#this was based off the sugar cookies my family makes every year | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

syd-djarin · 1 year

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Sugar, Spice & Please Fuck Me Nice (neighbor!joel AU)

chapter one: the new neighbors

*18+ Minors DNI*

Word count: ~2000+

Warnings: FLUFF, nervous reader, a hint of masturbation (f & m), neighbor!joel needs a warning, eventual smut

reader has hair that she fidgets with, "grows warm" /"cheeks burning" but not necessarily blushing, with embarrassment - minor edits to make this more inclusive for my readers <3

Author/s Notes: this is my first fic, so ofc I had to write Joel, and I have a weakness for neighbor!Joel.

this will be a series and I'm so excited to share this :) this is super self-indulgent, making reader based off myself so shameless self-insert kinda? lol

a huge thank you & ily to my babe @katiexpunk for helping me make edits/bouncing ideas and encouraging me to dive into writing <3

Tags: no outbreak AU, neighbor!joel, reader is sweetie pie, age gap (reader is mid-late 20's, joel is late 30's-early 40's in this), dilf!joel, gratuitous descriptions of joel being strong & sexy, f & m masturbation, eventual smut, fluff

AUSTIN, TX OCT 2005

You’ve lived in this neighborhood for the majority of your life, with the exception of your time in college.

Now that you’ve finished your undergrad, your parents, now retired and living in Maine, have graciously offered for you to stay in your childhood home. It wouldn’t be forever, you think, just until something comes through for you to use your degree on.

The neighborhood hasn’t changed that much through the years; some of the houses got renovations or additions, although many of the homes were the same that they have always been. Many of the people living in the cul-de-sac had known you since you were just a baby, and like to remind you of that more often than you’d like.

Occasionally a home would go up for sale, and it just so happened that the house directly across the street from yours was one of them – a classic blue Ranch style home, well maintained, albeit a bit outdated, but full of potential. The previous owners lived there for nearly four decades, and the entire neighborhood is antsy to solve the mystery of who’ll move in next.

You had assumed that the next tenants would be another nuclear family type – the stereotypical, American family - husband, wife, two kids, the works. Much to your surprise, a single father and his daughter were the succeeding residents of the house. A ruggedly handsome single father, at that.

+++

Move in day came for your new neighbors and just like everyone else who resided here, you couldn’t help but to be nosy, curiosity getting the best of you.

You discreetly parted your living room blinds, your curiosity at its peak, as your new neighbors began unloading the hefty boxes from their U-Haul and settling into their new abode. You even went to check the mail to get a closer peek, despite having already checked it earlier in the day when it arrived.

You couldn’t help but ogle at the broad-shouldered man lifting boxes as if they weigh nothing. His dark gray t-shirt clings to his biceps for dear life and you feel your pussy involuntarily throb every time he lifts up the bottom of it, bringing it to his forehead to wipe the sweat collecting there, each time revealing his soft tummy and the dark hair that trailed down from his belly button.

You imagine yourself holding onto those brawny arms, while he pounds-

Oh my god, get a grip, you internally chastise yourself. It’s been too long since you’ve gotten laid, defending yourself for conjuring up dirty fantasies of a man whose name you didn’t even know.

You decided you’d go introduce yourself once it appeared that they’d finished unloading the moving truck, not wanting to disrupt or cause an intrusion.

Baking being one of your love languages, you decide to make your new neighbors your grandma's famous cookies – snickerdoodles and chocolate chip. The recipes don’t call for much, but your grandma swears it’s the love that goes into them that makes them as good as they are. She had taught you to bake at a young age; ensuring you knew the fundamentals, techniques, and the importance of quality ingredients. She also taught you that the best gift you could give is a dessert, one that requires your time and attention.

Besides wanting to be a welcoming neighbor, baking provides you with a necessary distraction to your nefarious thoughts about the new neighborhood DILF. Were these cookies for him, sure, but it proved to be quite a successful deterrent from your naughty thoughts, allowing you the space to fully engross yourself in the task of making the dough, folding in the chocolate chips, rolling the batches into little balls, and spacing them out evenly on the tray before popping them in the oven.

After a couple of hours, the cookies now cool, and the warm autumn sun begins to set. Your home smells of warm sugar, a nostalgia that brings a smile to your face. You peek out the window and notice the moving truck is now gone, and figure now was as good a time as any to introduce yourself.

You neatly package the goodies into their designated container, draw on your oversized flannel and shoes, and begin your brief trek across the street. As you begin walking down your porch steps you’re hit with a wave of nervousness, your stomach does backflips and your heart beats faster. Get it together. You take several deep breaths and hold onto the cookie container a little tighter before continuing on your mission. Why are you such a nervous wreck? I mean, it’s just some guy, you (unsuccessfully) try to reason with yourself.

Reaching the front door, you knock– tap, tap, tap. A brief moment passes, and the door opens, leaving only the space of the doorframe between you and a young girl with wide, curious eyes and beautiful curly brown hair staring back at you.

“Hi there, I’m your neighbor across the street,” you say, gesturing towards your own home, “I wanted to introduce myself – I brought you some cookies, just a little something to say welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Cookies! Ah sweet, I love cookies - what kind?” she asks, not at all trying to hide her fairly obvious interest for them and less in you.

“There’s chocolate chip and a few snickerdoodles,” you reply, giving her an amused smile.

Her father, the devastatingly handsome one, makes his way up behind her and stands in the doorframe, halfway inside and halfway onto the porch where you stand. He was a sight to behold up close: dark hair that had a loose curls and a beard, both lightly dusted with some grays, chocolate brown eyes you could drown in, a mustache that perched atop plush lips.

He’s muscled in the shoulders and arms, which act as a nice compliment to his soft torso. He had the kind of physique that came from hard labor, which only fuels your attraction to him more.

If this were a cartoon, you were sure your eyes would be bulging out of their sockets in the shape of hearts.

“Oh, uh–hi,” you say, perhaps an octave too loud. “I was telling your daughter here that I brought over some cookies, you know, as a welcome gift,” you pause, realizing you hadn’t even introduced yourself. “I’m your neighbor, I live just across the way,” you say, nodding to your house. You turn back to face him and fidget with your hair. Through a nervy smile, you manage to give him your name.

“I’m Joel, this here’s Sarah,” he says, voice gruff and smooth at the same time. He holds out his hand to shake yours. You hope he wouldn’t notice how sweaty your hand is; maybe it’s the nerves, or the still-sticky Texan air, despite it being October. Probably both.

His palm is warm; worn and calloused in some places, but firm and inviting. You couldn’t help but gawk at how small he made your hand feel in his. He releases your grip; bringing you out of your brief trance, and your eyes once again meet.

“Welcome to the neighborhood, Joel and Sarah,” you smile and hold out the container of cookies for Joel to take. Before he can even reach up to grab them, Sarah already has her hands on them and has run back into the house, murmuring something that sounds like thanks as she does.

He had just met you, but Joel couldn’t deny how much he likes hearing you saying his name in your gentle, nectarous voice.

Your hands now empty, you nervously interlace your fingers and twirl your thumbs, unsure of what to say next. Joel’s eyes take note of the smudge of flour on your cheek – cute. He also notices the flour in the cleft of your cleavage, but he tries not to make that fact obvious. The flour between your breasts stares back at him, but he collects his composure, averting his gaze back to you. He should point it out to you, he thinks, but you seem shy and he doesn’t want to embarrass you, or scare you away from wanting to come over again.

“‘Preciate the cookies, sweetheart,” he says, voice low. His eyes stay glued to your face. You avert your eyes downwards and cross your arms, buckling under the weight of his gaze. You felt your cheeks and chest grow hot at his use of sweetheart.

“I’m just – uh,” you trip over your words, nervous, “I’m just across the street if you need me,” you offer, giggling at the suggestive way that sounds, “you know, like a cup of sugar or anything like that,” you add.

Joel nods in reply, edges of his mouth coming up in a smirk as if to acknowledge your kindness, being careful not to full on grin in amusement of his apparent effect on you.

“Same to you,” he says before closing the door, perhaps eyeing you a moment too long as you walk away. He turns to enter the house, only to find Sarah staring at him, cookie in hand, and a knowing grin on her face.

“Why didn’t you tell her she had flour all over herself?” she asks, teasing, like she could already tell he was embarrassed to admit the truth.

“Did she? Hmm, didn’t seem to notice,” he says, trying to hide the lie behind a weak cough, before walking away, cheeks obviously flushed.

Back in the safety of your own home, you come to a still with your hand pressing on the door, reeling from your interaction with Joel. You were wired up, buzzing with arousal and nerves.

And God, the way he called you sweetheart.

You replay the moment over and over in your head, not wanting to forget his Texan twang or the way he looked at you when he said it. You could have died, right then and there. You let your mind run wild, thinking of all the things you wanted to do with him, what you wanted to do to him.

Needing to relieve the throbbing ache in between your legs, you decide a shower is in order. When stepping into your bathroom, you catch yourself in the mirror. You were mortified at the discovery of the flour on your face and chest. You had been so engrossed with baking the cookies and too anxious about taking them over to Joel’s that you failed to give yourself a once-over in the mirror before heading out the door. The arousal you felt temporarily held precedent, you’d process your embarrassment later.

You step into the steamy shower and touch yourself, thinking of Joel. You shove two fingers inside your pussy, imagining they were Joel’s long, thick, dexterous fingers.

Little did you know Joel was having his own feelings about your little introduction.

Several of his new neighbors come to introduce themselves in the coming days, under the guise of welcoming him and his daughter, but in reality, they wanted to get scoop on who they were. Where had they moved from, what prompted the move, we’re they planning on staying short-term, what did he do for a living, was there a Mrs. Joel Miller? And once they found out he was a contractor, there were a whole other set of questions of “would you mind taking a look at my ____”.

He liked the neighborhood, and while the people were nice and seemingly mean well, Joel begins to feel irritation at the consistently prying questions, annoyed that people felt like they were entitled answers to begin with.

But you.

He was not expecting you.

Beautiful, endearing, kind eyes, a smile he thought could end wars. You had been sweet and respectful, and didn't appear to have ulterior motives. It made his heart palpitate and sent blood rushing somewhere he knew it shouldn’t. You were young, too young and sweet, too sweet for a man like him.

Then he saw how you stared at his hands, grew warm and shy when his gaze had lingered too long on you.

That night, with Sarah tucked into bed, he grabs one of the snickerdoodle cookies, Sarah insisting that he save all of the chocolate chip ones for her, but he doesn’t mind; snickerdoodles are his favorite.

He bites into the soft cookie, his eyes fluttering shut as he does, an involuntary reaction to the sweet, perfectly soft texture. He lets out a moan, the kind that is elicited when tasting something delicious.

And the fact that you made them? The thought sends blood straight to his dick.

Joel, in inner turmoil, was trying to resist the temptation to touch himself to the thought of you. God, if your cookies were this good, so sweet and fluffy, how good would you taste.

The thought consumes him, the temptation too strong.

He polishes off more than three of the cookies, before heading to shower. That night he takes his cock in his fist to the thought of you, and your stupidly delicious fucking cookies.

Joel was a gentleman, sure, but he was also a man.

And the best way to get to a man’s heart?

Through his stomach.

THE END

#joel x f!reader #joel miller #neighbor!joel x f!reader #first fanfic #joel fic #joel x reader #joel miller is babygirl #joel fanfic #reader insert #fluff #smut

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nostalgicamerica · 7 months

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My Weight-Loss Journey

Over the last three decades, despite a relatively active lifestyle, my weight has steadily increased a pound or two per year. I could see it was becoming a problem every morning in my foggy bathroom mirror.

I finally realized that I had to do something about it last fall when I walked out onto my porch one morning. The neighbor's kitten came over to say good morning and got caught up in my gravitational field and went into orbit around my waistline.

It was then I started looking into different diets. Keto, Caveman, high fat, low carb, lima bean, Atkins. Holy crap! The number of different diet choices were staggering. Greater still were the numbers of dieticians and nutritionists shrieking that this diet is best and only a booger-eater would choose that diet.

After a bit of cogitation, I started researching the Carnivore diet.

It sounded right up my alley: eating nothing but meat, cheese, eggs, and dairy products, and drinking water. And I could eat bacon. Basically, I could eat anything that is animal-based.

The bacon thing sold it for me.

The week before Thanksgiving 2023 I started my new diet plan. You might think that dieting during the holidays wasn't a grand idea, and you'd be right. Eating nothing but meat while watching my family chowing down on traditional holiday meals (turkey and all the fixings for Thanksgiving, and ham and all the fixings for Christmas) and stuffing their faces with cookies and candy and pie and everything else associated with the holidays was as much fun as stuffing a cactus up my rectum.

But I stuck to it.

To this point in my life I had never been disciplined about anything related to food, but somewhere along the way I found the strength to keep anything not indicated by the diet out of my pie hole. (except coffee - I'll be cold, dead, and buried before I stop drinking coffee.)

And the weight came off. 3,4,5 pounds a week. It seemed to literally melting off me. My initial goal was 50 pounds by the end of February and then I'd transition to something more sustainable.

It wasn't easy, at times, especially during the first 2 or 3 weeks. I bought some bite-size sugar free candy to take the edge off for the times when I was jonesing for sugar. And I ate a ton of bacon.

By Christmas Eve I had lost 20.5 pounds. By January's close I had dropped 34 pounds. On January 8th, 2024 I got out of the shower and looked down and saw my penis without a mirror for the first time since about 2003. Also, I could see a six-pack peeking from behind what remains of my belly fat. As of this writing I'm down 39 Pounds. I have a few more days to go, but I don't think I will hit 50. But that's okay.

On March 1st I will start introducing fruits and veggies and whole grains to my diet. I intend to stay away from cane sugar and continue drinking only water.

There have been some negatives along the way. 1. I now abhor the sight of steak. 2. My dog won't stop licking my legs. 3. I have had to go out and buy essentially a new wardrobe.

What I've learned - coupled with portion control - is that 90% of weight loss happens in the kitchen, and the plain fact that bacon makes everything better.

Even though I didn't meet my first goal of 50, I intend to keep going until I've met my ultimate goal of 60. I know I can do it by the end of this year.

I don't know if this will work for everyone; I only relate what I did and what happened. Overall I feel great, I am sleeping great, and my spousal unit says I look better than I have since the beginning of the Clinton administration, although she wants to buy a new car so she may be playing me...

There is enough info about the carnivore diet on the interweb-thingee so I won't add anything else except to say if I can do it, anyone can.

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thetragicallynerdy · 2 years

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favorite dessert?

ideal vacation?

a meaningful memory?

Favourite dessert

This dessert my mother makes that our family calls Mississippi Mud Pie. Its actual name is Sex In A Pan, a fact that I didn't learn until I was like 24. (My mother changed the name both because we were Extremely Christian and because it was inappropriate for children lol). Its a pecan graham cracker crumb base, cream cheese sugar based layer, chocolate pudding layer, and whipped topping. Its amazing. Absolutely stunning. Its my birthday dessert every year.

Honorable mentions include butter tarts, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and any sort of cookies. Basically I just like dessert a lot??

Ideal vacation

A quiet cottage on a lake where I can swim and jump off the dock (or go on the beach, although I prefer docks) and maybe canoe a little! Just like a week to sit on the dock and drink tea and read a book or paint. Maybe see some loons or ducks and watch the sunset every night. Someplace peaceful, quiet, and nestled in nature, basically. Camping also often falls into this, but like backwoods camping especially, it's just not the most accessible for me these days. (And bonus of a cottage is that I am old and a real bed means less back aches XD)

A meaningful memory

Saying goodbye to the home I lived in my last year two years of university - taking photos with my best friend/roommate in my empty room, and then with them and our other roommate on our porch, and finding ways to say goodbye and celebrate leaving and graduating and finding new ways in the world. I remember the distinct combined feel of loss and excitement very well. There's always something meaningful to me about saying goodbye to specific times and places in your life that you'll never really be able to recreate again. A nostalgia for that person and that place and that time, even if you still know and love them years later.

Thanks so much for the ask, friend!!

Anonymously message me (3) things you want to know about me and I'll do my best to answer! (Or off anon, either is fine XD)

#ask game #rambling #about me

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daydreamsandcaffeine · 3 years

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Sugar and Spice Surprise

Author: @daydreamsandcaffeine

Card number and prompt: Card 3 - Baking Cookies

Title: Sugar and Spice Surprise

Rating: G

Summary: Of sweet traditions, grandmothers, and love - Poppy and Graham Mellark are eager to surprise their mama. Pure and utter fluff, modern AU.

Word count: 1,403

Author’s note: At the start of 2021, I never would've predicted that I'd write and share stories, and now here I am wrapping up a bingo card for @talesofpanem Everlark Holiday Bingo 2021. Kudos to @jhsgf82 for being an amazing friend and beta-ing, couldn't have done this whole writing thing without ya! To the readers, I hope 2022 is good to you.

“Papa, when can we put the cookie dough into the molds?” An eager blue-eyed, dark curly-haired 6-year-old Poppy Mellark asks whilst peeking up over the kitchen counter. Her 4-year-old chubby, blond, grey-eyed brother Graham stands next to her, his eyes shining with equal eagerness.

“Soon, my little bakers,” says her papa, who is prepping the materials on said counter. He holds up his right pointer finger over his lips. “But remember, we have to stay quiet if you want to surprise your mama with them when she wakes up.”

The sister and brother bob their heads up and down in response. Their eyes twinkle in merriment, struggling to contain their excitement to surprise their mama with Christmas cookies and decadent hot chocolate for breakfast.

—

The children loved the story about how their parents’ relationship began over a tin of spiced cookies. When their mama was 14, their Grandpa Everdeen had been in a car accident while driving home from work; another car ran a red light and hit the driver’s side. Due to the injuries, he spent the holidays that year in the hospital recovering, so the Everdeens were there everyday that holiday period.

Peeta wanted to do something, anything really, that could bring a semblance of festive cheer to his classmate and long-time crush, Katniss. Whenever he felt a little blue during that time of year, his Oma would bake a batch of her family’s famous speculaas cookies, and afterwards, they’d then munch on them together. Every single time, he felt full of joy-his blue mood forgotten, replaced with memories of delectable spices of clove, cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, cloves, and ginger and his Oma’s love. So, he thought he could do the same for Katniss; if it successfully made him feel better, then maybe it would do the same for her. Plus, this would by far outdo the hospital’s holiday offerings, in his opinion, anyways.

On the last day of school before winter break, Peeta spotted Katniss clearing out her locker. He knew this was his chance, so after a brief pep talk to himself, he marched to her locker and handed her the tin of his Oma’s cookies. “I’m sorry about what happened to your dad, Katniss. I know it must be hard right now with him at the hospital instead of at home, but I hope these can help a little bit. I made my Oma’s special cookies that always make me feel better when I’m down.”

“Oh, um, thank you” was all Katniss could say. She herself was flustered by Peeta’s unexpected but kind gesture; otherwise, she would have tried to refuse, not used to receiving something without having anything to give in return. Not knowing what else to do or say, Katniss hurriedly rushed off to get Prim and then make their way to see their father. Peeta watched her go, and while he wished there could have been more to the exchange, he just hoped his Oma’s cookies would do their trick.

He was working his bakery shift a week later when he saw Katniss through the window. She seemed to be internally debating herself, based on her pacing back and forth and the serious look on her face. He saw her take a deep breath before she made her way to the door, opened it, and stepped into the bakery. She looked to the counter and made eye contact with Peeta. After a visible inhale and exhale, she walked towards him.

“Hey, Katniss. Welcome to Mellarks’,” he warmly greeted her with a smile, hoping to ease some of her nerves.

“Thank you for the cookies. Prim loved them; they made her happy. My parents also enjoyed them; my dad said it’s better than what the hospital passes for dessert,” she blurted.

“What about you?”

She quietly and shyly answered, “I really liked them, too. It helped us forget that we were in the hospital for a little bit.”

Peeta couldn’t help but beam upon hearing that. It was everything he’d hoped it would do and more. “It’s Oma’s holiday magic.”

Katniss nodded and then held out a canister to him. “Um, this is for you.”

He quirked an eyebrow in question as he took the canister from her.

“It’s Grandma Everdeen’s special hot chocolate,” she clarified. “To return the favor.”

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and shrugged. “It was nothing, Katniss. I wanted to do something that could bring a little bit of holiday joy to you and your family.”

A whisper of a soft smile graced her lips. “Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Peeta.”

An act of thoughtfulness and a returned gesture lit the match, coaxing a pleasant fire between the two. Through kindle and tending, a friendship was forged that blossomed into the relationship they have now. Thus, each holiday season, Oma Mellark’s perfectly spiced speculaas and Grandma Everdeen’s rich hot chocolate made a special appearance.

—

This year, Poppy and Graham were giddy to participate in the yearly tradition, so they (Poppy talked for the both of them) asked their papa if they could help make the cookies and the hot chocolate and surprise their mama in bed (Mama had recently been feeling a lot more worn down).

“It’s time to put the cookies in the mold, my little bakers,” Peeta announces.

The children squeal with delight in return. After putting on matching red and green aprons that say “Santa’s Elf” on them, they step onto the foot stools Peeta has set up for them by the counter. With Peeta’s guidance, Poppy and Graham put speculaas dough into the cookie molds, and when ready, Peeta pops each cookie out of its mold. “Ooos” and “aahs” are bountiful during the process; Poppy and Graham point out various details they can see imprinted on the cookies.

After all the dough is used, Peeta places the molded cookies into the oven. He and the children make the hot chocolate while they wait for the speculaas to finish baking. Poppy, being the grown up 6-year-old she is, wants to be in charge of presentation; she picks out the plate and mug to place on the tray and uses some remaining holly and ivy decor to round out the tray. Once the oven timer dings , Peeta takes the cookies out and lets them cool for a few minutes before he carefully transfers the ones Poppy and Graham selected to the plate.

Once all is ready, Poppy and Graham lead the way up the stairs and down the hall to their parents’ bedroom as Peeta carries the tray. Peeta quietly opens the bedroom door, and in unison, the children run inside, jump onto the bed, and yell, “Surprise, Mama, surprise!”

Katniss, already awake, is sitting up in bed and scrolling through articles on her phone. She smiles at her children, eyes playfully curious. When Peeta steps into the room holding the aromatic tray, he grins, winks at her, and cocks his head in the direction of the enthusiastic kids. Her eyes dawn with realization, but she keeps up the charade. “What’s the surprise?”

“We made cookies!” Graham proudly announces. Simultaneously, Peeta sets the tray down in front of Katniss and stays standing beside the bed.

Poppy adds, “We helped Papa make Great Oma’s speculaas cookies and Great Grandma’s hot chocolate.” She carefully enunciates speculaas, since it’s not a word that easily rolls off her tongue just yet.

“It smells wonderful,” Katniss encourages. She picks up a cookie and bites into it. “It tastes delicious as always.” The smiles on Poppy’s and Graham’s faces grow even wider, rivaling their father’s. Katniss grabs the mug of hot chocolate and sips. “Mmm, just like Grandma Everdeen’s. Thank you, my little ones. This was a lovely surprise.”

The siblings clap their hands together, ecstatic that they pulled it off-with the help of their papa. Katniss gives each one a cookie, and they happily start eating them.

The weight of the bed shifts next to Katniss as Peeta joins her. He places featherlight kisses to her forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“Better now. It seems our grandmother’s treats were exactly what these two little ones needed. I can tell they want more,” she says as she caresses the swell of her belly.

“Hmm, maybe this time we should name them after the ingredients used in the cookies and hot chocolate,” he teases. “After all, our grandmas do know best.”

Fin.

—

Final author's note: My ethnicity has Dutch influences, and one of my favorite treats during the holiday season is speculaas (or speculoos in Belgian and French or spekulatius in German; Biscoff may be a more recognizable name). Growing up, my aunt in Germany would ship packages of these cookies to the states to my Oma (grandma) who would then spoil me (and my siblings) with them. These memories are what inspired me to write the above story for the prompt.

#everlarkholidaybingo2021 #tales of panem #holiday!everlark #winter!everlark #katniss x peeta #toastbabies #everlark #everlark fanfiction #everlark ficlet #feel good fluff #daydreamsandcaffeine writes

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swinterr · 4 years

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fic rec vi ♡

hi!

this is a another new set of fic rec and i’ll probably do a compilation of genre (?) just like the first ones.

made some changes like tidying up a bit and adding summary, for those that doesn’t have any summary i’ll try my best to add my own summary (it will probably be shit tho, i ain’t making a smut summary guys, i’m not confident in my describing a fic ability but i’ll try my best. if its in italic it means i made the summary hehez ) if the summary is shit, i made it okay.

read and support the fic and authors here: the fic rec ♡

a for angst

f for fluff

s for smut

// for series or list

nct

jeno

no title by @tyongf-nct | s

- smut blurb.

body guards and boyfriend by @pastelsicheng | f

- sometimes the only way you can really get some alone time with your boyfriend is by making his job hard.

lipstick smears by @kopikokun | f

- jeno never thought trying to get his makeup artist’s attention would be this hard.

jaehyun

[10:30] by @moonttaeil |

- a lockdown moment.

[2:40] by @nct-jungjaehyun | f a

- cute quality fluff time with bf!jae with a dash of angst.

[11:41] by @jeongvision | f

- family time with apples.

just like magic by @starryhyuck | f s

- jung jaehyun’s body count is almost as high as yours. however, after yuta spreads a nasty rumor, you learn that jaehyun’s always imagined those girls to be you instead.

love to hate me by @moonctzeny | s a

- you and jaehyun meet as sm trainees, developing a friendship until he debuts and you decided to leave the company and pursue a solo career. when you reunite again in a music show and he acts like he barely knows you, you stubbornly begin a series of hate-brimmed sex rendez-vous. your touch-and-go relationship continues on, until a song collaboration will force you both to deal with all your repressed feelings for each other.

moving on by @ddeonghwaa | f a

- reader has been chasing jae for some time but when she moved on jae suddenly enter the picture.

sun&moon by @ppangjae | f a

- asking jeong jaehyun to accompany you to your family’s 1-week christmas vacation as your boyfriend has its consequences. one can surely get through 1 week of pretending to be in love with an enemy, right?

snack run with a snack by @kopikokun | f

- on your usual movie night with the members, they assign you sudden snack collecting duty. you’re a little peeved, but at least jaehyun offers to tag along. Unfortunately for you, things really aren’t going in your favour tonight.

lover boy by @neoct-zen | f s

- bunch fics of lover boy jae and reader.

jungwoo

one more time, please by @haequarius | f s

- you don’t know what you and Jungwoo are, but you are certainly weak for him.

jealous by @whiplashsan | s

- jungwoo is all smiles and sunshine until he gets jealous, and he just so happens to get jealous over the smallest things when it comes to you.

doyoung

sugar, spice and everything not nice by @alreadyblondenow | s

- doyoung getting your ring size wrong, unprotected sex, kitchen sex, slight fingering, wedding tragedies.

no title by @ncteaxhoe | s

- dom!doyoung, rough? i need holy water.

the little one by @ethaeriyeol | f

- a gift of life; female reader x husband!Doyoung; fluff, light angst, married au

lucas

exquisite taste by @weishenkonbini | s f

- smut but with a fluffy ending.

for you always by @labyrinthsofyou | f

- in which you surprise yukhei when he forgets about your date.

6:19 by @cozykpopblurbs | f

- a cute fluff ft kun and winwin.

10:18 pm by @nctsoftarchives | f

- reader supports lucas at his superm debut stage.

16:47 by @sichengssmile | f s

- a fluffy smut. lucas a big boi.

missed you by @tokyobts | a f

- after you and yukhei broke up, yukhei still has feelings for you. he reaches out to you at school and tries to get you back. at first you avoid him but later his actions manage to make your heart flutter. you’ve come to a sudden conclusion that you maybe still want him in your life.

johnny

34 + 35 by @domjaehyun | s

- you and your husband johnny decide to take your marriage to the next step.

i couldn’t wait a little longer by @alreadyblondenow | s f a

- you two were never together longer than two days, but the feelings, oh the feelings that you have for each other is clear as the day. it was a never-ending try of making the relationship official. johnny tried, you tried but it never happens.

what happens in korea, not stays in korea by @alreadyblondenow | f s

- a week vacation in korea for your sister’s wedding became even more exciting when a famous dj had a crush on you. johnny was sure that it’s love at first sight. not putting both of your careers on the line, you two had no regrets when the time comes and you finally leave.

laundry day by @immabiteyou | s

- a domestic fluffy smut.

make a wish by @sluttyten | s f a

- you’re jungwoo’s sister, and he’s made it clear he wants you and Johnny to have nothing to do with each other. so you and johnny start fake dating to piss him off.

want it all by @sluttyten | f s

- you are entirely innocent to the point of being naive. johnny is not innocent, but he loves that you are because it means he can teach you everything you don’t know.

sungchan

wish i was her by @softsungchan | f a

- you wished you were her, laying in Sungchan’s arms and feeling his warm breath on your neck, giggling about sweet nothings whispered into the starry night. You wished for it to be you, the girl he liked.

2:21 am by @the32ndbeat | f

- sungchan being whipped, thru a text message.

haechan

14:52 by @ukiyoexo | f

- a cute haechan and reader ft the reader’s baby sister moment.

prince’s order by @nsheetee | f

- prince haechan nurses you after you faint, and orders you to stay with him until you feel better.

sweet treat by @markresonates | s

- haechan takes you for ice cream but all you can think about is sex with him. when you act like a brat, eventually you end up in the bathroom. with no panties.

clingy by @love-mi | f

- I’m not clingy! I just love your company and constantly want to be around you and have your full attention at all times

mark

hyuck is always right by @luvrenjun00 | f

- ceo!mark x reader ft baby donghyuck. a tooth-rotting fluff.

taeyong

snow storm by @whereisten | f s

- a fluffy smut whilst a snow storm.

1:59 by @smoll-tangerine | f

- reader and taeyong ft my favorite game (where i always die first) among us!

bts

taehyung

is this allowed 1 2 by @seokiie | f s

- how were you supposed to know bts would be filming at your coffee shop today? how were you supposed to know a certain curly-haired boy would take a liking to you?

cabin pressure | f by @jiminrings | f

- pilot!y/n who accidentally became famous bc of a viral post about her, best friend!jimin!, taehyung having a shy lil crush on you aND ot7 being meanies for a tad bit :((

art major!tae and biochem major!yn | f by @jiminrings | f

- tae’s cold and probably needs a friend more than he needs a model, y/n feels this nEED to take care of him, a term of enderment then a dash of emotional constipation and a sprinkle of jealousy :D

gank mid lane by @kimtaehyunq | f s

- gank / verb: (in a video game) use underhand means to defeat or kill (a less experienced opponent)

birthday surprise by @ephemeralkookie |

- like every year, you prepare a little surprise for your boyfriend’s birthday, one that you’ve been preparing for days. and after a very tiring day, taehyung only wants to spend the night in your loving arms.

jungkook

cookies & cream | s by @1kook | f s

- jungkook will watch a thousand cheesy christmas movies if it meant making you happy. (and maybe having his dick sucked.)

unholy night | s by @ephemeralkookie | f s

- after a christmas day passed with the Jeon’s family, Jungkook decides to transform the holy night into an unholy one.

‘a short’ abstinence | s a by @seokiie | s a

- maybe blue-balling you boyfriend (who has an insanely high sexual drive) wasn’t the best.

in which she’s done with him by @minstrivia | a

- jungkook angst/fluff where he always pushes oc away (who confesses her feelings but was cruelly rejected) and insults her but she always comes back to take care of him when he’s drunk or picks him up from his one night stands and she finally decides to leave him alone.

bad influence by @noteguk | s

- in which you know jungkook is a bad influence on you, but you can’t avoid falling for him every time.

jock!jk and shy art major!yn by @jiminrings | f

- established relationship ft. jock!jk and shy art major!y/n, y/n gets an unexpected pep talk and jungkook doubts himself, and either so much tears or so much dUST according to kook

special affair by @1oserjk | f

- sugar daddy au except it’s just jk spoiling u thru animal crossing

fairy of shampoo by @ironicarmy | f s

- sundays are for relaxation, house cleaning, and happiness.

abstract ft bob ross by @mimithings97 | f

- paintbrush in one hand, joint in the other and you sitting on his dick is what jeongguk wants. and what jeongguk wants, jeongguk gets.

badboy!jungkook by @jungshookz | f

- badboy!jungkook falls for good girl reader ft the boys and the reader’s apple.

growing by @lesgetittkookie | f

- dad!jungkook teacher his daughter how to walk. super super cute family/domestic fluff.

quiet, baby by @bratkook | s

- i don’t how to write a summary on smuts so imma just put this. reader and jungkook doing something in the subway.

still want that by @whatifyoulivelikethat | s

- fucking min yoongi ex-girlfriend? a terrible idea. being hopelessly in love with her at the same time? an even worse idea. knowing he was being used and still doing it anyway? ah, Jeon Jungkook, what are you doing? part 2 of savage love.

desiderium by @jeonggukingdom | f s

- “we’ve been at it like rabbits, how are you still so horny?”. a newlyweds!au smut.

chapstick by @softyoongiionly | f s

- based on the time Jungkook said he needed someone to scold him so he’d remember to put lip balm on. or jungkook’s had a really long day and the only that can make it better, is seeing you.

lover boy by @jingukk | f

- jungkook likes you. a lot.

unexpected confession by @sunkissedjk | f

- you gathered up the courage to confess your feelings, but it seems everyone in school knows about it before you could even find him.

string attached by @ephemeralkookie | s

- jungkook is what we can call your sexfriend. No strings attached, just you and him having fun and releasing the huge pressure and stress of being idols. But after spending an entire day together, you realize that maybe he’s not just your sexfriend.

no title by @himbojk | f s

- dilf jk.

astro

eunwoo

ceo!eunwoo by @m0onbean

no title by @yutopiada | f

- a cute idol!reader and eunwoo moment at a music show.

disney by @bangchan-sonyeondan | f

- a cute date with eunwoo at disney. reader likes vintage things hence using a disposable camera.

baby, it’s cold outside by @fresh-outta-jams | f

- a cute cold christmas fluff with eunwoo ft. the boys. reader went to the boys’ place for a sweater and cocoa gift exchange.

got7

yugyeom

cruel brothers by @imsarabum | f

- jackson and jaebum have always acted as if they were your big, overprotective brothers. so when they both walk in on you and yugyeom in a very intimate position, things get a little tense!

txt

soobin

a special night by @gyuluster | f

- an intimate insight on the first night of choi soobin’s wedding, consisting of kitchen floors, witches and an eternity of love.

boughs & branches by @jeogiyall | f

- decorating the tree with boyfriend! choi soobin from txt! fluffity fluff fluff with a lot of cute fluff thrown in and a dash of christmastime fluff.

sleepy binnie by @immabiteyou | s

- “i’ll let you do anything if you just touch me now. “ a sleepy soobin smut.

cake by @immabiteyou | s

- reading waiting for mc soobin with the guys. a cute fluffy smut moment.

kpop oc/s

seri by @ggukkiedae

anyway, thank you again for the writers please take care and be safe!

please free to recommend your favorite fic that i haven’t feature yet.

if the links won’t work and i labelled some fics wrong please let me know and i’ll try to fix it as soon as possible!

support the fic and the writers!

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whump-town · 3 years

Text

You Dance With Tears In Your Eyes

Summary: a college AU set up in the late 80s/early 90s with football star and quarterback Derek Morgan and his secret boyfriend Hotch-- it's not a happy story but I don't think I really have to warn you guys about that anymore

Also, a little based on a story my grandmother told me about my great uncle and his partner. Never met my great uncle but everyone says I'm a lot like him, I think they just mean gay but don't know how to say it

Warnings: homophobia, violence, racism *I mean it when I say homophobia*

Pairing: Derek Morgan/Aaron Hotchner

@yourlocalheartbreaker

The title is from Frank Ocean's song Self Control

Now and then you miss it, sounds make you cry Some nights you dance with tears in your eyes I came to visit, 'cause you see me like a UFO That's like never, 'cause I made you use your self-control And you made me lose my self-control, my self-control

---------------------

Living shouldn’t be reduced down to what it is, the bare bones of things that don’t even make Derek Morgan who he is. He lives by them anyways, stupid rules. Social norms, Aaron always clarifies because even when those silly rules drown them Aaron needs to be concise. Social norms dictate every inch of life and for once Derek wishes he were the type of person who could be given that inch and take a mile. They’re the reason he can’t hold his boyfriend’s hand in public. Why he can’t kiss Aaron on New Years’ and why he is reduced down to loving his roommate. Why, at this rate, he’ll never marry or adopt children, or why he could lose any career he goes into because some nosy asshole finds out his partner isn’t a woman. And, yes, he knows there are anti-discriminatory laws but he’s a black gay man. The world is stacked against him.

It makes him so angry. He’s blinded by the irrational of it all, why nothing can just be simple for them. Aaron tries to comfort him but Derek’s anger scares him, he doesn’t understand it. Aaron has long lost the ability to decipher the complexity of human emotions. Still flinches at loud noises like he’s expecting each bump to be accompanied by the pain that laced his childhood and has to ask, around every turn, if Derek’s angry with him. He can’t tell. Everything looks like anger. With Derek, it frequently is. They cope in very different ways, Aaron chooses nothing. Shutting down all his emotions until he cracks and that’s worse. It’s worse than Derek’s anger. That doesn’t mean Derek doesn’t hate the way he quakes with fury. If not because it feels childish to be blinded by emotions then because it scares Aaron.

There are a million other things, at twenty there always is. It’s his philosophy class with all this bullshit reading he doesn’t understand. He has to ask Aaron for help and Aaron has to ask him for help with things too but it makes Derek feel stupid. It’s philosophy, it can’t be that hard. That’s the same way Aaron feels about calculus. There’s maintaining rent and going grocery shopping and football (games, practice, gym, and training).

College had been a learning curve. Getting up at four in the morning to go to the gym for football had been the hardest thing in the world without his mother flicking his bedroom lights on and off or Desiréecoming in to smack him in the face with a pillow. There’s no one in the entire world in charge of getting him out of his bed other than him and, in his freshman year, while he had thought sleeping on that impossibly hard mattress would leave much to be desired, and it did, he found himself glued to his every morning. Not wanting to leave the safety of its flimsy comfort.

Sharing an apartment worked wonders, having a workaholic boyfriend was really the best trick. An unexpected answer to his problems but, also, a very cute one. He managed to add one person to the list of people that cared about where he was, that made sure he got up in time to make it to the gym and practice, and asked if he had a bad day or rub at his sore muscles.

Derek rolls over in bed, not as surprised as he should be to find the other half empty. “Aaron?” He still searches, runs his hand over the sheets as if he doesn’t know that if Aaron were in the bed he’d be right there. Hogging the bed and the blankets, pressed up against Derek’s back snoring like there’s no tomorrow. “Aaron?” Derek sits up and squints, grimaces at the light trailing in from the open door.

Aaron’s hunched over the beginnings of an essay, pen ink smeared across his left palm and steadily chugging along. He can write a full essay in the span of a night, five hours for about 3,000 words but if it’s a short synopsis sort of thing then about an hour. Despite this astonishing gift, Aaron still makes himself write all his essays weeks in advance and spends days upon days proofreading and combing through them for the tiniest mistakes. He’s a straight-A student so he’s doing something right but Derek gets mostly As too with far less hastily. Aaron is just extra.

Derek steps up to the desk, doesn’t make a sound as he leans up against the side of the chair. He wraps an around Aaron’s shoulders, leans down to kiss his head. “It’s two,” Derek informs him, “come to bed. Please?” Derek’s exhausted. He feels the regret of being pulled from his warm bed. Each second feels like twenty minutes, the world sluggish and too cold. He leans closer to Aaron, wrapping himself around him. “You always smell so good,” Derek whispers. He presses his face into Aaron’s hair, catching the mix of scents.

“Bakery,” Aaron grunts. His answer as simple and concise as he always is but even more so now that he’s tired. Aaron had worked an on-campus job for the entirety of their freshman year but after he got a scholarship that would roll over each year after that (so long as he kept a certain GPA) he started at a bakery down the street from their apartment. Derek had always liked the way Aaron smelled, gently masculine in a way only Aaron could ever be, and it had mixed with the scents of softly, perfectly made baked goods he works around all day. Cookies and cakes. He’s picked up a few tricks, Aaron can make moist cakes and perfectly round cookies but his bread… It’s the best food Derek has ever eaten.

The first time Aaron made bread Derek got down on one knee and confessed “Aaron Hotchner if I could marry you I’d take you to the damn chapel right now”. To which he was lovingly pushed and told to “shut up” but fresh-baked bread (even if Aaron had taken a single bite and concluded he hadn’t ratioed the sugar right) is heavenly. He’s gotten much better since and it’s really hot when he’s standing there in one of his dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up taking his stress out on the dough.

And he can’t tell anyone. Can’t boast about his hot ass boyfriend or the bread he makes from scratch.

Derek crouches down by the chair, knows he’s winning when Aaron breaks from his work just enough to glance at him out of the corner of his eye. “Can’t this wait just a little bit?” he asks. “I want to sleep with my boyfriend and he’s out here writing an essay that isn’t due tomorrow and likely isn’t due for the next month.” Derek reaches up, strokes a strand of hair back behind Aaron’s ear. His fingers graze an open wound and Aaron flinches away, the pain unexpected.

The bare bones of Aaron Hotchner are the along the same in principle to Dereks-- all things that he cannot change. Even as he stands as tall as Derek, their bodies are not the same. Derek is lean from years of football, his arms stretch his shirts. He looks like an athlete, has the benefit of the doubt whenever he’s around men. His teammates walk naked in front of him, no one for even a second thinks anything of it. No one suspects him of the atrocities he commits within his apartment.

Aaron doesn’t have any of that. His hair is a little too long, hangs down in his face when he’s studying or reading. Nothing about him is hulk-ish, he’s delicate with his movements and while it had been something that Derek was immediately drawn to it also draws other’s attention. Bad attention.

The same boys that play around with Derek, snapping towels at him while he walks, terrorize Aaron.

Derek wishes there was something he could do because if this were anyone else- if Aaron were a girl- he could. It wouldn’t be dangerous, not the sort of thing that would cost him his football scholarship or get him stabbed and left to bleed out in an alley or beat within an inch of his life. He would have to out himself to protect Aaron, to stand in front of his teammates that coach keeps calling his family and tell them to keep their fucking hands off his boyfriend. No. No, because something like that would be death. It would be worse than what’s already happening. And Aaron won’t allow it.

All Derek can do now is await the next attack, leave Aaron someplace to come home to. Give him a place to be, without burden, without hesitation. It’s not enough. They’ll kill him. Derek knows they will and it’ll be fun for them, only a matter of time.

“Come to bed with me,” Derek asks one more time. He doesn’t want to sound entirely needy but he really doesn’t want to go to bed without Aaron. The bed is lonely.

With a sigh, Aaron nods and Derek stands up, moves out of the way so Aaron can throw pens in his textbooks to mark his place. He steps away, from the desks, yawning as he makes lazy lurches forward towards their bedroom. “Turn the damn--” Derek rolls his eyes and reaches over and turns off Aaron’s desk lamp.

He passes Aaron in the doorway, places his hand on his hip, and reminds him of their objective. “Bed,” he mumbles and Aaron nods, jerking back to life as he steps further into the bedroom.

Derek lays down on the bed, crawls over to his side, and gets comfortable while he watches Aaron lazily strip down to his underwear. He gets caught in his head again for a moment, standing there just blankly staring at the dresser. Trying to figure out if he should put on pajamas or not. Derek calls his name and opens his arms. “Come here, “ he says and Aaron smiles. Sheepishly he comes, blushing as he crawls into the bed and where Derek instructs him. Humming, pleased, when Derek brings the blankets up over them. His eyes are already closed, head tucked under Derek’s chin when Derek wraps his arms around him. Pulls him close, tight.

He’d read in a book about deep pressure, its effect on the parasympathetic nervous system. He’d studied Development Psychology for some time, thought about all the ways in which it checked every box of his interests. He thinks he might want to be a teacher. That’s where he learned about the importance of the bond between guardian and child. Where he learned a hug sometimes really is a fantastic answer to the most startling problems.

It’s also the fastest way to get Aaron to sleep.

“Tighter,” Aaron whispers. He can’t quite feel Derek’s bones pushing into him, the hammer of his heart still too strong. He groans, choking up a laugh when Derek does just that. Holds him tight, makes him ache with the proximity, his inability to move.

Derek doesn’t mind, he’s got an armful of bakery boy. Couldn’t be more content with anything else.

0000000000000000

All things considered, Derek didn’t actually face that much scrutiny when he told his mother about the stupid twisting and turning feeling in his stomach when Martel Harris put his hand on Derek’s back. Leaned in too close and Derek could smell the cologne he wore and feel his proximity like lightning across his skin. He’d thought it was just nerves but at the end of a football match Martel lifted him up, threw him up in the air, and God that had felt better than flying. Lit him up inside like he was something, someone.

Desiréecried and Sarah wouldn’t speak to him for a week, opposite reactions because of the same fear. Their mother always said the two of them were two halves of the same coin-- too alike to get along and too different to ever get away. They came around, their mother’s gentle hand always the voice of reason. Three stubborn as all hell kids, too much like their father. That’s what she tells the three of them, tears swelling in her eyes as she proclaims that none of it matters. Orders Desiréeto stop crying tells Sarah to get over herself. She loved and married a black man despite the death threats that followed them everywhere they went. Despite the people that called it blasphemous. Called it sin. As if love could be such a thing.

Her mother told her not to come home, not to call. She wouldn’t do that to her son, she knows it won’t change a thing. There’s something about love that makes you blind to the small pains. She never looked back twice, never reached out to her parents. She chose love and Derek will too.

But that doesn’t mean the fear goes away.

It doesn’t actually change a damn thing.

Standing in the tiny bathroom attached to Derek’s friend’s bedroom Aaron leans over the sink, letting Derek rub

shampoo through his beer-drenched hair. “I just don’t understand why they have it out for you,” Derek mumbles, his voice has deepened, his frustration laced confusion evident. They’re in a rather suggestive position, Derek’s body keeping Aaron bent over the sink-- ass to groin. Aaron shoots him a look out of the corner, a pretty clear “look at us right now and take a guess at why”. Derek ignores the look, he’s rather good at ignoring Aaron’s sharp looks. He shakes his head, grumbling some more to himself and gently working the shampoo out of Aaron’s hair. He leans closer, Aaron groaning as the sink bites into his stomach, and smells his hair. Derek groans, unsatisfied with what he finds. “Smells like strawberries with a slight undertone of beer.”

Sounds about as close to a win as they’re getting. “That’s as good as it’s going to get,” Aaron mumbles, grateful when Derek sits back up. While Aaron’s come to terms with the particular hand he’s drawn in the terms of college social lives Derek isn’t as quick to accept. He feels hopeless, a feeling he thought he’d escaped upon leaving Chicago and everything Carl Buford. Aaron can’t stand to see that look, the one he’s grown so used to seeing after events like this.

He pulls a towel down off the rack, starts trying to dry his hair. This isn’t the reason he keeps his hair short but it’s certainly a helpful addition to keep in mind. “Don’t overthink it, it’s not your fault.” Aaron could go blue in the face trying to keep Derek from coming up with a mile-long list of all the reasons why that’s simply not true. The truth is, it’s really not Derek’s fault. No one even knows about them. Their relationship isn’t the reason why Hunter Whatever-his-last-name-is poured his cup of cheap, smells like piss, beer over Aaron’s head.

Not that what happened downstairs can just be so beautifully summed up as just that. Hunter Whatever-his-last-name-is had grabbed Aaron as he was walking in, doing as Derek instructed by coming in the screened-in door at the side of the house. “Who’s dick did you come to suck?” and Hunter Whatever-his-last-name-is cupped Aaron’s cheek. Dug his thumb into the wound he created and smiled, grinned happily at the sight of Aaron trying so hard to getaway. Hunter’s grip relaxed and as soon as it did Aaron was blinking the beer out of his eyes. “Get the fuck away from me,” Hunter shoved him, hard. “Faggot.” Aaron hit his hip on the counter but said nothing, he’ll leave the bruise for Derek to find another night.

“I should say something to that pig,” Derek’s distracting himself with putting everything back in the bathroom the way it was before they came in. Straightening out the rug and fixing the other towels. “Let me catch him trying something--”

Aaron can’t take it, all of Derek’s pointless anger, his stupid guilt. He’s just had beer poured down his back. He can’t even accept Derek’s sweatshirt to replace his smelly shirt, can’t walk out of here wearing his boyfriend’s sweatshirt without getting shanked. The beer smells awful but he’s fairly certain getting stabbed is a whole lot worse. Derek doesn’t have to deal with that. No one messes with him because no one thinks to. “It’s because of how I look!” He’s shaking, bangs hanging down in his face still damp but no longer dripping water down his face. “You? You look normal. You get to walk around with all your football buddies, no one bats an eye at the quarterback, Derek. At least you like women too!” He points to himself, digs his finger into his own chest. “Me? I look the part. I can’t even pretend. Everyone knew, the whole world knew before I did!”

Derek just stands there, caught in the headlights trying to figure out what to say.

He wipes his eyes, jerks away from the hand Derek tries to put on his arm. “No. No!” he can’t do touch right now. Not like this, not when his body won’t hold still and his knees keep trying to buckle. It happens, this panicked cornered feeling, and usually Derek would hold him down. They’d sit on the floor and Derek would hold his arms down to his chest and they’d just sit like that until Aaron can breathe again. Bones against bones until Aaron feels the fractures of his humanity coming back together but for now, right now? He can’t do it. He can’t be touched.

“I want to go home,” he manages, lower lip quivering despite how much he wants to hold it together. “Please take me home.”

Derek just stares at him, stands there, and watches Aaron cross his arms over his chest and curl in, trying to squeeze the panic out himself. “Okay,” he caves. “Go on, I’ll follow you down.” It’s degrading, humiliating the fact that they can’t even leave this room together. Aaron’s upset and Derek can’t do anything about that right now. It’s not safe until they’re home.

It’s never safe.

With his hair dripping into his face Aaron stumbles in the dark. His shirt is soaking wet, stuck to his skin, and freezing him as tramples down a thin stretch of grass between houses. He wishes he had Derek’s sweatshirt. Something warm. At least something to cover his arms. It had been a stupid idea coming here right after getting off work. The bakery is so impossibly hot and after getting off his shift all he wanted was to be with Derek. To sit in whatever little room Derek could guarantee was safe and drink whatever cheap crap Derek brings him from downstairs. Just sit and listen to the music filtering in from downstairs.

“Hotchner!”

He freezes-- a deadly mistake.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

He knows what happened to Derek. In the hush of the night, laying facing each other in the dark, Derek had told him. Each word a puff of hot air against Aaron’s face, hitting the hot tears rolling down his cheeks. It was supposed to be even, Derek’s intention was to express alikeness. He’d seen the scars, no matter careful Aaron was about the light when he thought things were headed in the direction of nakedness, Derek saw them. He hadn’t said anything that time, run his thumb over the one on Aaron’s chest but kept up his ministrations. Acted as if he didn’t until that moment in bed.

Aaron still hasn’t found the courage to be honest about his own childhood.

Derek comes around the back, half-expecting tonight to go like it always does. Except Aaron hasn’t had any alcohol and he doesn’t come stumbling around the porch to greet Derek from the darkness. There are no stolen kisses or hushed laughter. No Aaron. Derek has half a mind to shout out for him, he couldn’t have gone off far, but then he sees him. Derek sees them. The moonlight shining down casting this awful hue between the houses. He sees Hunter draw his foot back and he can’t hold it back. Won’t let this go on. “Hunter!”

The second that Hunter’s attention is away from him, Aaron slumps to the ground. His blood smeared against the house. He’s still breathing, awful ragged breathes that shoot blood off his lips. He sees Derek in the moonlight, rushing past him. Aaron wishes he wasn’t a coward. Between each blood speckled breathe, he wishes that he wasn’t a coward and had just told Derek. That way he would understand Aaron can take it. He spent his childhood taking beatings for just being alive. At least now it was something coherent. Being beaten for being gay requires at least knowing something about him. His father couldn’t even bother with that.

But Derek doesn’t understand.

Aaron never told him.

He’s pulled down, out of orbit, and back to Earth when Derek squats down beside him, cradles his head in his hands. “Aaron?” he calls out, but Aaron can’t force his eyes to move from the dirt. “Can I--” Derek doesn’t know where to put his hands. If he can put his hands anywhere. “I’m going to-- to lift you, okay?” It’s not a matter of if he’s strong enough. He benches more than his own body weight and that’s significantly more than Aaron’s. He’s just not sure if Aaron’s going to fight him and if Aaron fighting him is good or bad.

“Lean forward,” Derek whispers, cupping the back of Aaron’s head and directing it into his shoulder. He turns, manipulates both their bodies and winces each time, no matter how gentle and calculated his movements are, Aaron still cries out. He still hurts him. “I’m sorry,” becomes his mantra. The only words he can manage out around the tears, the only thing he can get past the thickness in his throat.

Sorry he didn’t stop this sooner.

Sorry that he keeps hurting Aaron.

Sorry they couldn’t be other people. In other places. In another time.

Sorry that it’s all for nothing, that there’s no way this ends well for either of them. They’re going to end up dead or alone but certainly separate.

The second Derek has him in his arms Aaron grips his shirt tightly in one blood-stained hand. He rests his head on Derek’s shoulder, soaking in his warmth. “Home?” he asks, voice breaking.

“We’re going home.”

Aaron wakes up alone in bed.

He’s completely naked, laying with three blankets pulled up over him. One that he recognizes is from the living room. There’s one of Derek’s homemade sock heating pads digging into his sore ribs where he rolled over onto it, he can feel more of them underneath him. He’s been laying here for a while. None of the socks are warm anymore. He’s on Derek’s side of the bed, facing his nightstand, and watches Derek’s blurry alarm clock change time. 1:36 passing to 1:37 to 1:38 just waiting for the fuzzy fingers in his brain to ease up. To allow him to think.

It’s Saturday.

Derek’s off at a football game, not due back for hours. Not until tonight, long after Aaron’s gone to bed.

For an overwhelming moment, his eyes fill with tears, desperation, and solitude creating an awful twist in his stomach. He doesn’t want to be alone. Protectively he draws his knees up, tries to knot himself up, and create a mangled ball. His heart picks up, anxiety increasing as he lays there. He wants Derek. He doesn’t want to be alone.

On the phone’s first rings he curls in tighter, overwhelmed by his own crying that he presses his face into Derek’s pillow and ignores it. He’ll let the machine catch it-- that’s the whole reason Derek bought it. With a sharp end, muffled by the blanket he pulls up over his head, a voice comes through. The machine catching the voice mail.

“Aaron, sweetheart? This is Fran, Derek’s mom? I’m sorry to keep calling sweetie but Derek’s awake now. He’s worried, says you should have woken up by now. I can send Sarah to come get you, Derek told me what happened last night. Please call me back? I hope you’re okay.”

He lays in confused silence, trying to process why Derek’s mother would call him. She calls all the time and occasionally he answers to tell her she’s just missed Derek-- he’s off with friends, at the gym, or at class. They know of one another Derek talks about him to Fran as much as Derek talks about Fran to him. But Fran call him? That’s never happened.

Then he catches it-- “Derek’s awake now”-- and he sits up. Pushed from his mind is the pain, his ribs scream and the blood he can see he’s left on Derek’s pillow. Derek’s awake now. Hunter Whatever-his-last-name-is is on the football team. An offensive lineman. A guy whose entire job is to protect Derek but now he knows, he has to know.

Derek’s awake now.

He throws himself out of bed, clipping his already sore hip on the nightstand and staggering for the phone. Tears spilling over his face. What happened while he was sleeping? What did Hunter do?

Fran picks up on the first ring. “Aaron, is that you sweetheart?”

He sniffles, rubbing at his nose with his finger. “Yes, ma’am.” He knows she can hear him crying, his choked sobs as he falls in the direction of the closes chair.

“You had me worried sick,” she says and he can hear that unmistakable fondness in her chastising tone. That must be where Derek gets it from. It makes him smile, even if it’s weak. “How are you feeling, baby? Derek told me what happened. I’m sorry. If I see that boy I’ll wring his neck. Give him a piece of my mind for bothering my boys.”

He just nods, despite the fact that she can’t see that. He knows he should answer her question but he has no idea what he feels. Nothing. He feels nothing as he sits here holding his breath as he waits to ask about Derek. To know what happened because of him. “Is Derek okay? What happened?”

Hunter told a few other team members what he saw. Most brushed him off, Hunters a douchebag, and they like Derek. Others just hate Aaron enough for it to matter to them, enough to what to do something. Or, rather, not do anything. It only took one tackle, a limb bent the wrong way under the weight of three boys.

It was Derek’s knee. A career-ending injury.

A scholarship losing injury.

“Can I--” Aaron chokes. He’s afraid of what happens if Fran says no. “Can I see him?”

“Of course you can.”

Aaron turns away Fran’s offer of a car ride but Desirée still shows up.

He answers the door in a sweatshirt and jeans and knows immediately who it is when he opens it up. Desirée just stares at him for a moment, he can feel all of the seventeen-year-old judgment sizing him up. “You look… awful,” she tells him. She lets herself in, walking past Aaron with one more look. “Mom says I can drive but if you want to do it I have to let you.” She puts the car keys on the counter, sighs as she looks around. “Derek says…” she chews her lip, as she sizes him up again.

He wonders how intimidating he could possibly look to her. Hunched over and wearing a sweatshirt that’s too big for him.

“Would you teach me how to make bread?”

He can’t help but smile, nods without any hesitation.

“Really?”

Aaron nods, “it’s not that hard. More of a-- a waiting game. You have to give the yeast time to rise.”

Desirée has no idea what that means but she nods, “cool.”

He lets her drive. Mostly because his vision is swimming but because he tosses the keys back to her, a clear okay that she can drive, and she beams at him. She likes him. That’s so weirdly important to him.

She has to wake him up when they get to the hospital. The first thing she tells Fran is that he let her drive and Fran smiles at him, shakes her head, and says “you must have a death wish.”

Aaron blushes under the attention, eyes falling to the floor. He barely manages, “drives just like Derek.”

Fran laughs, nodding her head, “she does. Too heavy on the brakes.” Her smile fades a little when she sees Aaron’s sweatshirt, recognizes it from home. Knows it’s Dereks. “Will you let someone look at that,” she asks, too many of his wounds look deep. Cuts that need stitches and a nasty black eye that she knows he hasn’t iced. She’s reminded a little too quickly that Aaron and Derek are still very much kids. Tricky kids. Too old to be told what to do but still wanting direction.

Aaron nods, shying away again from the attention, but nods.

They leave him when the nurse steps in, doesn’t need to say a word. Fran sees him hesitate to lift his shirt and knows. Derek had managed to tell her most of what happened but the morphine made his speech slur, made him emotional. He’d sobbed, high and in pain. Told her what he’d seen the night before. Hunter hitting and kicking at Aaron, the way Aaron slumped forward. How he’d carried Aaron home. Washed the blood off him with a rag. She knew what was under Aaron’s shirt wasn’t something for them to see.

Derek wakes sometime in the middle of the night. The drugs from the surgery are wearing off and with it his blissful escape from the pain. Licking his dry lips he looks around the room, spotting his sisters and frowning as he tries to find his mother. She’s leaning over another cot, on the other side of the room. He watches her, hears the familiar chorus of Blackbird, and watches her stroke Aaron’s forehead, following the line of the relaxed brow.

It makes him smile, his mother used to sing Whitney Houston to him and his sisters to sleep. He told her about Aaron’s obsession with The Beatles, how of all the records the two of them own that’s the only one Aaron will play. Desiréebought the album, his mother told him a week later. She saved up to get it and was eager for her moment to speak to Aaron about it. To be able to befriend her brother’s boyfriend. That’s about the same time Fran began to hound him about bringing Aaron home, to Chicago. She wanted to meet him.

Fran kisses Aaron’s forehead, waiting another moment just to make sure Aaron’s truly asleep before she stands. “He was having a bad dream,” she tells Derek. In truth, he’d been crying in his sleep. In pain, she could tell, and restless. He’d settled with her there and it made her sad to think that maybe he’d just grown too used to sleeping beside someone else. She’d pulled his blankets closer and sang, just as she did with the other three when they were little. Even when they’re twenty, it still works like a charm.

Fran smiles, tries to soothe Derek’s nerves so he doesn’t worry about Aaron. He’s fine for now, sleeping soundlessly. She sits down on the edge of Derek’s bed, cups his cheek, and asks “how are you feeling?”

Derek just looks over to Aaron, his pale parted lips parted and the bandages holding him together. “Is he okay?” He’d been so scared last night watching Aaron sleep. No amount of Tylenol was doing a thing for his pain. Several times he’d sat up in the night and searched for a pulse, counted the far too many seconds separating each of his breathes. Derek thought Aaron might die right there beside him but he’d been more afraid of what might have happened if they went to the hospital.

Fran sighs, stupid love. It’s cute, she has to admit, but so senseless. “He’s sleeping, he’s okay.” She tries to redirect him, “how do you feel?”

Derek looks back over to Aaron. He looks. There’s more than just those pale lips and the bandages. It’s Aaron. He’s sleeping under multiples blankets and looks like himself. How he always looks when Derek rolls over to face him. He believes his mother, she never lies. “My leg hurts,” he whispers, voice cracking. It’s like the entire thing is pulsing, a continuous stabbing feeling. He cries but not from the pain. They betrayed him. The people he so stupidly thought of as his friends. They hurt him like they’d been hurting Aaron.

He should have known better.

He shouldn’t have been so stupid.

This is his fault.

“Derek?” Aaron sits up, hesitating under the combined attention of Derek and Fran.

Fran stands up, nods Aaron over. “Sit with him,” she offers. “I’ll go get a nurse.”

Aaron nods, still waiting, still hesitating to be where he wants to be. Derek motions him closer, manages to move his body over in the bed. Just enough room for Aaron to squeeze in beside him.

“I don’t think I”m supposed to--”

“Lay down.” Derek can see all the bruises and cuts up close again. He brushes his fingers through the hair above Aaron’s ear, turning his palm to his cheek. Gently tracing the outline of a bandage. “Runaway with me,” he whispers. He thought about it all night long while he watched Aaron sleep. “There’s only four more weeks left of the semester.” Aaron’s smart, he’ll get in anywhere he applies. “We’ll transfer someplace else, anywhere else.”

Aaron frowns, he doesn’t like the idea of this impulsivity. Mostly the number of uncertainties that it creates and the questions. Where will they go? How will they know it’s safe? Are they dropping out? Where will they transfer to? What Aaron can’t get into the college that Derek does?

“Hey,” Derek hushes, he strokes his thumb across Aaron’s cheekbone. “Hey, whatever you’re thinking stop. I’m not leaving, not going anywhere you don’t. We do this together, alright?” He smiles, leans forward, and softly knocks their foreheads together. “Four weeks and all of summer break, okay? That’s plenty of time for a smarty pants like you to figure out where we can go.” It had taken less time for Aaron to conclude Illinois was close enough to home for him to go if something happened to his mother but too far away for her or his brother to come to him.

They’ll figure it out.

“Runaway with me?” he asks one more time.

“Okay.”

#criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #hotchgan #mortch #hurt hotch #tw homophobia

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dickwheelie · 4 years

Text

this is a few days late but it’s still technically Hanukkah, so! here’s a fic about Jon and Martin celebrating Hanukkah in the safehouse (shhh timelines aren’t real) because I like to project and I really like the idea of Jon being Jewish. a lot of us are having weird holidays this year, away from friends and family, so the boys having a weird one too seemed appropriate. in particular, Jon not having a menorah because I don’t have one this year either :(

the stuff in this is based on my own experiences celebrating Hanukkah growing up in a pretty secular household, so if you see anything that’s “wrong” then that’s why, lol. the prayer is accurate as far as I know though, it’s the same one my family and I sing every year.

(also this is not a good representation of how to make rugelach! if you really want a good recipe, hmu and if you ask nicely I might share my mother’s 😁)

enjoy and Happy Hanukkah!! 💙🕎✡️💙

___________

“I just feel bad,” Martin said, watching from the sofa as Jon put the challah in the oven. “You’re doing all this cooking, and I’m just sitting on the couch like a lump. And this is supposed to be your holiday.”

“Martin, for the tenth time, it’s fine. Besides, the holiday doesn’t actually start until sundown,” Jon called, cheerfully enough, from the kitchen. Jon liked cooking, Martin knew, and he didn’t really see it as a chore in the same way Martin did. Still, this was a special day for Jon (well, eight days, really), and Martin wanted to be of some use. He’d offered to do everything from peeling potatoes to rolling matzoh balls, but Jon, ever the control freak in the kitchen, had stopped him at every turn. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty about not helping out as Jon bustled about, trying to make Hanukkah dinner for the both of them.

More than helping out, really, Martin just kind of . . . wanted to share this with Jon. The way Jon talked about it, it sounded as though he’d had more Hanukkahs alone than with friends or what little family he had. Martin wanted to make Jon feel like he didn’t have to be alone this year, and even if Martin was new to this, he was game to learn. Jon had already told him about the holiday and all the different foods he was making, but there was still some distance there, a disconnect, that Martin knew Jon wasn’t putting between them on purpose. It seemed to Martin more like a force of habit than anything else.

After setting the timer for the challah, Jon nodded, satisfied, and came over to join Martin on the couch. He slouched against him comfortably, and Martin automatically put an arm around his shoulders. Jon had a bit of flour on his nose, and Martin gently swiped it off, which made Jon’s face wrinkle up like a disgruntled cat. Bloody adorable, Martin thought.

“I get a bit of a break before I have to start on the latkes in a few hours,” Jon said. “Got to make those right before dinner so they’re fresh.”

“Can I please help with those?” Martin said, half-joking.

“Fine,” Jon laughed, “yes, Martin, you can help with the latkes.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“I’m sure.”

“Is there dessert?” Martin asked, offhandedly. He hadn’t noticed Jon getting out any sugar or making anything sweet that day. “Do people eat anything sweet on Hanukkah?”

“Well, there’s gelt,” Jon says. “Chocolate coins. But the grocer’s didn’t have any. Unsurprisingly.”

Martin laughed. “Yeah. Probably not a huge priority in the Highlands.”

“People also make rugelach, sometimes.”

“Arugula?”

Jon laughed, not unkindly. “Rugelach. Different from the vegetable. Very different,” he said. “It’s a pastry. A kind of holiday cookie, I guess you could call it. Sweet dough with chocolate or cinnamon inside. It’s simple to make, but I didn’t buy the right stuff for it, and honestly I have enough cooking to do.”

“Yeah? How d’you make it?” Martin asked, innocently enough, though an idea was brewing.

As Jon explained, he waved his hands in the air, miming the process. “You just roll out some pastry dough, cover it with chocolate or cinnamon or walnuts or whatever you like, cut it into strips, and roll them up.” He thought for a moment. “They look a bit like seashells.”

“Huh,” Martin said. “Seems easy enough.” He’d never made dough before, but how hard could it be, really. The hardest part, he figured, would be actually making the things in their tiny cabin and even tinier kitchen without Jon finding out.

Soon after that, the oven timer started beeping, announcing that the bread was done. Martin took advantage of Jon busying himself in the kitchen to slip out the door, giving him some offhand excuse about wanting to get some air, to which Jon waved him off.

In the baking aisle at the grocer’s, Martin quickly realized he was out of his depth. He stared at the display of flour and sugar and baking powder and all sorts of other stuff, utterly at a loss as to what one needed to make pastry dough. He tried, once again, to Google a recipe on his phone, but once again, there was no service and no wifi.

Well, there was always pre-made, frozen dough. Not ideal, but it’d probably work in a pinch. Much faster to make, too, Martin thought as he dropped a couple cans of it into his basket. The filling, at least, he knew he’d be able to handle; he grabbed a few bags of baking chocolate and a shaker of cinnamon, and brought everything up to the checkout counter.

Martin didn’t even know which lucky stars to thank when he arrived back at the cabin to find the kitchen empty, and Jon passed out on the bed in a post-challah, pre-latke cooking nap. Martin gently closed the bedroom door and immediately set to baking.

Going by Jon’s vague descriptions, he rolled out some of the dough into a flat oval shape, but the pre-made kind wasn’t meant to be used all at once, and the end result was a sort of lumpy mass. Digging around in the cupboards, he was able to find some flour, which helped make the dough less sticky, at least. Eventually, he was able to get it flat enough to cover it with the filling, like Jon had told him. Half of the dough he covered in cinnamon, liberally shaking it out all over the dough. The other half he covered with the baking chocolate, which came in little chunks, but he figured it would melt in the oven just fine.

Next, just as Jon had described, he cut the dough into even strips, thin and rectangular, and rolled each of them up, so the filling made a little spiral shape inside. The chocolate ones were a bit chunky and awkward-looking, but, well, it was the taste that counted, wasn’t it.

Martin turned to face the oven, realizing he had no idea how long they ought to bake for, or at what temperature. He checked the instructions on the tins of pre-made dough, deciding to go by whatever they suggested. It wouldn’t do for the dough to be raw, he figured.

Soon enough, the pastries were in the oven, and Jon was still dead to the world, none the wiser. Martin felt quite satisfied as he cleaned up, mentally patting himself on the back for a job well- and stealthily-done. He’d hide them in the oven, he decided, until after dinner, and then he’d surprise Jon. Smiling, he went to join Jon in bed, curling up next to him as he slept, until he fell asleep himself.

Martin woke groggily several hours later to Jon gently shaking him awake, telling him it was time to make the latkes. He’d already got the batter done, a thick, floury mixture of potato and onion, and a pan of oil was bubbling on the stove. Jon showed Martin how to drop spoonfuls of batter into the pan, patting them down to shape them into little fist-sized “pancakes.” He let both sides brown in the oil until they were nice and crispy, before transferring them onto a paper towel-covered plate to cool. It was simple enough, and Martin was able to finish up the batch as Jon set the table, bringing out the challah and matzoh ball soup he’d made, as well as sour cream and apple sauce to dip the latkes in.

Once the latkes were done (and Martin was quite proud to say they’d come out very nicely), Jon retrieved some red wine he’d gotten in the village and poured them both a glass. Then, as Martin was getting ready to sit down, Jon glanced around sheepishly, gesturing at an empty space on the kitchen counter.

“I, ah, normally I’d have a menorah to light. But obviously I didn’t bring one when we came up. And out here, well, it’s the same as with the gelt. No real place to buy one.”

“Oh,” Martin said, heart sinking. He reached out to squeeze Jon’s hand. “That’s a shame. I’m really sorry.”

“Really, I just wish I could show you,” Jon said, shaking his head as he took his seat at the table. “It’s really lovely. You light a new candle every night, and when they’re all lit . . . I’m sure it’d look nice here, especially.” He gestured at the space in front of the darkened kitchen window.

“Yeah,” Martin agreed, wistfully. He’d seen photos of menorahs before, and he could just picture it, he and Jon gathered around, lighting candle after candle as the eight nights passed.

“Well,” Jon said, turning back to face Martin at the table, “we may not have a menorah, but I can still do the blessing.”

“Blessing?”

“Yes. You’re supposed to do it while lighting the menorah, but, well. I’m sure this will do, given the circumstances.” Jon reached his hand across the table, and Martin took it.

“Alright.” Jon cleared his throat, almost self-consciously, and then began to sing in Hebrew, a melodic, practical tune that sounded comfortable and familiar on his tongue, like a well-worn shawl. “Barukh ata Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu, l’hadlik ner, shel Hanukkah.”

Martin couldn’t really sing along to the words, but he nodded along to the melody, and when Jon was done he looked up at him and smiled, and Martin beamed back. They both raised their glasses and drank.

They ate heartily, or at least Martin did, because Jon kept shoving second and third bowls of soup at him, and insisting he finish off the latkes. Not that Martin was complaining, of course; it was all delicious, and Jon did praise him for how nice the latkes had come out.

They left the dirty dishes for later (or, knowing the two of them, tomorrow morning), and after dinner they went straight for presents. Though his options were limited without online shopping or anything outside of the tiny village, Martin had managed to find an adorable little painted china Highland cow in a local antiques shop.

“I know you think they’re cute,” Martin said as Jon lifted it out of the box.

“How did you know,” Jon deadpanned, but he grinned as he brought it up to his nose and stared at its little painted snout. “I love it, Martin, thank you.”

Jon had gone the homemade route, and knitted Martin a scarf. And a pair of mittens. And an entire bloody sweater.

“Oh my god, Jon,” Martin said, staring in disbelief at the mounds of knitwear before him. “How did you find time to do all this? How did you find time to do all this without me knowing?”

Jon looked away sheepishly. “I, uh, I’m a fast knitter.”

Martin shook his head fondly. Unbelievable. But he immediately took off the sweater he’d been wearing and pulled on the one Jon had made. It fit rather well and was as cozy as it looked. “Thank you, Jon,” he said, feeling the sleeves, knowing that every loop and stitch of the fabric had been purposeful. He could practically feel the care and love Jon had put into each one of them. “I love it,” he said, leaning over to kiss Jon at the corner of his eye.

“Well,” Jon said, cheeks darkening, “Happy Holidays, then.”

“Oh,” Martin said, rising from the sofa, “I’ve actually got one more thing. Sort of a last-minute gift.”

“Hm?”

Martin went over to the oven and took out the trays of rugelach. He’d checked them earlier to see if they were cooked through, but hadn’t gotten the chance to taste one yet. “Tried my hand at a bit of dessert,” he said, selecting a couple nice-looking ones and putting them on a plate for Jon to try.

Jon had followed Martin into the kitchen, and was staring at the pastries lined up on the trays. “Oh, well, thank you,” he said, surprised, taking the plate Martin handed to him. “What are they?”

Martin cocked his head at him. “Rugelach,” he said. Wasn’t it obvious?

Jon’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Ah,” he said, voice strained with positivity. “Of course. Right.”

Martin was starting to get a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Gingerly, Jon took one of the rolled-up pastries, and bit into it.

Martin tried one as well. It was one of the chocolate ones, and it was . . . crunchy. Very crunchy. The chocolate, it seemed, had only partially melted in the oven, and the pastry dough itself was a bit hard to bite through. Besides that, it wasn’t very sweet, the chocolate being too dark and the dough being too salty.

He tried a cinnamon one. Again, the dough was crunchy, and the cinnamon was overpowering without any sweetness to it. Martin considered the possibility that perhaps he ought to have added sugar.

Jon, for his part, was doing his best impression of a person who was very much enjoying the pastry they were eating, honest. “Mmm,” he said, demonstratively, as he swallowed one of the cinnamon ones. “Thank you, Martin, these are . . . delicious.”

Jon was actually reaching for seconds, which Martin knew he was only doing to make him feel better, so he reached out a hand and placed it on Jon’s, stopping him short.

Jon looked up at him. Martin shook his head wordlessly. Jon cracked a smile.

“They’re not good,” Martin said, putting them back on the trays one by one.

“Martin--”

“It’s okay,” Martin said, smiling back at him, “I know. They’re rubbish. I didn’t even use a recipe, of course they were gonna turn out--”

“Well,” Jon said, stubbornly, “you tried. It’s the thought that counts. Thank you, Martin, really,” Jon said, bringing up Martin’s hand to kiss the back of it. “It was very sweet of you to put all this effort into it.”

“Next time, I’ll look up a recipe,” Martin said, bringing one of the trays over to the kitchen bin. Jon was quick to assist him.

“There’s seven nights of Hanukkah left,” Jon said, after a moment’s thought. “We can always try again. Tomorrow, we’ll get more ingredients, and I’ll show you how to do it properly. It really is easy, you just need . . . well. Sugar, for one.”

Martin laughed as he tossed the last of the batch away. “Okay. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“I mean it, though,” Jon said, looking at him fondly. “Thank you. For this, and for the cow, and for sharing the holiday with me. It’s . . . this has been really . . .”

Jon was gesturing in the empty air, struggling for the proper word, but Martin understood well enough. “Yeah,” he said. “And thank you, for sharing it with me.” He pressed a kiss to Jon’s cheek.

“Happy Hanukkah, Jon.”

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #gwyneth writes #oh shit this is long #it's 2.4k #btw not pictured in their spread is gefilte fish which is a staple in my holiday dinners #but again idk if you could find it in the scottish highlands lmao #not a ton of jews out there i imagine #anyway happy hanukkah yall i love you

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honey-makki · 4 years

Text

grandma’s blessing

best friend!hanamaki takahiro x fem!reader

warnings: mentions of death (family member), oral (fem receiving), fire, probably unsanitary cooking conditions if i’m being honest (it’s soft i swear)

summary: the holidays are your favorite time of year. your best friend hanamaki tries to keep holiday cheer alive despite the loss of a family member.

word count 2.4k

masterlist

Holiday’s are tricky. Decisions on whether the trauma of going home will be a heavier burden to bear than the guilt and loneliness of your city apartment. GOing home was never a pleasant experience. Trips filled with parents nitpicking your seemingly successful life and emotionally battering you about anything and everything they could. The only reprieve would be hugging your grandmother and being able to see her face-to-face during dinner. She understood why you didn’t come home every opportunity and didn’t blame you a bit.

On years when it would be too much to travel, you knew that she would still give you a call. Spending all day on the phone with you while you bounced around the kitchen making much smaller portions of what they would be eating at home. Even the small amounts of silence on the call were comfortable. You could feel her next to you kneading the dough for a pie while you mixed together the fruit base. It felt like home.

The silence that has been living in your apartment the past few months after her passing was suffocating. Weekends spent with friends at their apartment just to get out of somewhere that just seems to reek of death and despair.

You had spent more nights at Makki’s place in the past month than at your own. He was your closest friend, a true confidant, someone skilled at lifting your mood, and the person you’ve been undeniably in love with for years. You accepted the fate of growing old with a horde of cats as long as you can have his silly pink hair shining in the sun when you hung out with friends. It’s ok that you are going to be alone forever as long as you still had a standing laser tag date once a month. The only thing stronger than your feelings of love towards the strawberry blond was fear of losing him.

He has been a pillar of strength during the past few months. Holding your crying body until you fall asleep on his tear-stained and snot covered chest. Setting alarms in your phone to make sure you are eating or going to work instead of sitting in a dissociative state. Ever since you shared a bed with him, he’s been a little more comfortable with physical contact. Walking closer together arms touching when going out or throwing an arm over your shoulder when lounging around the house. You can’t count the number of times you’ve both woken up in various stages of cuddling.

He was the one to bring up spending the holidays together. He had just gone home for a wedding and couldn’t afford another ticket and he knew that you were in a weird spot. “We can stay here and make dinner and bake cookies and watch shitty r-romcoms? Someone has to appreciate Hallmark movies, why not us?” You can hear his voice crack and start to speed up as a blush rises across his face. You see it but don’t really process it, more relieved that for the first time in months, the thought of holidays didn’t make you run to the bathroom and throw up. You smiled and nodded, setting plans for him to come over later in the week.

Makki always liked when you cooked, throwing a western spin on dishes he considered normal. But today, he was flabbergasted, you didn’t let him just sit on the barstool curating music while you did all the work, no, there was too much food to be made for him to laze around. You laid out the recipe for your grandmothers’ mac n’ cheese, explaining what everything meant while you got started on an asian fusion stuffing you figured out a few years back.

You stole glances at him in the middle of stirring, combining and folding everything together. His tongue sticks out between his lips while he deliberately measures out the exact amount of cheese required. In all the time you’ve seen him, you’ve never seen him totally lose his laid back air until now, and you can’t control your laugh. Is he really more serious about measuring out sharp cheddar cheese than a game that would take them to nationals? Or that physics final he actually studied for? Your heart skips a beat when you see his soft, satisfied smile to the dish he just created. All you can picture when he looks over to you is how cute of a child he must have been. Cheeks round encasing his bright smile as his head tilts ever so slightly to the left.

After he slides the last dish into the oven, you both opt for taking the time to clean the kitchen, knowing that you won’t want to do it after dinner. The dishes are washed and dried and while Makki puts away the ones that go on a higher shelf, you return flour and other ingredients to the pantry but before you put them down you call out to him, voice lighter than normal, the one you use when asking a favor.

“Taka, how upset would you be if I said I wanted to cook a little bit more?”

“You get dishes this time around then, but what are we makin’?”

You turn out of the pantry with a bounce in your step before slapping down the flour and newly acquired, chocolate chips and sprinkles. “Cookies! We always made cookies with my grandma and it wouldn’t be the same without them.” Your eyes sparkle at the thought of the sweet treats and equally sweet memories of your childhood. Makki thinks you are breathtaking.

“Let me get the bowls back down and we can probably make mediocre cookies if you have anything you do with it.” He smiles at just how cute the squawk you made from his teasing is, just happy that he gets to be here with you. He doesn’t really hear how you defend your baking skills and complain that just because you forgot flour one time doesn’t mean you are inept at baking.

He never thought he would be the type to settle down and be domestic, it just didn’t seem like something he cared a lot about, but now he he can’t rid his mind of the thought of waking up ten minutes before your alarm just to make you a cup of coffee or throwing your favorite blanket in the drier on days it’s raining so when you get home, you can melt into the soft plush and warm up instantly.The clattering of spices brings him back to the moment, turning to see you picking up the cinnamon and vanilla extract.

“You good, love?” There’s something about how you look when you flustered because of him, that scratches an itch he didn’t know was there. The first time a pet name like this had slipped through his lips he was certain that whatever line the two of you were toeing had been crossed, demolished. Instead you just tucked your hair away and averted your gaze back to whatever shitty movie the two of you were “watching” that night. Now it’s normal, well its not normal, its very much not normal for him to refer to you as love or babe and it's not normal for you to exclusivley call him by his first name. It's decidedly abnormal considering your relationship or lack thereof. But if you aren’t going to question it neither is he.

He helps you up and gather the remaining ingredients for the “famous snickerdoodle cookies” that you swear had won awards. The mixing of the dough is interrupted when he has to grab your wrist to stop you from adding salt instead of sugar. You refuse to look at him because you know he is sporting a huge smirk and raised eyebrows, knowing that he’s right about you not being the best baker. You are reprieved by the oven going off, signaling to remove the earlier and change the temperature.

“Damn, babe, these cookies look so good, especially this one.” You return to Makki who already started to lay out the dough on the baking tray. You see perfectly round blobs squished slightly by a fork for a pattern and then right in front of him you see the cookie he was talking about. You didn't expect to see your 27 year old boyfriend-who-isn’t-your-boyfriend to be holding a cockshaoped cookie. But really, you should have seen it coming from the guy who laughs when either of you fart.

He can hear the clock ticking as you just stare, annoyed. He was concerned for a second, that maybe he shouldn’t have made a lewd joke when making cookies. This is something he used to do with her grandmother, you stupid idiot.. But when he can see the apple of your cheek peeking out from behind your hand, he recognizes that face. The one that positively exudes warmth and happiness with her laughter. The butterflies always buzzing in his stomach go wild when this face comes out. He would do anything to see it for the rest of time.

You don’t know where the courage comes from but you cup his cheek for a kiss, he mirrors your action. It just felt normal, and you honestly didn’t realize that it wasn’t normal until you both pulled back. Your eyes are locked on his, both of you sporting a soft smile until his keeps growing, evolving into a laugh that is borderline offensive in how loud it is.

You don’t know why and you get a little nervous that maybe he doesn’t feel the same way, when you go to hide your face, you feel the heat rising but also a soft powdery coating? And that’s when you realize his hands are still coated in flour from shaping the cookies. Your eyes are rolling while you chuckle but Makki on the other hand is losing his mind, almost in tears from laughing while putting the cookies in the oven. “It’s not that funny, Takahiro! Get me a napkin please.”

“Nah, you look really sweet. Good enough to eat.” You weren’t surprised when he returned to kissing you, nor when he lifted you up by your thighs and plopped you on the counter. The kisses are sweet, lazy and perfect for a second kiss, and a third and a fourth. This is normal. His lips belong on yours. Your hands should be tangled up in his hair while his run over your waist and legs. This is right. There's no rush to deepen the kiss, both of you happy to just indulge in the warmth of the other, but it is inevitable. A soft nip at your bottom lip or an accidental tug of his hair, neither of you know what happened first but you both are staring at each other, panting lightly with a much darker gaze than the original flour induced makeout session.

“You are just as sweet as I thought. Gotta have a taste.” His voice is raspier than you’ve ever heard and you just let him move your body as he pleases. Pull your hips to the edge of the counter. Spread your legs as far apart as they’ll go. Lift your hips when he pulls your shorts and underwear down. Gotta act as sweet as he says I am. He has barely touched you but when he falls to his knees and just stares at your dripping slit that he's imagined for years, your eyes, you are already imagining how good he's going to feel.

You shouldn’t even try to think, his tongue exceeded any expectation or desire you had. Expertly flicking against your throbbing clit as he works two fingers in you. You feel the groan he lets out when he dips his tongue into your hole before you hear it. The vibrations reverberate up your spine and through your body, an all-consuming heat starting in your stomach, threatening to let loose, to run rampant on your body. His fingers, joined by another, return to your clenching hole and search for the spongy spot hidden deep inside. All you can hear is the blood rushing through your head, drowning out every other noise.

“C’mon love, cum on my fingers, on my tongue, I’ve wanted, dreamed about this for years, give it to me.” His slow words juxtaposed the fervent pace of his fingers and it was enough to send you over the edge.

You feel so hot you fear you might pass out, the groan Makki lets out beneath you is the only thing keeping you grounded. You were first concerned that you had hurt him in someway, but when you see his eyes roll back into his head and his tongue trying to lap up every single bit of cum you squirted on his face and thighs, you know it wasn’t due to excruciating pain, rather it's just an obscene reaction to you.

When you push him back, squirming with overstimulation, you hear him scramble and “Shit! Fuck! Fire extinguisher?? WHERE IS YOUR FIRE EXTINGUISHER???” You are still out of it until he starts actually screaming, words still evade you but he follows your line of sight to the red tube hiding in the corner next to the fridge. The smell of smoke is overwhelming all of a sudden. You were in a dreamlike post orgasmic state and suddenly your coughing, eyes hazy.

the cookies, SHIT THE COOKIES!! Smoke is billowing out of the oven and your fire alarm is blaring, but soon the room is filled with a white foam originating from Makki. You never realized that the foam would continue to expand until half of your kitchen was covered in it and you saw a sheepish looking Makki on the other side.

“Fires out”. Again, he starts to laugh at you, and this time you join him. Today has turned out entirely different than you expected. It wasn’t a sad day, it was filled with laughter, romance, an ill timed fire and Makki. All in all, a successful holiday, despite the fact everything you cooked was coated in foam. He’d seen you staring at the food and already took his phone out to order food, “Indian or ramen?”

Yeah, you think you’re grandma would be happy seeing you like this. Happy Holidays.

a/n: i don’t really know what this is but the image of makki being a disaster in the kitchen came to me one day and here we are. make sure you read the other fics in the collab

matsukawa’s funeral home winter collab

a/n 2.0: also a/o to @iwaasfairy for making that makki image that i used in my header. i love her more than i love him which say a lot

#hanamaki takahiro #hanamaki drabble #hanamaki x y/n #hanamaki smut #haikyuu smut #makki smut #makki x reader #makki x you #hanamaki x reader #hanamaki.coffee #kristen.writes #oral.espresso

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boom-boom-boyx2 · 2 years

Text

Headcanons but it’s just my favorite characters…

Maka Albarn (soul eater):

- she listens to classical rock

- no else is aloud to have the aux and everyone is 100% okay with it

- she hates has a crop top that says “all men suck balls” but soul wrote “-my bf” and she likes the shirt to much to throw it away (can’t get the stain out)

- likes anything strawberry flavored but hates strawberries. she can’t stand the texture…

- always says “knowledge is more important than looks” but will shop for 5 hours on end to find the exact outfit she say on a social media post 4 months ago

- has a blue bunny (stuffed animal) that’s she sleeps with.

- leaves cookies & a little note that’s from a ‘secret admirer’ by her dads door whenever she feels like she was too mean

- side note: Spirit knows it’s her

- she’s actually known Stien since she was a baby bc he’s basically her uncle, she just didn’t want anyone to know that the crazy teacher was her uncle

- loves pineapple on pizza and blames her father bc everyone always says it’s gross and shes like “well my dad always liked it so it’s just a habit to order it- i’ll eat it if no one else will!”

- instead of a diary she has a book that she writes based off of her life (if that makes sense)

Daichi Sumawara (Haikyuu):

- has the funkiest music taste (like high dad vibes) [if that makes sense]

- drops the F-bomb a lot, under his breath mostly, but every times someone else hears it he reacts like ur crazy catholic grandmother

- the best driver but the worst road rage

- he uses moisturizer

- has 2 older sisters, not to much older tho

- a bisexual on a good day

- really good on roller skates, no one knows why or how

- technology is not his thing. everything he touches breaks.

- sketches a lot of scenery but it’s only his like stress reliever thingy

- has a lot of plants, and each one is named.

- all of them died when he was on vacation and he trusted Suga to water them for a week

- suga replaced them with fake plants

- Daichi showed up to sugar’s house with a giant fake leaf and showed it down his (suga) shirt then left

- reads a lot of books but their all real cheesy romance stuff

- has a lot of blankets but 0 pillows, literally none.

- his room is suuuupppeeerrrrr clean

- it’s bc everything is shoved in his closet

- don’t open it or you’ll die

- has a giant star wars poster in his room, he has never watched a single movie/ episode ever.

- loves bugs

- suga hates bugs

- that’s why daichi loves them👍

- cooks really well but only bc there are specific directions

- the scariest look when concentrated

Bakugou Katsuki (BokuNoHeroAcademia):

- loves BL romance (not even bc he’s kinda gay he just loves it)

- high school him/ he used to get really guilty at night bc of bullying deku so his dad would sit with him in his room and talk ut out

- his dad would help him write a note or whatever of an apology once a month and give ut to Inko

- loves tea.

- likes to hug people but hates to be hugged

- secretly loves it when ppl mess with his hair

- it’s actually really soft

- listens to American music while working out, it’s all beyoncé & tyler the creator

- knows how to speak Italian, Korean, and a little bit of English

- Quotes (mean) AllMight memes whenever he can infront of deku bc it pisses him off sm

- did denki’s makeup for a prank and now him denki, and mina all try out different eyeliner looks all the time

- he and his mom dressed as eachother for halloween one year and dad kept mixing them up

- needs reading glasses (got it from dade-o)

- Masaru (dad) is the scariest one out of all three of them.

- he got fed up with the both of them during katsuki’s 2nd year and made both of them go to anger management classes and family therapy

- Katsuki is deathly afraid of his dad and not at all afraid of him mom

- Deku had an american tv show phase but bakugou loves himself some british shows; Dr. who, Sex Education, Derry Girls, etc…

- he gives off the biggest “older sister” vibe i’ve ever seen

- breaks dishes whenever he washes them, he’s gentle but they just slip

Shinobu kocho (demon slayer):

- she was the kid that would bring you a handful of bugs she found in the dirt and just leave them on the table

- is completely lost when it comes to fashion, it’s sad.

- she tries but mitsuri always has to basically dress her

- loves overalls tho

- someone gifted her crocs and she cried, no one knew if it was bc they were hideous or bc she was supper happy.

- she wears them at home like slippers but ligit no one knows

- she has arts & crafts days with the kids from the butterfly mansion, nezuko, and mitsuri and they make the cutest a things

- someone once mentioned mitsuri’s breast’s and shinobu knocked them out so quick no one even knew it was her

- giyuu told her she had food in her teeth one time so for a week straight she wouldn’t smile with her teeth till she could ask him to check

- the best hygiene out of everyone in fucking century

- she had the better music taste in the pillars bc it’s unique but it’s all really good music!

- keeps everything anyone gives her

- she had a shoe box that’s filled with the stuff!!

- the only one who can keep a secret and remember it.

- she has to stop mitsuri’s for slipping up all the time

- the best at trivia games

- everytime someone flirts with her she just tilts her head, smiles, and says: “never in a million years you scum.” :)

- she’s so dumb.

- like everyone thinks she’s a scholar, she can barely count and can’t spell for shittttt

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itsmeevie01 · 4 years

Text

Bio!Dad Bruce Wayne Day 4 -Habits

I just wanted to put a trigger warning up at the top. It's not very well discribed, because this was edited at 3 am, BUT. Marinette... Disassociates(?) Toward the end of this. I know that it's a little different than what people usually discribe for her, but I kind of based off my experiences I've had and experiences my best friend has had.

The sun started to peak its way through the windows as Dick Grayson made his way into the kitchen at the manor. It wasn’t often that he was able to come back for long stretches of time, but when he was, he enjoyed beating his family down. As he walked in, he blinked in shock. There sitting at the counter, was Marinette. His younger sister (who he was still mad at Bruce for hiding from him) was siting there happily chatting with Alfred as she sipped on a mug of coffee. She was already dressed and seemed too chipper for 5:30 in the morning.

At the sound of him slinging himself into a chair, Marinette threw him a smile that made Dick squint in return. He huffed in response and latched onto the mug that was passed his way. There was a reason he made sure to be up before the others, after all.

Tim was settled with his laptop when Marinette maneuvered into the sitting room. In one arm, she had her sketchbook, a bag of pencils, and a cup of water. In the other arm, she had her computer, phone, and a tray that was holding four cups of coffee. When she set one down in front of Tim, he hummed in appreciation. She sent a smirk his way and added “a gift to the lord of the room” his responding

“Hey! Get back here Little Bit!” was met with laughter. She threw him a smile and arranged herself onto the opposing couch. He smiled at her and returned to his homework. This was his quiet time, and she knew that. Recently she had been making a point to spend time working in the same space with him when they both were busy. Both times she had come to visit since Thanksgiving, he had found himself working with the girl. Somehow, she always knew when he needed a break, and the thirteen-year-old girl made sure to pull his attention away for an appropriately short amount of time. He had often found over the last few weeks that he was sleeping better because of it too. Now, as he reached over to grab the coffee, she had brought him, he smiled. Maybe he could convince her to make a habit of this.

Every week his sister had been at the manor over the course of her winter break, Dick had been beaten to the kitchen. As he stumbled through the kitchen once again at an ungodly hour of the morning, he realized that he could hear Alfred and his sister talking quietly in the smaller dining room. As he made his way into the room, he could make out the tail end of their conversation, “-do know that they would be more than willing to let you talk about this, Miss Marinette. You do not have to carry this burden on your own.” The sound of a disbelieving snort followed.

“I know you keep saying that, Alfred, but I just…they all have such busy lives and there’s so much going on in Gotham and- “

“and you are still part of the family, Miss Marinette. Master Bruce is starting to worry about you, and Master Dick is starting to notice that you are avoiding the topic. Do not shut them out, when they can help you. This situation may need an outside touch.” When Alfred finished speaking, Dick decided that he had overheard more than he should have.

“Alfred? Are you in here?” When he called out for the older man, Dick watched with a cringe as little Marinette jumped at his voice. “Hey Net! I’m not sure if I should be jealous that5 you keep beating me down in the mornings!” as he teased her, he watched her eyes light up.

“Well, Dick, you try being the child of two bakers- “as the girl started her comeback, a groggy voice cut through the air.

“what the hell are you all doing up?” the three turned to see Tim standing in the recently vacated doorway, clutching his water bottle and looking around with bloodshot eyes. “it’s like, 2 am.” At Tim’s declaration, Marinette giggled.

“Tim? Its almost 6?” the look of shock that flashed over the boy’s face made Dick frown. Tim’s all-nighters were becoming more and more frequent. The way the teen stumbled out of exhaustion was worrying.

“Hey Timmy? Let’s get you to bed.”

In the week prior to Christmas, Bruce made it a point to try and come home earlier so that he could spend more time with both Marinette and Tim, who were both supposed to be enjoying their winter breaks. He knew, of course, that Tim had wheedled his way into doing extra course work over the holiday to cut down on time spent in school. That didn’t mean that he expected the boy to focus solely on the work. Imagine his surprise when he had come home to both of his teens settled in the sitting room working. Marinette was sketching furiously, while Tim was typing away on his laptop with a ferocity that would scare many of the villains that populated Gotham. Bruce blinked in shock before turning to find Alfred standing off to the side smiling.

“They have adjusted their habits so that they can bond even though this season is busy for the both of them, Master Bruce.” He turned back to his children and smiled at the two of them as they continued working, unaware of anything outside of the sitting room.

The next morning, when Dick came down, expecting to see his sister and Alfred, he was instead met with the sight of macaroons cooling on the counters. On the island, there were croissants, and on the stove, there were pans full of freshly baked sugar cookies. He blinked in concern and turned around the room searching. On the other side of the kitchen was his sister, standing over the sink, hands unmoving, as she gazed out at the slowly rising sun. Her eyes were unfocused, and as Dick made his way over, his eyes focused on the slight tremor that was running through her hands. “Net?” When he received no answer, he moved closer, “Marinette? Hey- “the girl moved, and Dick’s hand shot out and caught the bowl that she had been holding and set it down. Gently, he guided his sister out of the kitchen and led her into the sitting room, where they passed Alfred as he made his way down for the morning.

Once Dick had Marinette settled, he sat next to her and held out one of his hands, leaving the offer for comfort open as the girl blinked and started to look around in confusion.

One moment, Marinette had been starting on the dishes, the next, she was sitting on the love seat in the siting room next to her brother. The sharp poke in her side that had brought her out of her mind was one that she could only attribute to Tikki. As she sat there, adjusting to the change in location, Marinette took a deep breath to ground herself. She wasn’t expecting her brother to speak.

“Do you want to talk about it, Net?” The girl studied the Man sitting next to her for a moment. When she decided that she couldn’t find any hint of insincerity, Marinette nodded hesitantly and trained her eyes on her hands. They were twisting in her lap, working as a distraction and an outlet for the nervous energy that had been building up since August.

“I- “Dick waited patiently for the girl to collect her thoughts, “I love Paris, I really do. I mean- it’s the place I grew up! But. Well, recently.” She hesitated again. She looked up at him, with tears in her eyes. “everything is wrong!” The phrase tore out of her, and she clamped her mouth shut afterwards as her mind flew through damage control ideas. “I mean. Well. Everything is do tense. Too perfect. No one can feel anything!” When had she started crying? Marinette could have sworn that she had a better handle on her emotions after spending the last five months held emotionally hostage. As she started to devolve into true sobs, Dick pulled the girl into a hug, and she clung to him. For the first time in almost five months the girl was able to truly process what was going on in her home city.

When Alfred came to check on them 20 minutes later, he found the duo sitting curled on the couch. In the other doorway stood a shocked Bruce. Alfred smiled at the look of shock on the fathers face before the man strode over to join his oldest and his youngest. As Alfred turned to go back into the kitchen and finish making sense of all of Marinette’s baking, the man shook his head. Who knew that the habits that Marinette influenced would be the ones that would bring the Paris situation to light?

so, i plan on picking up in the same place for tomorrow’s prompt (overprotection) so i didnt resolve anything. i think i have the rest of the month plotted out as well! as soon as i have a day where im not stuck at work all day, im going to go through and put all of these in a master post, along with my other fic *ideas*.

just so that i can also clear up any potential confusion, no. Damian is not yet present in this. yes. he will eventually. at this point, Marinette is 13, Tim is 15, Jason (who is going to be in the background for a bit still) is 19(ish) and Dick is either 24 or 25, i haven’t decided. I do plan on including more of the Batclan as i go...

#b!dbwm2020 #bio!dad bruce wayne #My writing #marinette dupen chang #maribat #miraculous ladybug #here we go #(do i smell a bit of plot?)#(that may be camembert)

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elwenyere · 4 years

Text

Deck the Halls

(Steve/Tony fluff, in which the Avengers make their own holiday decorations, and it goes about as well as you would expect)

Also on AO3

“Okay,” Tony said, “I am willing to admit that putting repulsors on the Iron Man ornaments was not my best idea.”

He paused to duck as a pillow, half a molasses crinkle, and what looked suspiciously like a tranquilizer dart flew at him from three different locations in the Avengers common room.

“But I maintain,” he continued from behind the couch, “that the underlying principle of the design is both technologically sound and aesthetically adorable. Also, refs, can I get a rule check on ‘no using knock-out techniques on your teammates’?”

“If I wanted you knocked out, you’d be dreaming of sugar plums right now,” Natasha called out from somewhere behind a makeshift barricade of packages and wrapping-paper rolls. One of the tiny Iron Men buzzed over her head, sending a barrage of dime-sized repulsor blasts at a Rudolph gift bag, and Natasha shot the ornament out of the air with her Widow’s Bites.

“Also, calling in the refs is a pretty bold move,” Bruce added, “considering that the miniature murder bots guarding our Christmas tree are in flagrant violation of rules ten through fifteen.”

Bruce’s voice was slightly distorted by the walls of his blanket fort, which Steve had suggested building as an anti-Hulking measure when the first wave of ornaments flew off their branches and into attack formation. So far the strategy had proved successful, with only one close call after Thor almost collided with the fort during an enthusiastic mid-air tackle.

“Remind me never to do holiday dinners with you guys again,” Rhodey groaned. He was crouched next to Tony behind the couch opposite Steve’s, and Steve could hear the faint whir of the War Machine gauntlet as he scanned the room. “I could be falling asleep on my couch to the Vince Guaraldi Trio, and instead I’m hiding from an army of weaponized Christmas figurines.”

“When you’re subpoenaed for the inevitable senate hearing about this, just remember: it was all Steve’s fault,” Tony advised.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Steve replied, adding an eye roll that he knew Tony would hear in his voice.

It was true that Steve had been the one to suggest that they make their own decorations for the Tower this year. But it was also true that Steve’s contribution (a hand-drawn series of family holiday cards to hang on the fridge) had been the only one that hadn’t tended to produce chaos. Thor and Natasha’s idea to braid garlands had started out innocently enough. But then they’d decided to add “motivational mead” to the creative process. Ten hours later, they’d produced so many strings of spruce, holly, and taffeta that the garlands had to be looped around every available surface, twisting around lamps and chair legs until the common room looked like it was being slowly strangled to death by a festive boa constrictor. Bruce – in a complete failure to learn from the previous Halloween’s Saltwater Taffy Incident – had concocted a spiced eggnog so addictively good that each new batch he made disappeared almost immediately – setting off a cycle of recrimination and dairy-based hoarding. And Clint had stayed true to form by making an extremely explicit, themed pin-up calendar of himself, which had been quickly banned from all common areas by a 4-2 vote (“I think these poses are courageous,” Thor had explained, “considering your very small human sizes”).

“Blame is assigned by the survivors, Stark,” Natasha said evenly. Her face darted into view at one end of her barricade, next to a box wrapped in “Hulk Smash!” paper. “And if we don’t get these ornaments contained before Bruce’s chocolate pecan pie has to come out of the oven, I can’t guarantee that anyone in this room will qualify.”

“How many left, JARVIS?” Tony asked.

“Just three, sir,” the crisp voice replied. “And my sensors indicate they are all locked in a standoff with the large stuffed hedgehog on the lower floor.”

“Do I have to ask?” Rhodey muttered.

“It’s for Pepper,” Tony explained, “a running gag: she thinks it’s hilarious.”

“We should set a trap to draw out the remaining ornaments,” Steve decided. “I want eyes on the perimeter – where the hell is Clint anyway?”

As if on cue, a grappling arrow shot across the room and latched onto the side of a container of eggnog. The metal wire attached to the hook pulled taut and then retracted with a sharp twang, yanking the eggnog over their heads and back into the air vent.

“You have a problem, man!” Rhodey yelled after Clint’s feet as they slithered away from the opening in the ducts. “Get help!”

“Ah that gives me an idea!” Thor exclaimed. He popped his head up from behind the kitchen counter, where he had apparently been braiding one of the garlands into his hair. “The tiny Iron Soldiers seem determined to guard the spirit of the holidays. Perhaps we can use that to our advantage.”

“Right,” Tony agreed, “cover me.”

He stood up and strode toward the Christmas tree, gauntlet charging.

“Come out, my tiny, murderous robot sons,” Tony called, “or I’m going to turn your favorite tree into a pile of toothpicks.”

“Did you actually equip them with audio sensors? Or are you just grandstanding?” Rhodey asked.

“Kind of stepping on my moment here, Gumdrop,” Tony replied.

And whether it was because the ornaments had somehow sensed a threat to the tree or because they had successfully subdued all the stuffed animals in the vicinity, Steve’s ears suddenly picked up the low whine that meant hostile décor was incoming. As Tony held his position, Steve saw Natasha, Rhodey, and Thor leap out from cover and take aim at the three diminutive Iron Men that were shooting toward their creator’s head.

“Tony!” Steve yelled, and Tony let out a small yelp of surprise as Steve tackled him sideways onto the couch. Steve curled his body protectively around Tony’s, and he threw up his shield just in time to shelter them from the disintegrated ornaments, which fell like a shower of harmless glitter into a halo around their heads.

Steve cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks flush slightly as a chunk of armor the size of a pea pattered onto the couch next to them with a barely audible fizzle.

“My hero,” Tony smirked.

“A bit overdramatic, Rogers,” Thor observed.

“Ooooooh, Captain America!” Clint called in a high-pitched voice from a nearby vent. “You’re so dreamy. Will you sign my chest?”

A chorus of boos and a smattering of tossed cookies followed Clint’s laughing retreat back through the ducts.

“So I’m thinking the Mark II ornaments should come with a fail-safe button,” Tony mused, looking up at Steve with his head still resting in the crook of Steve’s arm.

“Tony,” Steve sighed.

“What?” Tony asked with exaggerated innocence. “I have models for the whole team. There’s even a little Cap ornament with magnets for the hug and fly.”

Steve chewed his bottom lip.

“Are you trying not to smile?” Tony asked.

“I’m trying to contain my disapproval,” Steve replied.

“You’re trying not to smile,” Tony confirmed. “Let it out, Steve. I’m objectively delightful.”

“You’re objectively a threat to national security,” Steve retorted.

“Yeah, and you love it,” Tony nodded. “That’s like…your number one turn on.”

Steve finally allowed a smile to spread across his face. In the part of his mind that was always scanning his periphery, he was aware of Natasha helping Bruce out of his blanket fort and picking a piece of lint out of his hair – her hand lingering a little longer than necessary as Bruce assured her he had a backup pie in the fridge. Rhodey and Thor were loudly concocting plans to smoke Clint out (and pointedly ignoring Clint’s own contributions from the vent above them). And in the center, as always, was Tony, who was grinning victoriously as he took in Steve’s expression.

“You’re right,” Steve told him. “I do love you.”

Tony's smile froze in momentary surprise and then softened.

“This is how you want to say that for the first time?” he asked teasingly, his hands coming up to brush at Steve’s sides just above the hem of his jeans. “On the couch, surrounded by our catcalling friends and the scorched remains of the homicidal holiday ornaments I created?”

“Yep,” Steve answered, leaning down to kiss Tony’s forehead. “I love that you make messes,” a kiss on the right cheek, “I love that you invite messes to move in,” a kiss on the left cheek, “I love that since I met you, you’ve made every mess of mine your mess too,” a final kiss – as gentle as Steve could make it – on Tony’s lips. “I love you, Tony.”

He pulled back so he could look into Tony’s eyes and watch the rapid play of emotion across his face – always too fast to track.

“I love you too, you big sap,” Tony replied, and as the team whooped and set off a round of Christmas crackers, he pulled Steve back down by the front of his Iron Man sweater.

#stony #stevetony #stony fanfiction #festive ficlet #avengers as family #domestic avengers #avengers tower #this got a little cracky #they're human disasters your honor #happy holidays #thank you for reading

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taeyongtime · 4 years

Text

silver cufflinks

genre: escape artist!taeyong | circus!au

featuring: NCT’s Taeyong

word count: 7,467 words

a/n: an idea of old that i finally managed to execute after 3 years and a culmination of 14 handwritten pages :)

“Have you heard? Neon Lights is in town!”

You shake your head, never heard the name before.

“You’ve never heard of the Neon Lights Circus?” Your friend’s jaw drops in awe, unbelieving of such a thing. “It’s only the best circus in all of Asia!

“Surely your father has heard of them? Didn't you say he used to perform with a circus?”

“That was a long time ago,” you ponder, recalling all the wild stories from your father’s travels with a wandering circus. “Isn’t this Neon Lights relatively new?”

“Twenty years is hardly new.”

Urged to ask about Neon Lights, you give in and promise to ask your father once you return home. However, the question goes unasked when you see the circle of family surrounding the door to your parents’ bedroom, the upcoming announcement completely unexpected.

“Your father… he’s gone, dear.”

—

You clutch the locked leather-bound volume in hand, following the person in front closely as the line moves slowly towards the ticket booth of the Neon Lights circus. The hype not to be underestimated, what looked to be fifty people are already lined up once the circus’ nighttime hours had been announced one hour prior. Some were new faces who wanted to get a taste of what the acclaimed circus had to offer, others familiar patrons who couldn’t wait to see what was new in store compared to previous shows. All in all, the anticipation for entry is palpable, tingling excitement dancing in the air while the line inched its way up.

Finally, you make it to the booth, handing over the correct amount of money in exchange for an admissions ticket. Green-and-black striped tents greet you once you pass the iron gates, neon lights fitting of the circus’ name dotting the main path. Elaborate signs boasting of acts and other surprises do little to catch your attention, only one goal in mind today as you pass each tent that isn’t the one you wanted. However, you can’t seem to find the tent in question, opting to pop into the next one you see to ask for directions.

“Oh, sorry,” you mumble, bumping paths with the figure dressed in black before the fire breathers’ tent. “I didn’t see you there.”

“No problem,” he dismisses, brushing the sleeves of his black blazer, “You’re good.”

“By the way, do you know where I can find the escape artist?”

He arches an eyebrow. “The escape artist?”

“…Never mind.”

Lifting the curtains, you pass him and enter the tent. Three fire breathers are still in uniform, skipping around the stage with flaming torches in their hands.

“Hey,” you yell at the top of your lungs. “Do any of you know where the escape artist is?”

“Can’t hear you,” hollers the one juggling three torches at once. “Come closer!”

You climb over the rope separating the audience seats from the performers, already halfway up the stage until you feel yourself pulled back down.

“You could’ve died standing so close to the fire breather,” hisses the man you’d bumped into outside, “Follow me.”

“Why should I?”

“I didn’t know you were so desperate to meet me that you’d stick your face into blazing fire to ask my whereabouts.”

“Wait, you’re the escape artist?”

◇

The escape artist’s tent is smaller than expected, a ring of thirty chairs circling the performing space that provides no covers for any sleight of hand. He gestures for you to sit in any of the open chairs and you let out a cry of surprise at hearing the shrill caw overhead.

“My raven won’t bite,” he reassures, reaching a hand to pet the bird that lands on his left arm. “Henry is quite friendly.”

You take a seat and remember the locked journal, extending it to him.

“My father left this for you.”

“Who’s your father?”

“Have you heard of the magician Eriol Kim? That’s my father’s stage name.”

He must know, the downcast glance and dipped head obvious signs that he was familiar with your father.

“Can you open the journal?” you ask, offering the locked volume again. “No one in the family’s been able to open it even though we were left with the key.”

“Let me see.”

He takes the journal and studies the lock, turning the book in his hands before reaching behind his ear and pulling out a bobby pin. Twisting the pin, he sticks the gadget into the lock, fiddling with it a few times before hearing the satisfactory click.

“Old man probably left you guys with a fake key,” he reasons, flipping through the pages. “Had to quench your thirst for answers but still keep his secrets a secret.”

“What kind of secrets?”

The escape artist smiles, placing the lock back in place.

“Secrets.”

Unsatisfied with his answer, you pester him some more but he zips his lips.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for tonight’s show.”

“Hey, you can’t just kick me out, you weirdo!”

“The name’s Taeyong,” he drawls, waving his fingers in a cheery goodbye. “Maybe we can talk more when you come by again tomorrow.”

—

You end up going back to the circus tomorrow and the day after, each night determined to convince Taeyong to let you see your father’s journal. Not once does the escape artist comply, even giggling playfully when he decides he wants your assistance in a performance. Under the pressure of the audience, you find yourself obliging, soon earning yourself an assistant title to the regulars that stop by every night to watch him perform.

“And now my lovely assistant will set fire to the barrel!”

You get up at hearing the cue and extract the lighter from your pocket, eyeing the barrel warily. The speakers overhead crackle, Taeyong assuring the audience he is unable to push open the barrel’s lid.

“If my assistant can prepare—”

Caught off guard by the utterance, you drop the lighter before he can finish, a quick flame growing at the base of the barrel. The prepared sticks of firewood and gasoline catches almost immediately, fear and excitement mixed into the audience’s response.

“Fire, fire…”

Hushed murmurs of fire echo across the circle, and the only thing on your mind is the fire extinguisher—which you run towards and focus the nozzle on the flaming barrel. Puffs of white envelop the on looking audience, your heart thumping erratically as the flames die out. Timing key in pulling off a successful act, you knew full well one mishap like that can shift the entire performance towards failure and ultimately an untimely death.

Please don’t be in there, please tell me you freed yourself before…before…

“Well, that was a close one.”

Taeyong steps out from the cloud, hair tinged white as he brushes his blazer and pants dry with his hands. Everyone cheers, already forgetting the impending risk of his death from the barrel that had been set aflame earlier than arranged.

“Thank you,” he bows, shooting a quick smirk at the crowd. “It is my honor to perform for you tonight!”

Once tonight’s audience leaves his tent, you run towards him and grab him by the shoulders, checking to see if he is still in one piece.

Taeyong laughs at your antics. “What are you doing?”

“You… You’re not dead.”

He scoffs. “Of course not.”

“…Thank goodness, I...”

Slumping to the ground, you shake your head as you process the prior events once more. Thankfully nothing had gone awry and Taeyong had made it out before the barrel burned to bits and pieces, your mistake passed off as an added measure of suspense for his escape.

“I have something for you.”

Looking up, your eyes land on the slip of green paper in his hands, bordered in metallic ebony with emerald lettering at the center.

“What is this?”

“Unlimited access pass,” he explains, “So you don’t have to pay to get in.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll come back after nearly killing you tonight.”

He grins, cheekiness rolling off his shoulders. “You’re not going to leave when you still don’t know what your father wrote in his journal.”

You let out a chuckle. “I don’t care about that anymore.”

Now it is his turn to sit down, crossing his legs as he rocks to and fro.

“You don’t want to know your father’s secrets?”

“Secrets are called secrets for a reason,” you begin, still holding tight to the unlimited access pass. “These things weren’t mine to begin with and I should respect that.”

Taeyong nods, silver earrings glistening in the lamp light. “I respect you for it, Y/N.”

You startle, staring at him wide-eyed. “How do you know my name?”

“Did some research of my own after you told me Eriol was your father. He said he’ll introduce me to you someday when I first started studying under him.”

“Really? He’s never mentioned you to me before.”

A dry laugh tickles his throat. “Probably didn’t bother anymore after I left without telling him.”

You sense there is a deeper story behind the relationship Taeyong had with your father, but don’t bother to ask.

“That’s enough for tonight,” he concludes, extending a hand to help you up after hopping back on his feet. “Come on, I’ll show you around the rest of the circus.”

You take the offered hand and pull yourself up, scowling. “I don’t need you when I’ve been around the rest of the circus before.”

“Have you seen the white tigers in the Wild Cats tent?”

“There’s a separate tent for tigers?”

The disgusted look on his face says it all. “Clearly you still haven’t been to the best tents around here.”

—

The call at 4pm is unexpected, much less the name that appears on caller ID.

Not sure when Taeyong had inputted his phone number into your device or when he had gotten hold of your contact information, you ignore the ringtone and return to enjoying the fresh cup of oolong tea and just baked sugar cookies for the midday snack. Barely having two sips of tea, you grumble when the phone rings again, this time answering and ready to tell him off for interrupting your teatime.

“What do you want, weirdo?”

“Hello, is this Y/N? Mister Lee Taeyong is currently at the police station; he said this is a good number to reach you, his friend?”

“Excuse me?”

You arrive at the police station thirty minutes later, eyes widened at seeing the limp figure slumped over the table.

“Taeyong?”

Taeyong lifts his head up at hearing his name, the officers standing next to him following closely behind.

“What the…”

He giggles, face flushed as he proudly holds up his hands, an officer cuffed to each wrist.

“Mister Lee claims he misplaced the key,” the office on the right begins calmly, “He gave us your name and contact information when we asked if there is anyone else who may know how to unlock his handcuffs.”

“Um… I can try.”

You kneel to meet Taeyong at eye level, doing your best to not get distracted by the puppy-dog eyes and giggly expression on his face. You smell a faint hint of alcohol; how much had he drank to reach such a wasted state that he had managed to handcuff two well-trained police officers to him?

“Weirdo, how much did you drink? Where is your key?”

“Dunno,” he slurs, letting out a hiccup. “Had one bottle, two?”

“Not even that much,” you mutter, reaching your hands into his jacket pockets and coming up empty. “Lightweight.”

“I cuffed two officers, Y/N. You’re under arrest, officers!”

Ignoring the grumbles and displeasure at being cuffed by a mere civilian, you suddenly remember his bobby pin trick. Reaching by his ear, your fingers grab hold of the pin tucked in his hair, easing it out and fiddling it into each cuff.

The officers wring out their hands once freed, and you quickly help a dizzy Taeyong up.

“Sorry for all the trouble,” you apologize on his behalf, “It won’t happen again.”

◇

Taeyong opens his eyes to find himself in a home that isn’t his tent, the surroundings completely unfamiliar until he sees the photo frame on the nightstand by the bed.

A family photo. He spots his mentor immediately, as stoic as ever posing tight-lipped before the camera.

“I’m sorry for running away, Teacher.”

Sitting up, he eases off the bed and makes a lap around the apartment, taking note of where your things are placed. Not too shabby for someone raised by a magician, although his mentor had also been one to keep a messy desk once he sees the haphazardly scattered papers and uncapped pens on your work table. He starts to reorganize, but pauses midway when he spots the clipped newspaper article.

Impossible. How could he have not realized that was why you’d suddenly appeared in his life?

“Hey, you’re awake.”

He turns at hearing your voice, staring you down.

“Why didn’t you tell me Eriol is dead?”

You manage a soft smile, taking off your sneakers and easing into a pair of purple slippers. “I thought you already knew the moment I gave you his journal.”

“How could I…”

He slams a hand on the table, ignoring the shrill screech at his fingers crushing the small porcelain cup just below his fist. Blood starts to trickle from the shards embedded in his skin, and you hurriedly sit him down before rushing to grab the first-aid kit.

“Idiot... This might hurt, can you withstand it?”

“It’s fine,” he insists, the wince at the first pluck betraying him already. “Don’t… Don’t bother.”

“You owe me a new tea set,” you mutter, plucking out a second and third shard of porcelain. “I’m going to make you buy me an expensive one to make up for it.”

The ramble about tea sets does its job to distract him from the pain. Soon, his hand is porcelain-free and bandaged all the way around, much to his dismay as he twists his wrist and scowls at seeing the mummified right hand.

“This is my good hand you bandaged up.”

“Then don’t perform tonight,” you point out, “You should be resting if you sustained an injury.”

—

He surprisingly follows your lead, not returning to the circus later in the evening. Social media explodes with posts regarding his no-show, but he is not bothered at all. It is rare for him to have a chance to spend time away from the circus, let alone do things other than perform escape tricks.

Tonight, he can live as Lee Taeyong the regular civilian, not Taeyong the escape artist of the Neon Lights circus.

“What is this?”

“A claw machine,” you explain, pointing at the assortment of plush toys kept contained in the red box. “You’ve never played one before?”

“…No.”

Without another word, you pull him inside the arcade. Bright lights and jingling game music greets your ears, the splash of colors across the perimeters enough to send your head spinning with indecision on which machine to play. Not many people besides you and Taeyong, luckily no one recognizes him as a member of the circus.

“Can you get me that one?” you ask, pointing at a pink bunny tucked in the back corner.

“You actually want a toy from here?” he quips, arching an eyebrow. “And me to get it for you?”

“Please,” you pout, batting your eyelashes. “You’re so good with your hands!”

He holds up the bandaged right hand and you gulp.

“I forgot about that.”

“Hmm,” he grumbles, “Step aside and I’ll see what I can do.”

You insert a coin into the slot and he grabs hold of the joystick, angling the claws directly above the bunny. Pushing the button to lower the claw, the prongs are dropped low, opening and closing into empty air before makings its way up again.

“Another one,” Taeyong mutters, eyes fixed on the toy. “We’re not leaving until I get you that bunny.”

It takes him a good two hours and an entire basket of coins to become familiar with the machine, finally maneuvering the claws deftly to pick up the bunny and drop it out. Your excited squeal brings a rare smile to his face, the first of the night. Refusing to take a stab at a different machine, Taeyong pulls you after him to play a shooting game, proving his skill once again when he secures the most kills in all three rounds of killing zombies. Darts, basketball hoops, even a coin toss is easy.

You raise the white flag after he changes his mind about the claw machine, securing almost five more stuffed plush toys under his belt before calling it quits.

“I didn’t think I’d have so much fun,” he admits after stepping out of the arcade under close watch from arcade staff. “The claw is actually not that hard to operate.”

“They were ready to pull you aside for questioning,” you laugh, swinging your stuffed bunny by its ear. “It took you only twenty minutes to get even their bigger toys out of the machines.”

“I gave all those back,” Taeyong drawls, rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves. “I was only trying hard for the bunny.”

“Thank you,” you grin, waving the bunny’s left paw in thanks. “Bunny is happy to go to her new home.”

“Sure.”

He makes an extra point to escort you home at such a late hour, his mere presence reassuring while you turn the corner and spot your apartment complex amid the single alit streetlight.

“This is it,” you begin, turning to him with a soft smile. “Thank you again for tonight.”

Taeyong returns the smile with an even rarer toothy grin. “I should be thanking you for showing me how fun claw machines are.”

“You must have had a lot on your mind tonight. Drinking and not wanting to perform.”

Your words catch him off guard, hitting a little too close to home.

“Yeah.”

Conversation quickly slows, neither knowing what to say until he breaks the silence.

“Good night, Y/N. I’d better go before it gets too late.”

“Wait,” you blurt out, “When can I see you again?”

He replies immediately. “Tomorrow morning. You don’t want to miss tomorrow morning’s show.”

The anticipation already has you excited for tomorrow, so much so that you end up taking a quick shower and turning into bed early for the so-called surprise.

—

You wait until the rest of the crowd is gone, running towards Taeyong and cupping his face in your hands.

“Is your mouth okay?”

“Never better,” Taeyong answers, opening and closing his mouth to prove it. “Why?”

“The threaded needles… how did you swallow all of that with just a drink of water?”

His eyes twinkle with a knowing glint that he knew more than he was letting on.

“Practice.”

Not satisfied with his answer, you proceed to snake your hands into his blazer, empty-handed and needle-less once you finish the pat down.

“Where are the needles?”

“I knew you’d search me, so I already put them away.”

The cheeky smile on his face said it all; you punch him lightly in teasing and he pretends to wince from pain. The gesture is feigned, but you stop, concern replacing the playfulness in your eyes.

“Did I hurt you?” you blubber, unable to stop the tremble in your voice. “I… I didn’t mean…”

“I’m fine,” he laughs, tilting his head in confusion. “Just playing with you.”

“O…Oh.”

He picks up on your sudden retreat, taking a step forward and intertwining his fingers with yours.

“Sorry,” he whispers, the soft murmur so unlike the playful and confident persona he possessed on stage. “I won’t do that again.”

Unsure how to react, you quickly look away and wiggle out of his grip. His hand lingers midair before dropping against his sides, equally as awkward after the intimate touch.

“So… amazing show as usual,” you speak up, easing into a new topic. “There’s always something new every night.”

“Thanks.” The response is a heavy one, loaded with more weight than called for. “I appreciate it.”

“You don’t sound happy at the compliment.”

He sighs, taking a seat on the ground. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“I… I’ve been wanting to leave the circus.”

“Leave?” you echo. “And go where?”

“I don’t know. I’ve wanted to leave for a long time now; I feel that there’s more to the world than these green-and-black striped tents.”

“Then go.”

“There’s no way I can leave this circus. There’s a special clause in the contract I signed with the ringmaster:

“Undying loyalty is the price you must pay

“for Death to take a step back on your few remaining days.”

You frown at the cryptic words. “I don’t understand, Taeyong.”

He proceeds to take off his blazer, bare torso and chest decked with scars of multiple lengths. Varying in depth as well, you can see where fatality may have struck if the wound had sunk just a little deeper, been inflicted a few centimeters in one direction or the next. Multiple close calls with Death’s door right in front of your face.

“Don’t cry,” Taeyong groans, tremors underlying the toughness in his tone as he puts the garment back on. “Don’t… Don’t make me feel like shit for making you cry.”

The sniffles and tears are unstoppable. “Did they do that to you? For wanting to leave?”

“No. These were all from natural causes that happened to me after I made clear I wanted to leave.”

He gestures to the left collarbone area, just short of the neck. “I have two here from the knife thrower’s misses, even though their knives never miss.” The guiding finger moves down to the right side of his waist. “Burns from the fire breathers, bites from the wild cats that are usually so docile in front of their trainers, the list goes on.”

You don’t want to hear any more. “I… I can try to put in a good word. Maybe I can use my father’s name to—”

Taeyong shakes his head. “It’s no use. The contract is binding.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It is what it is.” He reaches a hand forward. “Come on, I’ll show you the tents you haven’t been to yet.”

You slap his hand away. “Don’t try to shift the conversation.”

Any remaining excuses cease, the morning soiled. Without waiting for a response, you exit his tent and start to inquire about the ringmaster and each performer’s contract with the circus, determined to help him gain his freedom from the circus that kept him bound to its paper chains.

—

The impending mention of Neon Lights’ departure to America brings little to be disappointed about, especially when you hadn’t gotten anywhere in discovering how to nullify Taeyong’s contract with the circus.

No form of records existed besides old articles praising the astounding performances. The lineup hadn’t changed since the founding of the circus: acrobats, magicians, clowns, wild cat tamers, knife throwers, fire breathers, and the escape artist. Your head spun in circles during those weeks of research, frustrated at the inability to find the link that connected these broken pieces of Taeyong’s vague narrative.

“Have you packed all your things?”

Your turn at the sound of your mother’s voice, shaking your head. “Not quite.”

She steps over the opened suitcase on the floor and takes a seat on the bed.

“Are you sure you want to go with me to Hong Kong?”

“Yup. I just need to decide what remaining clothes I want to bring over.”

Not convinced, she takes your hand and squeezes, the touch simultaneously comforting and freezing you in place. You open your mouth, but fail to form words into a cohesive sentence. How were you supposed to tell her about Taeyong? How were you supposed to tell her the reason you readily accepted to leave was to avoid a man who had somehow snaked his way into your heart without you knowing it?

“If there’s someone you want to stay here for, you can.”

“Mom, I…”

“You’ve been leafing through your father’s things,” she interjects, “I see the name ‘Taeyong’ in your notes often and found that name in one of your father’s pictures with his students.”

“Do you know him?” you ask curiously.

“Not well,” she admits with a sigh, “Your father was always very excited whenever he mentioned that boy. Said he had finally found an appropriate successor to his work, but then…”

“But then?”

“Taeyong disappeared one day. No note, just gone. Your father was so shocked he wouldn’t leave his study for an entire month.”

“Oh.”

“Have you seen him lately?”

You nod. “Taeyong’s a member of the Neon Lights circus that’s currently in town.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Biting back a snappy retort, you return to packing and soon fill in the remaining space in your suitcase.

“Do you need to say goodbye?” she asks, getting up from the bed and zipping shut the suitcase. “We won’t be back for quite some time.”

“The circus is leaving for America next,” you mumble, “I haven’t spoken to him since he told me they were leaving.”

She doesn’t pry further, excusing herself and leaving to your own devices. The lingering thought of Taeyong is stifling, plaguing both your head and heart about the indecision between letting him know of your departure or not.

“Damn it, that idiot is getting in my head.”

◇

Taeyong sits before the mirror with a scowl on his face, thoughts muddled on why you haven’t shown up since he told you about tonight’s final show in the city before leaving for America. The grand finale performance already halfway in session, it will not be long before it is his turn to go on.

“Taeyong, you’re up!”

Gritting his teeth, he abandons his spot backstage and makes his way onto the main stage, basking in the spotlight and roaring applause at his entrance. One low bow and he frowns, feigning surprise at his already cuffed hands. Two fire breathers juggle torches around him, eventually escorting the escape artist as planned off to the side and into a large box. He listens for the cue to start once another lock is inserted into the hatch, preventing an escape from a mere push from the inside. The handcuff key already extracted from the secret pocket sewn into his blazer, his thoughts return to you and he begins to ponder on why you haven’t answered any of his calls or messages. Had he offended you the night he told you about his contract with the circus?

“Presenting now, the tank!”

The box suddenly lifts into the air, shifting him off balance at the abrupt movement. His fingers lose hold of the key; it is too narrow of a space to kneel to try and retrieve it.

Fuck, there better not be—

His ears pick up the sound of gushing water, confirming his fears once he is set down on a flat surface, presumably the springboard directly above the open tank. Prior rehearsals hadn’t consisted of a filled water tank, much less being encased in a box when the original execution of the trick only required locks by the feet.

“Can Taeyong escape from the locked box while cuffed and submerged in water?” the announce asks the audience.

“Yes!”

No. No, I can’t.

“Do you believe in him?”

No! This wasn’t in the original trick that I had practiced for!

“Yes!!”

The box is pushed off the platform, and Taeyong’s mind goes blank upon spotting the water that starts to seep in while his hands are still locked in cuffs.

—

[four months later, Hong Kong]

Fate catches you off guard when you least expect it, the subway ads for the Neon Lights circus a sight for sore eyes. Not even six months into the stay in Hong Kong and the circus is already snaking its way back into your life, bringing along memories of the escape artist who’d had such close ties to you even before your initial meeting. You had ultimately decided not to tell Taeyong about leaving for Hong Kong, flight of departure coincidentally on the same day as the circus’ finale show before leaving for America. Now, upon seeing the ad, you wonder if you should stop to say hello for old time’s sake.

Of course, that is assuming he is still performing with them and not…

You hand rummage through your bag, taking out the black wallet and the green slip is still inside as expected. One unlimited access pass granting free admission into the Neon Lights circus with no mention of an expiration date.

“Opening night at 6pm… Surprises galore…”

—

The line outside the circus is twists around two entire blocks, popular no matter where it goes. Clutching the access pass in hand, you take a step forward but pause in your tracks. Were you ready to see Taeyong again? Would he be mad at seeing you here when he’d taken extra care to inform you about the last show in your city?

What was he to you, even? A friend? Or perhaps something more?

“You’re not going in?”

The masked figure tilts his head in confusion, a gesture you recognize immediately upon hearing his voice.

“Isn’t that the unlimited access pass I gave you? Did it expire?”

“No… It still works, Taeyong.”

He quickly grabs your hand and pulls you aside, away from the turning heads that had heard the escape artist’s name.

“I didn’t tell anyone I’m skipping opening night,” he hisses, “Don’t be so loud next time.”

“Me, loud?” you echo, shaking his head away. “You’re the one who snuck out!”

“Why didn’t you show up during the finale show?”

As expected, he gets straight to the point.

“Family emergency,” you answer. “I had a flight to catch.”

He narrows his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“Relative on my mom’s side. She’s getting better, but we're staying longer just to make sure.

“Did America treat you well?”

“I was recuperating during the American portion of our travels.”

Concern flickers in your eyes. “H-How did you get hurt?”

He spits bitterly at recalling the incident. “Unexpected variables during one of my escapes. Nearly drowned to death if one of the clowns hadn’t noticed things were too still up on stage.”

“But you never slip up, not even during the most pressuring circumstances.”

“I was preoccupied in my thoughts.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“…You.”

His answer is not one you’d predicted; you laugh it off and wave a hand over your face in dismissal.

“I’m serious, Y/N.”

“...Oh.”

“Are you going in?” he asks again. “I can get us to the front of the line in a matter of seconds.”

“Do you… Do you actually have some time to grab dinner?”

“Sure.”

An hour of catching up at a local diner later, you exit the establishment with a cup of hot milk tea in hand, Taeyong holding open the door for you since your hands were full. Outside, the night is still young, streets teeming with people and signs brightly alit from cafes, boutiques, and more.

“Can I escort you home?” he asks, rubbing his hands together in the chilly air. “I don’t want to go back to the circus just yet.”

You take in the thin blazer and ripped jeans adorned on his lithe body. “Care for a coffee at my place to warm up before you go?”

“I’d love that.”

Upon arriving at your apartment, you note the blue slippers by the shoe cabinet, your mother still out as scheduled with her friends.

“Take a seat. Coffee will be ready in a bit.”

He follows you to the kitchen instead and snorts at seeing the stick of instant coffee powder in the black mug.

“What,” you grumble, “We don’t have an espresso machine or anything fancy like that here.”

“Instant coffee is fast,” he smiles, holding back a snicker. “I look forward to it.”

It doesn’t even take two minutes to prepare the coffee, but Taeyong takes his time with the drink, so slow that you wonder if he’s stalling to not leave so early.

“Is the coffee not to your liking?” you speak up. “You barely touched it.”

“Oh, it’s great.” He takes a larger sip, giving you thumbs up. “I just wanted to savor it.”

“There’s two more packs in the pantry if you want it.”

“Yes, please.”

You hear the door open by the time you hand off the second cup of coffee, your mother surprised at seeing Taeyong by the sofa.

“You are…?”

He bows low, careful to not drop the mug. “Hello, Ma’am.”

“Mom, this is Taeyong,” you begin, hurrying over to help her with her bags. “Taeyong, this is my mother.”

He nods again when she greets him and you pick to sit next to him, leaving a space for your mother on the other side.

“Have you had dinner?” she asks, addressing both of you.

“Yes,” he speaks up, beating you to it. “Y/N was kind enough to offer coffee since it’s so cold outside.”

“I wonder why,” you mutter under your breath, eyeing the large rips on his black jeans.

You tune out the small talk between your mother and Taeyong, not once taking your eyes off the latter. He seemingly notices, subtly shifting closer until the gap is closed and your shoulders are touching ever so slightly.

“Have you shown him your father’s things, dear? He’d probably like to see them.”

You stand up, shaking your head. “Want to see?”

Taeyong nods, following closely as you show him the way to your father’s study. Once inside, you step back and he approaches the desk first, leafing through the ample notebooks and eyes shifting to and fro at all the new information. None of it had made sense to you, but maybe it was more appropriate to have the right person see it, notably one who also followed the school of magic tricks and the escape arts.

“This is what I was practicing,” he gushes excitedly, beckoning you over. “I didn’t practice with water, but if I start to practice holding my breath...”

You peek over his shoulder, lips turned to a frown. “That looks dangerous.”

“Not if you have the proper equipment.” He continues to scroll past each page, eyes glowing like a child who’s been told Christmas had come early this year. The excitement palpable to grasp, you find your lips widening to a grin each time he makes a noise of delight on a new page, just as happy as he is about your father’s old notes.

The bubble of joy pops, however, with the sound of rain pitter-pattering against the windows, quickly growing into steady sheets of rainwater that pound hard on the glass.

“Have him stay for the night,” your mother’s voice echoes down the hall. “It’s late and raining too hard.”

“You heard her,” you begin, turning to Taeyong with your hands thrown up in defeat. “You’re staying the night.”

A mischievous smirk dances across his lips, briefly before he turns his back on you. “I’m good in here.”

“Are you sure? It’s more comfortable for you to sleep on the couch outside.”

“Who says I’ll be sleeping tonight?”

—

Thunder roars into the night, startling you awake. The clock on the nightstand reads 3am, hardly an hour for a sane person to be alert. You let out a yawn and shuffle out of bed, heading to the kitchen for a drink of water before turning in again.

On your way, you pass your father’s study and notice the slight crack in the door. Pushing it open, you feel your eyes widening at the sight of the empty desk. All your father’s notes and papers recording his life’s work in the escape arts gone, what hits the nail on the head is the absence of the man who had been so excited to see his teacher’s remaining research, gone without a trace.

“Taeyong?”

No words. The only sounds you hear are the rain and the clink of metal against the floorboards, the fallen handcuffs sending chills down your tired back.

—

You wonder why Taeyong is always on your mind, the man nothing more than one of your father’s former students.

Since his uncanny disappearance that one rainy night, you’d been unconsciously keeping an extra eye out whenever you pass by the circus. Fans of the escape artist were just as worried, not hearing any news of him for almost two full weeks now. Circus staff also had surprisingly nothing to say on the matter, sparking outrage at the supposed negligence for the performer’s health and wellbeing. All this hubbub over a man who had simply gone off the grid entirely… a small part of you had considered the possibility that he had planned this all along to hype up whatever trick he had tucked up his sleeves.

“Any news on Taeyong?”

The staff running the ticket booth shakes her head. “We’re trying our best to get more information from the administrators as well.”

Nodding in thanks, you cast an eye to the crowd waiting anxiously on the side and shake your head. Collective sighs echo across the group, but are soon replaced by curious murmurs at the string of ringtones and vibrations simultaneously emitted from everyone’s mobile devices. Your own included, you open the notification and find yourself automatically redirected to what looked to be a stage. The curtains part, revealing a dark-haired Taeyong in his signature fitted black blazer and ripped jeans.

“It’s Taeyong!”

“He’s alive, that’s really him!”

“Welcome!” the escape artist says warmly to the camera, “Thank you for tuning in to my broadcast!”

Why is this idiot livestreaming when he has an entire stage at the circus?

“Today I have a very special trick prepared,” he continues, “So special that I decided to broadcast my performance for everyone in the world to see!”

You immediately rush towards the ticket booth, the other twenty people thinking the same as bodies clamor to reach the entryway and get in to view the escape in person.

◇

The raven perched atop the wooden barrel lets out a shrill caw at seeing its master lock himself in a pair of handcuffs. Spooked by the abrupt noise, the young clown acting as Taeyong’s assistant shuffles backwards, nearly knocking over the stack of books on the table.

“Why are you so scared, little clown? Henry is a very nice bird.”

“A-Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, checking that the camera isn’t recording before continuing. “I-I don’t want to get in trouble if… if…”

Taeyong lets out a laugh, the raven flapping its wings in unison. “You don’t believe I’ll succeed?”

“It’s not that,” the clown replies hastily, “It’s just—”

“I did not spend all this time preparing away from prying eyes for nothing.” He smiles; it is a dangerous gesture that strikes fear in the youth. “This is my ticket to freedom from the shackles that is this stupid circus, you see.”

“Y-Yes.”

“Plus, you know what to do if you think something’s gone wrong.”

He casts a glance at the sealed envelope at the center of the notes he took from your father’s study, a trace of longing flickering in his dark eyes. “Make sure you deliver that envelope to who it’s addressed for should anything happen to me.”

◇

Taeyong’s tent is empty once you enter the circus, leaving you stumped on his location when you see the water tank entering the frame. The setup for his trick resembled the diagram in your father’s notes: the stick figure hanging upside down into a tank of water, feet locked while in suspension. Not even your father could perform such a trick to an audience, the skill necessary to pull it off beyond his aptitude at his prime.

You’d always known Taeyong loved to push his performances to the limit, but this time it felt like a direct knock on Death’s door rather than a test of his skill in the art of escape.

Not finding him anywhere in the circus, you take a seat on the bench by the acrobats’ tent and reopen the online broadcast, your only link to Taeyong’s whereabouts. The camera pans out on the water tank placed center stage, filled to the brim and Taeyong already handing upside down above it.

You idiot…

“My assistants will begin to count down the seconds before I start,” he announces, grinning while inverted. “10!”

The two clowns below count down the remaining ten seconds, letting go after lowering him into the filled tank. Air bubbles already start to float to the surface, the footage rendering you immobile while gripping the phone with all your strength.

He’ll succeed. He… He has to succeed.

Handcuffs unlocked at last, he shows his freed hands to the front and the curtains draw together, obscuring the view of the tank. Everything is still and seemingly on the projected track for success—at least it is until your ears pick up the faint sound of a strangled cry behind the curtains.

The two clowns pick up on the mishap, rushing to check in on Taeyong. You scoot forward on the bench, heart in your hands while waiting for something—anything—to happen behind the screen. Comments start pouring in, everyone tuned in demanding to see what had happened and if the escape had been successful.

Finally, the curtains pull back, and you nearly faint from shock at seeing the broken tank. Puddles of water and broken shards of glass litter the stage, the clowns slumped unconscious off the side. They come to in the next thirty seconds, shaking their heads and equally as shocked once they spot the remains of the water tank. None of them knew what had happened, the single black feather in the middle of the stage sending a more ominous warning to the audience than cheers for unprecedented success.

“Taeyong, he… he’s gone.”

—

“Are you Y/N?”

You look up, greeted by the darkened sky and curious gaze of a clown half in makeup, a black raven perched on his left shoulder.

“Y..Yes, that's me.”

“Taeyong said to give this to you if anything happens to him.”

He hands over a sealed envelope, bulky in size. The raven takes off from its perch, briefly circling overhead before flying away into the night. Unsure on the purpose behind the delivery, you thank the clown and he bids a quick goodbye, leaving you on your own within the circus.

Taking a deep breath, you tear through the seal and a pair of handcuffs fall out of the envelope, followed by two slips of paper. The first piece is another unlimited access pass to the circus, while the second is ink-stained with scribbles scrawled messily along the lines. You set the handcuffs aside and pick up the second piece of paper, unable to stop the tears flowing down your face upon reading the handwritten letter from the escape artist himself.

◇

If you’re reading this letter, it means I either succeeded in my water chamber escape or died trying. I’m not going to tell you which because a magician never reveals his secrets.

Please forgive me for disappearing without letting you know what I’ve been doing. I wanted to do something no escape artist has ever done before, and I knew this was the greatest challenge yet when I saw the blueprint in your father’s notes. You’ll understand, right? Even if you don’t, even if you hate me for pushing myself to the limit for an escape trick, I’m content that I could perform and leave behind my name as one of the greatest escape artists in the renowned Neon Lights circus.

Are you angry at me for leaving things so messy like this? Don’t be. It’s not pretty when your eyes darken and lips purse into that familiar scowl of yours. I want you to remember me as someone who was very happy to have met you, even during all the times I annoyed you and used your father’s name to get you to come back to the circus to see me.

Now that I’m free, I’ll even tell you something else you’ll likely hate me for—I think I started to like you when I saw you worry about me after the fire extinguisher incident. I should’ve been mad at you for dropping the lighter early, but I couldn’t find it in me to do that. My apologies for not telling you sooner.

Yours, Taeyong.

◇

“Idiot,” you hiss, biting your lips hard enough to draw blood, “You’re an absolute idiot.”

#neowritingsnet #nct scenarios #taeyong scenarios #nct imagines #taeyong imagines #nct fanfic #taeyong fanfic #circus!au

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

For the prompt fill, number 3 for Indruck seems pretty fitting!

Here you go! Prompt 3 was “sweet” , Indrid’s design is based on a barracuda and I went with SFW on this one.

“Duck, can you do me a favor when you lock up?” Leo dumps orange taffy into a glass jar.

“Sure, what d’you need?”

“Got some locks for the garbage cans; put ‘em on after you set the alarm out back. Somethin’s been getting into our trash every damn night for the last week. It makes a god-awful mess and I’m worried we’re gonna get a fine for littering.”

Duck nods, turns his attention back to the flock of tourists approaching the window. The afternoon is swallowed up in a pit of sugar-sticky air and blasts of welcome cold from the freezer. There are worse places for a summer job than Tarkesian’s Sweets--he’s right by the water, can watch the wildlife on his lunch break, and Leo is low-maintenance boss--but after eight hours on his feet getting splashed with soda or burned on the popcorn machine, he’s ready to head home. The trash locks have other ideas.

It takes ten minutes of cursing and fumbling to get the first bin secured. He doesn’t even know how the damn things are getting overturned; they seem too heavy for a raccoon or seagull to knock to the ground.

A tiny splash behind him, probably a fish jumping.

Then a crooked, shiny pole slowly enters his periphery. In dim yellow of the streetlight, he can tell the end of it is curved. It pokes inelegantly at the wall, then the locked can, then the wall once again, and then Duck’s leg.

The hook pulls back, pauses, then pokes him again.

“The fuck?” He grabs it when it goes for another jab, pulls up only for his arms to be wrenched towards the water. Not to be outdone, he tugs harder. His opponent retaliates with enough force that he almost tumbles off the pier. He growls, braces his foot on the railing, and hauls the hook and its owner up onto worn wood with him.

It’s a guy about his age, angular face framed by a mess of silver hair and pierced ears. Figures it’s some sort of artsy punk swimming around poking people in the leg. That explains why he’s shirtless too.

It does not, however, explain why he has a tail.

“Rude.” The guy sits up on his hands, silver and black tail flicking droplets of saltwater everywhere, “I don’t go around stopping you from eating.”

“Look man, I just wanted you to stop jabbin me and knockin the trash over.” Maybe if he doesn’t mention the tail it will go away.

“How else am I supposed to get at those odd, pulpy tubs full of ‘cookies and cream’ or ‘bubblegum’?”

“The fuck--wait, you were tryin’ to get the ice cream containers out of the trash?”

“Yes? I also want more of the caramel apples” he pronounces the last word “applees” causing Duck to giggle in spite of himself.

“Look, I have to piece words together from the signs on your store. And you obviously know what I meant or you would not be laughing, so do you have any in the cans or not?”

“Nope” Duck gets his laughter under control, “sold out of caramel apples today.”

“Drat” the visitor starts scooting across the pier towards the unlocked trashcan, “I’ll see what else I can find.”

“Wait don’t fuckin knock that over, Leo’ll be pissed at me if he comes back to a mess, and I don’t feel like pickin up trash because you want a snack!”

“But I’m starving!” The merman, because at this point there’s no way he can deny that’s what’s been rooting through the garbage, whacks at Duck with his tail.

“I know for a damn fact there’s food down there.” He points at the bay.

“Only if you can catch it, and only if it is not in another mer’s territory. Which much of this area is; I am new here, young, and thus have no claim to any patch of sea.”

“You ain’t got any family?” Something pings in his chest. It’s the part of his heart that made him pick out the runt of litter when his mom let him get a cat on his thirteenth birthday, that means he always splits his lunch with Juno because she’s running track and needs it more than he does, that makes him tear up when he thinks about everything a sapling has to survive to become a tree.

“Merfolk leave home at sixteen.” The merman shrugs.

Duck sighs, grabbing his keys, “If I bring you somethin to eat, will you leave the trash alone?”

“Yes.”

He shuts off the alarm, grabs a cone and fills it with bright blue ice cream. The merman is back in the water when he returns, arms resting on the pier.

“Oooh, my favorite!” He takes the ice cream, biting huge chunks out of it as Duck re-arms the door.

Crunch

“...The container is edible!!”

He sits next to the merman’s arms, “Guess you wouldn’t have had an ice cream cone before, huh.”

“No, but it is lovely. I wish humans threw these away more often.” He polishes off the treat, licks his fingers clean with moans Duck hears in his dreams later, and smiles, “thank you for the meal. Goodnight.”

There’s a final flash of silvery tail, and then Duck’s alone in the breezy night air.

--------------------------------------------------------------

“That’s a sandwich, correct?”

“AHfuck” Duck knocks over his water bottle in surprise. He’s eating behind the candy store like usual and not expecting an aquatic dining companion.

“Apologies. I have seen you eating here before and thought you may like some company.” He sets a sea urchin on the ground and proceeds to bang on it with a rock.

“Found some lunch?”

“I followed some otters; I was mainly trying to draw them, but they led me to a kelp bed no one else was in.”

“...Wait how do you draw underwater?”

“Let me finish cracking this open and I will show you.”

Duck spends the rest of his lunch break on his belly, the merman showing him a sketchbook and enchanted pen that conjures whatever colors the illustrator envisions. The mer is genuinely excited to talk to him. He assumes the nuzzling is due to him smelling like cotton candy; he doesn’t mind, the mer’s skin is cool and he makes cute little noises whenever he touches Duck.

Before the stands, Duck asks, “You got a name?”

“Indrid.”

“Duck.”

Indrid’s eyes flick to the nearby estuary.

“Yeah, like the bird. It’s a nickname.”

“I like it.” Indrid smiles, dives, and flaps his tail once in farewell.

------------------------------------------------------

“Cutting school again?” Indrid’s voice bubbles up by his feet.

“Yep.” Duck watches the spring clouds roll by from his favorite spot on the beach. It’s secluded and far from town, meaning no one will give him shit for skipping class and nobody will see Indrid.

He worked at Leo’s until this past summer, only quitting at the start of his senior year of high school when Indrid pointed out that much of Kepler was surrounded by water and that, if Duck wanted to see him, he did not have to keep working at the candy store in order to do so.

“Not that I mind the free food.” Indrid winks.

“Just gonna bring you bulk ice cream from Safeway; no way am I missin out on that chirpin you do when you eat it.”

Duck slides the grocery bag towards the surf, “not like KCC is gonna rescind my offer. Ain’t a fuckin Ivy League or some shit.”

“And you will be happy there?”

“Yeah. They got a decent work-study program with the park, so I can still get a job as a ranger if I want to.”

“Oh. Good.”

Indrid sounds sad, and Duck sits up on his elbows. His friend’s torso is fully on land, his tail fidgeting in the foam.

“What’s up?

“I...Barclay told me his human is going to a school further inland, and I know there are many places you could got to learn. You...you did not choose to stay in Kepler because you feel the need to look after me, did you?”

“Course not.” Duck is sitting up now, aching to stroke Indrid’s hair, “I mean, I’m glad we’re still gonna be able to see each other, and I really hopin I can get a room near the beach so it’s easy to come talk. But this is the right choice for me; if I really want to, I can transfer to a different school in a few years, and I can learn a lot here without takin on a shit-ton of debt. Besides, ain’t like I think you’re helpless; I love bringin you stuff and rubbin your fin when it’s sore, but that’s because you’re my friend. Don’t think you’re helpless. I never have.”

“Not even when I was stealing trash?”

“Thought you were a fuckin nuisance, not helpless.” He playfully nudges his shoulder with his toes.

Indrid turns his head and nips his calf, “How’s that for a nuisance?”

“Not much, felt kinda nice. Uh, I mean, uh, fuck, so, where’d that worry about my stayin come from?”

The mer crawls and wiggles until they’re shoulder to shoulder, “I think my future sight is finally developing; my fathers arrived around the time he turned eighteen, so it makes sense mine would arrive at a similar point. The trouble is, I am having a hard time telling the futures from my own imaginings and worries.”

“That fuckin sucks.”

“I’ll manage. All seers struggle at the beginning. I just wish I was quicker at learning whether certain timelines are really more likely or if they are just ones that I want to be likely.”

“Like what?”

Indrid glances at him, opens his mouth, then shuts it and faces the sea.

Duck smirks, “‘Drid, there somethin you wanna ask me?”

“No. Yes. Maybe? I, I just don’t want to pressure youOOOHhhh that’s not fair” he flops on his back with a groan as Duck scritches his upper tail, “you know I’ll do anything when you touch me like this.”

“Damn right I do. And what I want is for you to tell me the truth.”

Indrid whines, covers his face with his hands.

“Do it or I’ll stop.”

“Rude” Indrid lowers his hands enough that his red eyes peer over the top, “is that any way to treat a mer who wants to kiss you?”

Duck gives his answer by pouncing on his friend, pinning narrow shoulders into the sand as he devours his mouth in kisses.

“You like that treatment better?”

“Goodness, yes.” Indrid pulls him back down, slipping his tongue between his lips and nibbling his neck when he finally stops to breathe. Then his hand flails sideways, grabbing the plastic bag and chucking it further up the beach.

“The, the tide is coming in and I, ah, foresee us working up quite the appetite.” He tugs Duck’s collar down with his teeth, nuzzling and licking across his skin with little hums of pleasure, “so I want to save those for afterwards. Who knows” he grins, “maybe we’ll need energy for round two as well.”

Duck cups his cheek, inhales the scent of the sea and the sight of his future, “I like the way you think, sweet thing.”

#Indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #mermay fills

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kaaytea · 4 years

Note

could I request Christmas date headcanons for miyuki and chris?

ABSOLUTELY!! Christmas is probably my favorite holiday and we're finally coming up to that magical time of year! Thank you for this little anon, my heart is singing in pure joy! Plus you requested Chris so how can I not, he's such a sweetheart

Christmas dates

⤷Includes: Miyuki, Chris

-------------------------------------------

Miyuki

I feel like Christmas is usually very family based so Miyuki's kinda meh about it

Like he doesn't mind it but his family life hasn't been ideal so he's never really gotten into the Christmas spirit

But you know what Miyuki Kazuya can get into?

Cooking~

You best bet the both of you bake cookies together 🥰

Was making gingerbread cookies at 12:30 a.m. the brightest idea the both of you have had?

Were you having fun?

Absolutely

Miyuki couldn't fall asleep and you were already awake so there wasn't much resistance one his end

You were currently measuring out the sugar and Miyuki was working on sifting the flour when you felt him wipe his index finger down your cheek

You looked up at him then down to his hand

Just as you thought there were remnants of flour on his fingers

"Kazuya! This is supposed to be a cute couple thingy, teasing doesn't fit with the word cute >:(("

"I beg to differ because you look adorable right now"

You bopped him on the head with a spatula for that

Thankfully you were able to get through the rest of mixing the dough without any other Miyuki interruptions

You rolled out the dough and let Miyuki cut out the little gingerbread men he was really good at visually calculating how much space he had and how to get the most cookies without having to re roll the dough

All the cookies got cut out and now the gingerbread were sitting in the oven

You had Christmas music on this entire time and your favorite song happened to come on

You happily bounced over to Kazuya and wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying around the kitchen to the song

He just smiled at your antics and placed his hands on your waist, he pulled you closer to him and placed a kiss on your lips

You were so special to him and he really cherished these moments with you, even if he didn't express it very often

"I love you"

"Oh, I didn't know sappy Miyuki was gonna make an appearance tonight"

"I thought we weren't allowed to tease each other because we're doing 'cute couple thingys', I should get to bop you on the head like you did to me"

"I get a pass because you teased me earlier..... I love you too by the way"

Chris

Chris loves Christmas

Its a gut feeling I have so trust me on this

Chris would be into the very cozy aspects of the holidays

Fluffy socks and sweaters, blankets and hot cocoa, pretty lights and soft Christmas songs, the list goes on and on

Cocoa + you + fluffy blankets = ultimate happy Chris

You were in the kitchen making hot cocoa while Chris gathered the fluffiest blankets the both of you owned and brought them into the living room

You carefully carried the steaming mugs of chocolatey goodness into the cozy room

You had the main lights turned off so the only source of light was the soft, golden glow coming from the tree tucked away in the corner of the room and the miscellaneous candles sitting around

You put the two mugs down on the coffee table and then plopped down on the couch

You felt a weight on you shoulders and looked behind you to see Chris adjusting a thick blanket around you

Chris joined you on the couch, pulling you so your back was against his chest and resting one of his arms on your stomach, he handed you your mug of cocoa and grabbed his own

You both sat there snuggled together basking in the warm ambiance created by the twinkling ornaments on the tree and the flickering of candles

You sipped idly on the cocoa, you had your free hand resting on top of Chris'

You leaned back to look at him and reached up to twirl a lock of his bangs around your finger

"You should wear your hair like this more often, you look so handsome when it's down"

"You tell me that every time I wear it down"

"I only speak the truth, Christopher"

He only chuckled at you and kissed your temple, his lips lingering a little longer than normal

You spent the rest on the night snuggling until you eventually fell asleep on the couch together

#kayquests #miyuki kazuya x reader #miyuki kazuya #miyuki kazuya headcanons #takigawa chris yuu #takigawa chris yuu x reader #takigawa chris yuu headcanons #daiya no ace x reader #daiya no ace #daiya no ace headcanons #ace of the diamond #ace of the diamond headcanons #ace of the diamond x reader #diamond no ace #diamond no ace headcanons #ace of diamond

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sociallyawkward--fics · 4 years

Text

Sugar Sweet Smiles

So, this was more of writing warm-up the past couple of weeks after I hadn't written in over a month, so I'll be honest, it's not really up to my standards lol. I also didn't edit it because I knew I would just never post it, if I did. I also have only just started writing for BNHA so I'm still feeling out the characters. It's likely that this could be pretty OOC, but that's up to y'all to decide lol. Also, this fic feels a lot more bitter now that my brother-in-law ruined Christmas by bringing home COVID, but I hope you all get some joy out of it!

-------------

Ships: EraserMic

Summary: It's Christmastime, and Shouta and Hizashi have a very important tradition to introduce to Eri and Hitoshi.

Word Count: 2526 words

[ao3 link]

------------------------

Shouta sighed as Hizashi got distracted by yet another shiny decoration in the store. They were supposed to be shopping for ingredients, and their house was already decorated to a point that was nearly sickening. Did they really need a fourth wreath? Where would it even go?

Next to him, Hitoshi looked on in amusement, periodically glancing down to type something on his phone. He was probably texting Midioriya or Kaminara, based on what Shouta had seen of the budding friendships before UA had let out for Christmas break.

Eri, meanwhile, sat in the children’s seat in the cart and seemed mesmerized with the entirety of the grocery store in general. They hadn’t had many chances to take her out since she came into his and Hizashi’s care, and she was still fascinated every time she experienced the world.

“Hizashi,” Shouta said sternly.

Hizashi froze where he’d been trying to place some gaudy outdoor ornaments into their cart. He gave Shouta a nervous grin.

“Yes, dear?”

“Baking supplies, Hizashi. Not decorations. We don’t have any more room.”

Hizashi pouted. “We have room.”

Shouta raised an eyebrow and Hizashi's pout intensified. He did, however, place the ornaments back onto the shelf as Hitoshi snorted in quiet laughter. Shouta started the cart moving before Hizashi could get distracted again.

“Compromise,” Hizashi said as Shouta directed them to the correct aisle. “You let me get the cats Christmas sweaters, and I’ll stop buying decorations. Well, this year, at least.”

Shouta snorted. “I think Tigress, Kermit, and Blanket would sooner kill you than allow you to put sweaters on them.”

Hizashi stuck his tongue out at Shouta, making Eri giggle and Hitoshi roll his eyes with a grin. Shouta decided not to react and simply point to the flour on the shelf behind Hizashi, a silent request to get what they actually came to the store for.

The rest of the shopping trip went similarly, with Hizashi acting more like a child than either of their actual children and Shouta denying the begrudging fondness that filled him at Hizashi’s actions.

They did wind up getting Christmas sweaters for the cats.

The recipe they were using was one they’d gotten from Hizashi’s mothers. It was an old Yamada family recipe, but they constantly joked that a grandparent had probably gotten it out of a dime-a-dozen cookbook ages ago and passed the recipe off as their own. Either way, Shouta had been obsessed with the things since he and Hizashi were 15 and he tried them for the first time, and he refused to let the butter cookie tradition die even after Hizashi moved out of his mothers’ house.

Hizashi said it was cute and teased him about being nostalgic. Really, Shouta would just kill a man to have more of those cookies.

And now they had more people to bring into the tradition.

Hizashi washed his hands as Shouta lined up their ingredients and supplies. Hitoshi leaned up against the opposite counter and watched him with lazy eyes. Eri slowly approached the counter Shouta was setting up on and grabbed the edge, pulling herself up onto her tiptoes to see the surface.

“I’ve never made cookies before,” she said quietly.

“Well,” Hizashi said, loud enough that Hitoshi jumped, “it’s a good thing we’re here to teach you how!”

A smile tugged at Shouta’s lips as Hizashi carefully lifted Eri up to sit on the counter, out of the way of the baking supplies Shouta had set up. Instead of giving Hizashi the satisfaction, Shouta turned toward the sink.

“She still has to wash her hands,” he said. “And now you have to rewash yours.”

Hizashi groaned dramatically. “We’re a family, we all share the same germs! It’s not that big of a deal!”

Shouta, carefully telegraphing his movements, lifted Eri off the counter and kicked the nearby step stool into place in front of the sink. He turned on the sink and set Eri down, leaving her to wash her hands herself.

“Well, I agree with Aiz--Shouta,” Hitoshi said, finally walking forward to stand next to Eri and wash his hands. “I don’t want your weird loud germs in my cookies.”

This time, Shouta allowed the grin to pass over his face, even as Hizashi gasped in a way that was far too dramatic to be real. Hizashi thrust his finger in their direction.

“Watch it,” he said. “I’ll start a flour war.”

“You will not,” Shouta said, shooting him a glare. “Wash your hands.”

And then, in a move that surprised even Shouta himself, he swiped his hand through the sink’s stream and splashed it at Hizashi. Hitoshi burst out laughing and stumbled away, probably to get himself out of the crossfire. Eri just glanced up at him, giving a little confused giggle.

“Are you looking to start a war, Aizawa Shouta?” Hizashi asked, voice low and dangerous.

“Are you looking to lose, Yamada Hizashi?”

Hizashi narrowed his eyes. Shouta saw him tense and leapt back, carefully not to jump so far that he would hit the counter across the room. Hizashi lunged after him, hands already covered in flour (and when had that happened?), and Shouta let out a startled laugh as he dodged. Hitoshi cackled and out of the corner of his eye Shouta saw him pull Eri to the edge of the room and out of the crossfire.

That moment of distraction cost him, and Hizashi’s hands grabbed his cheeks, rubbing the flour into his skin. Shouta gasped and darted away, making a break for the sink and pulling out the hose from the faucet, spraying it in Hizashi’s direction. Hizashi screeched, barely keeping his quirk in check.

“And to think you two are considered responsible adults and students are afraid of you,” Hitoshi quipped.

At that, Shouta straightened back up and cleared his through, turning the sink off. Hizashi laughed, whether it was at the situation or the embarrassed look on Shouta’s face was unknown, and walked over to whisk Eri back into his arms.

“Right, now that we’re all clean,” Shouta started, and Hitoshi snorted, the sound cutting him off.

“But Aizawa-san, you’re not clean,” Eri said as Hizashi put her back on the counter. “Your face is all dirty.”

Hizashi and Hitoshi laughed, and Shouta gently waved her off.

“Baking can get a little messy, anyway, so it’s okay if I’m dirty with flour. We just don’t want to be dirty with germs and grime.”

“Germs and grime,” Eri repeated quietly, examining her hands.

Hizashi clapped his hands together. “And now for the main event!”

“Where’s the recipe?” Hitoshi asked.

Hizashi laid a hand over his heart. “Right in here, little listener!”

Eri squinted and Hitoshi raised an eyebrow. Shouta flicked Hizashi in the forehead.

“I have it memorized. ‘Zashi couldn’t remember it to save his life, and he always loses it when we write it down.”

“Yeah, that adds up,” Hitoshi said.

Hizashi pouted, so Shouta placated him with a kiss on the cheek. Hitoshi made a gagging noise.

“Start with the wet ingredients,” Shouta said, pushing Hizashi and Hitoshi toward the mixer. “Cream the butter and sugar first, before adding the egg, vanilla, or milk. Please don’t make that mistake again. Eri and I will work on the rest of the dry ingredients.”

Shouta grabbed a bowl and the dry ingredients and moved toward where Eri was seated.

“Why do you mix the ingredients separately?” Eri asked, leaning over the bowl as she watched Shouta measure out cups of flour.

Shouta paused. “I’m not really sure. I suppose to make sure they’re mixed evenly, but I’ve never really thought about it.”

Eri nodded seriously and Shouta couldn’t help but smile at the concentrated look on her face. He measured out the salt and baking powder and handed her one of the utensils. She grinned as they poured them together.

“Do you want to mix it?” Shouta asked.

Eri bit her lip.

“I can show you how, first, if you want.”

She nodded and Shouta grabbed a fork, not willing to dirty a whisk when they were such hell to clean afterwards. He carefully whisked the dry ingredients around with the fork, making sure not to spill any over the edges of the bowl. After a few stirs, he handed the fork over to Eri.

“I’ll hold the bowl still,” he said. “You just stir, and try not to spill any if you can. It’s okay if you do, though.”

Eri nodded, that look of concentration crossing her face again. She stuck the fork into the bowl and carefully moved it around, mimicking what Shouta had shown her to the best of her abilities. Shouta smiled.

“Good,” he said. “Just like that, but try to get the fork a little deeper. You’re only mixing the top, you want to try and get it all--good, just like that.”

Eri brightened at his praise and direction, her stirring getting more confident. Shouta looked up and met eyes with Hizashi over her head, the two of them sharing a smile before Hitoshi grabbed Hizashi’s attention again.

“We’re ready for the dry ingredients if you are,” Hizashi called a few moments later.

Shouta looked down at Eri. “What do you think, do you think it’s mixed up enough?”

Eri hummed and eyed the bowl with a critical eye. She gave the mixture a few more strong stirs before giving Shouta a self-assured nod. He nodded back and lifted the bowl in one hand and Eri in the other, walking over toward the mixer. He handed the bowl to Hitoshi.

“I figure you’re far less likely to drop this than Hizashi.”

Hizashi made an affronted noise and Shouta chuckled. Eri hid a smile in his shoulder as she watched Hitoshi pour a portion of the dry mixture into the mixing bowl. Then Shouta’s smile faltered when Hizashi got a devious look in his eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” Shouta said, buying Hitoshi enough time to place the bowl with the rest of the dry mixture back on the counter.

Hitoshi frowned, looking back and forth between them. “Don’t what?”

Shouta narrowed his eyes. “He was going to prove that you were clumsy enough to drop it, too. By making you drop it.”

Hizashi put his hand against his heart. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing! On a completely unrelated note, Hitoshi do you happen to be ticklish?”

Hitoshi edged away from Hizashi, and Hizashi laughed.

“Good to know,” he said. “That’s important information for a parent to have.”

“I suddenly regret being adopted,” Hitoshi said, quickly moving behind Shouta, using him as a human shield.

Shouta let out an exasperated sigh, but he was smiling again. “Let’s just make the dough, come on. It still needs to chill before we can bake it.”

“Why do we chill the dough?” Eri asked.

Hizashi hummed. “I think it helps the cookies from spreading so much when you bake them? Or maybe that’s just with chocolate chip cookies…” Hizashi trailed off in thought.

Either way, Eri nodded, accepting the answer. Hitoshi moved back to finish mixing the dough.

Once the dough was wrapped up in wax paper and stuck in the refrigerator to chill, they washed their hands and retreated to the living room. Hitoshi and Eri were elected to choose a Christmas movie while Shouta and Hizashi collapsed onto the couch. Hizashi quickly cuddled up to Shouta, burying a hand into his hair.

“Someone’s affectionate,” Shouta chuckled.

“Gotta claim my spot before one of the cats does,” Hizashi replied, only curling in closer.

As if on cue, Blanket and Kermit came racing in from the office and launched onto the couch. They immediately curled up as close to Shouta as they could get, and it only made Shouta laugh harder.

The kids put on some cartoon that Shouta had probably seen before, and as soon as Eri plopped onto the floor, Tigress slinked out of wherever she’d been hiding and curled up in Eri’s lap. Shouta snapped a sneaky picture while Hizashi cooed quietly.

And then Hizashi’s hand started scratching at Shouta’s scalp and he was out like a light.

He was shaken awake an indeterminate amount of time later and opened his eyes to movie credits rolling over the TV screen.

“Time to get baking!” Hizashi sang in his ear, clearly uncaring about the fact that Shouta just woke up.

He waved Hizashi and the kids on without him, taking a few more moments to gather himself and wake up. When Shouta finally made his way into the kitchen, Hizashi was helping Eri pick out which cookie cutters to use while Hitoshi was hesitantly sprinkling flour over the counter. Shouta nodded at him, going to fetch the dough.

“Good,” he told Hitoshi. “But keep the flour out, we’re going to need to put more down at some point.”

“Sho?” Hizashi called. “Would you mind helping Eri wash the cookie cutters? Who knows how long they’ve been in that drawer.”

Instead of answering, Shouta gently plucked Eri from her step stool and perched her on his hip, gathering the cookie cutters in one hand. He placed her down on the counter next to the sink and began washing the shapes she’s chosen, muttering all the while about being mindful of the sharp edges.

From there, Hizashi and Shouta made the silent decision to let the kids take over. Hitoshi swiftly, if a bit awkwardly, slipped into his role of older brother, showing Eri how to best use the cookie cutters. Hizashi and Shouta did, however, handle the oven portion of the baking, carefully taking the cut dough from their hands and placing them on baking sheets.

Hizashi gently chided them as Hitoshi tried to sneak a bite of the dough, and Shouta promptly distracted him. He sent a subtle wink in Hitoshi and Eri’s direction and saw them immediately began stuffing their mouths full of dough over Hizashi’s shoulder.

Shouta couldn’t help but sneak a few bites of his own when Hizashi turned back around to watch the kids. He was much more successful than they had been.

Soon enough, they were whipping up the frosting (or, rather, Shouta was while the rest of them completed the baking portion of the day) and digging their collection of sprinkles and food dye out of the pantry.

This was Hizashi’s favorite part, and it quickly became clear that it was Eri’s, too. The two of them had a knack for decoration. Even with Eri’s difficulty controlling where her frosting went, their cookies turned out decently better than Hitoshi’s or Shouta’s. Not that Shouta minded, he was more there to steal tastes of frosting over anything else.

Hitoshi quickly picked up on this habit.

After all the excitement, Shouta and Hizashi only let the kids have a couple of cookies after dinner before sending them to bed. Tomorrow was a big day, after all. Their first Christmas as a family was nothing to blink at, and Santa had a few things to get done before then.

Especially if the two of them kept getting distracted kissing frosting off each other’s faces.

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