recent acquisitions, and that was why she had plucked it from her closet even though it was less than practical on a day when she knew she would be traipsing back and forth across the city, from home to school to the office and back home again, probably at some insanely late hour. And the sweater she wore pulled over it—something with a thick and chunky knit she’d stolen from her brother’s stash of casual clothes—that was a favorite, too. It always kept her feeling warm and comfortable—safe. Charlie knew she would need those things to get through the day. Comfort, warmth, something to make her feel good when she felt awful. Worse than awful, really.

"What’s wrong with my outfit? You made me buy this dress."

Donna finished her email with a snort before looking up from the computer screen. She scooted her chair back just far enough to give the girl a full once over, her gaze lingering on Charlie’s rain boots and woolen socks before moving to the messy bun on the side of her head, and then finally meeting Charlie's tired eyes.

Donna didn’t comment further on Charlie’s fashion choices, but blinked a few times before speaking. "You're late.”

Charlie rolled her eyes, point well taken about her appearance even if Donna didn’t make any specific comments. There was nothing wrong with the dress. It was Charlie that was all wrong. It was the way Charlie had put herself together around the dress, or more accurately, the ways she hadn’t put herself together, that concerned Donna.

The hair, at least, could be rectified easily enough. Charlie reached up to release the bun, running her fingers through and grimacing as she caught a stubborn snag. “I know, I know. Where’s Harvey?”

"In the meeting with Dietrich."

“Okay…" Charlie idly straightened her sweater and smoothed out the skirt of the dress before rooting around her bag in search of her phone. She was sure she had some missed texts from her brother, missed calls from Donna, too, probably. She had been expected at the office at least half an hour earlier. "And are you going to tell me what conference room we're in? I'm supposed to—"

“The meeting is already underway.”

"But I’m supposed to be in there with him. I prepared all of the—"

“Tough luck, little chick.” Donna shrugged. "You weren’t here so he brought an associate in."

Charlie opened her mouth to complain further at that, her discontent edged on by hunger and lack of sleep and the damp cold of rain that had settled into her bones on the walk over from the subway station. And because Dietrich—while not technically her case since Charlie wasn’t a lawyer, or even a paralegal—was her responsibility, and it had been for months, unofficially. She had been Harvey’s go-to for anything Dietrich-related since the summer.

Charlie was supposed to be in that meeting.

She had worked her ass off to get everything finished close to on time, splitting her overnighter between making notes for Harvey’s meeting and working on her paper, prioritizing in that order. 

Charlie should have started it all sooner. She knew that. The paper had been assigned at the beginning of the semester, far before she agreed to the extra hours on the case. And though she was avoiding it, Charlie also knew that she'd made a mistake in taking on more. She carried too much already. She had been putting in too many hours with the firm on top of too many classes.

She was doing too much, working too hard, and not coming close to meeting the mark.

A flash of heat came to Charlie’s cheeks and her eyes grew wet as she swallowed, reaching within for a defense and steadying herself. "I would have been here on time but my class ran late and the train was delayed because of—"

The phone trilled between them and Donna held up a hand.

"You can wait in his office. He left some files on the table for you."

That was all. Donna twisted to face the computer once again, pulling the phone to her ear as she sent Charlie away with a finalizing nod of her head.

Charlie swallowed down her response and slunk away. Part of her was grateful for the interrupting phone call. It was clear Donna wasn’t in the mood to hear her out today and Charlie wasn’t in the mood to be chastised more than once. She was sure Harvey would have more than enough to say.

Charlie dropped her bag on the couch in Harvey’s office, backtracking a few steps to close the door, a largely meaningless gesture seeing as the whole wall was made of clear glass and Donna was listening in regardless, but it made her feel better all the same.

She glanced at the stack of files on the table, considering them for a moment before moving to Harvey’s shelves to pull a record instead. The music loosened something in Charlie from the moment the needle hit the vinyl. It was an instrumental track—no clever words to get in the way, just her dad’s music whispering to her.

She closed her eyes and wondered what life was like in that other existence—the one where Gordon Specter had lived and Charlie Specter continued growing up in Riverside, seeing Harvey on holidays and some lucky weekends. What was that Charlie up to? Probably not missing deadlines or turning in work late. Maybe that girl wasn’t such a disappointment. Maybe that girl was more grateful for her opportunities, more motivated. Simply more.

Charlie took a seat in her brother's chair and slipped out of her boots. She vacantly kneaded her arches through her socks as she looked over her brother’s nearly empty desk. Harvey had a million things going at once, but his desk was always immaculate and organized. He always met his deadlines. He always got everything done. Charlie wondered if anything was ever too much for her brother, too hard. Maybe she was the only one who couldn't manage…

Charlie spun herself towards the view of the skyline and set her feet on the windowsill. She could see most of Manhattan from the corner office and her gaze wandered over the buildings and streets as she worried her lip, willing her frustration to remain tied up inside, struggling with the simultaneous desires both to make known the concerns on her mind and to chastise herself for being too weak, too tired, too lazy, especially when she’d asked for these things. Charlie chose this life. She chose these responsibilities.

It would be easiest for it all to simply go away. It would be easier—cleaner—if the doubt would fall away, or maybe the responsibilities. If something would simply give on its own she wouldn’t have to ask or figure out what she wanted to ask for in the first place. She wished the problems would just rectify themselves and somehow everything would be in the past. 

She couldn’t imagine her brother would let this go though. Letting go wasn't in Harvey’s playbook. And despite the contradictory wishes nudging at the corners of her mind, it was not in Charlie's either, not really.

She just didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want this to be a thing, especially not while they were at the office. Harvey and Charlie’s existence was a tangled mess of blurred lines, roles, and relationship dynamics that they were constantly renegotiating, even more so now that Charlie was in college. They strived for employer-employee at the office, but there were always times when other dynamics bled through.

Or hemorrhaged.

Charlie sank into the ergonomic support of Harvey’s office chair and pulled the sweater tighter across her chest, relishing in the demanding weight of warmth that spread over her. 

Her mind and body felt heavy. They longed to empty of the stress and the questions and the thoughts, far more interested in seeking reprieve than sorting through problems. Charlie didn’t fight the call to close her eyes, relenting to the unyielding heft of her limbs and the autonomic deepening of her breaths.

A power nap would help. It would get her through whatever her brother had to say. It would steel her resolve for a few more hours of work until Harvey finally let them call it a day. It would sharpen her mind, help her remain steady.

And Charlie needed those things.

—

Charlie jolted as her world shifted, her body careening towards the floor after Harvey nudged her feet from the window sill. She held onto the arms of the chair to steady herself, groaning her brother’s name in complaint, throwing her foot out at him in protest.

Charlie’s heel pressed hard against Harvey’s leg, but he let her foot fall away without rebuttal. Harvey leaned back against the ledge in front of her, his arms folded across his chest as he occupied the space where her feet had just been. 

"You’re in my seat."

Charlie had only just dozed off—she’d slept for ten minutes at best—and she felt worse than she had before closing her eyes. She pushed herself up in the chair, rubbing her face, her body protesting with every movement. "You had the meeting without me."

Harvey raised both eyebrows and snorted. Donna had already filled him in on his sister’s complaints, but he would have anticipated Charlie's reaction either way. He knew Charlie wanted to be in the meeting. Harvey had wanted her there, too, but his hands were tied. The world didn’t revolve around her. He couldn’t have waited for her even if he had wanted to.

"You weren't here."

A part of him wanted to say more—to say that she was shirking responsibilities, that she was off and it had become noticeable. Today had been the clearest evidence, but his sister had been off all week, maybe longer. It was clear in their interactions, clear in the distance she put between herself and everyone else, zeroing in on the work—the things that she needed to do to tick off a box. From the outside, it looked like focus, diligence. 

The grind.

But there was something off there, too. Despite the isolation and constant work, there had been a shift in his sister. Charlie was usually meticulous with the work she did for her brother. The notes she'd left for him for today's meeting had done the job, but they didn't compare with her usual effort. The work had been rushed, incomplete by her usual standards—subpar.

Harvey had been meaning to address it for days, to check in, but Charlie was keeping him at a distance and she hadn't slowed down long enough to catch a breath, let alone to answer his questions. And the way Harvey handled things was different now. He tried to back off on most things, tried to follow her lead despite the uncomfortableness of it. Neither one of them was quite sure what was the right way, but they were both acutely aware of when the handling of something felt wrong. So although he was concerned about his sister, Harvey left it. She hadn’t come to him with it, so he would let his sister sort it herself. 

That left him to focus on the work, and Harvey let the part of him that was frustrated over her missing an important meeting take the lead, the part of him that saw her as an unequivocal, accountable adult—one who was slacking.

"It went fine with Dietrich in case you’re wondering,” Harvey said as he pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through his texts.

Charlie tried to ignore the dig, steeling her face though she felt the anger rise in response to her brother’s call.

In case she was wondering.

Charlie wanted to smack him. If it weren’t for the wall of windows, she might have done it. 

Of course she wondered how the meeting went. 

She wondered whether her work had made any difference. 

She wondered if her work had been enough. 

She wondered what the reactions had been. 

She’d been imagining it all from the minute their plan started coming together, but Charlie wondered more about the person who'd been brought in to take her place at the last minute.

"Donna said you brought in an associate?"

"Some new kid we pulled out of the bullpen at random since my highly overpaid legal assistant is unreliable." Harvey gave the slightest of shrugs as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. Charlie knew it couldn’t have been a ‘random’ choice. She figured Donna had done the choosing—someone intelligent, capable, and wily. Someone at the top of some pristine list she kept locked away in a drawer for this exact situation. "There’s always someone ready to take your opportunity if you don’t prove you want it, Charlotte. You know that."

Harvey's tone was light, but the aphorism felt heavy as it landed. It was too close to the truth Charlie had been trying to sort through herself and she glared at her brother’s accusation despite the knowing pit growing in her stomach. Would it be so hard if she really wanted this? Would it be so hard if…?

There were a million ways Charlie had asked herself that question, always shaking herself free before really exploring it, all of it boiling down to an inkling that she wasn’t enough of something…or enough of anything. Harvey clearly couldn’t rely on her to get the job done and a part of Charlie didn’t blame him for being annoyed. She was barely meeting deadlines and she hadn't even let him know she was running late for the meeting. She could have sent a text on the way, but she hadn’t bothered. Charlie wasn't proving she wanted anything, not to herself or to her brother.

Ever since starting at the firm, she’d felt the pull to prove herself, to do more than expected if only to convince herself and everyone else that she deserved to be there. That she wanted to be there.

She generally did good work, but Charlie's knew her position at the law firm was clear nepotism. She hadn't interviewed. She was paid far better than most legal assistants, and she was given a fair bit more leeway without deserving it. They probably would have fired anyone else managing the work the way she was, anyone who wasn’t Harvey Specter’s sister. And as much as Charlie advocated to be treated the same as everyone else at the office, she knew she wasn’t.

If she was, Harvey would've fired her and just hired himself an actual professional. Someone with experience. Someone reliable, capable, and competent. Someone who didn’t make him slip back and forth within the roles of boss, brother, friend, and parent with such frequency. Harvey could have made it easy on himself.

Charlie didn’t even need to work. Harvey made that very clear. No one had forced her into anything. Harvey would’ve been happy to let his sister get her degree unencumbered by the double duty of work and school. He would have been happy to pay her way through graduation as long as she remained focused on her education, but Charlie had insisted on both work at the law firm and school. Charlie had asked for the opportunity.

Charlie had insisted on doing the extra work with the Dietrich case, too. Harvey never assigned her anything without checking in with her first, another allowance afforded to no other person working at the firm. Charlie had had every opportunity to say no, to tell him it was too much, to change her mind, but Charlie never did, always reaching for more, taking more than her fill. Harvey wondered if he should have pushed back, challenged her. There was a time when it felt like that’s all they did, push and pull, but they were trying something different now that she was an adult.

"I wanted to be here, but my class ran late and it was raining and then the train—"

"Why didn’t you call Ray?"

Charlie cursed herself and the MTA before groaning aloud. The subway always muddled things, even now. Charlie knew better, she really did.

The delayed train wasn’t the point. It was just the train, one of the things Harvey couldn’t just let be despite the strides he’d made in letting Charlie do her own thing. More often than not, she simply abided by his wish. She often walked from campus to the office, using the journey to decompress for a bit in between. She had only taken the train today because of the rain and because she was already running late—the train was usually faster than car service in Manhattan, but by voicing that, Charlie had stepped straight into their age-old battle, coming up against Harvey’s steadfast insistence that she keep off public transportation, nearly every argument Charlie could make in favor of the MTA met with a nearly reasonable remonstration from her brother.

He’d pay for any cab rides she needed to take across the city. Even better, Harvey would pay extra for Ray to make himself available. They'd adjust her hours at the firm to allow for extra commute time if necessary. Whatever it was, he’d come up with a solution, but Harvey didn't want her taking the train. And it was an argument he’d continued to make even when he’d backed off on about a million other things, heeding most of her calls for independence. Or trying to, at least.

"You know damn well I would still be sitting at some red light in midtown if I called Ray."

Harvey snorted. "I’m gonna let him know you have such little faith in him.” He pushed off the desk, meaning to usher her out of his chair. “Next time, you call Ray or walk. Now—"

"Harvey, come on—"

"Enough, Charlotte."

Harvey raised an eyebrow and whatever Charlie had intended to say fell away. She closed her mouth though she held her brother’s gaze, the silence between them lasting long enough that it was clear there was a type of conversation happening even if there were no words passed between them. Charlie held for as long as she could. It almost pained her when the familiar, "I'm not a child, Harvey," slipped from between her lips. The phrase felt petulant and self-condemning and untrue though she continued with the usual refrain almost as a reflex. “You can’t tell me—”

Harvey glanced up at the sound of throat clearing and Charlie spun to the side in her chair. She was met with a face she didn't recognize.

The new associate. 

Somehow Charlie knew this was the person who had taken her place at the meeting. She let out an uneasy breath, wondering just how much of their conversation had reached her ears. The woman had certainly been there long enough to hear Charlie declare that she wasn’t a child and begin telling Harvey that he can’t tell her what to do.

Charlie turned back towards the windows as heat flooded her cheeks. The new associate glanced between her boss and Charlie, clearly curious, clearly uncomfortable—tentative about what she’d intruded upon, part of her wondering why Donna had sent her in under the circumstances. Harvey took a step forward, interjecting before Charlie's surprise and very clear embarrassment had any chance to shift toward something less savory.

"Sydney, this is our legal assistant, Charlotte. She'll be around whenever she's not in class. If you need anything researched, copied, or—" Harvey stopped himself, surprised when Charlie stood up and pushed around him to cross the room, holding out a hand.

"It’s Charlie. Thank you for um...for filling in for me today with the Dietrich case.” Charlie dropped her hand and stepped to the table. She pulled the files Harvey had left her into her arms, a different person than the kid slouched in his office chair a few seconds prior. “Ok well, I'm going to work on the follow up. Is Mike back from his—?"

"Mike has other work.” Harvey shook his head, maybe Charlie wasn’t an entirely different person. She still wanted to seek out Mike to complain about him. “I want the two of you working on this. Sydney can bring you up to speed."

Harvey turned to move back to his desk, to move on to the next thing.

“That's alright.” Charlie hiked the file up in her arms, holding it tight against her chest. "Dietrich’s my responsibility. I've got it under control."

Harvey kept his face neutral though an eye roll and a frustrated sigh both felt appropriate enough. Charlie scowled as he pulled the folders from her grasp.

“Actually, you don’t,” he said.

"I do," Charlie insisted, reaching out for the files once more as Harvey held them out of her reach. "I know everything about—"

Harvey caught her wrist and gently moved her hand from the file, his tone suddenly sharp when he spoke. "You knew everything. And maybe if you'd been in the meeting today, that would still be the case, but you weren’t there, so Sydney is taking lead on the follow up so I can be sure it’s handled."

Charlie felt a familiar heat grow in the tips of her ears and her cheeks. Harvey dropped her hand before turning to Sydney and handing over the files.

"Have Donna set you up in a conference room. Charlotte will be with you in a few minutes."

Sydney nodded and the Specters both waited until they were alone, the door firmly closed in the new associate’s wake. They didn’t usually fight at the office. Harvey didn’t snap at her. Charlie didn’t fight his directives too much. They tried to keep things professional. They had a few quips in the presence of certain company, the people who knew them well enough—Donna or Mike or Rachel, but the associate was relatively a stranger.

"I don't need her help with this."

Harvey turned to his sister once Donna led the woman away. "I say you do. And you're either working with her on this or you're off the case. I don't care which it is."

"Fine, just give her my work, then.” Charlie tossed her hands in the air. What did she care? She wanted nothing to do with passing the rest of the afternoon in the company of someone whose introduction had been tainted by Harvey’s chastisement. “And if you don't want me here, Harvey, you can just tell me. You don't have to bring in some associate and—"

"Hold on,” he interrupted. “So because you were late and someone else had to do your job, that means I don't want you here?" 

Harvey didn't need his sister working at the firm. That much was true. There were plenty of people eager to do the work, plenty of people eager to work for him, but Harvey liked having his sister there. And he liked that Charlie liked working with him even if it hadn't been so easy lately. 

"You want to try that again?"

Charlie shrugged.

"And don't try and act like this has anything to do with her," Harvey continued. He knew it was a convenient excuse. He also knew this had nothing to do with the new associate, not really. "What is going on with you?"

Charlie gave another shrug, something in her quickly retreating from the fight as it shifted.

"I need more than a shrug, Charlie," he said, the edge of his voice gone. "Is that what you want? You want me to let you go?”

The question made Charlie feel sick, the shift of Harvey’s tone, the concern—all of it. Tears welled in her eyes once again but she took a deep breath to hold it in, turning from him to collect herself.

Now wasn't the time. Harvey's office wasn't the place. And more importantly, Charlie didn’t know the answer to the question Harvey was asking—or maybe she did, but she wasn’t nearly ready to know it. 

"No…” she finally said, swallowing the hard lump in her throat. “I'm fine, Harvey. Just got a lot going on."

"C’mon, Charlie. You don't think I can see right through that?" Harvey caught her arm and gave a gentle tug. "Tell me the truth. How are you?"

Nothing but silence came from her in response. 

“You were listening to—”

“I’m very clearly doing quite well at the moment,” she snapped, pushing Harvey’s hand away, “or I would be if my brother would quit being such a goddamn asshole.”

The words tasted wrong as she spit them out, but Charlie had to stop him. She knew he wasn’t trying to be an asshole, but she didn’t want to hear him say that he knew she wasn’t alright. She didn’t want to hear him say that he’d noticed she was listening to their father’s music. She didn’t want to be so thoroughly seen and understood because if Harvey could see that, reading her so easily, he probably knew the rest, too. He probably knew she wasn’t good enough for this. He knew Charlie was fooling herself and she didn’t think she could bear to hear him say it.

Harvey pulled his hand back and Charlie felt secure in the distraction, confident that she’d successfully moved their conversation.

"You mean to tell me that’s what all this is about?" Harvey asked, concern still evident in his face despite the sarcasm. "Because that's nothing new, Charlie. I've always been an asshole. You know that, and I know that, so what's really going on here?"

Charlie didn't answer him though it felt as though a thousand answers were materializing in her mind. She needed clarity and sleep and more time, a lighter schedule, room to breathe, a bagel. She needed a hug. She needed her brother to let her go, to let this go, at least for now. She needed him to let her go apologize to Sydney and focus her mind on the Dietrich case for the afternoon. She needed Harvey to let it slide when she inevitably sought out Mike later in the afternoon despite him having other work.

Harvey watched her. Whatever it was his sister needed, he knew that she'd have a hard time asking for it. Charlie asked for help just about as well as he did.

"If you need..."

A couple of days off. That was Harvey’s intended offer. Part of Charlie wanted to hug him for it, the idea of a temporary reprieve almost easing the weight she felt pushing in on her from all sides, but she'd already let her brother down enough for one day and Charlie didn't trust herself to get through that conversation without breaking apart. She shook her head.

“I—I’m just tired," Charlie answered, her gaze on the wall of windows behind them. She watched a group of associates pass by as Donna settled back at her desk. She wasn’t ready to break. "Sydney’s waiting. Can we just let it go? Please?"

Harvey studied his sister. He could see she was tired. She was exhausted in the very traditional sense of the word, with the puffy dark eyes and the short, shifting temper to support it, but she was something more. Charlie was weary—tired in another way, but begging him to ignore it.

"Alright, fine,” Harvey conceded though he pulled her in for a brief hug in the words’ wake. “We'll talk later,” he said as he let her go. “But give the Sydney a shot. It’s not her fault—"

"Harvey, I know.”

Charlie stepped toward the door intending to reach it before triggering another back and forth with her brother. She promised herself she’d tell him the truth when they were home. She’d find the words to ask him to help her sort it, to say it was maybe all a little too much right now, or maybe it wasn’t a good fit. Something had to give, at least a little. Whatever it was, she’d let him in, let him help her sort out a plan for the future.

"Hey,” Harvey said, the prompt tentative as Charlie grasped the handle.

Charlie’s eyes fell closed as she imagined Harvey’s next set of chastising words. He'd been too understanding, too lenient. There was too much left unsaid. He had agreed to let it go, but Harvey liked the last word just as much as Charlie did. She already heard him in her mind before he continued.

No more subway.

No more being late.

Next time tell me.

Don’t be taking naps on company time.

Get yourself together.

Charlie readied herself to turn back to him, forcing a neutral expression on her face though she couldn’t keep the weariness from her voice. “What, Harvey?”

A smirk tugged at Harvey's lips as he held up the pair of boots Charlie had left discarded beneath his desk. “I think you forgot something, Cinderella.”

Charlie snorted, suddenly conscious of the feel of her socked feet against the carpet. She walked back across the room, pulling the boots from his grasp before offering a deep bow. “Thank you ever so kindly, Drizella,” she offered, noting her brother's disgruntled look as she righted herself. “Well, you certainly aren’t comparable to an ever-charming prince,” Charlie said. “Evil step-mother, possibly, but you're no—”

“You know, I was planning on being nice to you until that, but now you can Bibbidi-bobbidi-beat it right the hell out of my office, princess.”

Charlie smiled, just a brief tug at the corner of her mouth, but something relaxed in Harvey at seeing it. He knew she wasn't alright, had been thinking for weeks that it was all getting to be too much for her even if Charlie hadn’t yet come to the same conclusion. She was irrepressible, master of a rebound, master of the push through since the time she was too small to understand what she was doing. Charlie could pull herself around from a teary tangle of anxious uncertainty and perform. She could do it while barely getting any sleep. While not looking after herself. She was smart and strong and hardworking, all good things. She was resilient, but that didn’t mean she had to be.

Harvey would let her have the afternoon. He'd let her push through. He'd let her tell him on her own terms. He’d let her come to it on her own, but if she didn't do it soon, Harvey had no qualms about acting the evil stepmother. He'd lock the girl in the tower for a few days and change the wifi password…if only to ensure his sister got some goddamn rest.

Suits (Charlie Specter/ Lines to Live By) Masterlist

[hermannsthumb]

I have a fun prompt I've been thinking about I hope you have time for one day! When Newt and Hermann meet actually things go really really well and they even get together. It's just they bicker so much and have huge science-based arguments that everyone assumed they must have hated each other on sight.

sure thing! i had fun with this one

----

"So," Newt says. "I was talking to Tendo today."

Across the mess table, Hermann hums in feigned interest. Newt knows it's feigned 'cause Hermann doesn't stop either thing he's doing: using his left hand to wind noodles around a fork, and using his right hand to scribble away a series of lengthy equations on the back of a paper napkin. His full attention has been hopping between both for about ten minutes now—no room for Newt to slip in there. He's testing his limits enough as it. Half of the last equation ended up scratched into the tabletop, and the last time he lifted his fork to his mouth, it was empty. And then he swallowed anyway. Newt kinda loves the guy.

"Yeah," Newt says, deciding to continue like Hermann responded the way he was actually supposed to respond, which would've been something along the lines of what an utterly fascinating story, Newton, do tell me more. I love hearing you talk, Newton. How marvelously smart you are, Newton, and how melodic and breathtaking your voice is. Now watch me bite down on an empty fork again. "Kinda funny. He was asking how we met."

Hermann finally looks up at Newt suspiciously over the rims of his glasses, which are slipping slowly down his nose. He stills them with the tip of his index finger before they land in his dinner. "Why?"

"I don't know, man," Newt says. "He just was. It was like, small talk, you wouldn't get it. He dropped by the lab when you were out this morning to let me know that there was extra space if we wanted it. Like, lab space." Hermann resumes scratching an equation into the table absently. Newt rolls his eyes. "As in, we could have separate labs if we wanted now."

Hermann knits his eyebrows together. "Separate laboratories?"

When Newt and Hermann first started at the Hong Kong Shatterdome, the k-scientist team was pre-existing and significantly bigger, and anyone who joined on later—like, you know, them—basically got shoved in wherever they fit. For Newt and Hermann, that happened to be Laboratory Space D, Basement Level 1 (the only basement level), along with a former marine biologist who was killed on a research excursion a month later when a kaiju made unexpected landfall, like, right on top of their chosen shelter. Bad luck. Anyway, Newt's known about the existence of other Hong Kong Shatterdome lab spaces in the vague and absent sort of way that you would an urban legend, but (similarly so) he never thought he and Hermann would actually ever lay eyes on one. And then Tendo stopped by to dangle it in front of Newt on a stick.

"The other labs were being used as storage for ages after everyone else—" Newt searches for a word tasteful enough to encapsulate got stomped by a kaiju and wised up and decided to live out what are probably our last few days before the world ends with their families instead of alone in a military bunker. "—left. Anyway, Tendo told me they've been going through shit like crazy this month, I think to see if they can salvage any old tech, and that the other labs are basically totally emptied out now. We just have to ask and they're ours."

Hermann sets down both his pen and fork, twisting his mouth contemplatively. He finally loses the battle against gravity with his glasses, and they miss his plate by an inch, swinging back on their chain and bouncing harmlessly against his chest instead. Newt briefly wonders if getting a chain for his own glasses would save them from their frequent fatal falls into kaiju organ cavities and buckets of non-neutralized kaiju blood, but decides not even the money he'd save on replacement pairs would make a fashion faux pas like that worth it. "You know I don't much fancy the basement," Hermann says.

"Your joints," Newt agrees. The damp of the basement sets Hermann's joint pain off frequently, something Hermann talks about just as frequently. Newt's not really a fan of the basement either, though for different reasons—he would kill to get some windows and natural, non-fluorescent light in there. Sun lamps can only do so much. He's pretty sure he'd fucking glow if he stepped outside right now. Also, it's cold down here.

"And it might be nice to be closer to LOCCENT, in case of an emergency," Hermann continues. "And closer to—oh, hang on. What has this got to do with us?"

"Huh?"

"How we met," Hermann says. "You said, that Tendo asked—"

"Oh," Newt says. It's his turn to play coy. He stirs his chopsticks through his own dinner, accidentally flicking a piece of tofu to the table. It lands on top of Hermann's etched equations. Hermann scowls, because that's how their routine goes: Newt gets Hermann's stuff dirty, and Hermann gets mad. "Well. It was just that Tendo was like you can finally be out of each other's hair, how the hell did you guys get stuck together anyway when you obviously can't stand each other, that kind of stuff."

"Ah," Hermann says.

"And I said that it was because we knew each other before," Newt says, "and that we transferred here together. And that's when he asked."

"And what did you say?" Hermann says.

"That we used to correspond professionally," Newt says, "and met at a conference way back in 2017." He adds, with a grin, "Also professionally."

This was technically true. Newt and Hermann did write to each other, professionally, and they did meet at a conference, professionally, but what went down after a long and public shouting match in the events hall of a very nice hotel—in Hermann's room, five floors up in that very nice hotel—was not very professional. The events of the week that followed—spent, intermittently, between Hermann's hotel room, several coffee shops, a bench under a tree in Newt's favorite park, a rotation sushi restaurant, brushing knees shyly on the tram, and, finally, clasping hands on the staircase of Newt's apartment and gazing deeply into each other's eyes—weren't very professional, either, but Newt likes to think that they were very romantic. Rom-com level shit. Newt revealed none of this to Tendo, who referred to the 2017 conference as that Infamous Day for the rest of their conversation. "Well, it was professional," Hermann sniffs.

But he reaches across the table, and, very timidly, crosses his pinkie over top of Newt's. It's the most blatant form of PDA Hermann ever willingly engages Newt in. Newt thinks if he ever tried to touch two fingers at once in anywhere but the lab, or God forbid, hold his whole hand, Hermann's ears might start emitting steam like something out of a cartoon. "It might be nice," he says again.

Laboratory Space D, Basement Level 1, is unique—Newt knows—in that Newt and Hermann's quarters are connected to it directly. None of the other labs have that luxury (and Newt has a feeling it's because Lab Space D wasn't actually intended as a lab space). He remembers being told that when they were shoved into it. Yeah, you have the darkest and tiniest lab space on base, but your rooms are right there! When Newt wants to go to Hermann's room, or if he's in Hermann's room and needs a sweatshirt or something from his own, he just has to step the three feet between their two doors. Moving labs could throw a wrench in that—they might be asked to move quarters, too, and might be shuttled to opposite sides of the Shatterdome, and though they could just bite the bullet and request couple's quarters already, it's nice to have their own spaces when they need it. That would never work. And, well, besides—the lab, their lab, feels like home to them at this point. Newt shrugs.

"On the other hand," Hermann says, and he taps Newt's pinkie lightly, "I quite like how things are. I can live with the damp, really."

"We can get a dehumidifier," Newt offers.

Hermann nods, and he gives Newt the barest hint of a smile.

Their monthly delivery of lab supplies—whatever they can afford with their shoestring budget, which, these days, mostly means chalk, rubber gloves, and nice instant ramen—comes three weeks later. Newt wouldn't exactly call the Shatterdome delivery guy a friend, seeing as he has yet to divulge his name to Newt (and also Newt's pretty sure he has a thing for Hermann, since he always seems to wait until Hermann is in the lab to stroll by with his package trolley and always calls him Dr. Gottlieb with big stupid heart eyes, oh, Dr. Gottlieb, that new sweater looks soooo nice on you!, so anyway, that makes him Newt's rival by default), but he, at least, recognizes and acknowledges Newt at this point. That's more than Newt can say for most people on the base. After his usual greeting to the two of them (hey, Newt, oh, hellllooo, Dr. Gottlieb, did you do something new with your hair?), he starts to unload their packages, also like usual.

"I was surprised to see that you guys are still down here," he tells Newt, not like usual. "Tendo mentioned something about you getting your own labs."

"He did?" Newt says, meaning to frown, but grinning instead. It's kind of fun to be the subject of gossip. He pulls off his gloves and tosses them in the trash to help with their supplies—the dehumidifier he requested should be in there, and it's fancy and definitely on the bigger side.

"Yeah," their delivery guy continues. He hands Newt a fuckin' massive brick of a package. Hermann's stupid chalk. The amount that Hermann tears through in a month really is astounding: Newt has a private theory that Hermann is an undercover space alien from a planet where chalk constitutes all of the primary food groups, and he secretly sneaks out here and eats it in the dead of night when Newt is asleep. "Anyway, sorry I'm late," the delivery guy says, as Newt imagines Hermann crunching on a piece of chalk like a carrot stick, "I went to all the other labs first."

"No worries, dude," Newt says. "Sorry for the confusion."

He lugs the package over to Hermann's desk, and drops it down on the only spot not over-cluttered with papers and books. Hermann complains about Newt's messiness a lot for a guy who is just as bad, if not worse. "Need any now?" Newt asks Hermann.

Hermann, scribbling away at his chalkboard, grunts. Newt decides that's a no.

"Hard at work, Dr. Gottlieb?" the delivery guy says, practically fluttering his eyelashes.

Another grunt. Newt snorts.

"I thought you guys would've moved right away," the delivery guy (obviously disappointed at Hermann's lack of attention) tells Newt. "Tendo mentioned you've been stuck together for a while, ever since some sort of dramatic confrontation at a conference ten years ago." he adds eagerly, "Did you really get thrown out? I don't know how you haven't killed each other yet."

"It's taken a lot of hard work," Newt says. Yeah, the whole being-ejected-from-the-conference-and-barred-from-all-future-ones-forever thing is technically true too, but everyone there was too stuffy and serious for Newt's fun vibes anyway, so he thinks it's their loss. The most important part of the scientific breakthrough process, Newt frequently thinks, was having someone there to challenge you and push back at you. Sometimes loudly. And in public. In the conference hall of a very expensive hotel, in front of all of your scientific peers, some hotel security guards, and a poor graduate student who made the mistake of asking you and your penpal-colleague for your joint opinion on something and got caught in the crosshairs. Besides—out of everyone at that stupid conference, Newt and Hermann were the only ones snapped up by the PPDC, so it's doubly their loss. "And, yeah, we got thrown out. Me and Hermann fight a lot, but we always make up eventually. It's no big deal. It's, like, our thing."

"Make up?"

Newt waggles his eyebrows and doesn't elaborate. The making up part is the best part of arguing with Hermann, honestly, but he's not about to go giving private details about stuff like that to his rival.

By the time Hermann finally descends his ladder, three hours have passed, and Newt is frowning over an email he's just gotten from Shatterdome HR. Hermann will probably see it in a second when he checks his own email—it was sent to both of them, after all—but Newt waves him over to his desk anyway. "Look," he says.

He draws out the spare chair he keeps by his desk (for Hermann), and Hermann drops into it gratefully, propping his cane up against the arm. Then Hermann pushes his glasses up onto his nose and scans the email with a frown of his own. Newt reads it aloud for him anyway. "'Subject: Quarters Reassignment,'" he says. "Dear Drs. Geiszler and Gottlieb: It has recently come to our attention that you will be transferring to Laboratories A&B. Should you wish to transfer quarters as well, you will find the necessary paperwork..."

"By Jove," Hermann groans, and pulls his glasses off again, smudging a bit of chalk on his cheek, "can't they just leave us alone?"

Newt laughs. "I'll tell them we're not interested. Wait, listen to this bit at the end: Congratulations—this must be a relief! Guess they were getting your complaint forms after all, Hermann." Both Newt and Hermann had long-since assumed that any and all official complaint forms stamped with a k-sci lab return address are filed right into the garbage. It's never deterred Hermann from sending them in, though.

"Hmph," Hermann says.

Newt carefully rolls his shirtcuff back down to his wrist and uses it to rub off Hermann's chalk smudge. When it's gone, or at least, mostly gone, he brushes his fingers back through Hermann's short hair. Hermann's eyelids flutter shut, and as he leans into Newt's touch, his creased forehead smooths just a little. "Mm. You're lovely," he murmurs. "We really ought to tell them we're married. It's gone on long enough."

"I guess," Newt says. "But it's kind of funny, isn't it?"

[jackwolfes]

Jesper startles awake to the sound of a loud curse and a sudden weight on the bed beside him. It’s still dark, very dark, and he never usually wakes up in the dark unless he’s had too much to drink and desperately needs water. He’s stone cold sober, though, and his hands fly out to either side of him in the hopes of catching his bearings faster, or maybe even finding the comforting weight of his fiancé.

That isn’t what he touches.

His hand smacks against something hard and flat, that jostles when he bumps it. He’s confused, mostly wondering when Wylan became a wooden crate, before he hears it. So quietly, so faintly, so definitely from the thing next to him.

He hears -

“Mrow?”

He blinks.

It’s easy to shoot upright to sit like he didn’t just wake up; he was never difficult to get up in the morning. He does, then, and that’s fine, but whatever is next to him makes his eyebrows furrow because -

It’s a box of cats.

The lantern they keep at the side of their bed switches on. There, standing on the other side of this box of cats - they’re all fluffy little things - is his fiancé. He’s still in the thick sweater he wears around the house on the coldest of winter days, and his pyjama pants with his fuzzy knitted socks, and that explains absolutely fucking nothing about the box of cats he’s placed into the bed beside Jesper.

Jesper stares. Wylan stares back. One of the cats makes another soft noise.

“Okay,” Wylan says, finally. “I can explain.”

Jesper raises an eyebrow. He hears something rustle and looks down to see a cat, grey and squirmy and rascally. It’s begun to escape up the sides of wooden slats, seeming more acrobatic than Jesper knew cats could be. He nudges at its tiny paws until it collapses back into the box. It seems fine.

“Wylan, what the fuck?”

Wylan groans, and drops to sit down on the bed next to the box of cats. It tips only barely, and Jesper sees some of the cats slide towards Wylan. He puts a hand on the box to keep it steady because the cats are fine, he supposes, but not when they’re loose in his bedroom. The little grey one is already trying to work it’s way back out of the box. He wonders if he should name it after Inej.

Assuming they keep it.

“I wanted tea,” Wylan starts, “But everyone had left for the night, so when I went downstairs-“

“It’s one in the morning,” Jesper groans.

“I wanted tea!”

“Where the fuck do the cats come in?”

“I’m getting there,” he whines. He sounds so petulant. His hand is still resting on the crate, and Jesper tries to focus on that. He is so confused. “So I was making tea, but then I heard a noise and when I opened the kitchen door-“

“There were cats.”

“There were cats!” he says. Jesper nods.

“And why are the cats here?”

Wylan rolls his eyes. He is honest to Ghezen pouting.

“It is winter,” he says, once again overly petulant. Jesper blinks, waiting for him to go on. Wylan gestures to the cats like that explains everything. “They’re babies! I couldn’t leave them.”

“They’re troopers,” Jesper says. “They can get through more than a cold night, love-“

“Jesper,” he whines, again, dragging out the last curling syllable at the end of his name. Jesper sighs. He can’t say no to Wylan when he whines but Saints.

“You want to keep the cats.”

“Of course I want to keep the cats!”

The problem is that Jesper cannot for the life of him find a reason to say no.

Their house is more than big enough - if anything they’re more at risk of losing the cats inside it, with how many rooms they have. They have the money to get them each prime cuts of meat, or whatever else it is cats need, probably including a dedicated member of staff tasked only with catering to their fluffy little desires.

He doesn’t even dislike cats. He’s decidedly neutral to anything fluffy with four legs. What he is not neutral towards is the man he asked to marry, who he loves, who he adores, who he intends to stand up with in front of all of Ketterdam and promise to do everything in his power to make his life better. To make him happy. He hasn’t made that promise yet, but all Saints. He still feels that ache to give him everything, burning desperately in his bones.

He glances in the crate. Half the cats are looking up at him like they think he can do a damn thing, half look like they’ve never had a thought in their short little lives. They also look, as far as Jesper could see, like the leftovers. It feels horrible to say, but none of them look like siblings, and none of them look to be fighting fit. The tiny calico with orange and black patches all along her back is far too skinny. The black and white one looks almost too round, but might be missing teeth. Even the squirmy little grey one with too much fur that seems dead set on wriggling out onto his lap doesn’t look like prime show cat material, and that’s only the three at the top of the pile. There are a handful more, indistinguishable with all the fur and fluff.

“Wy, they’re a mess,” he says.

“I know,” Wylan sighs. He’s frowning. He taps his fingers against the edge of the crate, eyes fixated on the mess of fluffy limbs. He looks at them with so much fondness in his eyes, but he still has that look Jesper has seen before. It’s like he’s steeling himself for disappointment.

Jesper feels a little part of him melt.

The grey one finally succeeds in scrambling out of the crate, flopping down onto the blanket beside Jesper’s thigh.

“This one is a little bastard,” he says, pointing to it. When he does, it tries to bite him, and he yanks his hand back, tutting at it. He scratches its forehead until it settles and presses its face against his hand.

“I know,” Wylan says, again. He’s smiling a little bit, finally.

Jesper sighs.

For the love of every Saint, he thinks.

“I suppose we have the space,” he says, which is an understatement. “Saints know we have the money to feed them.”

There’s a grin spreading slowly, cautiously, carefully over Wylan’s face. Hopeful, very hopeful.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” Jesper replies. The grey one has settled, pressing its furry little body against his leg. Saints, he already feels his heart swelling looking at it.

“So does that mean…”

Jesper sighs one last time, but knows there’s a smile starting to cross his face. Ghezen, he’s a pushover.

“Call it a wedding present.”

Wylan’s grin grows so wide it hurts to look at, and he makes a delighted, excitable noise. He’s leaning in and reaching to hold Jesper’s jaw and kiss him before he even realises what’s happening, gasping out too many I love you I love you I love yous as he goes to hug him except -

“Wylan, wait-“

Jesper Fahey was not expecting a lapful of cats at one in the morning when he fell asleep, but that’s what he gets. Wylan makes a noise, pulling back but not letting go and oh, Saints, now the kittens are loose. One shoots for the foot of the bed, and another flops onto its back, disoriented by the press of Wylan’s knees making the mattress dip.

“Oh, no,” Wylan murmurs. Jesper laughs, hand caught on Wylan’s wrist, for as long as it takes for him to realise the cats are getting out of control. Then he tugs his arm back, already starting to attempt to corral the cats back into their crate. He looks like he’s struggling, half flustered already, and Jesper can’t help but laugh.

He looks at Wylan - wrangling kittens in his fluffiest pyjamas in the very depth of night, on a night when he should be sleeping - and smiles. He adores him. He’s going to marry him.

He genuinely doesn’t know if he can wait.

[radiantmists]

ok i love all the increasing-hair-length headcanons for jon but imagine if he had somewhat long hair by the end of s3 and upon waking up from the coma finds that the hospital shaved it bc it was all burned in the explosion, and it didn’t grow back the whole time bc he was dead

in the first couple days basira sometimes catches him tilting his head with an odd look on his face and she thinks it’s some sort of beholding thing but when she finally asks he’s just like ‘my head feels so light without hair’

melanie regularly snaps at him for scratching at it while the stubble is growing out. she keeps scolding him after the bullet comes out, but it starts to gain a trace of fondness.

when daisy comes out of the coffin (a month after jon wakes up), her hair’s gotten ridiculously long and she can’t stand the weight of it or the feeling of it brushing against her skin, and she doesn’t want a pixie or something hard to maintain, so she gets a razor and buzzes it. jon sees it and stutters for a full minute trying to decide whether she’s more likely to kill him if he compliments it or if he doesn’t. then he’s completely derailed when she smiles and says ‘we match’

jon hasn’t been eating well, but daisy’s on a strict schedule to get her strength back and drags him into following it too, so his hair actually starts growing a bit better

on the trip up to ny-alesund, jon’s ears get cold way earlier than he’s used to, and they nearly miss the boat while he’s digging through his bag for his hat

the cap is hand-knit from soft maroon wool. jon had found it in a box with his cold-weather clothes and not remembered where he’d gotten it until he’d run a finger over the neat saxon braid and Known that Martin had tripled the cost limit of the office secret santa to buy the wool, justifying it by the fact that he wouldn’t use all the wool for the hat.

The rest of the wool, jon Knows, sits in Martin’s empty flat in the form of a woman’s sweater, never worn. 

jon keeps wearing the hat around the office afterward. when asked, he mutters something about drafts and basements. daisy finally makes him stop in july when a heat wave hits. 

after hilltop road, he thinks about asking daisy if they can match again. the tickle of hair on the back of his neck feels far too much like cobwebs and crawling legs. 

but: “i miss braiding,” daisy says one day, just before jon reads a statement. 

“my hair’s not long enough,” jon points out, which is not a no.

when he comes out of the statement-fugue, there are dozens of inch-long braids weighing against his skull. 

he leaves them in, and an old lady in the cafe across from the institute smiles at him when she sees them. to his eyes, there is fog curling around her ankles. he calls up the memory of callused fingers sliding through his hair while he reads, and tugs one short braid every time his feet want to get up and approach her.

his hair is the right length to easily hold shape by the time he finds out how to quit the institute. he runs his hand through it so much that when he bursts into martin’s office, it’s sticking up in about ten different directions. when he reacts to the comment on his appearance by talking about his eating habits, martin doesn’t correct him-- it’s not entirely wrong, after all.

jon pulls the cap back out as soon as september arrives, even though his hair mostly covers his ears now. he wears it into the lonely.

he keeps having to brush his bangs out of his eyes on the drive up to the safehouse. martin buys him a 50 pence pack of multicolored hairclips at a convenience store an hour outside of london, half expecting jon to turn up his nose. 

he’s not quite prepared for the fond smile Jon gives him, or for him to open the package and hand the brightest two clips back, tilting his head shyly in invitation

the first time martin sees a highland cow, he gasps so loudly and abruptly that jon pulls over to ask him if he’s alright. instead they get out to meet the cow, a wonderful shaggy thing with fur dripping into its eyes that tries to eat martin’s sleeve when he reaches out to pet it

‘maybe we should lend him a hairclip,’ jon jokes hesitantly. it’s not especially funny but martin gives him a chuckle, quiet but fond, and jon starts to believe that things might just be alright after all.