#to get that to work he weighs like five pounds soaking wet and you Know those cannons are not securely latched down

[bacchuschucklefuck]

My Accolades

[sabraeal]

don’t speak boyshit, Chapter 8

[Read on AO3]

It’s Usokawa who watches those stupid rom-coms, the ones with the hot girl-made-mousy tripping over herself to impress some j-pop idol trying to break into acting, but Kamitani is at least familiar with how this whole thing should go. A girl who weighs eighty pounds soaking wet sits on the rack, stares dreamily out over the countryside, and the boy does all the hard work. Easy.

But apparently no one’s ever bothered to give Inomata that talk. “Stop squirming, you’re not gonna fall off.”

“It’s not like there’s a seat belt back here!” she shrills, ass shifting enough to make the whole damn frame wobble. She’s lucky he’s used to Taka, otherwise they’d be sprawled out in a ditch somewhere, having some real words face-to-face. “If you take a corner too fast I’ll fly right off.”

If only. “No, you won’t.”

“You can’t promise that.” He’s half-tempted to shove her off himself if she can’t keep her butt still and her mouth shut. “The physics doesn’t work out!”

“It does,” he huffs, hating every minute of being right. “There’s centrifugal force or whatever. How gravity works.”

“Don’t you mean centripetal?” Unearned confidence, he’d call it, if she hadn’t placed first in their exams five semesters running.

It was a mistake to ever get on a moving vehicle with Inomata, let alone one where she had to be so close. The last thing she’s ever needed was an invitation to pick at him, and now he’s given her VIP seating. “I said what I said.”

She clucks, loud enough he can hear it over the click of his own gears. “Centrifugal force is fictitious. Centripetal force is what makes gravity work.”

For being wrong, she’s pretty snotty about it. But she can send as many as her little nastygrams as she likes; Kamitani’s the one in control here. All he needs to do is crash this bike, and he can end this conversation at any time. It’s nothing to just shrug it off, let her be wrong--

“You’re lucky I agreed to tutor you,” she sniffs. “You clearly need the help.”

Kamitani hauls his bike short, right in the middle of the bridge.

“What--”

“Google it.” She stares at him, jaw slack, as he shoves his phone into her hands. “I’ll wait.”

“If you think about it.” Inomata trails too close up the front walk; every few steps she jogs his elbow, and god, he’s never wanted to slam the door on someone harder. “It’s really both forces working together that make up the concept we think of as gravity.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t; a real legendary effort that keeps his hand out to let her pass through. “It’s not.”

She can’t even toe her shoes off like a normal person; oh no, Inomata sits down all primly on the lip of the genkan, knees pressed together like he cares what’s under her skirt, and gently works them off her feet. “It is.”

Kamitani doesn’t fucking care about physics, he doesn’t. And he especially doesn’t care about having a fight about terms first years should be familiar with. But he sees her stupid loafers sitting neatly in the tray next to his scuffed up sneakers, the way that old hag is always nagging them they should, and the next thing out of his mouth is, “Not unless you’re moving in a circle, or whatever.”

“A curve describes part of a circle’s circumference,” she informs him, as if he didn’t score higher than her in the general science exams. Not that he wanted to; that hag had been holding his recording of last summer’s Koshien and promised to bring it straight to the curb if he didn’t make it up on the board this year. “Which is what a turn is.”

There’s a part of him that’s tempted to prick at her-- what about when you’re at a light? Ninety degrees doesn’t describe any circle I know. He can hear her huff now, tinny in the small space, arms all folded up as if he’s the problem. I meant in motion, she would say, and he’d have to bite his cheek to keep from grinning when he clapped back with, but that’s not what you said. It’d be easy as breathing to get her all riled up, to make her stamp her foot and calling him a bull-headed idiot, and any other day he might, just to see her lose that Teacher’s Pet polish--

But it’s too weird when she’s just standing in her socks in his genkan, one toe shyly scratching at her calf. Her too-long fingers flex against her skirt like she’s some sort of character from a game without an idle animation, just hanging around waiting for player input.

“Come on,” he grumbles, putting his back to her. “This way.”

The thing about Inomata is: she’s all limb. Not in a sexy way like the girls in magazines, all long legs and wide eyes and parted lips. No, she’s lanky, with elbows and knees that by law should be registered as weapons. Kamitani’s taken one of two of them before-- by accident, she always insists, like he can’t see the gleam in her eyes-- and he’s convinced: she’s got to be some sort government project, the kind where they graft blades onto bones because one nudge from that girl could draw blood.

So when she trails him down the hall, he expects carnage; a boar let loose in a house made of paper. Broken vases, pictures hanging askew, dents in the drywall-- all of it would have surprised him less than silence. Enough that he wonders if she got lost somehow; it’s not like his house is hard to navigate, not with it’s single hallway connecting the whole downstairs, but he wouldn’t put it past her to need some gold embossed invitation just to get out of the genkan.

But there she is, just a few steps behind him, quietly padding along the hardwood in her knee socks. They’re ridiculous without her shoes on, her legs whittled down to matchsticks between the elastic around her calves and the hem at her knees. She’d look like a little kid if she wasn’t so long, made worse by the way her arms are clamped to her side, just one thin line from the floor to her head.

The old hag must have put something in his curry, since it’s not sitting so pretty now, rocking in his gut like it’s got its own tides. Hell if he knows what solar body’s causing it. It’s stupid; here’s Inomata, finally keeping her mouth shut, and he can’t even enjoy it.

“My room’s upstairs.” His arm swings out toward the staircase, and, god, he might as well step into some mascot costume and spell it out too for how cool he’s looking right now. “Over here.”

At least only Inomata’s around to see it. It’s not as if she pays attention to half of what he says anyway.

He gets one step up, glancing back to make sure she’s going to follow his lead-- last thing he needs is Inomata getting it into her head to look around or whatever-- and she’s just...staring at him. Wide-eyed, too, like he told her exams don’t matter after graduation, or that Kashima’s already had his first kiss, or--

“MOM.” Taka speeds out of the kitchen, shrieking at a decibel only dogs and big brothers can hear. There’s a plastic bag balled up in his hands, whatever’s inside lost in the mess. “MOM. You gotta open--” he skids to a stop, wide-eyed and inches away from collision-- “you’re not mom.”

“N-no.” Inomata’s shoulders roll back, her spine pulling flagpole straight, and whoever that cringing girl following him before was, she’s all gone now. Well, except for that splotchy disaster of a blush that’s still slapped across her face, turning the tips of her ears a red he could cook eggs on. “I’m definitely not.”

Taka’s got eyes so big they already eat up all the real estate on his face, but they go even bigger now, threatening to annex his forehead. “Inomata-nee-sama! Are you in my house?”

“Ah...” He watches her struggle not to look at him, to ask him to help the way he always has to when his brother gets too excited over people, like small dogs do when the front door rings. “It does look like that, er, doesn’t it?”

Taka grins so bright Kamitani nearly winces from the glare. One of his small hands seizes hers, tangling his bag between them. “Really? Kirin-chan’s going to be so jealous. Do you want to see my Ranger Five collection? I’ve got all of them, even Ranger Yellow, who has super lame powers but I felt bad leaving her--”

Kamitani flicks him on the back of the head. Not hard-- the little shit may not look like much, but Kamitani’s learned the hard way: kids his age don’t know how to hold back-- but enough to finally knock the motor out of his mouth. “Buzz off, brat. She’s not here to look at your stupid toys.”

“They’re not stupid, they’re super cool!” Taka stamps his foot too, like that helps his case. “Better than any toys in your room.”

He lets his scowl stretch into a sneer. “That’s real rich coming from the kid who’s been begging to have a turn on the playstation in there.”

“W-what? That doesn’t count!” Taka glances between them, suspicious. “You aren’t going to play on it are you? If you are, I wanna wa--”

“We’re not playing anything,” Kamitani snaps. “Go watch your Lame Five or whatever.”

“It’s Ranger Five!” His cheeks puff out, not quite as big as they used to be, but still begging to be poked. “And if you’re not playing, then what are you doing?”

“None of your business,” he grunts, unfortunately at the same time Inomata shrills out, “Studying?”

Ugh. This is what’s wrong with only children: they don’t know how to tell a kid to scram.

“Oh.” To his annoyance, Taka only looks thoughtful, shifting back and forth on his feet until he sidles up to the lowest stair. “Can I come?”

Kamitani fits his whole hand over his brother’s face, and with full feeling, shoves. “No.”

“H-hey!” Taka splutters as he pounds up the rest of the stairs, Inomata skittishly following behind him. “I’ll tell Mom!”

“Good luck,” he grunts back, shaking his head as he hits the landing. “She’s not going to be home until late, and your memory is shitty.”

“You better not play anything without me!” His shrill little voice bounces up the stairs, amplified a hundred times by the time Kamitani gets to the top, rattling his teeth in his skull. “Or you’ll be in trouble.”

He huffs as he turns the corner, muttering, “When am I not?”

“Is that something you should worry about?” Whatever spine Inomata found in front of Taka, she must have left on the stairs. She’s back to shuffling behind him, watching each door they pass as if it might leap out and bite her.

Kamitani cranes his neck over his shoulder, annoyed. “What?”

One of her skinny shoulders shrugs, a shadow beneath the surface of her shirt. “You know. Taka telling Kamitani-sensei that I was here.”

It’s no good. No matter how long he looks, he can’t figure out what’s wrong with her. Besides, well, being Inomata. “What’s wrong with that? It’s not like she’ll figure out you have a crush on Kashima from--”

“Ah! Not-- not that!” Her hands wave in front of her, like just being weird might shush him up better than acting like a functional person. “I mean that you’ll have had a girl in your room. Unsupervised!”

He blinks. “Who?”

Inomata stares right at him, putting a hand over her school tie and clearly enunciating, “Me?”

Even the old hag and her over-active imagination isn’t stupid enough to look at that regulation-length skirt and the blouse buttoned up to its last hole, bow still crisply tied even after club, and think, I bet boys want to do more than study with her. But he knows better than to say so when Inomata’s notes are on the line. “It’ll be fine.”

The noise she makes isn’t thunder, but it’s the mark of a storm moving in quick. He puts his back to her all the same, reaching for his door. “What do you mean, ‘it’s fine?’ Do you really think--?”

Inomata’s protests grind to a halt, watching with growing horror as his door swings wide and-- “You live like this?”

For a minute, he worries that Taka already got into his stuff today, the way that old hag always lets him, leaving candy smeared into his carpet and game cases strewn across the floor. But he glances in, and it looks like it always does. A little cluttered, sure, but he’s seen worse. “What?” 

“It’s a sty,” she snaps, slouch gone with a sniff. “Don’t you have a hamper? There’s clothes everywhere. How you ever have people in here is beyond me. Do you really--?”

She startles when his hand smacks the door, holding it open for her. “Get in already”

“I couldn’t possibly.”  Her scoff grates like nails on a chalkboard. “There isn’t even a place to--”

On the field, it’s a move that would have put him on the benches. But there’s no ref here, just him and Inomata, so when she sways that bare inch in front of him, her arms all crossed like the state of his room is an affront to all of Japan, he just..bumps her. A little. Enough that she stumbles, socked foot catching on a T-shirt from last weekend, gets right at the center of it all.

“Better make yourself at home.” His lips peel back from his teeth in nothing like a smile. “Because I’m sure as hell not cleaning up for you.”

“I don’t know what the big problem is,” Kamitani grumbles, plucking another t-shirt off the floor. “It’s clean. Look, you can even see the floor.”

There are bugs that have gotten friendlier expressions than the one he gets from Inomata. “You have to be kidding me. There’s a pair of day-old b-b--” her voice drops to a hiss-- “underwear right there.”

“That’s not from yesterday.” Her bumps past her-- not his fault, she’s the one standing in the middle of his room, making herself as useful as a traffic cone on the grass-- and scoops the offending article off the floor, giving it a sniff. “Yeah, that’s got to be Friday. At least.”

If that girl glared any harder, those eyes would pop right out of her head. “And you just left it there?”

“Sure.” He grabs another set of boxers, hidden by the last pair, before she can catch a glimpse. “It’s not like I was expecting anyone to invite themselves over.”

That gets a blush out of her, at least, even if it doesn’t slow her scold. “Neither do I, but I at least keep it neat! Your hamper is only two feet away, for goodness’ sake.”

He glances up at her from his crouch, and snorts, “You haven’t been in many boys’ rooms, have you?”

Scrawny shoulders hike up, a surly little picket by her ears. “Of course not.”

“Well, take it from me,” he huffs, flicking his duvet over his sheets, smoothing it out all nice. “This is about as good as it gets.”

“I doubt that.” Her head tosses, sending that haystack of hair wild, strands flying out every which way. “Kashima-kun hardly seems like the sort of person to leave his, er, unmentionables out where someone could see them.”

“Kashima doesn’t count.” He wouldn’t leave his boxers out if the headmistress might see them either. Or worse, Saikawa. “Did you come here just to nag me or what?”

She blinks. “What?”

With one last trip to the hamper, Kamitani drops into his desk chair, spread-legged and weary. “You wanted help with your boy stuff or whatever, didn’t you? So what does this whole tutor thing involve?”

For a long moment she just stares at him, lips pressed tight and toes curled into his carpet, and he thinks this is it, that she’s going to lose the courage that got her through the door and just bolt, but--

But instead, she bursts. “And just where am I supposed to sit now?”

Honestly, if it’s not one thing it’s the other with this girl. “I made my bed.”

Smoothed it out too, all nice like how the old hag nags him to do it, no bunched sheets making lumps beneath it. And yet, Inomata isn’t impressed. “I can’t sit there!”

“Why not?” His hands hook behind his head as he leans back, trying to catch something like an answer in her scowl. “You don’t think I’d actually try--?”

“Of course not,” she snorts. “But I know what boys get up to on their beds. There’s probably all sorts of...boy gunk on there.”

His sheets were washed just last week, but the way she sneers at his perfectly clean duvet makes him hold that little tidbit of information to his chest. “Are you sure you want a boyfriend?”

“What?” There’s the blush again, rising up all uneven across her face like a rash. “I didn’t say--!”

“Even Kashima’s going to have gunk.” Though it makes him feel gross thinking about it. “So if that’s a deal breaker, then maybe you should quit while you’re behind. Save us both some time.”

The glare she levels at him would make Usokawa piss himself, but Kamitani just tilts his chin; a dare. And by the puff of her cheeks, she doesn’t miss it.

“Fine.” How the word grinds out from teeth clenched so hard they creak is nothing short of a miracle. She takes one hobbling step, then another, and with a sigh nothing short of resigned, she perches herself on the corner of his comforter, legs crossed at the ankle. “There. Happy now?”

“Would have thought I’d be the one asking you that,” he grunts, bracing his hands on his knees. “After all, you’re the one with the big ideas here.”

“Excuse me?”

Her eyelashes flutter-- confused, not cute-- and his palms itch. Right at the center of them, impossible to scratch. “You’ve got something in mind, don’t you? A whole fucking binder filled with dumb ideas sorted by colored tab?”

“Ah...” That stupid flush spreads down her neck, disappearing under the stiff line of her collar. “Right, yes, of course...”

“You do, right?” Hands give way to elbows as he leans forward, curry sinking like a stone in his gut. “You’re not just going to give up your notes with no plan.”

“Of course not!” She scowls, reaching into her bag. “It’s not really a binder, not yet, but I did throw this together a day or two ago. It’s really more of a, er, thought exercise than anything else.”

He doesn’t get a good glance at it, not until she shoves it into his hands, the thin paper powdery against his fingertips. “What’s this? A...test booklet?”

“It’s just fifty of the questions I thought would be most helpful at the beginning of this project.” She strives to sound normal about it, but Kamitani catches the gleam in her eye, the victorious flush across her cheeks. This is nerd shit. “If you could just fill it out and return it to me, then I’ll be in a much better position to analyze what I need to work on and come back with a plan that--”

“You made a test? You want me to take tests?” He skims the first few pages, bile burning in his throat with every question he reads. Explain your type in ten words or less. What are the three most important criteria in a romantic partner? Describe the perfect date, using as much detail as possible. “And they’re not even multiple choice!”

Her hands wave, more cajoling than denial. “It’s not a test! It’s data collection. There’s no right or wrong answer, I just need you to answer to the best of your ability. This one isn’t going to be graded, so--”

“Graded.” He should have known better than to tangle with Inomata and tutoring. “You’re going to grade me.”

“No, no, it’s not an assessment! Or, well, it is, but it’s not about what you don’t know, but rather, what I...” Her mouth purses. “It’s just your opinions. Preliminary data so I can see where my knowledge is most insufficient. It wouldn’t really make sense if I was the one grading you, now would it?”

The booklet snaps shut-- at least, as much as the pages will let it, making more of a shush than a snap. “So I’m gonna grade you?”

“Well, er...” She squirms, his duvet dimpling beneath her, and it’s weirdly distracting, her just sitting there, thighs squeezed together. “I expect there will be a, uh, practical portion of the curriculum?”

He stares. “Practical...?”

“Yes!” Her head bobs, too enthusiastic. “Though I suppose that would have to be on a rubric. What’s measured can be improved, after all.”

“But what would I...? Her groans, rubbing at the spot that pounds between his eyebrows. “Did you want kissing lessons or something?”

Inomata’s eyes bulge. “What? No! Why would I--? With you--? Have you ever even kissed anyone?”

Kamitani doesn’t blush, he doesn’t, but the skin under his collar still burns, licking up the side of his neck to the tips of his ears. “No.”

“Then why would I ever..?” It’s terrible how her words hang, stoppered up by that suspicious squint. “Did you want there to be kissing lessons?”

“What? Hell no!” He shifts back in his seat with a grunt, crossing his arms with as much denial as he can manage. “I just asked so I could tell you it wasn’t going to happen.”

“Good.” Her mouth rucks up into a mean little knot, and god, how she ever thought anyone would want to kiss her, he’ll never know. “I wouldn’t even if you wanted to.”

“Well, I don’t, so--” he reins himself in with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So what would I be grading you on?”

“Ah...” All that confidence disappears with a cough, her shoulders inching up to her ears. “I hadn’t really thought about the specifics. But, er, I suppose whatever you’d expect a girlfriend to do...?”

Kamitani stares. “So you do want kissing?”

“No!” It’s kind of funny, the way she flushes this time. Not like her usual, all patchy and red, but an almost delicate pink, just sitting at the peak of her cheekbones. “I meant things that would be expected of someone in a relationship-- ah, besides that,” she snaps, when he fails to smother a laugh. “The sort of things that make a guy think it wouldn’t be so bad if maybe...”

Her brain must catch up to her mouth, because all at once she stops, cheeks flaring that stop-light red. “Ah...” she sighs, smothering the sound in her shoulder. “Never mind. Maybe it’s better if we just keep to--”

“Stuff that makes you attractive right?” It’s stupid, really, to feel bad for a girl like Inomata. But those big eyes of hers peek over the pickets of her shoulders, so wary of the smallest bit of help, and well-- it’s no skin off his nose to push through, to pretend like he didn’t just watch her lose every ounce of brazenness that got her this far. “Makes a guy see a girl as a woman, or whatever. Wants to bring her home to his mom and stuff.”

“I...” She clears her throat, smoothing her skirt over the spread of her thighs, right down to her knees. “Right, yeah. That. Stuff like, er...”

“Making bentos.” It’s the sort of thing Usokawa would jaw off about when he was deep into one of those stupid manga. “Going on dates. Good conversation.”

Inomata sighs, relieved. “Yes, exactly like that.”

“Good,” he grunts. “Because I can’t do anything about your rack or whatever.”

It’s weird; after all the shy shuffling she’s done this afternoon, he’s almost relieved to see her scowl. “I wasn’t going to ask you to! I’m already well-aware that I don’t really have the, um...” Inomata glances down, grimacing. “...Assets to compete on that front.”

As much as he’s tried to keep out of girl stuff, Kamitani’s heard girls talk about themselves. My butt’s too flat, my stomach’s all round, my face is so skinny, and I sat out too long this summer and now I’m all tan. It’s endless the way they edit themselves, trying to fit into some weird idea of what a guy wants-- like they don’t know they could have dog paws and three-fourths of the guys he knows would still want to hook up-- but at least they seem like they care about what they’re complaining about. Involved, even. Inomata just sounds...

Tired.

“Girls aren’t just breasts or whatever.” He doesn’t know why he says it. It’s not like he cares about Inomata’s feelings. But when she looks up at him, startled, he adds, “There’s other stuff that matters.”

Good tits help though. Not that he’ll say that, not when she’s looking at him like-- like that. Like he’s said what she needs to hear. “Oh...thanks.”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “You’ve got legs too.”

Whatever good feelings he’s earned evaporate in a groan. “You’re such a dog.”

“So? I’m seventeen.” His chin tilts back, just enough that he catches her eye. “We’re all dogs. Even Kashima.”

By the purse of her lips, she’s not precisely convinced. Fair, Kamitani’s not so sure on that either. Sure, any normal red-blooded guy his age would turn his head for any flash of girl flesh, but Kashima--

Well, Kamitani’s not really sure what his deal is, but it’s survived several cute girls throwing themselves at him, so non-existant‘s the likeliest option. Or maybe he’s just never asked the right questions, and Kashima’s a total freak. One of the reasons the kid’s so tolerable is because they never fucking talk about this stuff.

“Fine,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “Whatever. What subject do you need help with the most?”

He watches her rummage through her bag, eyebrows hiked up toward his hairline. “Really? That’s it?”

“Filling out that questionnaire alone is enough work to earn a study session, and since I can’t make a lesson plan until you finish it...” She shrugs, lugging some huge binder onto her lap. “Which subject?”

He’s not convinced they’re even, but, well, it’s not his problem if she wants to grab the short end of this stick. “English.”

“Mom.” Taka says the word with as much seriousness as a six year old can muster. It still makes him sound like a muppet, especially around a mouthful of rice. “Nii-chan said my memory was shitty.”

Her hand flashes out, cuffing Kamitani on the ear; not hard enough to hurt, but he does lose the strip of meat between his chopsticks. “What’s wrong with you? I’ve told you not to talk like that.”

“I’ll talk how I want,” he grunts, fishing through his stew to find another likely piece. It’s beef tonight; he’s not about to waste it all by filling up on vegetables and rice. “Besides, his memory is shitty.”

“He does have you there.” The hag tilts her head, too thoughtful. “What were you supposed to remember, anyway?”

The little shit’s cheeks bulge out around his dinner. “I forget!”

Kamitani rolls his eyes. Typical. "You’re such a pain. Why’d you even say anything?”

“I wanted to get you in trouble,” he says like it’s obvious. Which it is; he just didn’t expect the brat to come out an admit it. Not in front of the hag, at least.

“Whatever.” He stands with a grunt, shoveling stew into his mouth. “I’m out of here.”

That old witch squints up at him, mouth already puckered around whatever excuse she’s conjured up to stop him. “Just where do you think you’re going? You haven’t even finished eating.”

“I have stuff to do.”

“More important than dinner?” One eyebrow raises, practically dripping with suspicion. “Have you been screwing around with your games again instead of doing your homework? I told you I’d put that thing on the curb if you--”

“No, it’s done.” Or at least as done as it’s gonna get, even with Inomata’s notes. But there’s an exam’s worth of useless questions burning a hole in the corner of his desk, and they’re not about to answer themselves. That girl may have told him to take his time, but he knows exactly what sort of scene will be waiting for him if he doesn’t turn them in by first period. “Just...stuff. None of your business.”

It’s a mistake; the hag straightens up all at once, a storm brewing at her brow line, and he mouth opens--

“I remember!” Taka shouts, hopping out of his seat. “Nii-chan had a girl in his room.”

“Shut up,” he snaps, at the same time his mom asks, “Hayato?”

It’s surprising, he’ll give her that, but she doesn’t need to sound so incredulous about it.

“Yeah!” The little brat sits back down, smug over the mess on his plate. “Inomata-nee-sama was here.”

She whips around to stare at him, brows hovering at her hairline. “Inomata-san?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, all casual, like it’s obvious. “We were studying.”

“You were...studying?” She settles back in her seat, too thoughtful. “I suppose that could be true...since it’s Inomata-san...”

“You told me to take exams seriously this year, didn’t you?” If he hears another word about good universities and the kind of scores it takes to get in them, it’ll be too soon. “Who else was I going to ask?”

“Honestly, I just thought you were going to blow it off again, and I’d have to listen to that ass--” she darts a glance at where Taka sits, happily anticipating the punishment his tattling had bought-- “to some people at work tell me that you would have done better if you’d been raised in a more disciplined household.”

It’s habit that makes his hands clench, skin pulling so tight against his knuckles he sees bone. The hag’s not looking, not right at him, but he shoves them in his pockets anyway. “Has he said that to you? That it’s your fault.”

“Not in so many words. But I’m sure he would, if...” Her shoulder lifts in a sad excuse for a shrug, and suddenly Kamitani’s aware why she always nags at him for doing it. It’s obnoxious. “It doesn’t matter.”

It does. Sure, he’s got complaints a kilometer long about the hag’s parenting style, but it’s a damn sight better than anything that loser could come up with. If he thinks he can get on Mom’s case just because of a few points shaved off for sloppy math, well--

“That’s not what we’re talking about.” The hag waves her hand, like that’s enough to dispell the sour specter in the room. “We’re talking about you. And Inomata-san. Studying.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Even as he says it, she leans closer, inspecting every angle of his face. “Cut that out! I told you, she just came over to lend me some notes. For English. I was having trouble with the grammar.”

Her eyes narrow, but she sits back anyway, running her gaze over him like she’d find the truth if only she could turn out his pockets.

“Fine,” she hums with a chuck of her chin. “Sounds likely enough.”

“Good.” It’s little more than a grunt. “Because that’s what happened.”

“I do have one question though.” The old hag tips forward onto her hand, mouth twitching into an all too knowing smile. “Did you keep the door open?”

[uppermocns-moved]

𝘢𝘰𝘵 + 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘥

eren, armin, levi, jean

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 – nsfw (minors don’t like/reblog/respond), mentions of hard kinks, female reader. shifts in and out of canonverse/modernverse so use your imagination! 

𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘫𝘢𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘳 

always dominant. can be hard or soft dom depending on the mood.

into harder kinks (with heavy communication and consent): somno, breeding, impact play, breath play, free use, etc.

super high sex drive and usually always horny. when he’s bored, he’ll jerk off to pictures you’ve sent him and porn you’ve made together (he’s not camera shy), but never let himself cum, just lazily edge.

he edges for days at a time – not only goes it feel so fucking good, but it gives him thicker loads to pump inside you later.

obsessed with cumming inside you. he’ll fuck load after load as deep as he can inside you, watch in awe as it leaks out of you, then use his fingers to push it back in. he’s not shy about his possessiveness and this is just a further reminder that you’re his.

secretly doesn’t mind when you scratch up his back – he loves looking in the mirror and seeing visual evidence of how good he made you feel.

also secretly loves when you give him hickies in obvious spots. he does absolutely nothing to hide them, he loves reminding everyone of his place. it’s a nonverbal way of saying “i’m taken, fuck off”

wouldn’t care if he broke his neck from you riding his face. he welcomes it, actually.

heavily into bdsm (emphasis on the s&m), and dom/sub dynamics. while he loves perfect little subs that’ll treat him like some sort of god, he adores when you get bratty and talk back. makes things a lot more fun.

loves embarrassing you.

“my god, baby, can fuckin’ hear how wet you are.” “soaking your panties and i didn’t even fuckin’ touch you. what’s got you so wet, sweetheart? thinking of my cock?” “that felt good, didn’t it? don’t hide from me, pumpkin, let me see your pretty face.”

threesomes. foursomes. you name it. while eren’s possessive over you, he doesn’t mind sharing with his friends (if you consent, of course). he loves knowing how worked up everyone gets over his girlfriend, loves fucking you in front of them to show everyone how wrapped around his finger you are.

safeword! mean and rough is what eren does best. even while he’s slapping you around and calling you dummy, or an eager little slut for his cock, he’ll still check in with you and make sure you’re still feeling good and enjoying yourself. he may like hurting you, but he never wants to actually hurt you. never forgets aftercare, either, you’re still his precious angel that he loves more than anyone.

he’s incredibly vocal – dirty talk, moaning, growling, cursing, degradation.

if you’re too tired to go all the way, he loves mutual masturbation, or jerking himself off while you talk dirty in his ear. always wants to hear what you want him to do to you.

big fan of including toys, usually always fucking you with your magic wand on your clit.

sex without the power dynamics is still very intense and passionate. lots of making out, scratching his back and pulling him closer, deep thrusts, curses, eren telling you he loves you, kissing your forehead while you cum.

𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘵

doesn’t really involve himself in strict power dynamics. he’s very versatile and the role he assumes depends on the mood.

prefers biting over spanking and choking you with his fingers over wrapping a hand around your throat (but he will do both).

loves eating pussy and will tease you by gently kissing you through your panties. definitely bites your inner thighs. whispers to you from between your legs and tells you how good you taste. makes you cum over and over, each time moaning into your core and tightening his grip on your thighs to keep you right where he wants you. he only stops when you’re crying and twitching, physically unable to cum one more time.

loves when you’re rough and press his face into your pussy or pull his hair to guide his mouth where you want it. you can hurt him a little. as a treat.

loves when you grab him by the chin and pull him up for a desperate kiss after he eats you out for hours.

goes heavy on the body worship, especially when you wear pretty lil outfits for him.

memorized your body and knows it better than you do. he knows when you’re close, you can’t hide from him.

his possessive side comes out hardcore during sex – armin doesn’t share. he’ll bite marks into your flesh and use his sweet, soft-spoken voice to get into your head. he wants to be the only thought in your mind, the source of all your pleasure.

“mine. you’re all mine. not fuckin’ sharing you.”

if you want him to, he can be fucking mean. he contrasts his harsh words with gentle touches, or tells you sweet things while patting your cheek just a little too rough. it’s almost scary how effortlessly he can change his demeanor to someone entirely different.

loves when you come by to “help” him study (lazily jerk him off while he does his required reading and assignments).

actually just loves when you jerk him off for that matter, especially when he gets to rut into your fist until he’s overstimulated and making a mess of your hand.

easily excitable – just gotta kiss him with tongue all soft and slow and he’ll get all flustered poking against your leg

obsessed with having his mouth on your tits – sucking them, licking them, letting his hand palm and grope at the one not receiving attention.

eye contact is a massive turn on and makes everything feel so much more intimate. he’ll gently grab your chin and redirect your sight, or give your inner thigh a little nip to make you open your eyes again. “focus on me, sweet girl.”

armin’s weaknesses are praise and heavy personal attention. sometimes he’s stressed out and just needs you to take care of him. he’ll sit between your legs, back pressed to your front, and let you stroke him until he’s overstimulated or so pent-up from denial. it makes him dizzy when you whisper praise in his ear, telling him how pretty he looks and how good he’s being for you.

“you wanna cum for me, pretty boy? that feel good? you like when i touch you like this, don’t you? such a good boy for me, armin.”

𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘪 𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯

no defined power dynamic/roles – you do whatever the mood calls for. sometimes he’s pounding you into next week, sometimes you’re denying him orgasms for two hours straight until his voice cracks when he begs.

that being said, levi is a natural brat-tamer and can be a hard dom when he’s agitated and needs to blow off steam. his job is literally to keep brats in check – he doesn’t tolerate insubordination or backtalk (sometimes you test that out though). 

restraining your arms behind your back with his belt, spanking you until you can’t sit, reprimanding slaps, filthy degradation, punishing thrusts. he can be mean. 

“soaking through your panties and i didn’t even touch you. pathetic.” “i wasn’t fucking asking. knees, now.” 

he’s a masochist and loves when you scratch up his back, wrap a hand around his throat, bite him, pull his hair, etc.

borderline sadistic in the way that he will make you cum twenty times before he even considers letting up. he’s relentless. 

loves watching you get yourself off, or make out with you while you get each other off 

gets weak when you pull him in by the shirt collar

holds your hands :)

quickies are usually the only option due to your chaotic schedules. you get at least five minutes alone together, you don’t take it for granted. 

slow morning sex is his favorite – the sun is barely peeking over the horizon and you don’t have to worry about the outside world yet. it’s just the two of you and you can really take your time. 

starts off kind of shy about being vocal and you need to ease him into it

after he finishes, he’ll take a moment to caress and admire your pretty face and kiss your forehead, then make a teasing comment about how you’re sweaty. 

gets a little carried away and accidentally rips all the buttons off your shirt

giving you head is a form of stress relief for him, he really just loves pleasuring you 

takes incredible care of you afterwards – acts as a crutch when your legs are too shaky, gets you water, wipes away messes with a damp cloth, even runs you a bath if you have that much time.

“tch. don’t say i never do anything for you, brat.”

likes when you give him hickies in spots that his uniform will cover. it’s a secret that only the two of you are in on.

levi gets a little publicly affectionate when you return to your duties after having sex – still incredibly reserved, but he’ll ruffle your hair and look at you with the fondest eyes. maybe give your hand a squeeze if nobody’s looking.

𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘬𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘪𝘯

naturally dominant. typically a softer dom unless you provoke him, then he has no issue roughing you up and fucking you into a drooling mess.

so big and strong and loves any position that demonstrates that – fucking you against the wall with your legs wrapped tight around his hips, stand-and-carry, having you on top and bouncing you like you weigh nothing. 

loves when you dig your nails into his back

slightly prefers ass over tits but is overall a leg/thigh kind of guy. includes feet. i’m so sorry.

stockings/thigh high socks/fishnets/garters absolutely knock him out 

great stamina while you’re fucking but almost instantly falls asleep when you’re done. or just wants to cuddle. 

mildly into somnophilia (receiving – loves being woken up with blowjobs)

praises you heavily while you’re riding him

“that’s it, just like that. good girl. good fucking girl.” 

can get a little too romantic when he’s really close and not thinking clearly

“gonna make me cum, angel, love this pussy so fucking much. love you so fucking much.” 

prefers cumming inside you but he’s really just happy to be included 

he gets a little goofy during quickies and does things like bite your asscheek before eating you out. 

secretly loves when you tie his wrists to the headboard and use him however you want. overstimulation is one of his favorite things, especially when it’s your hand forcing orgasm after orgasm from him. 

generally into rope-play but also really likes using his hands and sheer strength alone

bite his bottom lip or gently touch his upper thigh and he’s instantly hard

he’s a hopeless romantic! masturbating alone isn’t the same! he likes dirty-talking on the phone with you when you’re not together, or he just waits until you are. 

will break the headboard and dent the wall if he gets carried away

loves shower sex after stressful days

gets hard from making out – especially if you’re half-dressed on his lap and grinding against his bulge. sometimes he can feel you all warm and throbbing through your panties and he almost blacks out. 

worships your pussy but he will actually start writing his vows the moment you take him down your throat. 

request your fav here. more of my writing. 

[supercorpkid]

The sun can fuck right off

Supercorp, Kara Danvers x Daughter!Reader, Lena Luthor x Daughter!Reader, Alex Danvers x Niece!Reader

Word count: 2795.

You are bored. Extremely, painfully bored. Kara and Lena are at work, Jamie is busy with Rao knows what, and Maya can’t come to your house, because her mom is the worst. So, you are bored with no idea what to do.

You also have been feeling like you need some adventures. It’s not like you got the taste for it, but every time you look at your picture with Wanda in another dimension, you just think about how great you felt protecting the world, and you just want that feeling again.

You’re not praying for trouble to come around, but when you hear a yell somewhere in the city, you also don’t complain about it. In fact, you suit up in a flash and you’re out of the house before any person can blink.

In retrospect, going out to fight bad guys without not even a heads up to your momma, or aunt Alex was a bad idea. You weren’t expecting a real villain, to be honest. Maybe some punks messing up with the city, or maybe even a fire, but definitely not a full grown-up man in a high-tech suit of armor, hitting the town with shockwaves.

You try flying closed-fist towards him at full speed, but are met with a strong shockwave before you get to him. You fall on the floor feeling a little dizzy, but you’re strong enough to get up. At least you called his attention, and he stopped terrorizing the city for a moment, to focus on you. You try flying again. You fall again. You try using your super speed, no use. Can’t get close to him without feeling an electric wave running through your veins.

Shit. Ok. Time to get serious. You shoot him with your heat vision. He is taken aback, but it doesn’t cause much damage to him, because he stomps his foot causing a mini earthquake. Not enough to destroy anything, but enough to be felt. You fly around cleaning the area for anyone who just might happen to be passing by. It wasn’t a big earthquake, but it was enough to get the DEO’s attention, and you hear when aunt Alex yells directions at the tactic team. You just have to hold him back, there is a team coming your way to help now.

Apparently, the only thing that can hold him back is your heat vision, so you try that again. Stronger. Totally focused on this one thing. You can feel heat running through your veins, like you’ve never felt before. You’ve never held your heat vision for so long and so strongly. But you know his armor is taking a big damage, so you power through. You can’t stop, not now, not when you’re so close to defeating him.

But you feel weak. You feel your legs giving in. And your body feels dry-up from energy. You hope his armor breaks before this breaks you.

When you hear DEO cars arriving at the scene, you give one final push, and hear a crack on his armor. That’s enough to make him fall on the ground and the tactic team runs to cuff him.

He isn’t the only one on the ground, though. You also feel weak, like you overused your powers. You can hear Alex’s voice somewhere close, so you know you’re safe and she’s got you. But you made the mistake of not calling Supergirl once and you’re not doing it again. Before you pass out, you press the emergency button on your watch. Just then you can let go.

You wake up, well-aware of where you are. How many times have you been in the DEO infirmary bed, under yellow sun lamps? It’s starting to look like a real thing in your life now.

“National City’ savior, everybody!” You hear your aunt's voice when you open your eyes. She comes closer with a smile on her face. “Why and how, and most importantly, Wow, kiddo.”

“Super hearing.” It’s your only response, and you look around, looking for your moms. “How badly hurt am I?”

“Not at all.” She holds your arm, and you sit on the bed, with her help. “What happened is that you got solar flared.”

“Huh?”

“You are aware your cells accumulate solar energy.” Alex says and you agree with a nod. “Well, let’s say they can soak up an absurd amount of energy, and every time you use your powers you use a little of that. It’s very hard to use ALL of that in one fight, but you just did.”

“Ok. Makes sense. So I have to soak up as much sunlight as I can?” You ask, aware that you probably need to stay out in the sun making ‘photosynthesis’ like you do, every time you get hurt.

“Yeah. That should work.” She pats your shoulder lightly, but you still feel the weight of her hands on your body. “Until then, you’re pretty much a human being. So be careful.”

“I pressed the watch.” You’re trying not to be too obvious about how upset you are that Kara didn’t show up, but Alex seems to read you easily.

“Oh, she brought you in, and went to pick Lena up, they should be arriving at any time now.” Alex says and you breathe in relief. What a superhero you are. Save the city, but still want your moms to pick you up from a fight.

“Is she ok?” Lena rushes in, talking to Alex, but then she turns to you and sees you sitting on the bed. “You’re ok.” She hugs you, and her hand goes to your hair. “You’re ok, baby. You’re ok.”

It feels so good to feel the weight of her arms around you, so you hug her back, hiding your face on her collarbone, and Lena’s hands just pull you in closer to her.

“Does anything hurt?” She asks, putting her chin on the top of your head, and you smile at the scene, at the feeling, and at the amazingness of the moment. You let go of her, and deny with your head. Kara comes to you, putting her hand on your shoulder.

“You called.” She says that with the biggest smile on her face, like you just did the most awesome thing in your life. “You stopped Shockwave all by yourself, and then you called me to go get you.”

“I did.” You smile back. “And I got solar flared, and I’m human now.”

“Oh, I once got solar flared too!” Kara raises her hand at you, and you guys high-five. “Being without your powers is not fun, but I’m so proud of you, little one! You have no idea!” It’s her time to hug you, and she does it a little too strong. You don’t complain though, is amazing that you can even feel it.

“Well, she is free to go.” Aunt Alex says, and you jump from the bed. It feels so weird. You’re feeling heavy, like Earth gravity finally caught up to you, and you feel like you weigh 200 pounds.

Sure you were once without your powers, but you couldn’t really enjoy this feeling of being human. Back then, you couldn’t really walk, because your leg was hurt, and when you did, you had a cast on. So this now, feels like being human for the first time since you were a little kid without powers.

You look at Kara with a smile on your face. “Race ya to the way out.”

And running you go, at a normal speed, and when you get there, you’re sweating and out of breath and feeling light-headed from the effort. You bend down, putting your hands on your thighs for support. Kara holds your arm, looking very worried.

“That was awesome!” You manage to say, while still trying to breathe and she laughs at you.

“You are aware that everyone in the DEO just saw you running like a freak on the corridors, right?” Kara asks, with a playful smile on her lips, and you open a big one to her.

“I know. But they all know I can take them down if I want to, so I don’t think they’ll say anything about it.” You finally stand up again, and open your arms to her. “I would like a ride home, please.”

“Sure thing, my little human.” Kara holds you, and fly home with you holding her tight. Feeling a little scared that you could fall and not be able to protect yourself. You feel a light rain starting to fall, and you look up with a smile. How great is this day?

Kara lands in the backyard, and you open your arms feeling the rain on your skin. She smiles, looking at you like you’re an alien who just now landed on Earth, and it’s experiencing things for the first time.

“Ok, go inside and get dry, and I’m going to pick up your mom before it starts raining harder.”

Kara leaves, but you don’t go inside. You’re so static that you were actually able to stop that villain -without help this time, may you add-, that the rain feels like a payment for it.

“Get inside, come on. Come on.” You hear Lena’s voice and you look behind you to see her with her suit jacket over her head. She comes to you, shielding you from the rain -like you’re not already completely soaked-, and walks with you inside from the backyard door. “Go take a shower and get out of those wet clothes before you come up with a cold.”

“A cold!” You say, like it’s the most exciting thing in the world. “Have I ever had a cold before? What is it like?”

“It’s no fun.” Lena looks at your excited face, and Rao, how well this woman can read you. It’s impressive. “Absolutely not! You are not getting a cold to feel how it is. Go take a hot shower now, and get yourself into warm clothes.” You pout at her. “I will throw you under the shower if I have to.”

“Fine.” The pouting is over at the sound of that. “I’m not getting a cold!”

But it seems that the universe has other plans for you.

“Come on, babygirl. School. Let’s go.” Lena opens the door in the morning. You try to open your eyes, but it feels incredibly hard to do so. You didn’t even wake up yet, and you can feel the most horrible headache.

“Mom. Don’t freak out.” Your voice comes out small and hoarse, and that’s all it takes for Lena to understand what’s going on.

“Please don’t tell me-” She comes closer, and you feel her hand on your forehead. “My God, you’re burning up.”

“I am?” You ask, pushing the blankets up your body. “Then why am I so cold?”

“Because you have a fever, babygirl.” Lena lets out a sigh, and you just wait until she says ‘I told you so’. But that never comes. “KARAAAA! GET THE TERMOMETER!”

It’s five seconds later when you see Kara showing up at your bedroom door. She gives it to Lena, who quickly takes your temperature and sighs at the number on the screen.

“You’ve got a high fever. What else are you feeling?” Lena asks, and you feel the mattress dipping next to you, and Kara coming closer.

“Headache. And for some reason my legs and arms hurt. Like-” You look at Kara, with wide eyes. “They actually hurt, you know?”

“Well, my love, that’s one of the symptoms.” Kara smiles fondly at you. She looks amazed at the fact that her daughter came up with a cold in the first place. “So, she’s not going to school today.”

“Absolutely not.” Lena says, picking up her cell phone from her pocket. “I’ll call the principal and let her know.” She looks back at you with a flat smile. “At least now we’ll prove to them that you’re an actual human being.”

“Yay!” You cough after such effort. “Silver lining.”

“I’ll go get something for you to eat.” She leaves the room and you look at Kara.

“I’m not hungry.” You think about it for a second and your eyes widen. “Momma! I’m not hungry! Am I dying?”

“Don’t even joke about it.” Kara throws her arms around you and gets comfortable next to you.

“Don’t you have work to attend to?” You ask, trying to do an eyebrow raise, but it hurts so badly you give up midway.

“Work?” She laughs like it’s the most absurd question you’ve ever asked her. You know it can’t be, because you once asked her how fast you had to run for your skin to warm up, like a spacecraft heats up when reentering the atmosphere and catches on fire -to which she replied a solid ‘huh?’-. “I can’t possibly go to work with you sick like this.”

“I’m not that sick. I have a common cold.”

“Shhh. They don’t need to know that.” Kara smiles, and takes her phone out of her pocket. She is typing and saying her message out loud, you know, like old peps do. “Can’t go in today. My daughter has come up with something and I have to stay in and watch her.”

You want to call her a liar, but you also want to thank her for staying with you. So instead, you settle for a smile, and for holding her hand. Lena walks in a while later with food in a tray for you.

“Ok, so I called your school and explained your absence, and I also called my assistant to let her know I’m not coming in today and-” She looks at Kara, already under the covers with you, and furrows her brows. “Don’t you have to go to work?”

Kara gives her a sheepish smile. “Guess we had the same idea.”

“Guess we did. Come on baby, let's get something inside you.” She helps you up, and you sit on your bed. You eat what she brought, and when you’re done, they help you lay back in bed. “Make space for me?”

Kara pulls you closer, and Lena lays on the other side of the bed, dropping her shoes on the floor with loud thuds.

“Rao, that hurts so much.” You wince at the sound, closing your eyes. “Can we all be very, very quiet?” You ask, and add a little later. “Oh, and in the dark?”

“Oh, my love, do you have a migraine too?” Lena whispers, kissing your forehead. “Kara, go get her a cloth, please.”

You barely feel the bed moving and Kara’s already laying down again. She blows a little of her freeze breath in it, and places it on your forehead. You also notice they had turned off the lights, and you doze back to sleep sandwiched between your moms.

You wake up much later. Kara is snoring next to you, arm over your body, making it impossible for you to move, and Lena is sitting on your desk, silently working in the dark. You smile at the scene.

“Mom.” You call her, and she stops what she is doing to go to you.

“Hey, babygirl. Listen, you have to drink lots of fluids to keep yourself hydrated.” Lena hands you a bottle of water. “How’s the migraine?”

“A little better?” You say, truthfully. She nods, putting her hand on your head to check for your fever.

“You’re sweaty. I think your fever is down. You should go take a shower.” Lena says and you just point at Kara’s arms and she knows exactly what you mean. “I always get trapped under her arms too. Let me just-” She scratches the back of Kara’s neck, and instantly her arms move and you’re free to go. “Here.” Lena gives you a hand and you sit on the bed with her help.

“I have to tell you something.” You whisper, still holding her hand. “I don’t really like the cold. You can say I told you so.”

Lena kisses your head, and lets out a chuckle. “I didn’t think you would, but I guess you had to see it for yourself. I’m glad you didn’t like it though; you’ll probably never catch it again.”

“I hope not.”

Despite absolutely hating the feeling of being sick, you look around and things are still pretty good in your life. When Kara wakes up, she wraps you up in blankets like a ‘sick burrito’, and moves you to the couch to watch your favorite movie with them. Sure, you’re surrounded with tissue papers, water bottles, and cold medicine. But you’re also surrounded with love. And that is the best thing you can wish for on a Wednesday afternoon.

Notes:

So it seems a lot of you wanted a sick fic. For this one I have to thank @beepbop122 for the solar flared idea for Superkid to get sick. Then @asiangmrchk13 asked for Supercorp taking care of her and a little bit of Alex in the middle. Also @youngjusticeimaginesus asked me for Superkid get a migraine and I think the basic idea was being cared by Kara and Lena, so I hope this works. And I threw in a fight scene for myself. I hope you all enjoy it, thank you so much!

[imerdwarf]

It's A Bad Day, Not A Bad Life

Requested by anonymous: Hello my love! Could I send in a request please where Bucky and reader are just friends and he's like her big brother, she has a breakdown one day and just crumbles in his arms? Preferably with beefy!Bucky because I love how soft you write him tyvm 🥰

Pairing: Beefy!Bucky X Reader

Warnings: Slight angst, bad days, soft cuddles, soft beefy Bucky 🥰

Word Count: 1,117

Author's Notes: Thank you very much dear anon for this sweet and soft request! I hope you like it and let me know if you want me to change anything 💜 thank you so much my dear friend @jobean12-blog for the wonderful ideas and for reading this over for me 🥺💜

It's just a bad day, not a bad life. That's what everyone kept telling you today, what they failed to understand however, it really did feel that way. It just seemed like it was one of those days where everyone had decided to pick you to yell at and call you endless names the entire day. Everything that could have gone wrong, did go wrong, today of all days.

It started with work. You were running a good five minutes late but you did apologise when you arrived at the office, your boss immediately summoned you to his office where he proceeded to lecture you about the importance of time keeping.

Then, when were allowed to sit down at your desk, your computer was broken and you had to do everything by hand. Ron, the coffee man spilled hot black coffee over the files on your desk which prompted another lecture from your boss about clumsiness. Of course, it was all your fault because it always was according to your boss.

If work wasn't good enough, you and your best friend Wanda ended up getting into a huge fight over something stupid during lunch. She wanted you attend her engagement party but she had picked a date and time you just knew your boss wouldn't give you the day off for. You had to decline, which angered her and then started to call you the most careless friend in the world. That was like a stab wound straight to your heart.

"It's a bad day, not a bad life. Don't cry dear." A dear old woman said to you as she passed you in the street. You nodded and walked back to your workplace with your head hung low and furiously wiped the tears away.

It was just so difficult to keep the escaping tears at bay during the rest of your workday. Nobody checked on you to see if you were okay and you honestly couldn't tell if it was for the best.

Those three simple words, 'are you okay', can break down a dam in seconds and you certainly didn't wish to start crying your heart out in the middle of the office.

Just before the day was over, the storm clouds rolled in and heavy rain drenched the city. It was just your luck that today of all days you had forgotten to bring a jacket.

It was just perfect. Now all you needed really was a nice big bird to fly over and drop a shit on your head.

Work was finally over, and you wasted no time in packing up your things and heading out of the day without saying goodbye to any of your colleagues or boss. You just wanted to go home, you needed to go home.

You knew at home your best friend, your defacto brother would be there waiting for you with a hot pan of soup heating up on the stove and making sure the apartment was nice and warm for your return. Bucky always took care of you, he was simply someone you couldn't live without.

The walk to the apartment seemed to happen in slow motion despite only being a couple of blocks away. The heavy downpour soaked through your clothes which made them stick uncomfortably to your skin. The rain puddles splashed up against pants with each step you took, soaking your soaks and making little lakes in the bottom of your shoes.

Bucky had just finished the cleaning before he warmed some hot soup up on the stove. The rain was pounding down by now and he was concerned for you because your jacket was still hung up on the coatrack by the door.

He made sure the apartment would be nice and toasty before you got in and he turned your electric blanket on.

His senses picked up your thundering footsteps on the stairs. The nearer you got, the louder they became that they became almost deafening.

You turned the doorknob and pushed it a bit too hard that the doorknob put a hole through the wall.

"Hi." Bucky chuckled at the wall, pulling the door away and inspecting the damage. "I'll repair it, again." He joked with a smile which fell off his lips when he saw the state of you.

Your shoulders were slumped and your clothes weighed heavily on your body as you slipped your two ponds off your feet, water seeping out from the bottom and puddling on the wooden floors.

"Sorry." You whimpered before bringing your hands over your face and crying into the palm of your hands. A warm body engulfed you from the front, Bucky pulled your hands away and you wrapped them around his waist instead. Your wet clothes soaking his, but neither of you cared about it right now.

Bucky's large hands rubbed your back and you cried into his chest. He kissed your wet hair and sighed.

"It's okay doll. I'm here, I'm always here for you." Your grip tightened and so did his.

You don't know how long the two of you stood like that for. It could have been for a few minutes, a few hours, but when you were in his arms it seemed like time had stopped altogether.

You pulled away with a sniff and a wet chuckle when you looked at the state of his shirt.

"I'm sorry about your shirt," your voice came out gravely from all the crying you did. Though it didn't solve anything, it still felt good to have that weight lifted. "I just had the worst day and my boss yelled at me twice and I just- I'm sorry."

"Doll," Bucky turned serious and grabbed your hands, "stop apologising. It's not your fault, you don't have to apologise for everything. It's almost as if you're apologising for being human. Your boss is a jerk and you wait until I see him..." Bucky balled his left hand into a fist and shook it slightly, "that guy isn't gonna have any teeth and he'll be apologising to you." You laughed and shook your head, thankful to have such an amazing friend and brother figure.

"Thank you Bucky, you're the best."

"Of course I am. If there was an award for the best roommate-slash-friend-slash-brother, I'd win it."

You agreed, "Of course you would!" You gave him a smile and your world seemed to be a better place.

"There's that smile I like to see. Listen, go and take a hot shower, throw on some dry clothes, we'll eat and watch movies in your bed with your electric blanket, sounds good?"

"Sounds amazing!" You grinned and started to walk into your bedroom to grab some dry clothes when he called your name, "yeah?"

"What's your boss's number?"

[burnedbyshoto]

temerity

― the perfect job for an overworked, tired, and romantic you is obviously a stressful, demanding, but oh so aesthetic coffeeshop. your job only becomes better when a handsome redhead appears through the door with a loud bang, and you can do nothing but fall for him. or the five times kirishima orders coffee and the one time he doesn’t.

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pairing: kirishima eijirou x fem!reader

warnings: cursing, fluff, light angst, pining, coffee shop!au, modern!au, college!au, happy ending, five times he did and one time he didn’t trope

word count: 9,394

a/n: happy birthday to my beautiful love @ikinabi​!!!! this was written for you based off of your favorite tropes including your favorite word, bet you saw this coming a mile away because my interrogation for this was absolute ass. also sorry for the angst, I couldn’t help myself! for the rest of you non-reds, this was a pretty damn fun piece to write. kirishima was modeled after how red sees him too, sorry. I haven’t typed that much in a single sitting in a long time, so it was p refreshing. like always, enjoy and leave a comment if you enjoyed ;-; (oh and thank you all for kiri coffee taste suggestions)

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O N E

Working in a small coffee shop isn’t exactly what you had once thought it to be.

For years you had been attending the small coffee shop just by your university. Most of your studying, homework, and late-night mental breakdowns had taken place in the corner of the shop, hidden from the sight of the patrons, which was conventionally the best spot for the strongest wifi.

You had been there so many times, having tried every single drink on their menu, and had gotten to know every worker there ― including the owners. So when the invitation to work there was brought up the one night you showed up in hysterics because you had lost your other job, it shouldn’t have taken you by surprise.

So now, in your final year of university, you stood at the counter. A textbook cracked open near the register light, the gentle coffee shop tunes playing merrily in the background. The intricate, familiar, and distinguished smell of both fresh and aging coffee beans with day-old pastries soaked deep into every centimeter of the room. 

The coffee shop was typically slow at this time at night, most people, thankfully, choosing to keep their caffeine addictions primarily in the mornings. Or, as a student had once confessed, didn’t want to make your job more demanding, so they made their own caffeinated drink this late at night. Regardless, it didn’t matter; the morning and afternoon crowds at this coffee shop were busy enough for you to be grateful for this downtime, especially as midterm season was beginning to approach. With this upcoming season, you knew you would be pouring liters of coffee down red-eyed, broken-spirited, college students' throats in the coming days.

Humming, you flipped the page of your biochem textbook, information on amino acids and protein structure twisting in your mind. At the same time, you tried to absorb the chaotic, overflowing amount of information presented on a single page. With a pen to your lip, you frowned at the sentence, rereading phrases over and over again as you struggled to figure out just why Hydrogen formation was so important. 

That didn’t last for too long, fortunately. 

For when you were about to scream to your coworker who was hiding away in the backroom about how amino acids could go fuck themselves, the front door slammed open. 

Despite the wooden door being extremely, almost stupidly heavy (to the point where there was a sign that clearly read: YES WE ARE OPEN, THE DOOR IS JUST REALLY HEAVY, outside), it crashed into the wall, causing a loud smack to rattle the shop. You, having been so absorbed in your studies, jumped at the sound. Your body flinched as a surprised shriek left your lips.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry! It said the door was heavy, but I didn’t think it would slam open like that!” came an apologetic and obviously embarrassed voice from the entrance.

Your heart was pounding with adrenaline. You focused your attention on the man who was frantically checking potential damages to both the door and the wall. All while he continued to apologize. 

Red hair and red eyes are the first things you noticed about him.

Red hair that obviously was dyed, red, warm eyes seemed smooth and seemed to melt into sugary brown, and a rather large scar over his right eye that stopped just at his eyebrow. His smile was broad, exceedingly bright, albeit stiff.

Despite your pumping blood and the way that your fingertips tingle with your fear, a smile and laugh pressed to your lips as he fumbled to close the door behind him (although it was nearly closed by the time he fumbled for the metal brass door handle). Pushing up off the counter from where you were lying, you shut the textbook you had, waving off the new customer.

“No worries! Most people either overcompensate or can’t open the door at all,” you explained with a pinching smile, the laughter in your tone so noticeable despite your intent to keep your humor hidden. Your smile and softly thudding heart only seemed to increase stupidly as the red-headed man approached the cash register.

He was dressed horribly.

He wore an orange gym shirt, most definitely worn with age, and a bit too small on his… physique, navy blue basketball shorts that had white stripes on the side of his thigh, and black athletic crew socks with bright red crocs. 

A living, walking fashion disaster.

“Um,” you stifled a teasing snort, “what can I get for ya?”

The man (was he a himbo? he seemed like he could be one through his appearance alone!) crossed his arms across his chest, lower lip jutting out as he read the menu under his breath with curious, wide eyes. His head tilted to the side, his gaze seemingly stuck on a single area of the menu, and with all the curiosity of the world weighing down on you at this one, very moment, you turned behind you.

“Anything catching your eye?”

“This is… uh, this is my first time in here,” he admitted, his gaze falling from the menu, catching your own eye when you turned back around to face him. His eyes were wide, clear as they were alarmingly honest; he paused for a bit before eventually adding, “actually.”

“Well,” you began, your own honest smile brightening on your face, “lucky for you, I’ve tried everything on this menu. Pick your poison, I can tell you what everything tastes like.”

His eyes widen in what you can only recognize as being overwhelmed, but you try to hide the way your smile is turning into a smirk when he begins to list out drinks.

Drink after drink he names, most of them being dark, black, bitter-tasting coffees, and you can see some hesitation in him with each name he lists.

“You don’t seem to know what kinda coffee you like, huh?” you eventually point out once he’s had you repeat the entire menu for the dark roasts the shop had.

“That would be embarrassing if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve never had coffee in my life before,” he laughed partially in embarrassment, but much more in some underlying mirth and energy, he seemed to easily hold. Energy that seemed to warm your chest more than any cup of coffee on a cold morning. “I’m what you could call a coffee virgin.”

Now that got a snort out of you.

“Okay, coffee virgin,” you teased, immediately grabbing a kids' throwaway cup behind the counter. “You should’ve started with that!”

“I didn’t want to come off as uncultured! I mean, I’m down at the university, the uni down the street, I’m a university student myself! But being twenty-one and never having coffee before? It just seems… I don’t know so unmanly!”

All while he was confessing the reason as to why he had never in his life had a single cup of coffee, you had poured the simmering black coffee that he was most interested in into the cup. It was filled with only a small amount of the black, bitter liquid, just enough to give him a good taste of the drink. Placing the kids' cup in front of him with a satisfactory thunk, you grinned up at him.

His hand was pressed to the back of his neck, an almost shameful look on his face with just the smallest blush brightening his cheeks and ear tips.

“I think it’s cool you’re a uni student without a coffee addiction,” you smile earnestly, pressing the kids' cup closer to him. “Shows a different kind of man that you’re able to handle a workload without a caffeine drip.”

If you didn’t know better (and honestly, you didn’t, you were probably projecting the weird stranger crush you had seamlessly formed on him), you would have said he forgot how to speak. He clears his throat, his embarrassment fading into a small, soft smile, and he picks up the cup.

“Thank you for the sample.”

He takes a drink of the warm liquid, and immediately he seems to crush the paper cup in his hand, a suppressed hysteric of coughing spluttering past his fisted hand on his mouth, tears springing into his eyes. You yelped in surprise, hands fluttering out to smack him on the arm in a failed attempt to reach his back.

“O-Oh my god!” he eventually wheezed, his eyes staring down at the crushed cup as if it was some sort of vermin, a creature that had no use being alive but still pitied it. His other hand wiped at his lips as to rid of its taste. His head snapped back towards you, his eyes wet with betrayal from both his thoughts and taste buds. “Can you do something, not this at all?!”

You purse your lips for a second, thinking about just what could suit his apparent dislike for bitter, black coffee. With a single idea in your head, you leaned forward onto the counter, a smile back on your lips.

“Do you like cinnamon rolls?”

He blinked.

“Who doesn’t?”

“For here or to go?” you asked, head tilting to the side before you eventually remembered that the shop was closing in a few minutes. “Actually, it’ll be to go!”

“O-Oh, okay!”

“Can I get a name?” you asked, your hand grabbing the paper cup and a sharpie to write his name. There was no reason for you to write down his name; he was the only person in the shop right now.

“K-Kiripima,” he answers with wide eyes and red cheeks. Your eyebrows scrunch.

“Kiripima?”

“No! I’m, oh my god, this is so unmanly of me,” he bemoaned, his head shaking. “Kirishima Eijirou! I’m Kirishima Eijirou!”

The pealing laughter that erupted from your mouth stood no chance at being silenced. And so with an embarrassed nod of your own, you pressed off the counter, writing his name was the neatest writing you had, before setting off.

You worked fast behind the counter, making the specialized drink just for the blushing himbo of a man before you, well, at least until he interrupted your chain of thoughts and actions.

“Biochem, right?”

Placing the cup where the steamed milk machine was, you turned to look at Kiri(p)shima, who was pointing at your textbook with an all too familiar look on his face that told you he recognized it.

“Unfortunately,” you smiled at him, eventually shrugging. “I also go to the uni down the street.”

“Aw damn, sucks I’ve never seen you there before!” he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck when he glances up at you from the textbook before looking back down. “I took this class last semester!”

“Oh? Who’d you have?” you asked, continuing on with your work, your suspicion of him being a himbo slightly dwindling.

“Chaney!” he responded, and you looked over at him; you had him this semester, too. “It was the worst! I dropped out the first week! Didn’t help that I thought biochem was a split biology and chemistry course… teaches me not to listen to Kaminari and Mina… ah, I mean, my friends!”

Himbo indeed.

Laughing at his flux in judgment, you placed the steaming cup of sweet, sweet coffee in front of Kirishima, hands pressing onto your hips as you did so.

“How about this?”

You watch as the redhead grins at you, picking up the cup of coffee and drinking it despite your last second squeak that it was probably way too hot to be consumed.

“HOLY SHIT! This is so much better! It tastes just like cinnamon rolls! Bro, you have some serious talent!” Kirishima yelled, his eyes not quite as bright, but his smile definitely still as warm. “How much will it be?”

“On the house,” you admitted with a shrug, your cheeks warming with his look of disbelief. “I took your, uh, coffee virginity away and nearly killed ya, it’s the least I could do!”

Kirishima narrows his gaze on you, his smile softening in tandem while he looks over at the menu again, taking another stiff sip of the coffee.

You watch as he takes his wallet out of his pocket, and with a little effort, pulls out two thousand yen.

“For the next few customers then, yeah?” he smoothly states, already moving back towards the door long before you could demand that he come back and take his money with him.

“Hey!” Kirishima yells, his hand had opened the heavy ass door with no problem or strain. “What's your name?”

“Why?!” you yelled back despite your instincts screaming at you to tell him your name.

His grin stretches so widely you take notice of his glinting, almost abnormally sharp canines from the counter. 

“So, I know who to blame for my caffeine addiction!”

You laugh.

“Y/l/n y/n,” you smile, your stomach flipping at the way he seems to brighten with that information. “I promise that’s my real name too, no mess-ups.”

Kirishima laughs, red staining his face.

“Guess we can’t all be as amazing as you, huh?”

You didn’t get the chance to even scream in your fluster because he was already gone. The heavy wooden door closed by the time your coworker emerged from the back, an all too curious look on their face.

“What was that?”

You shrug, a smile stretching further on your face.

“Hopefully, a new regular.”

T W O

“Kiripima!”

If there was a way for you to not giggle at the way Kirishima nearly slammed the door through the wall in his shock embarrassment, you would have liked to know.

“My name is Kirishima, y/l/n!” he yelled back, his cheeks the same color as his spiked hair. “I mean, if you want to call me Kiripima, that’s okay! It’s just… my name is Kiri-shima!”

“Sorry, sorry, Kiripima was too cute to resist!” you admitted with a smirk, your body leaning forward, elbows pressed onto the counter, hands pressed against your cheeks. “What can I get for you so late at night, Kiri-shima?”

Kirishima smiles broadly, his hands sinking into his pockets as he walks over towards you and the counter. He’s dressed much more normally today, he wore black jeans that are slightly dirty with some sort of white powder, and his shirt is a crimson red. It’s tight against his biceps but fits him much better than the last shirt he wore, and on the fabric right above his heart, lays a simple print: FATGUM’S GRUB.

“Nightshift, unfortunately, finally caught me this week!” Kirishima sighs, his shoulder-shrugging but the smile remaining just as firmly on his face. “It’s no biggie, though; it’s for one of my bros who needed the night off!”

“Oh, so you’re an everyday hero?” you tease, enjoying the way that he grins wide enough to show off his sharp canines before it humbles into an embarrassed smile. “How manly of you.”

“Nothing anyone else wouldn’t do,” he mumbled, his gaze falling to your shoulder in his embarrassment.

“Alright, alright, if you say so,” you relent, sighing softly before straightening up and smiling up at the red-haired man who was busy taking in your menu once again with significant hesitation. “What can I get for you this time, Kirishima?”

Kirishima’s eyes glinted over, a laugh once again rumbling in his chest before he sighed, “What do you suggest for me, y/l/n?”

And so, at nearly ten p.m., you stood behind the cash register, Kirishima’s coffee long since given to him, and the two of you were intently talking, laughter and enthusiastic yelling being exchanged fervently.

You learned his name was Kirishima Eijirou; he was twenty-one years old, born and raised in Musutafu. You knew that while yes, he most definitely a himbo (something you confirmed with strategic questions, and not straight up asking him), he was an engineering major! He played a ton of sports but seemed to prefer heavy contact sports, rugby, and soccer being his top choice of sport. You even found out that this man (who often used the term manly in a way that meant ‘approved by Kirishima’) was the biggest fan of the old movies and comic book hero Crimson Riot. You figured this out when he pulled out his phone to show you a picture of his new goldfish and accidentally revealed his lock screen being him and the famous actor behind the superhero.

“You’re telling me you’ve NEVER seen an All Might movie, but you’ve seen ALL the Crimson Riot movies?!” Kirishima yelled, his arms shooting out past the counter to grab you by the shoulders, shaking you intensely with the biggest, goofiest smile on his face.

“Be careful with your coffee!” you squealed, trying to keep his elbow from knocking over his cup that had still gone untouched.

“Y/L/N!” he exasperated, pulling himself in closer to you, his eyes wide and bright, quickly drowning you with his radiant energy and overwhelming enthusiasm. “Answer!!!”

“Oh my god! Yes, Kirishima! I have never seen an All Might film but have seen every single Crimson Riot film!” you confess, your cheeks hurting from your laughter, and growing sense of embarrassment because everyone in the world has seen the All Might movies!

Hell, even people who weren’t from Japan had seen them all!

The movie superhero was a blockbuster smash with every movie they did!

“Why not?! How not?!”

“Because my dad never let me watch them growing up because the guide warnings,” you wheezed, your stomach cramping with your laughter, your hands grabbing onto his sturdy ― and holy fuck, were they sturdy ― biceps trying to ease his excited(???) shaking. “Besides, my dad is a hardcore Crimson Riot fan; he would have a heart attack and die if he heard that I went to go watch an All Might film.”

“Holy shit,” Kirishima breathed, a glazed over glee washing over his face in some euphoric bliss. “Your dad… is so manly, I think I could marry him.”

Your laughter only grew when Kirishima wiped tears from his eyes, and you patted his arm in your condolences.

“I think he would not take to someone claiming to be the biggest Crimson Riot fan!”

Kirishima grin only grew, “Bet he wouldn’t!”

You tilted your head, your smile becoming a bit lopsided, ready to take that bet right there, right now. You knew your dad was most definitely still awake at this time.

But the words never got to pass your mouth because as soon as you opened your mouth to speak, a loud ringtone interrupted you.

You also hated the fact that you recognized the ringtone to be the Crimson Riots theme song.

Kirishima’s warm hands pulled away from you, his overeagerness abandoned as he pulled out his phone and pressed it to his ear without checking who was calling.

“It’s Ei, talk to me.”

The nickname of his first name caused your stomach to flip, his smooth baritone voice easily sending shivers down your spine. Still, with the mention of such an intimate nickname… the chill crawling down your spine, teasing every nerve in your system, was inevitable.

You watched Kirishima’s face. The way that he easily took in the words of whoever was on the other side of the line. The smile on his face remained if only muted just a bit as he agreed left and right with whoever was on the other side.

“Nah, I can get there in a few! Don’t worry about it, Fat, I normally show up early to shifts regardless, I don’t blame ya! Yeah, yeah, okay, yeah! Yeah! See ya soon!”

Disappointment blossomed in your chest, the horrible feeling of having to say goodbye to a customer who had only come in twice! Twice! Most times, you never wanted to see any customers, even some regulars, more than once in your lifetime! But again, there had been no other customer in your life as a barista that had been as kind, friendly, and hot as Kirishima.

“Well, I gotta go now,” Kirishima softly sighed, his lips pressing into a half-smile, his eyebrows scrunched together in his (maybe) reluctance to leave. “Fat, er, my boss, got overloaded with the late-night munchies, so…”

“Time for the fanboy to leave?” you finished for him, your fingers looping into your apron, your eyes glancing at the clock that showed you that you should’ve been cleaning up five minutes ago.

“Yeah, sadly!” Kirishima laughed, his hand grabbing the coffee and pocketing his phone as he made his way to the front door. You followed after him, ready to lock the door after him in case some desperate customer tried to come in. “Well, thank you for the coffee again! I gotta see just how much you know about the greatest superhero ever the next time I drop by!”

You smiled.

“Next time?”

Kirishima paused for a bit, “Yeah, next time!” he pushed through the front door, and you watched as he exited the shop, his body turning so he was looking at you while he walked backward. “I told ya, y/l/n, it's pretty unmanly of you, but you got me hooked on caffeine!”

There was no time for you to argue otherwise because he turned on his heel just as quickly and began jogging off to his own job.

“You’ll close up by yourself?” your bitchy coworker asked, and you startled, seeing that she was also pushing past the door. “You kept us over way later because you can’t stop flirting with the customers, which by the way, is against protocol.”

You roll your eyes.

“Yeah, whatever, bye.”

T H R E E

“Next in line, please!”

It was busy.

As you had once thought many, many weeks ago, the midterm season had finally come with full force, and it was horrible. There were at least four crying college students found in any of the studying rooms the shop had from sun up to sundown. Some of the students were found soaking their tears onto the worn leather sofa, some moments from dying on the plenty of counters and tables.

On multiple days there had been students who stayed the entire day, drinking whole pots worth of black coffee when they were ordinarily sweet coffee drinkers. You had to give some freshmen girl a tight hug the other day who was seconds from taking a W on her transcripts because she absolutely could no longer handle her math class. You had the unfortunate time of giving a student the news that no, today was not Thursday, it’s Friday, so yes… they missed their midterm for a professor who would refuse to reschedule any missed exam.

But it wasn’t all too bad.

Kirishima had been showing up practically every day now; he would order a pastry every time, opting out of a drink by showing you his three-liter water bottle. It was nice to have someone like Kirishima around (partially because you usually worked with a younger coworker,) who was both strong and sweet. He wasn’t majorly concerned about his midterms, stating that he had study groups with his friends and had been on top of his game and only came to the coffee shop to do light personal studying. So, during your mad dashes to make the 2,783rd cup of coffee within your shift, you couldn’t help but glance over at Kirishima, who was comforting crying students. When they weren’t crying, and you weren’t desperately trying to appease the caffeine raged customers, he chatted with you, seated on the counter by the coffee counter.

Having him around so much was actually both making your day better and much, much worse. On the one hand, that meant that since you were paired up with coworkers you didn’t get along with, you had a fantastic company that literally made the nights go by so fast as you and he became closer and closer friends. But, on the other hand, it also made your once attraction to him, having been solely based on physical looks to bleed over to personal traits, and you wanted to cry with every poor attempt of flirting that flew over his head.

However, you did get to learn that 1. he did, in fact, dye his hair red because you had the privilege of seeing his black roots. And that 2. despite his phone being filled with the craziest metal and rock songs, he really only listened to a playlist buried in his phone that was filled with soft acoustic guitar and sweet bubblegum pop songs. It was great.

But it was no time to think about your tall, red-headed crush. You had much more pressing issues with the large coffee crowd in front of you. It was rush hour, and since you were scheduled for tonight's shift, they asked if you wanted more hours for today since they were training someone new.

Obviously, you had agreed.

You had forgotten the horrors of rush that included sleep-deprived, caffeine-infused insanity of students coupled with the ever-demanding adults with jobs that they very much needed to return too. It was always horrific.

But you for sure never expected to see your crush before you.

“Kiri!” you smiled, the smile on your face was one of pure exhaustion and joy of seeing your friend crush. Your gaze quickly dropped away from him, your eyes returning to the paper cups you held, writing in their orders and name as quickly as you could. “How can I help you?”

Kirishima visibly gulped, and you froze a bit before setting down the large order on the counter for your coworkers to eventually get to. You knew by the pile-up on orders you would be switched out with the new hire after Kirishima and the person behind him.

“I, uh, I need to ask you something!” Kirishima spoke sharply, his arms stiff at his side. His usual kind and gentle smile on his face is mechanic and dull. He was… he was sweating? Pity filled your stomach; maybe he had done terribly on a midterm.

“Do you need a new coffee rec?” you immediately ask your mind on the set menu behind you, trying to come up with a coffee just sweet enough for the charming man in front of you. “You haven’t had a drink in a while, I don’t remember what you had last, though.”

“No, not that! I have a… well, I have a confession!” Kirishima tries again, his body somehow becoming even stiffer as he nods his head in growing speeds. “Yup! A confession!”

“Would ya hurry it up, kid! Some of us got work to get to!” came a crabby voice from behind Kirishima, and you winced, looking past your crush to the eldering man who looked like he was eating and shitting stress every day for the past three years. 

“Sir, please calm down, it won’t take too long,” you frowned, not at all happy with the sheer impatience of the customer. You turned back to Kirishima, an apologetic look on your face. “But a confession? Okay, well, actually… I have one for you as well!” Maybe you could get yourself to confess you liked him?

But the old man’s interruption seemed to have calmed Kirishima down significantly, who snapped out of his haze.

“Sorry, sorry!” he apologized to the man behind him, bowing deeply for his troubles before facing you again and laughed. The palm of his hand hit his forehead as he groaned lowly. “Sorry, this is so unmanly of me, y/l/n! I mean, I shouldn’t even be doing this because you’re working, but I finally… I just…”

He trailed off, and you found it impossible to follow his train of thought, something you weren’t too bad at doing.

“Just what?”

It was with that the world seemed to still.

The noise of the busy coffee shop, the hustling of your coworkers, the chattering of the studying students, and business calls going mute as you stared up into Kirishima’s red, comprehensive, honest eyes.

“Well, it’s just that I, um, I--”

“Listen, kid,” the man behind Kirishima snapped at him. “I have twelve minutes to gather my drink and make it back to my meeting with my executive board. And you’re holding up the damn fucking line! Make up your mind on what coffee you want, because you’ve been in this line with me for almost ten minutes, order it and pay! Let’s get moving!”

“Sir!” you gasped, horrendously mortified a customer was acting like that! “That’s incredibly rude! He hasn’t even been here for a minute!”

“It’s actually been three!” he sneered.

You opened your mouth to retaliate, not at all positive if it had been three minutes because by god did you get lost in Kirishima’s eyes.

“No!” Kirishima interrupted you before you could begin, and you looked up at Kirishima, who looked like a kicked puppy, and that sent your heart into a whole series of palpitations you didn’t know would happen with him. “It’s fine, sorry, I got worked up… um… one of my best bros likes his coffee black, and well, I like it now too. A regular black coffee, to go…”

You didn’t even get a chance to say anything, Kirishima slipping the exact amount of money for the drink before disappearing into the crowd.

Your sight narrowed when it befell onto the old man who looked proud of himself, “Finally! Now, let me see what you guys have! I don’t know what I want!”

F O U R 

Kirishima was late.

So late, so very, very late.

He checked his phone for the time yet again, somehow praying that in the last time he had checked his phone (which had been three seconds ago), the time hadn’t shot forward by ten minutes, and by the spirit of god had maybe, possibly rewound by ten minutes. He only hoped that he wouldn’t show up too late today; he actually needed something with caffeine to keep him awake today.

But he saw the coffee shop straight ahead, the small white light by the front door still buzzing and bright with the illuminated: OPEN! sign. Kirishima barreled through the front door with now practiced and known strength, his forehead sweating profusely, and his heart hammering in his throat.

“I’m… here!” he panted, his eyes finding yours as you were cleaning up the counter with a disinfecting liquid and cloth.

He had seen you yesterday, but still, seeing you at the counter, your gaze on what you were doing was like an arrow to his lungs. He looked at you in his personal slowed downtime, the way that the halo of frizzy, curly, flyaways from your hair gleamed softly with the backlight, the warmth of your skin, the gentle flutter of your eyelashes as you looked up, and he was met with the depth pool of your warm eyes.

Beautiful.

His eyes fell onto your lips, and noticed they were moving ever so slightly, and he realized that he couldn’t hear what you were saying.

All the tables had been wiped down, the chairs by the table turned upside down, laying on the tabletops. The floor still streaked with what was definitely a mop, and guilt bubbled in his stomach. You were closing up, and by the looks of it, were nearly done as well. 

Kirishima paused, he was here one minute before closing, and he froze. The heavy wooden door closing behind him with an awkwardly loud thud that only seemed to thunder in his ears as the world finally caught up.

“―anything?”

Kirishima blinked, his cheeks exploding with heat.

“What?”

He hadn’t heard you utter a single word.

He watched the way your lips pulled into an endearing, yet slightly exasperated smile, your eyes rolling.

“Did you want anything?” you repeated, hands placed on your hips in a taunting, near commanding way. “Coffee’s still on the pot, so if you want anything, let me know!”

“Did you already clean up?” Kirishima asks, his eyes falling to the floor to find the different wet streaks on the tile and avoid them if his shoe was dirty. He stops when he sees the cleaned and cleared coffee counter, and guilt floods him. “It looks like you’re mostly cleaned up; I don’t want you to get things dirty again, it’s okay.”

“It’ll take me five minutes tops to clean back up!” you retort, hands already moving to grab a to-go cup for him to have.

“No, no!” Kirishima exclaims, moving back towards the door as fast as he could. He didn’t want to cause you more work, and if anything, he would just wait for you to leave the shop, and he would simply walk you back to your apartment! That seemed like the more manly thing to do, right? “It’s okay! I’m okay! I’ll live without a cup!”

You snorted, slamming the cup onto the counter with definitive intentions, “Don’t be ridiculous, coffee addict!” you pointed to the spot before the cash register, pen in hand as you readied to write down his order. “Come. Don’t be silly! Can you turn off the open sign for me, though! What do you want?”

“I feel bad,” Kirishima frowns, turning off the neon light per request before turning back towards you. His hands stuffed into his pockets. “You don’t have to do this.”

“No, I don’t have to,” you say with a grin and a roll of your eyes. “But since I’m the reason your addiction is a thing, I’m more than happy to deal with the consequences, Kiri.”

There’s a beat, and Kirishima walks to the counter, his lower lip jutted out in a small pout, but the energetic smile painted on your lips melts his pout into a smile immediately.

“What do you suggest?”

“Café de Olla.”

His face scrunches at the so, very not Japanese words that come from your mouth.

“Cafe de la what?”

He watches your smile brighten by a tenfold, enjoying the way your eyes easily glitter with your mirth as you turn away from him.

“Café de Olla,” you repeat again, and he can only assume it’s Spanish. “It’s a Mexican coffee, that one of the transfer students we hired from Mexico introduced us to!” Kirishima watched as you went to a small pot of coffee, put a cleaned ladle in, and eventually poured in a slightly steaming cup of dark coffee. “I can’t remember the ingredients, but the main one is cinnamon! I know you like cinnamon, and since you’re a big boy black coffee drinker now, I think you’ll like it!”

Kirishima missed the teasing look on your face when you placed the truly dark coffee in front of him.

“Um,” Kirishima nervously laughed, staring at the cup of dark liquid before him. He hated black coffee. “Are you… are you gonna put any sugar or milk in it?”

“Nope! Drink up, handsome!”

Kirishima whimpered at both the nickname you had been calling him as of late and the coffee before him. Eventually, he picked up the warm cup, not at all deceived by the warm, sweet aroma of the cup of coffee in his hand ― the black coffee had smelled sweet too. Not one to back down, especially as you were in the process of cleaning up for the day, he took a hesitant, gentle sip of the coffee and froze.

Despite the bitter, dark persona the steaming cup gave, the liquid was sweet.

Very sweet.

It was light in its spice, warming him gently, and giving him a world of flavors he hadn’t been aware of. He drank the rest of it eagerly.

“Good, right?!” you exclaimed excitedly, having caught onto what Kirishima already knew to be his unmistakable likeness. “I wasn’t too sure of it at first either! I mean, I don’t really dabble with straight black coffee, but this just hits differently!”

Kirishima placed his sample down, the back of his hand rubbing his wet lips, his smile wide and excited. He couldn’t believe he actually liked a cup of coffee! “That was SO good, fuck! I didn’t think I was going to like that! Can I have a cup of this?”

He watched as you nodded your head excitedly, more stray pieces of hair falling out of place, framing your face even more as you grabbed the cup and made due to filling it up. Kirishima watched you the entire time you filled his cup up, his fingers blindly holding his bills of cash to give to you.

‘I’m going to do it,’ he thought as you placed a lid on the cup.

‘You got this!’ he encouraged himself as you walked over, handing off the warm cup into his hands. He softly smiled at the feeling of your warm, soft fingers brushing familiarly against his own.

‘DO IT!’

“Y-Y/l/n―”

“Babycakes, are you done out here?!” a voice hollered, and Kirishima stilled when a face emerged from the back. “I’m exhausted and ready to go!”

He watched as a tall girl with green eyes and brown hair emerged from the back room, her arms stretched precariously over her head, stepped into the bar. And the world slowed when her arms quickly enveloped you.

It was then that he remembered what you had said yesterday. The way that your face morphed from apologetic to bashful, the fluster in your eyes, and the way you bit your lip nervously as you said you had something to confess to him… was she… your confession?

“Ami!” you spluttered, and Kirishima watched the way the girl who was draped over your body, much taller than you were, smile at you endearingly as you, in your fluster, failed to get her off. “Kirishima ― a customer is here!”

The word customer echoed like a bell in the world's deepest cave in Kirishima’s ear.

He was just…

He was just a customer, after all.

His smile faded from a genuine one to a phony one as he watched your coworker/girlfriend fight you on showing affection, and eventually, you won. 

“S-Sorry about that!” you stammered, trying to fix your outfit, your hair chaotically was undone. His throat nearly sealed off when your pristine eyes locked back up his; he felt light under your gaze, but oh, so, cold. “You were saying?”

“Just… um, thank you!” Kirishima mustered a feeble laugh, his hand grabbing the coffee in his hand, and without so much as a goodbye, he left the coffee shop. Your echoing salutation doing nothing but making him nauseous as heartbreak overtook him.

F I V E 

The last time you had seen Kirishima, you served him the café de olla during that night, which was weeks ago.

By weeks you meant nearly two months; finals season had just finished.

Despite your obvious disappointment in not seeing the one person you were enamored with, you reasoned with yourself with every disappointing redhead who would enter the coffeeshop that you had never asked for his phone number, and he was an engineering student. He had to be busy.

Even if he wasn’t busy, you tried to reason, your brow set in a knit position as you washed the ceramic cups in the sink, he had every reason to never show back up again. He wasn’t your boyfriend or anything…

Thankfully, you heard the all too familiar sound of the front door being opened, and now with new company policy, you called out in greetings.

“Welcome!”

You quickly patted your hands dry on your apron, knowing that your coworker was on break at the moment, and turned to the entrance of the shop, and froze.

It was an all too familiar head of bright red spikes.

“Kiri!” you exclaimed happily, rushing over to the register with a bright, wide smile as you restrained yourself from flinging over the counter and hugging him tightly. Of course, that would have been both unprofessional and probably pushing the boundaries of your friendship/one-sided affections. “It’s been so long, how are you?!”

Kirishima stood on the other side of the counter, his hands shoved into his blue hoodie pocket, his eyes for the first time ever almost empty, the smile you knew he wore almost religiously, nowhere to be seen. In lieu of the smile, were lips pressed into a stout line, his face puckered just slightly enough as if he had smelled something sour moments before.

What was going on?

“You okay?” you ask, your once outstretched arms retracting into yourself, seeing that he was not reciprocating your movements. Your head tilted. “Did something happen?”

“Yeah, Ei,” came a new voice. “Is something wrong?”

You almost startled when a girl with curly, pink hair seemed to appear from behind Kirishima. She had eyes of liquid gold, and a teasing smile on her face as she nudged Kirishima. “What’s going on?”

Your stomach flips in unwelcomed jealousy, your teeth biting the inside of your cheek in hopes that the girl wouldn’t catch on.

When the seconds felt like minutes of silence, the girl merely sighed, her attention focusing onto you with a look of slight mischief.

“Please excuse my friend―” you relax with the f word― “we’ve been friends since grade school, and he’s never been like that! Maybe he caught a bug during breakfast?”

“Mina…” Kirishima spoke softly, not quite a warning, not quite a whine.

“You must be the famous ‘y/l/n,’ I’ve heard so much about you!” the girl ― Mina ― exclaimed excitedly, her hands grabbing yours while nodding excitedly. “When I heard that Ei hadn’t gone for coffee in so long, I obviously had to force him to come! That and he totally made one of our friends throw away my coffee, and I need the coffee in my bloodstream to survive my dumb classes!”

The one-sided tension between you and Mina expelled quickly.

“Kiri hasn’t been here in a while, but I’m sure he’s got his reasons,” you defend your crush, your smile soft as you traded your locked gaze on Mina to look at Kirishima, who weakly, barely, horribly returned the smile. “But I can definitely help with the coffee! What can I get for you?”

“Good question…” Mina sighed, her eyes studying the menu with practiced skill.

Eventually, Mina ordered a chai tea latte with an oat milk substitution, a pump of caramel, and two shots of espresso. She squealed with delight when you placed her order in front of her, and maybe had you not been excited to get Kiri’s answer, you would have noticed the way his friend strategically walked towards the door to give you two your space.

“So, how can I help ya, handsome?” you ask, your smile back to full power, although a bit shy, unaffected by the brick wall of a man before you. “We’re out of the café de olla right now, but if you don’t mind waiting fifteen minutes, I can make you a fresh batch!”

That’s a lie, the pot of Mexican coffee is still completely filled, ready for Kirishima should he want it. But you were selfish; you were trying to get him to stay longer.

“Nah, that’s okay,” Kirishima shakes his head. “I don’t wanna bug ya. I’ll just take a caramel latte, no worries.”

Disappointment rams through you, but you try your best at hiding it.

“Oh, okay! I’ll get that started for you!” you try to chirp, grabbing a to-go cup and beginning the relatively short task. “How’ve you been?” you ask, trying to initiate old conversations.

“Good.”

“Oh, that’s good to hear! How were your finals? Mine was terrible! I had a professor who forgot what time section we were, so not only were we given only thirty minutes to finish the exam, but there was no compensation for his mistake!”

“Wow… that sucks. Mine were fine.”

“Nothing crazy happened?”

“No.”

“Um, okay… well, did you see that the animated Crimson Riot movie is out?!” you ask, pathetically hopeful that the biggest conversation card you held right now would give you something better than these simple, halfhearted responses. The movie had had no promos, just a message from the local theaters that it had been made and to come and watch it.

“Yup.”

…

“Oh, that’s cool! I just found out this morning when my dad called me! I’m not near home, so I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come and watch it with me?”

You froze. Was that a date you had asked him out on? It was, wasn’t it?! Your face exploded with heat, your fingers trembling as you poured the finished hot coffee into the cup. 

“...I’d rather not.”

Oh.

“T-That’s okay! I’m sure I can find a friend or something to go watch it with me… or I’ll just wait until a holiday to see it with my dad… if it’s still out.”

“Hopefully, it’s still out by then,” Kirishima muttered, his face refusing to look at you, his eyes buried into his wallet as he handed you the change for his drink. “Thanks.” he rushed, grabbing his cup and turning on his heel.

“What’s wrong with you?” you manage to ask before you can keep your mouth shut, but you can’t help it. Your chest aches with his dismissal, with every sentence he spoke that horribly and effectively shut you down before you even had a chance. In the end, it seemed that your hurt feelings won out your need to be polite. “Did something happen? A-Are you okay? Did I do something?”

Kirishima freezes in his path.

“No, nothing happened.”

That was not the answer you were hoping to get.

“Then why are you acting like this?” you ask, your voice bordering a desperate plea for an answer.

For the past many weeks, you had never once thought that he had been avoiding you, ignoring you. You thought that maybe he had just been busy with his personal life, too busy with school and work to spare his free time entertaining you at work. But even if you were disillusioned with your admiration and feelings for him, you knew the two of you were friends. You had to have been friends!

Silence.

“What’s going on?” you ask again, your voice feeling small and weak.

“Nothing,” Kirishima reiterates, his head turning so you both looked at each other through the corner of his eyes. “Nothing happened, I just… couldn’t show up.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like being around you, not anymore.”

Those words wash over you like freezing water; they’re harsh, cruel, and mean. His face twisting up as if he was some snarling, upset animal. He didn’t want to be here, his face screamed, he felt like some cornered, caged animal.

Muted anger and heartache wash over you, your head nodding numbly as you laugh humorlessly. You had been the problem.

“Sorry for… for making you feel obligated in showing up,” you whisper, your soul feeling as though it was leaving your body, your face twisted in the horribleness in his words.

I don’t like being around you, not anymore.

He wasn’t even apologizing… he’d meant it… didn’t he?

Kirishima moves to walk away, his eyes glazed over similarly to your own, but you’re not done. Not quite yet.

“You know,” you manage to speak out, your voice starting off paltrily, an almost chuckle tickling the back of your throat, humming deeply in your chest. He stops. “This entire time, you always boasted about being ‘manly’… about being chivalrous and a decent human being. For the most part, I’ve always agreed and thought that you were manly, chivalrous, and a more than decent human being but now… I can’t believe you. You really came all this way after two months of avoiding me to tell me that you would never be showing up again? That the reason for you not returning was because you’re sick of me?”

He’s silent for a bit, and it's then you notice the tears falling down your face, “Thought it was manlier to tell you I wasn’t coming back then to stop showing up without a reason.”

“You already did that!” you snapped, suddenly piercing, thundering anger running through every cell of your body, raising the hair on your body. “You’re being a complete fucking dick now, Kirishima! For what? At least before I thought it was because you’re busy, but no, you just had to tell me it was because of me! Oh my god?! To think I have a crush on you?! That I was ready to confess to you the next fucking time we had a moment together?!”

You felt hysterical, his reasoning jumbling and twisting in your mind, not at all feeling coherent, and your blazing feelings that were now biting you in the ass… you wanted to make him feel guilt most of all. With tears falling bitterly, angrily down your face, you stared at Kirishima. He was finally facing you, looking you dead on with emotion-filled eyes and a gaping fish mouth ― opening and closing pathetically.

“Get out,” you spoke with a serenity you were not quite feeling, your finger thrust toward the front door.

“Y-Y/l/n―”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you laugh bitterly, no longer wanting to have whatever it is that he wanted to say.

He was just a customer, not a friend, only a customer.

You didn’t need to be his friend anymore.

“Get. Out. Now.”

You didn’t wait for him to leave, turning on your heel, you walked to the backroom, not daring to return to the front until he left.

You’d forgotten how much rejection hurt.

O N E 

Whoever said heartbreak was healed with a wild night out, a pint of ice cream and crying had clearly been built differently from you.

One wild night out with your friends, two pints of ice cream, and thirty crying sessions later, you were still sulking as you simply existed. You weren’t even sure why you were overreacting either?! He had been a crush, not a boyfriend!

Lord save you for whenever an actual reciprocated lover dumped you, you were probably never going to recover. Still, you couldn’t let it affect you all that much; you were still going about your day as you usually would, just… sulking.

“You’re a blessing in my life,” your coworker sighed as she came out from the back, her hands moving to release her hair from her bun, her purse slung against her chest as she continued to thank you. “I promise you the next time we work together, I’ll clean up on my own!”

You shake your head, waving her off as you dried some of the dishes lying about. 

“We aren’t busy, and there’s no one here, I’ll clean up just fine!” you laugh, glancing over your shoulder to look at her. “Just buy me a pastry tomorrow or something. I’ve closed on my own many times, I’ll be fine! There's no coffee demand this late at night anyway!”

“Fine! I won’t forget! But don’t complain if there’s more than one pastry!”

“Oh my god, LEAVE!” you yell, blindly pointing at the door for her to leave, and you hear her resounding laughter as she finally does go.

“Oops, sorry, welcome and excuse me!” you hear her exclaim as she steps out, and you turn around, already knowing that it’s a customer.

Taking your coworkers' welcome as the company greeting, you merely shouted out that you’d be right with them as you finished washing ― you were almost done with them anyways. Finally done, you turned around, eyes on your thighs as you dried your hands on your apron.

“Alright, how can I help…” you froze when you caught sight of familiar, warm red eyes. “...you.”

Kirishima.

He looked at you with blushing, puffed cheeks, his eyes full of mixing, swirling emotions that you probably couldn’t handle to hear (especially if he had come to yell at you). You don’t know what to do, merely looking at him before sighing.

“The usual?” you ask, moving to get things as smoothly and effortlessly as you could (you had been yelled at for your emotional outburst by your boss).

“Uh, actually, no. I’m okay,” Kirishima spoke up as soon as you pulled out a paper cup, and you stopped, looking at him with your best attempt at dull, emotionless eyes.

“What can I get for you then?” you try again, hating the way that you want to smile at him, to pretend that nothing happened two weeks ago; that this was his first time back.

“I have to confess something,” Kirishima states, his fingers fisting into his ridiculous mismatched athleisure clothing. “I actually really, really, really hate coffee…”

You blinked.

You hadn’t expected that confession.

“Um, okay? Well, then can I make you some―”

“I’m not quite done, sorry,” Kirishima apologized, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in his embarrassment. “I hate coffee, and I don’t like being dishonest, but really, I feel like I’ve been lying to you this entire time.”

“...what?”

“I told you at some point that I had come into this shop by coincidence, but that’s not true! I’ve been passing by for months before stepping foot into here! I had always seen you working through the front window, and you just… you captivated me from that very moment, but I’ve been too weak, nervous, and totally unmanly and could never build up the courage to come in! It took me a year to build up the courage to come in ― which is why I nearly broke the front door that first day! I was so nervous about messing up; I just overexerted my strength!”

Kirishima laughed, his hands raking through his spiked hair, and you could only stare at him as the gelled hair began to fall under his ministrations.

“See, the truth is, I’ve liked you for a long time. Like a long time. And then, when I came in, and we became friends, I only fell for you even more, and I’ve been trying to work up the courage to confess to you! But every time I tried, something bad happened! Like the grouchy old man in the line, how you got sick and couldn’t work! But a true man doesn’t give up until it’s over… and I thought that girl who was hugging you and kissing your cheek that one day was your girlfriend, so I gave up! But the thing is, I was a coward, so fucking unmanly that I couldn’t be around you without you being mine! And so I left because it hurt… but it hurt not being around you, so Mina brought me here! But then you said… you said you liked me back, and unless you’re in a polyamorous relationship, there’s no way for you to have said feelings and confess them to me like that!”

He stopped, his breath frantic, panting, and you could only look up with him with a mirrored breathing pattern despite your quietness.

“I’m here because I’m tired of being weak and unmanly. I’m here because I have deep feelings for you, and I want to ask you out!”

You’re silent for a bit, the temerity of his words loud and clear in your ears, ringing with the need to be addressed. For the first time since he had walked out of your life for the first time, a warmth bubbled in your chest.

“You know,” you whisper, your eyes locked with his, the tears in your eyes freely showing. “This coffee shop does, in fact, have tea?”

“Wha―?”

He doesn’t have the chance to finish the curious ask, your hands grabbing his shirt and bringing him close, his nose brushing against yours but your lips hovering below his own.

“Can I kiss you?” you whisper, your eyes falling to his lips for a second before coming back to his eyes that shone brightly, vividly, excitedly.

“Please?”

Your lips found themselves pressed against his, and the two of you stood there, leaning against the counter by the cash register. Lips passionately, smoothly, deeply pressing against one another as electricity traveled slowly down your spine as his hands pressed against your ribcage. When you pulled away, his eyes fluttered open after yours, and he had the brightest, dumbest smile on his face.

“Would you like to go see the Crimson Riot movie with me?”

[frasier-crane-style]

No Time To Die is a long movie. Here’s the short version (spoilers)

Bond: Madeline, I was just ambushed at Vesper’s grave! You must’ve sold me out!

Madeline: No, it’s not true!

Bond: What are the other possibilities? That Blofeld has a small army of assassins waiting at Vesper’s grave, ready to take me out at a moment’s notice if I ever show up there? Just hanging out, year in and year out, just in case?

That: *is literally what happened*

Madeline: Hold on a minute, I’m getting a suspicious phone call.

Blofeld: Madeline, I’d just like to congratulate you on being loyal to Spectre all this time and betraying Bond and sacrificing yourself to kill him too. (You probably could’ve just shot him while he was sleeping or something, since you’re totally a double agent, but you didn’t and I respect your choice.)

Bond: Wow. I should probably check out how Blofeld is clearly still commanding Spectre despite me putting him in prison. That’s not something I should just forget about for the next five years.

Madeline: James, please, you must believe me, he’s lying!

Bond: Well, he is completely untrustworthy, he did clearly try to kill you in SPECTRE. You also saved my life in that movie and blew half of Blofeld’s face off. And that phone call sounded like the most transparent attempt at a frame-up imaginable. How should I, a grown-ass man and veteran superspy—not a hormonal teenager—respond to this?

Madeline: Well, you should probably gather evidence, weigh it, calmly and rationally think through the events of the day…

Bond: I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!!!

Five Years: *later*

M: I think we should get Madeline Swan to work for us.

Moneypenny: The girl that Bond told us was totally untrustworthy and quite likely a double agent?

M: Yes, sounds like a great hire.

Moneypenny: Because she seems untrustworthy and quite likely a double agent to me.

M: I suppose, but she’s the only one Blofeld will talk to.

Moneypenny: …why do we want Blofeld to talk to someone who’s untrustworthy and possibly a double agent?

M: So we can get information out of him! Blofeld is the best intelligence asset we have! (direct quote from movie)

Moneypenny: Okay, if he’s sharing valuable intelligence with us…

M: Oh, no, he’s a gibbering maniac who spends all day talking nonsense to himself.

Moneypenny: Then… he’s not giving us intelligence…?

M: He is.

Moneypenny: But you just said he’s a raving lunatic.

M: Yup!

Moneypenny: Why do we want intelligence from him if we think he’s crazy?

M: Look, you’re going to have to accept I’m shitty at my job. For instance, I accepted an annoying comic relief defector who is racist and put him to work designing DNA-targeting nanomachines. Think of it: a weapon that targets only the exact person you want to kill, with no collateral damage… except everyone in their family.

Moneypenny: So how would we get the DNA of the person we want to kill in the first place? If we can get close enough to some terrorist to get a DNA sample from him, can’t we just shoot him instead?

M: Oh yeah, sure, the new 007 is a skinny broad who weights maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. I’ll just bet she can beat up Dave Bautista on her way to shoot up Spectre headquarters. Virus me!

Moneypenny: Whatever. I’m going to get a coffee, you want anything? …why the fuck did these movies reintroduce me if all I do is get dialogue bounced off me in exposition scenes? I could be replaced with a Funko Pop toy and no one would notice the difference.

Meanwhile, Bond has retired until Felix Leiter shows up to get him back in the game.

Felix: Hey, Bond, old buddy, old pal, ready for another crazy adventure? We’ve sure had some good times together, haven’t we? Let’s get back to work, brother, it’ll be just like the old days!

Bond: Oh, you’re so dead, aren’t you?

Felix: What are the chances that I would die on this, the final mission I do with you before I retire to spend more time with my fam—oh shit, yeah, I’m done for.

Ash: Bond, Felix, hey, it’s me, the new guy, Ash! I know I seem like a totally pointless character and that my role in the story could easily be performed by Felix on his own and that I’m played by a pretty big name for such a small, minor character, but don’t you worry about me, I’m gonna love helping you out on your adventures!

Bond: And you’re totally a traitor, aren’t you?

Ash: Ha, fooled you! It’s actually that cute Ana de Armas! After she charms her way into your heart with a fun action sequence, it’ll extra sting when she betrays you!

Bond: Really?

Ash: No, it’s totally me, and she’s just gonna disappear from the movie after being in one scene. You don’t even get to bed her.

Bond: Oh, right, we’re doing that MCU thing where everyone is physically perfect and shows off their hot bodies in form-fitting clothes, but no one is actually attracted to each other.

Ash: Yeah, any kind of sexuality other than veiled lesbianism from strong female characters will get you canceled these days, so you’re basically saving it for marriage now. Anyway, we’d better get on with the plot, this movie is nearly three hours and we still don’t elaborate on the villain’s motivation beyond him literally claiming to hate freedom.

Plot: *happens*

Bond: This seems like a good time for me to have a bunch of relationship drama with my ex, touch base with all the sundry side characters at MI-6, and let the screenwriters pat themselves on the back for making ‘the new 007’ a black woman even though they take that back like immediately.

Plot: *grinds to a halt*

Blofeld: Ah, James, you made it. You’re aware, of course, of how in Skyfall, the filmmakers brutally ripped off the Joker, right down to having Silva let himself be caught as part of his dastardly master plan?

Bond: Yes, it was incredibly unoriginal and groan-inducing and didn’t make much sense.

Blofeld: Well, now we’re going to recreate the ‘Clarice consults with Hannibal’ scene from a million other movies. Even Austin Powers did it in his third movie.

Bond: Right, right, you’re going to taunt my about my angsty past, I’m going to lose my cool and smack you, that sorta thing?

Blofeld: Precisely. I should also let you know that Madeline has a huge, important, mind-blowing, insane, earth-shaking, completely unbelievable secret that will change absolutely everything and make you shit yourself!

Bond: Yeah, because she met Sassafras in the opening scene, I take it they have an incredibly important relationship and she holds some penetrating insight into his goals and psyche?

Blofeld: Oh, no, nothing like that, you knocked her up and she has your kid.

Bond: …wow, have I been having unprotected sex this entire time? I know parodies love to joke about me racking up STDs and bastard children, but I really haven’t been so much as wearing a condom?

Blofeld: Oh, also, Sassafras is obsessed with Madeline, even though they just met as adults for the first time like fifteen minutes ago.

Bond: How convenient. Well, I’d better go see her. I guess we need to wrap up your character, so could you die or something?

Blofeld: Gak!

Bond: Thanks. Wow, who knew that the revenge of Blofeld, my greatest enemy, would be a minor footnote in Sassafras’s master plan to, uhh… err… hate freedom or whatever.

Bond hurries off to see Madeline, who is still living in the house where her mother was brutally murdered in front of her, you know, like a weirdo.

Bond: I have a daughter?

Madeline: She’s not yours. (beat) Yes she is. (beat) Please ignore how insanely cruel it would be in real life for someone to make no effort whatsoever to let a man know he’s become a father and his child is growing up without him.

Bond: That’s okay, I was more thinking how contrived it is that I’ve been in love with you for the past five years, but also decided never to reach out to you or double-check your apparent betrayal at all, which might give you a chance to tell me I’m a father. And also none of my besties at MI-6 realized you were pregnant and considered I might be the baby daddy.

Madeline: Oh, James, promise me that my baby and I won’t get taken hostage again in some clichéd damsel in distress plot when the exact same thing happened to me in the very last movie? And everyone’s spent like six months hyping this movie up by talking about how woke it is.

Bond: Don’t worry, you’ll manage to save yourself, which is by this point equally as clichéd as you being held hostage in the first place. Oh, and I guess Sassafras will just let the kid go.

Madeline: That sounds impressively half-baked.

Bond: You think that’s contrived, wait until you see all the reinforcements I bring with me to raid Sassafras’s fortress and take down his private army.

Madeline: Is it just going to be you and that other 007?

Bond: Yup.

Bond and Not!Bond fly off to confront Sassafras on his private island, even though we just had one of those in Skyfall. But this time Bond can’t summon up a dozen attack helicopters to come with him, For Reasons.

Bond: Okay, Sassafras, it’s time to talk!

Sassafras: Blah blah oblivion! Blah blah playing God!

Bond: Yeah, yeah, you’re the villain, we get it. I need to know what I’m even trying to stop you from doing!? There are boats coming here to… pick up the virus? And take it somewhere?

Sassafras: Blah blah eradicate people! Blah blah tragic hero…

Bond: Your entire backstory and motivation was to get revenge on Spectre, but you did that a quarter of the way through the movie, when every single person in the organization gathered together to throw a birthday party for Blofeld, who wasn’t even there.

Sassafras: Blah blah contrived!

Bond: What are you trying to do NOW? What are the stakes? What is your goal? Shit, I don’t need much to go on here! Are you just a greedy asshole who wants to get rich? That would be enough for me, I just need SOMETHING, not for your objective to be so vague it’s completely meaningless.

Sassafras: Blah blah making the world a better place!

Bond: Christ, if this is some greater good Thanos shit, I’m just skip ahead to shooting everyone.

Bond: *shoots everyone*

Sassafras: Ha ha, joke’s on you, Bond! I’ve injected you with my nanobots! If you ever touch Madeline or her daughter again, they’ll die!

Bond: Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll just stay away from them until Q finds a cure, like reprogramming the nanobots or something. I mean, the guy hacked an eyeball thirty minutes ago, so…

Sassafras: N… no… that won’t work… the nanobots will spread from you to anyone you touch until they eventually reach Madeline! So there!

Bond: Okay, I guess I’ll just live in isolation until Q finds a cure. That seemed like what I was doing after the credits sequence anyway and I was pretty happy.

Sassafras: But you have to make sure that my bioweapon factory gets blown up too!

Bond: Okay, I’ll tell the British warships to abort their missile strike, then launch another one when I get clear.

Sassafras: Nuh-uh! The boats are almost there!

Bond: Won’t it take them a while to load up all the nanobots? It’s not like plugging in a USB drive. I’ll just have MI-6 intercept the boats. They’re boats. We can sink them or board them or whatever.

Sassafras: But that could create an international incident with Russia and Japan!

Bond: Wouldn’t Great Britain blasting the shit out of a disputed island do that anyway?

Sassafras: Look, we’re operating on Admiral Holdo logic here. This plan will go off without a hitch despite how nonsensical it is, but only if you sacrifice yourself. It’s a movie, the audience won’t accept you sacrificing yourself for nothing, so as long as you die, whatever you wanted to happen happens.

Bond: So I guess I’ll just stand around and wait to get blown up?

Sassafras: That’d be best, yeah.

Bond: You know, everyone KNOWS we’re facing a biothreat here. Wouldn’t Q have some equipment ready to quarantine me, just in case this exact thing happened?

Sassafras: Just shut up and exchange a tearful goodbye with Madeline already. God! You’re probably too shot up to get away from the blast anyway.

Bond: Well then, isn’t my sacrifice pretty meaningless? It’s not my choice, I’m dead either way.

Sassafras: RRRAAGGGHHHH!

Bond: In fact, me facing death with dignity would probably be a better ending than me just giving up—

Sassafras: It doesn’t matter one way or the other! Either way, Eon is about to reboot the series with a new actor playing Bond! The next movie will be exactly the same whether or not you die! It’s completely pointless except as a naked attempt to tug at the audience’s heartstrings and give Daniel Craig an Oscar clip moment, because everyone knows they’re not going to stop making Bond movies! You might as well regenerate like a fucking Time Lord!

Bond: Oh no, no way I’m risking getting turned into Jodie Whittaker!

Bond: *gets blown up*

Sassafras: Fucking finally. I was worried my evil organization was going to have time to ask why they’re all loyal to me and how I’m paying them. Gak!

[armory-rasa]

Have you ever made a flask, canteen, or other liquid holder? The tutorials on YouTube all seem to do similar things but the final products are always very rough or sloppy, which makes me question the workmanship. As my go-to for quality armor tutorials, I was just wondering if you had ever made something like that and if so did you deviate from: Cut, glue?, stitch, stretch, beeswax, plug.

I have not, but you inspired me to go watch some and weigh in on them. :D

This was the top result when I searched "make a leather flask," and unless I'm missing something, I'd say the workmanship on this is pretty solid. Some of the other videos have sloppy stitching and sloppy edges, but this guy takes the steps to mitigate those problems, namely by:

- Using a stitching groover to put channels in the leather before stitching, because that helps the thread stay in a tidy line. And bonus pro-tip: making sure that each stitch is angled the same direction. (Which, hm, isn't a very good explanation if you don't already know what I'm talking about. Perhaps I should do a long post on stitching.)

- Using contact cement to anchor the edges, followed by pounding/pressing them together tightly, followed by sanding the edges flat and then beveling them. I may not have done this for flasks before, but it's the same process as finishing the edges on a welted knife sheath:

You line the edges up as best you can while glueing, and then sand them down so that all the layers form one seamless edge. For knife sheaths, a belt sander is ideal, but I don't have one of those, so I tend to use a dremel with a sanding drum. It's the same as sanding by hand, just faster. So yeah, definitely glue.

Other miscellaneous thoughts:

I wouldn't tape the pattern to the leather; I don't know why he felt the need to do that, it isn't hard to keep the pattern in position while you're tracing. Even scotch tape and masking tape will fuck up the surface of the leather when you pull it off. Also, since he's going to be dyeing and beveling the edges anyway, I would have marked the pattern with a fine-point brown sharpie instead of an awl, it gives you more control.

He mentions in the video that some people use a drill press to make the stitching holes, and advises against it, but sometimes it's kind of unavoidable -- not on this flask project, because he's only punching through two layers of 9 oz leather, but when you're making welted knife sheathes, sometimes you're working with up to four or even five layers, and it's literally too thick for a diamond punch. (...Yeah I definitely have a lot to say about stitching.)

Ridiculous layers:

I would not have used the Eco-Flo Pro Waterstain that he does; that stuff is garbage, and does create the waxy barrier that he mentions causing problems when it comes time to soak the flask before wet-molding. Just use an alcohol-based dye, Fiebings or Angelus, you'll be doing yourself a favor.

Using corn kernels to get the shape is leaving some textured indentations in the wet leather; that could be avoided by using something smaller and smoother, like sand. Though the tradeoff of potentially winding up with sand in your finished water jug might not be worth it.

You could probably cut your beeswax with paraffin wax, which is cheaper and also easier to work with, in my experience. (Beeswax is REALLY sticky.) Or what I use, which is jeweler's casting wax, because it has a higher melting point (~170 F) than beeswax or paraffin (~140 F and ~120 F, respectively). This makes your armor less likely to go soft even if it gets left in a hot car, though I'd have to check the material sheet to make sure it's non-toxic before using it on a drinking bottle.

He could have made the edges more polished by hitting it with an edge burnisher during the waxing stage.

*

But yeah, on the whole I'd say that's a really excellent tutorial (makes me want to go make a flask of my own, hah), and even the things I'd do differently are mostly just a matter of personal preference.

[conchshell]

Seeing your post made me think of how differently things would have gone if instead of staying at Elliott's, they all stayed at the Chestnut household and Ray got to meet Five

Yes! Could you imagine the chaos if all the siblings were in their house, that would have been amazing. And I really should be getting on with my Uni work instead of writing this but shhhhhhh, no one has to know

- - - - -

Ray awoke to the earthy aroma of coffee. That wasn’t unusual in itself, because Allison quite liked to start the day with a cup to help wake her up.

What was unusual, however, was the grumpy child perched on the stool of his wife’s vanity, who was staring at him with a kind of unnerving and fierce intensity. He had his left ankle propped up on his right knee and was hunched in on himself slightly, peering at him from under a heavy fringe.

He shifted up into a seated position and rubbed a hand across his eyes, really hoping that this was some sort of bizarre sleep-induced hallucination. Although when he reopened them, the boy was still there, looking just as displeased as before.

“Uhh…”

“Good morning” The boy said casually, reaching behind him and picking a mug off the vanity, swallowing a large mouthful of the contents. He bought it for Allison last year as a gag gift because it had the phrase Hot Stuff across the front in hideously jazzy lettering, and it looked comically large in the child’s small hands. If he’s being honest, the whole scene is just downright unusual that he’s starting to worry about his mental state.

“Are you aware that you snore heavily in your sleep? You might want to get that checked out. That coupled with the irregular breathing could be a sign of sleep apnoea” The boy continued.

“Do you make a habit of watching people when they sleep?” Ray found himself asking, eyeing his bedside table drawer where he kept his handgun in case of intruders. The boy looked harmless, and probably weighed about 80 pounds soaking wet, but the fact there was a creepy unknown child in his house left him feeling twitchy.

The said child merely snorted and rolled his eyes in response, downing the rest of the coffee like a shot and then staring down into the mug as if it had personally offended him.

“Who…who are you?” Ray stammered.

“Technically speaking, I’m your brother-in-law” The child said, giving him a little shrug.

Ray rubbed a hand over his face and stifled a groan. Fucking hell.

He really shouldn’t be surprised; it was quite the bombshell when Allison had revealed why she’d been so secretive about her past. With her talking about adoptive siblings, a narcissistic father, and something to do with umbrellas. And at first, he was rather sceptical, that was until she'd come home with a hulking mountain of a man and introduced him as her brother Luther.  

Then he met the eccentric hippie with an alarming number of tattoos during his brief stay in jail, only to be informed that he was another one of the brothers. Klaus was swiftly followed by a feisty one that seemed to have an indefinite number of knives concealed on him at any given moment, and if Ray was being honest, Diego scared him a tad. At least Vanya seemed normal, very quiet and equally as apologetic, but normal nevertheless.

So why not add a sour-looking Victorian schoolboy to the mix too?

“There’s a bit of an age gap” Ray said after a few minutes of shocked silence.

The boy gave him a toothy grin of amusement, and Ray had the distinct feeling that there was something about the conversation going over his head. 

“Yes, I guess you could say that. It is a rather large age gap” The child agreed.

His wife, being the saint she is, pushed the door open and peered around the doorframe, interrupting the awkward atmosphere. She had an apron tied over her dress and was wielding a spatula, and did a double-take when she spotted the child. “I was wondering where you got to. How long have you been in here?”

“67 minutes. It’s the quietest room in the house, well, it was until your husband started snoring” The child said, and then added as an afterthought, “Your coffee is shit by the way”

Allison looked unperturbed by his statement, the cursing, and his tone. “Well, there are pancakes in the kitchen, I would get there quickly before the others eat them”

“Alright” The child stood, straightened his blazer with practised ease, and then stalked out the room as if it were his own house.

Allison sighed with exasperation after he pulled the door shut behind him. Behind it, Ray could hear the sound of multiple muffled voices and crockery clinking from downstairs. He had to admit that the house was a whole lot livelier now that Allison’s siblings were crammed in with them, it was a tight squeeze with an additional four people across the two spare bedrooms. Although the child was only little, he supposed he could take the couch.

“Sorry about Five. He can sometimes be a bit…” Allison paused, clearly searching for the right word. “Five” She settled on.

“Five?” Ray found himself asking.

“Yes. I mean technically speaking his name is Number Five, but he just goes by Five” Allison said.

Of course he would have a number for a name. A strange name for an equally as strange child.

“Okay,” Ray pressed his fingers against his temples and massaged them, trying to help ease the headache he could feel building. “So that’s your last brother?”

“Yes, he dropped by this morning.” Allison nodded, sitting down on the bed and squeezing his hand. “I promise that’s the last one…well…”

“Well?” Ray echoed, panic rising.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let Klaus explain that that. And we just need to discuss a few things before we get to the whole Ben situation”

Before he could even contemplate the words coming out her mouth, the quietness of the room was interrupted by a sudden burst of retina-burning blue. As quickly as it arrived, it went, and in its place stood the boy from earlier. Ray couldn’t help but let out a rather embarrassing shriek of fright, scrambling frantically towards his bedside table and pulling out his handgun.

“Five! I told you to use the door!” Allison panicked, glancing between him and her brother frantically. “Ray, it’s okay, put that down. It’s fine, I can explain”  

“Oh, sorry, I forgot about that.” Five said remarkably unapologetically. He caught sight of the handgun and tutted disapprovingly. “I hate to break it to you pal, but a Raven MP-25 won’t do a lot of damage if you’re looking for a safety weapon, they’re cheap for a reason. Instead, I would recommend something like a Smith & Wesson Model 39 for its excellent range of-”

“Five” Allison hissed sharply, bringing his attention back to her. “What do you want?”

“I’m going to head out and get some actual coffee, do you want anything?” He replied, hooking his thumbs nonchalantly into the pockets of his shorts.

“No. We’re fine” Allison said, exhaling slowly with exasperation. Five gave a little salute and then swiftly vanished the same way he appeared, in a brilliant burst of blue. Allison swallowed thickly and turned to him, easing the gun out of his tight grip and placing it down on the bedsheets. “Okay, so I’m sure you’ve got a few questions, ask ahead”

“He just appeared” He managed out, his heart still hammering within his ribcage with adrenaline.

“Yes” Allison nodded.

“And then vanished” He added.

“Yeah, he does that a lot. I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it, he doesn’t quite understand the concept of boundaries. He’s a bit like a cat in some ways” Allison said, nonplussed.

“How…” He swallowed thickly. “How? Why? What?”

“I was hoping to break this to you more gently,” Allison started, giving him a gentle look, “But we have powers”

“You have powers?” He questioned numbly, searching his wife’s face for any indication that this might be some sort of elaborate joke.

Allison nodded, looking like the very picture of seriousness. Ray groaned and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

He needed a drink. Scratch that, he desperately needed a drink.

[wreckofawriter]

Heartbeat Part 2

(Final Part) <Part 1>

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Word Count: 3,580

Warnings: Angsty at the beginning, umm mentions of suicide and depression, swearing

Summary: An idea given to me by @mcluuvin666 Thank you so much! Reader moves on from Sirius and he realizes he made a mistake

A/n: This took me forever to write, I hope you guys like it!

You used to tell yourself you didn’t cry, that it was weak. But that was never true. The truth was you had cried far more in your life than you would ever admit. You had cried when your parents yelled at you or when your father hit you or your mother cursed you. You had cried when you fell from the tree in your backyard and when you slipped off your bike when you were nine. You had cried when you failed your first exam in the second year and recently you cried for no reason at all other than you simply needed to. You never let anyone see it but you cried a lot. But you had never cried like this before

You lay in that classroom for what could have been an hour or could have been a year. Loud sobs clawing from your throat like a feral beast that had finally been released. You felt your head pound as you pressed your forehead to the floor. After some amount of time had passed your throat no longer allowed any sound but whimpers from you. You could still feel tears slide down your face dripping off your nose and pooling on its curves. Your face felt hot, too hot like it was boiling, flesh burning. 

Your mouth tasted bitter. You felt so frail. So incredibly weak. When you finally managed to get to your feet it was dark out, the moon nearly full, stars so bright they seemed only inches away. 

You made it outside easily, no one was around to stop you if there was you doubt they would have succeeded. You stepped out onto the dewy grass where you once lay with Sirius. Where he had kissed you, where you had said you loved him and where he hadn't responded. 

You should have felt stupid, so fucking stupid, but you didn’t. You didn't feel anything, anger, misery, hatred, despair and so many other bottles of feelings had been released. And now they were gone. And you felt numb. Your heart had slowed to its normal pace as you continued across the grass appearing silver in the moonlight. 

You walked until your feet met with wood, you traveled out to the dock, the sound of crickets and small frogs filling you. 

You stopped at the end of the dock. You contemplated taking another step, letting your body become a part of the darkness before you. 

And then you did. 

Your body hit the water and you were plunged into a cold you had never felt before. Your robes soaked instantly and you began to sink. You slowly parted your eyelids, you looked upwards at the celestial being above you quivering under the lense of wetness. You could see the moon, but your eyes didn't stay on the small planet for long. They traveled to the brightest star in the sky. Sirius. It blinked back at you slowly moving further and further away as your lungs began to burn. Your hair began to float in front of your face, your robes reaching towards the light as you were dragged backward by an unseeable force. 

Then your eyes slipped shut and the fire inside you built, the burn strengthening. You could still see the bright star in your eyelids. 

You felt the numbness suddenly disappear and for the first time in your entire life you were alone and you actually felt alive. 

Your feet began to kick, black dress shoes moving in a flutter. You pushed yourself upwards, arms pumping as your eyes popped back open, your chest burnt, you would make it you knew you would, because you were still alive, and you would stay that way. 

When you broke the surface of the water you immediately drew in a harsh breath forcing water further down your lungs as you began to cough. You managed to the shore collapsing in a heap of coughs. Until your lungs cleared and you were finally allowed to breathe normally again. 

You're sitting staring out at the lake, ripples lingering from your plunge. The moon and stars reflected back at you making you feel as if you were trapped between two godly works of art and you could only stare, your heart thumped loudly you felt amazing, amused, and absolutely alive. Because you were alive. And you weren't about to let so asshole with mommy issues change that. 

You felt a smile creep onto your lips as you stood. Your robes weighed what must have been thousands of pounds but you didn't care. You let out a light bubble of laughter chin tilting upwards as you breathed in deeply the scent of midnight dew and pond water filling you as your hair clung to your face. You extended your arms, spreading them like an eagle.

"I'm alive." You whispered up in the sky. And you were. 

You awoke the next morning feeling as if you had dropped 50 pounds. Standing wasn't a struggle, your eyelids didn't drag downward, your heartbeat was lively and awake. You simply felt good. 

When you arrived in the great hall for breakfast you were met with quite a few surprised faces. You could see Sirius staring at you from his corner of toxic masculinity. The surprise in his eyes made rage cycle through you. You were tempted to run and scream at him, but you didn’t. You took a deep breath reminding yourself that was exactly what he wanted and you refused to give in to his wants ever again. You ate breakfast while reading one of your favorite books you had dug out of your trunk that morning. Everything seemed so much easier after last night. 

You surprised just about everyone in your herbology class by being quite kind to the Hufflepuff who sat next to you. You had even asked for some help baffling the light-haired girl. During Transfiguration, you had made a point to apologize to McGonagall for missing that morning’s detention. Her eyes had gone wide and she had looked a bit pale, asking if you were alright which you assured her you were. 

On your way to lunch, you did something absolutely unliveable. A young Gryffindor had been cornered in a remote hallway you used as a shortcut. You had come across five second-year girls who were teasing the poor girl, snickers leaving their mouth. You had debated continuing walking but you let out a sharp sigh and took a few steps towards the girls grabbing the two who were currently taking charge by their hair. 

They had shrieked as you yanked them backward. Once they had turned and met your face the color had drained from their own. A sweet smile graced your lips. You asked them if they knew who you were. Both nodded quickly. 

“Good.” You continued to grin, “Then you should know I don’t bluff. Now I will ask you once. Leave this girl alone or next time I will rip the hair from your head.” 

They had scattered after you released them, their friends already long gone. You walked towards the girl on the ground. She had on large horn-rimmed glasses which magnified her sky blue eyes. Her teeth held bright pink banded braces, her hair a dirty blonde. 

“Let me guess, you’re a mud- muggleborn.” You said catching yourself quickly. 

She nodded slowly, she looked terrified.

You laughed a bit and she jumped. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a changed woman, plus muggles write the best books.” You winked. “I’m y/n y/l/n.” You extended a hand. 

“Rebecca Lastings.” She responded quietly, taking your offer as you helped pull her to her feet. 

“Well, I’m starving. You wanna get lunch?” You asked as you helped gather her scattered books. 

She smiled a bit, “Yeah sure.” 

Lunch was... interesting. Turned out that Rebecca had an older sister named Laney Lastings - in your opinion a very catchy name - and when she saw her sister eating lunch with one of the most infamous Slytherins she was reasonably concerned. 

When the Ravenclaw had marched up to you as you were shoveling chicken salad into your mouth you had once again done the shocking thing. You smiled and greeted the girl. 

“What are you doing with my little sister.” She had hissed cutting you short. 

You shrugged, “Eating.” 

The blonde scoffed, “Becc lets go.” she snatched her sister’s arm but to her surprise Rebecca resisted. 

“But she was just telling me about a book she read.” The younger girl spoke softly. By the look on the older’s face, you guessed she didn’t defy orders often. “It sounded very interesting.” 

Laney looked up at you. You just shrugged. “What is going on?” she looked a bit shook up. 

“Look I know what you think of me, hell what every single person in this room thinks of me but I’m a changed woman.” You explained, “I am honestly just talking to your sister, I have no intention of hurting her in any way shape or form.” 

Laney’s eyes narrowed but Rebecca sat back down and took a bite of her peanut butter sandwich. “Come on y/l/n people don’t just change overnight.” 

You shrugged again, “I did. Feel free to join us.” You motioned to the seat next to Laney’s sister and to your surprise she took it. And for the first time in your entire life, you had made actual friends. 

You dreaded detention the next morning but to your surprise, it was rather pleasant. When you entered the large room it was already sanctioned into two groups. One contained three boys sitting in neighboring desks while the second held one dark-haired boy at the back of the room glaring at the former group. 

You raised an eyebrow in confusion and sat a few desks away from both crowds. You then began to sort the paperwork you were told to, taking a walkman out and clipping in a favored artist. 

About halfway through the hour, you were drawn from your work when a figure appeared before you. You looked up to see a pair of hazel eyes and curly hair hidden under a navy beanie. You removed your headphones letting them rest around your neck giving him a questioning look. 

“Hey.” He managed, looking a bit unsure of himself.

“Hey?” You responded, glancing at the group he had left meeting to pair of eyes which quickly darted away.

“So umm, I know it's not really my place to say but I’m sorry,” Remus spoke, biting his lip. 

“Why are you sorry?” You asked, still visibly confused. 

He lowered his voice, “What Sirius did was really fucked up.” Suddenly the sanctions made sense, “And I just thought I would let you know that I’m sorry on his behalf.” 

You let out a small laugh, “Please don’t Remus, you clean up enough of that boy's messes already, don’t put this on yourself. But thanks anyway.” You shrugged going to put back on your headphones. 

“Laney told me about what you did for her little sister.” He spoke in a rush. 

You stopped, “And?” 

“She has been trying to get those girls to leave Becc alone for like three months, she started skipping classes and meals to avoid them, it was bad. But you stopped them with one conversation. That was really nice of you y/n.” Remus stated. 

“It was whatever.” You answered with a shrug. 

“It really wasn’t,” He protested, “But look we both wanted to ask you if you wanted to come to our study session tomorrow night. We get together three times a week, it’s me Laney and a few others, they’re all pretty chill and it would be great  if you could come.” 

A smile found your face, “Really?” 

“Yeah, we meet in the library after dinner.” He was playing with his fingers now. 

“Okay, sure. That sounds awesome.” You said. 

“Great.” He grinned bouncing on the balls of his feet before turning and leaving. 

“Hey, Remus.” You called just before he made it back to his seat. He whipped his head to look at you. “Thanks.” 

In all honesty, being nice was completely exhausting, actually caring what others thought of you took its toll, especially after the well-crafted reputation you had built for yourself. You had also started paying attention in classes for the first time in a long time so you had mountains of homework and suddenly understood your peer’s desperation for good grades. You tried to convince yourself that a study group was a brilliant idea but your worries ate away at you. 

What happened when most of the group hated you? Would they cuss you out? What if they refused you despite Remus’s invitation? There was so much room for failure. Godric making friends was difficult. 

You busied yourself with the nightly homework in the common room, you had gotten used to the strange looks you received. A whistle drew yourself from your herbology sketch. 

“Wow y/l/n, I did not expect you to turn into a loser when you found out.” 

You rolled your eyes at the familiar voice, “Avery.” You drawled.

“What has gotten into you?” He asked, taking a seat next to you, “First you help out a mudblood, then you go and make friends with her filthy sister and now you're doing Herbology homework?” 

You glared at the boy, “Don’t call them that.” 

He only smirked back, “I must say you look much prettier without the bags beneath your eyes and a little effort put in.” 

“Go fuck yourself.” You spat resisting the urge to strangle him. 

“There’s the y/n I know.” He smiled triumphantly, “But where has she been? People don’t change overnight.” 

“Well, I did douchebag.” You hissed. 

“No you didn't.” he sneered, “You're still the same stone-cold bitch, you’re just hiding it and let me tell you, I can’t wait for that mask to break.” 

Your hand tightened around your quill, “Shut up.” 

“I’ll be there to catch you when you fall y/l/n. I’m glad you’re wearing skirts again, you look hot.” He taunted his face so close to your own you could smell his cologne. 

You were about to slap him but before you could a voice resonated through the air, “Avery back off her.” 

You both looked up and you met the gaze of a Slytherin you swear you had never seen before. He had dark hair and darker eyes, his face was sharply cut, lips looking far too rounded on his visage. 

“What do you have on it Dapperton?” Avery asked leaning away from you. 

“Just back off.” His tone was harsh, a thick Scottish accent in his voice. 

“Whatever.” Avery scoffed standing and shooting you one last glance before leaving the room. 

“You okay?” The boy you now knew as Dapperton asked.

“Yeah, fine.” You managed. 

“Cool, listen I was wondering if you could help me with my Arithmetic, I’ve heard you are pretty good at it.” He said. 

“Sure. I’m y/-” 

“I know who you are.’” He laughed, “I’m Lewis. Lewis Dapperton.” 

“Okay, nice to meet you, Lewis.” 

You had made three official friends. 

You tried not to let Avery’s words bother you as the days passed. But it was hard. The study group had been a bit awkward but not all that bad, Lewis was actually a member much to your surprise. Nights became difficult again. The idea that maybe this was just a passing phase and that it was simply a few good days got to you. I mean people didn’t just change overnight. 

But I did. You screamed at yourself. I swear I did.

It all came crashing into a dreadful climax two weeks after night it all started. 

It had been two weeks of confusion that morphed to anger and soon into sadness and jealousy for Sirius Black. When he had seen you in the great hall the night after you had found out about the thirty points he had almost shit his pants. You were up? And you were smiling?! He was sure you were going to come over and rip his throat out at breakfast. But you didn’t You just sat at your isolated seat at the end of the Slytherin table and read, looking surprisingly relaxed. 

You had left a bit early and Remus had dumped his pumpkin juice on him saying he was a complete objectifying asshole and part of the reason why women were not viewed equal to men. Leave it to the feminist to ruin a perfectly normal bet. He had made the mistake of saying that out loud and caused an uproar at the Gryffindor table. 

He had seen you working in the few shared classes you had and had been quite surprised. How was it you were having a better day than him? He supposed karma bit harshly. When you saw you at lunch sitting with a young Gryffindor girl he had once again been completely boggled. And soon you were joined by a Ravenclaw as well. What universe was he in? 

That night he had gotten into another heated argument with his best friends. One that ended in him sleeping in the common room, locked away from his bed. 

He had dreamt of you. That night when you had stargazed. When you had kissed him. When you had told him you loved him. He dreamt of your lips on his, hands in his hair, the dew seeping through his robes and the chirp of crickets. 

The next morning sucked. He sat alone during detention forced to watch as you happily hummed along to your music. Your hair was pulled back and it looked surprisingly nice. You were also wearing a skirt. When did you get so pretty? Remus talked to you and mentioned him. Sirius bit his tongue not wanting to cause a scene. Plus the glare James was giving him hurt on another level. 

The week got worse and worse. Suddenly you had friends and had started hanging out with a far too handsome Slytherin. You also choose that week to look ridiculously gorgeous and suddenly his thoughts were full of you. He found himself missing your scent and the texture of your hair. The sound of your laughter was a drug he had been deprived of. 

His dreams of you got worse. He dreamt that he had told you he loved you when you asked. He dreamed he hadn’t left you alone. He dreamed of laughing in detention with you, making out in broom closets, going to quidditch matches together, sleeping with you. 

He woke each day more aggravated than the last. Why the fuck was he the one suffering? It wasn’t fair. Well, he supposed it was. Finally, he gathered his remailing pride and tossed it out a window before cornering you on the way back from herbology. 

“Y/n please just give me a minute.” He begged as you began to walk away. 

“Sirius I have wasted far too many of my minutes on you.” You spat glaring past the boy.

“Please.” He pleaded.

You sighed tapping your foot angrily, “You’ve got one minute.”

It was then Sirius realized he had absolutely no plan, “What’s up with you?” 

“What?” You glowered refusing to meet his eye.

“I mean you’re all nice and shit and you’re actually hanging out with people. It’s weird.” He explained.

“So, me being nice is weird?” You clarified. 

“Yeah! People don’t change overnight!” He rationalized. 

“So I’ve been told.” You murmured, “Look if this is all just about me being nice then please save me time and leave me alone.” 

Sirius groaned, “It’s not just that! How are you so, so I don’t know okay?”

You finally looked him in the eyes and he really wished you hadn’t. Your eyes were dark with anger, narrowed to slits, reminding him of a snake. “You wanna know why I’m so okay?” You asked and suddenly he didn’t. “Because I was really really not fucking okay.” 

Sirius was visibly confused, “What?” 

“I almost drowned myself that night Sirius.” You hissed. 

His heart stopped. “What.” 

“Yeah.” You snarled, “I walked straight off that dock, shoes and all, and I let myself sink halfway to the bottom before I decided I wanted to live.” You spoke gesturing towards the lake.

Sirius wanted the earth to swallow him whole. You wouldn’t have opposed. 

“And when finally reached the shore I had an epiphany.” You spoke with false glamor. “I suddenly realized I wasn’t going to let cock suckers like you and my parents decided anything about me and the way I live my life.” 

Sirius wanted to break into tears. He started at you. The face he had been dreaming of for weeks meer meters from him and suddenly realized how desperately in love with you he was. 

“So guess what, I changed overnight because I would have died if I didn’t.” You spat before brushing past him without another word. Sirius grabbed your wrist as you passed.

You turned glaring at him. 

“I think I’m in love with you.” He spoke his voice breaking halfway through the sentence. 

“You know I can’t answer that.” You scoffed snatching your wrist from his hold and turning to leave. 

Sirius watched as you left so full of regret he couldn’t think of anything but what-ifs. When you were out of sight he sat on the ground and began to cry. 

Taglist:

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Masterlist

[neuronary]

i’m clearing out my google drive because having so much stuff in there gives me anxiety. part three: the no powers tua au where five is actually thirteen (though eight in this prequel-y thing i was writing)

---

“Did you know there are over seventeen different potential causes of death in an airplane crash?” Five asked. Luther couldn’t tell if he was being passive aggressive or just morbid.

“No,” he settled on, because it was the truth.

Five didn’t actually say the that’s only a fraction of the ways you could die in space part of his thought, but still managed to heavily imply it by dragging his backpack across the floor of the airport rather than carrying it normally. Luther had tried to talk him into bringing more than two spare uniforms and a set of pyjamas, but apparently that was ‘utterly ridiculous’ and Five didn’t care if it upset Allison.

(Luther suspected it might have more to do with his embarrassment at not having any other clothes, but he, with his endless wardrobe of tracksuits and hoodies, was not in much of a position to criticise.)

“No,” he said sharply, steering Five away from actively growling at a gaggle of staring tourists. “Don’t be rude.”

“They were being rude first,” Five muttered, finally picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. Luther eyed him, noting the way he picked at the label on his bag’s strap.

“I know it’s a lot of people,” he said. “They’re loud and it’s really bright in here, but we’ll get on the plane soon, and that’ll be easier, I promise.”

“Piss off, asshole,” Five hissed. “I’m not a child.”

He was eight years old, barely came up to Luther’s hips, and weighed at most fifty pounds soaking wet.

“Okay,” Luther settled on, in the interest of dying somewhere cooler than JFK airport. “Sorry.”

Five huffed and crossed his arms, immediately going back to picking at his bag strap. Luther tilted his head up to the ceiling and wondered if he could find a god to pray to in an international airport. This was going to be a long trip.

---

“I look like a kidnapping victim,” Five commented, loudly, once they were seated.

The woman in front of them turned around to give a concerned glance. Luther smiled through gritted teeth and resisted the urge to slam his head into her seat.

“If I was going to kidnap you,” he told Five, because he’d learned it was better to just indulge these trains of thought, “I wouldn’t have splurged on first class.”

It did the trick. Five’s attention immediately turned to analysing the differences between first class, business, and economy, and trying to figure out if it was mathematically worth the extra cost.

Despite four complementary capri-suns, Five insisted on eating the sandwiches Grace had made for him for the trip, and later concluded that first class was not worth the money they’d spent.

“The seat size doesn’t make any difference,” he explained, after almost twenty minutes of obsessive measuring with the clear plastic ruler he’d brought along, “and I already had food with me.”

Luther worked his way through half a bottle of the complementary champagne and privately disagreed.

“You’re a lot skinnier than I am,” he pointed out.

“So you should’ve bought first class for yourself and left me in economy,” Five amended, with all the confidence of an eight-year-old that saw nothing particularly wrong with general child neglect.

(He still had another capri-sun when the stewardess came by.)

[korpuskat]

Start Game [Tomura Shigaraki/Reader] - Part 3

[Ao3 Mirror]

Rating: Mature Word Count: 3,574 Summary: It’s a date, kind of, and goes about as well as a date with Tomura Shigaraki can. Contains: AFAB but Gender Neutral Reader, mentions of previous sexual activity (see part 2), soft Shigaraki

===== [Part 1] [Part 2] [You are here] [Part 4] =====

“There’s a good burger place.” Tomura says, watches your fingers move across the screen of your phone, scanning over the rows and rows of recommended restaurants. Places you didn’t know or recognize- “Here.” With his uninjured left hand he points- and you’re all too aware of how he keeps his fingers away from you. His whole hand arching away from yours.

It makes you look up to his face again- he doesn't seem perturbed. After all, the rest of his body is pressed right up against you, slotted between your sided and the wall, why would he avoid touching you now? He’d been all too happy to try to fuck you into his bed not five minutes ago. But his finger, slender and pale, the nail well-bitten down to the quick, taps on your screen and draws your attention. You look back just in time to watch him navigate through the site to a menu.

You read through it- and Tomura shifts beside you. You blink, watch as he pushes himself up onto his slender arms. He winces, holds his bandaged right hand with his left, little finger held away. You tip your head. Maybe it’s not just you.

He moves again, scooting towards the edge of his bed- and this time his scowl deepens, twists into disgust. You think you can tell why, at least. A dark patch has grown over the front of his sweatpants- the thick, loose fabric stretching as he pulls it between two fingers. You flush, can’t help the little thrill that brings a grin to your face-- you did that to him.

“Pick something.” He grumbles, standing awkwardly, pulling the messed up pants away from his crotch. His grimace only deepens. “I need to change.”

Though your problem is not nearly as obnoxious as his, you’re a little jealous. Your underwear has become slick between your legs, soaking up all the arousal that had oozed freely with your grinding. Now it's left clinging and uncomfortable with every tiny movement, though surely not as obnoxiously chafing as Tomura's must be.

You do your best to read the menu, to think about toppings and sides and if you should get a shake with it- but in reality your eyes keep darting over to Tomura’s long limbs as he picks through his messy room. He kicks at a pile of mostly black dirty clothes before frowning, the lines around his eyes deepening. The actual dresser is his next target, pulling open the drawers one by one and from how deep he has to reach inside, you wonder when the last time he put away his clothes was. But he pulls a lump of black cloth out and unfolds it-

And his hands touch the waistband of his pants. No hesitation, no glance back towards you. Not a modicum of modesty. He turns away just enough and whatever shame still keeps you human has your eyes locked onto your phone screen. But your peripherals don’t lie- Tomura shucks the black pants from his legs, long streaks You try so hard not to look- he’s turned away from you, he obviously doesn’t want you to ogle him, right? Right?

But he stumbles. One hand landing on the dresser, the assorted knick-knacks there shake, clink off something ceramic. The hand other grabs his leg- and you start to gasp; his thighs are wrapped up in bandages, just like his arms. The need to ask if he's alright rises to your lips- and dies just as quickly. His shirt covers to the tops of his thighs, but a thin stripe of pale skin peeks between the old bandages and black shirt. The sight makes your mouth go dry, your body stilling- Tomura mutters something to himself and you force your eyes back to your screen. He keeps moving in your peripherals, but this time fear keeps your gaze from drifting.

Does he know you looked? Sweat beads at your temple, fear and shame twist in your belly (and you work very hard to ignore how much you would love to appreciate that nary inch of skin you saw). He shuffles back towards you- and oh god, can he tell how hard you’re blushing in the low light? Should you just tell him? He probably doesn’t care too much, right?

“Here.” Something soft and black flumps beside you on the bed. You glance towards it, but can't quite make out what you're looking at. “You pick something yet?”

“Oh, um, no.” You bite your lip and glance up towards him- and his eyes glitter with mischief. Subdued, not that same overpowering thing that makes his mouth split into a wide, manic grin- but still there nonetheless. The corners of his eyes upturned, the tiniest sly smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. Your hands shake, so you hold your phone to your chest.

“I’ll order you my favorite. You’ll like it.” He nods towards what he’d dropped beside you. “If you need to…” He inhales, glances down your body, “Change. While I go pick it up.”

You blink, “We aren’t going out?”

Tomura’s hand rests on the doorknob, doesn’t speak for a minute- and like a curtain falling, his expression shifts. The mischief in his eyes turns sour, a dark cousin to the excited glint he’d had in the arcade. “It’s late. Lots of villains around lately.” He pauses, licks his lips. “Does that scare you?”

You think for a moment- but, to be honest, aside from what you saw on the news you’d never really dealt with villains. Of course what you’d read in the news was scary… You swallow your nerves, try to push a soft smile into your voice. “Well.. You’d protect me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.” It rushes from his mouth, too fast to play it off as a joke- and he doesn’t bother. It’s all genuine, a sincerity sinking into his voice. The dark glittering in his expression doesn't fade, one corner of his mouth pulling up, as though grinning at a joke only he could hear. “Of course.”

The smile catches, and you can’t help but tease a little. “Big, bad Dust going for the save, playing the hero.” You laugh to yourself.

It’s the utterly wrong thing to say. The softness evaporates from his face so fast your blood freezes, chills cascade over the back of your neck. The red eyes you’d found warmth in so many times are distant, shut off- and there's something different about his body now. The stiff way he holds himself makes your stomach churn, makes the tendons in your legs tense with every last vestige of prey instinct screaming to run. “Heroes wouldn’t save you.”

"Heroes...?" Your teeth sink into your lip- still tender from Tomura’s biting- and choke on some kind of apology. You don’t know what’s happened, what you said that twisted the mood so foully. Red eyes weigh on you and you waver under their cold pressure. Your fingers pick at the buttons on your phone and fret, would he ask you to leave? “I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to upset you…”

But just as your shoulders truly begin to collapse in on your chest, he sighs. A low, rumbling rush of air- and he crosses back towards the bed. You blink up to him- find your eyes wet and beginning to blur at the corners- and he looks down at you with a rueful softness. “You’re sweet…” He touches your hair. Swelling in your chest, your head pounds against your ribs. He touches your hair- presses his palm down against your head, only two fingers actually sinking into your hair to scratch at your scalp. It’s not your face that he looks at- it’s his own hand; his eyeline is too far above you to be anything else. “Cute…”

Oh. Your head sways, suddenly dizzy with the emotional whiplash- and then his closeness and touch and praise and what is so close to tenderness in his expression. But at the first tip of your head, arching up towards his hand in subconscious desire for more- He withdraws too quickly to be casual or planned. A sudden jerk away, as though you'd burned him. Were you too forward? Too needy? But Tomura cuts you off, “Change.” and his voice is not unkind. Any worries that you’d done something wrong fade away. “I’ll get the food.” He’s out the door before you can protest.

You touch the clothes he’d left for you and a soft huff of laughter follows as your fingers trace over his selection. A rumpled black shirt with a logo for Orbital Force in patchy red and blue peeling vinyl and pilling drawstring sweatpants that have been worn down so much they look gray. You bite your lip and unfold them, double check. Shirt. Pants. Surely you've missed it. Shirt, still from being at the bottom of his dresser drawer for too long. Pants that look near threadbare along the inner thighs.

The dampness between your legs slides uncomfortably on your thighs. He didn’t offer you any underwear. Would that be too weird, to give you a pair of his own? If he was offering you clothes anyway- and why a shirt? Yours seemed fine, you weren’t terribly sweaty, were you?-- why not include what had been surely the most pressing article of clothing for him?

The gears turn for a moment- but a glance over towards his discarded pants is all it takes to slot those pieces together. The smeared, drying evidence of your liaison makes your cheeks heat again. The gears screech to a halt and your thoughts stops dead in their tracks. You ease off the edge of the bed just to look closer, to make sure-

Oh. It’s all over the inside of his pants. Only his pants. No underwear to be seen.

Oh.

Was he always…? Every time you’d met up with him…? You swallowed thickly, unsure what to make of that.

Even without underwear (and... would you even have been be able to bring yourself to wear his if he had offered it?), the mess on your thighs needed to be tended to. Clean pants sans underwear would have to be better than what you had now.

He hadn't shown you where the bathroom was, either. Tomura certainly left you in a bit of an odd situation- but hey. If he was okay changing in front of you, he must be alright with you changing in his room, right? You click the little doorknob lock into place just to be sure and awkwardly shuck your very, very wet underwear and pants. Staring at the door, as though Tomura would somehow be back within seconds, you wipe the remnants of your arousal from your thighs.

Holding up Tomura's oversized sweatpants, though, you feel a little bad. They'll definitely end up smelling like... you. Or. Maybe he'd like that? Your fingers play with the drawstrings. Maybe he won't want them back. That has you smiling; you could have something of his. With that you step through the leg holes- and wonder exactly how tight he must pull the cords to keep the blanketing garment on his thin waist.

There's no mirror in the room for you to check how you look, but they fit you surprisingly well, the fabric softened with time and wear. The shirt still lays spread out on Tomura's bed. You really don't need to change your shirt... but you lift it, sink your nose into the fabric and inhale. It's old, definitely having been stuffed in his drawer for quite some time, but beneath the vague, lingering mustiness of being set away for a while, there's something else. You breathe in, close your eyes- it's... masculine. Kind of like old sweat that didn't quite get washed away, as though he hadn't used enough detergent. It's not a bad scent, you decide.

You swap your shirt out for his.

Your clothes awkwardly bundled together, you leave them near the end of his bed so you won't forget them. One little click to unlock his door and you're left looking around. You don't really want to snoop too much... Tomura's always been kind of private with you. So you settle back onto his bed, picking up your phone again and flicking through your apps restlessly. How long would he take? You didn't even think to ask before he went out.

Across the room, the game's stats screen dimmed, the camera still spinning over the map, waiting for input. The controllers sit on his nightstand- you blink.

His gloves lay over his clock, the green light of the display making them glow faintly. He's never taken them off around you before- you'd never really asked why; it was never important. If it was sensory or Quirk-related, it wasn't really your business. But you'd kind of assumed he always wore them- but here they were. How much... did you really know about him? If you were going to do anything with him, shouldn't you know a little more than his first name and that he prefers strategic turn-based games to bullet hells?

You don't even know where you are-

"Miss me?" You jump- the door opens. Tomura's face is covered in shadow, his hood pulled low over his face, forcing his light hair to fluff out around his neck. In his arms, he has two soda cups pressed between his forearm and his chest, in each hand a paper bag held in his odd three-fingered grasp.

"That... was fast." You say, scooting over on the bed as he steps into the room, closing the door with the heel of his foot.

He drops the bags on the bed, knocking the mess on his nightstand out of the way to set down the drinks. In the dim light of his room, he blatantly looks over you. His scarred lips pulling at the corners. "You look good." Heat returns to your face and all you can do is duck your head, can't quite get the words thank you out. It doesn't matter because Tomura is already settling himself onto the bed.

He starts to open up one paper bag, hand halfway in the bag before sharply frowning. He glances up at you- an idea rolling around in his head, crimson eyes flitting over your face as he contemplates something. Tomura pulls back, twists towards his nightstand to grab the gloves he'd left before. He's careful putting them on, pinching the thin black fabric and methodically working it onto his hand. First, fitting the two fingers to be covered into their holes, then stretching the base over each finger individually until it wraps around his thin wrist. Tomura repeats the action with the other glove, this time using all the fingers of his gloved hand to assist.

You haven't even touched the food yet, your bag still crumpled together at the edge. Too caught up in watching those slender fingers move- the delicate precision he held with such impeccable control. One glance from under the edge of his hood has you startling, grabbing at your food with shame in being caught.

The food inside smells absolutely heavenly, promising a heavy and greasy meal; it makes your stomach grumble loudly. You fish out the burger, unwrapping it- and from the corner of your eye you watch as Tomura does the same. All five fingers of his now gloved left hand holding the burger up as he grabs a remote from the floor. A few button presses and the source changes, switching over to a livestreaming site. He navigates easily with one hand, biting at his meal as he chooses the first Cloud Seven streamer he finds.

It buffers for a moment, a loading icon circling on the screen- and you look at his hands again. Tomura sets the remote aside and holds his food with both hands. The question is too great, the curiosity blooming too readily- the need to know anything burgeoning and bursting forth-

In the silence of the room, your voice is too loud. "Is it... for your Quirk? The gloves?"

He stops, goes completely frozen. From under the soft fluff of his hair, his eyes are trained on you. Not even breathing- and just as with earlier, that sense of dread constricts in your belly.

You swallow and every cell in your body is now screaming out to backpedal, to apologize, just as you did earlier... but that wouldn't get you anywhere, would it? You'd be right back where you were, swept up in his intoxicating influence and none the wiser to who you spend you days with. So you lick your lips and take a shaky breath. "I... realized I don't really know much about you. And if this is supposed to be a date... I just thought..."

Tomura's only reaction is the narrowing of his eyes. You bite your cheek, lower your hands to your lap, stare down at your food. If he was embarrassed or ashamed of his own Quirk, you had him beat. "I'm Quirkless, if that makes you feel better." You laugh lightly, shrug. Years have worn you down, left you numb to just about any comment he could make. "So no matter what it is, it can't be as bad as me. I'm utterly unremarkable."

You don't know Tomura's opinion on Quirks overall well enough to guess his reaction- aren't sure what to expect when you look at him again. His brow has raised, stretched in shock, the tight corners of his lips relaxing slightly at your confession. Surprise, yes, you could work with that. His lips press together- just beginning to part again, to say something-

"Oh, oh, he's got the flashbang! No, no!" The stream roars to life. A teen in a gaming chair throws their head back in one corner of the display, his green screen wavering as he spins and groans at the now playing killcam of another player. "He's got like five health!"

At least it breaks the tension, gives you something else to focus on- and Tomura doesn't look at you again. His eyes break from yours, zero in on the screen and do not waver. You finally eat, just to quell the ache in your belly, even if there's a rising nausea with it. It's so hard to chart through your relationship, so many landmines and blackholes of forbidden topics- like anything outside of sex or games carried a peculiar danger to it.

That should really be a red flag. He's not just secretive or touchy about things, he's... guarded. Maybe you should just-

Knuckles bump against your shoulder, just enough to get your attention. You blink- and he holds out the soda cup. Perspiration beads around it, wiped smooth and shiny near his hands- the water soaking into his glove around his ring and little fingers. You touch the drink- "They are." You hold the drink dumbly, parsing his words before he clarifies. "They're for my Quirk."

Tomura's eyes flit to your face only once, a quick glance to judge your reaction. "Oh." You breathe out, and try very hard to not grin like an idiot. Maybe... he's just slow to open up. You take a sip of your drink and pretend that's what you're talking about. "Thank you."

He doesn't reply, but you don't miss how the tension eases out of his shoulders. Slowly, by inches, his predatorial stillness is replaced with a looseness. And though you worry about what has happened to him to make him so defensive, the joy of him putting in an effort has your eyes watering. Before you can fall prey to your own doubt, you scoot closer to him. Its awkward without your hands, hardly making any progress--

and Tomura plants one hand on the bed, hauls himself until his side is flush with yours. You can't help but squeak- even if you'd started it, you hadn't really expected him to close the distance so quickly. But he looks down at you and there's such a softness about his features, you can't help but smile- and arch up enough to get him to lean down and meet you halfway into a brief kiss.

The streamer plays on, cheering as he gets a cheeky kill only for karma to return just as swiftly. Beside you, Tomura's shoulders lift and shake, a tiny laugh that mostly escapes through his nose. You eat in peace, no other conversation necessary in the changing glow from the screen. In the end you crumple your wrapper and drop it back into the paper bag- and fully curl into Tomura's side.

"Come here," He says, pushing the trash bag onto the floor without a second thought. He stretches out, and you follow his lead, laying down beside him on the narrow mattress. It's a tight fit, but for this much contact with him- one gloved hand splayed over your back, his chest warm and firm under your head- it's more than enough. With him so near, the room so dark, it's easy to get lost in the steady, continuous beat of his heart, loud and strong in your ear. So easy to sigh in contentment, to let your eyes close-

and with his voice murmuring something you can't quite make out, it's just as easy to let yourself sleep next to him. Against your hair Tomura sighs, "You're not unremarkable."

=====

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@annonymousbread

[southsidestory]

Hey! I LOVE all of your writing! Thanks for sharing your work with us! I saw that you like kakasakura... any chance you would ever write for them? 🙏☺️

Thank you so much, nonny! I’m so glad you enjoy my writing.

As for KakaSaku... well, there’s definitely a chance I’d write for them, because I already have. 😅 I’ve just never posted it.

But since you sent me this sweet ask, I’ll share the first scene of a KakaSaku fic I’ve been toying with. FYI even though Sakura is a chuunin and this is in the period when Naruto is traveling with Jiraiya, Sakura is 18. Because I said so, and this fanfiction land, where my rules are the only rules lmao

.

.

Kakashi’s mission ran over. It turned out that quietly assassinating a samurai lord constantly surrounded by underlings wasn’t as simple as he’d expected. The assassination itself was almost absurdly easy, but getting Lord Akinobu alone long enough to do it wasn’t. He ended up spending almost two weeks in the Land of Iron before an opportunity presented itself.

The trip back to Konoha was uneventful. He should report to the Hokage right away, but he felt a shower and nap were in order first. After he woke up, he watered Mr. Ukki, who had withered a little in his absence. Kakashi suspected that his house plant was indestructible, but two weeks was a long time even for it to go without attention.

He would ask someone to look after Mr. Ukki when he went on missions, but he didn’t have anyone. His neighbors resented him for coming and going at all hours, and his friends were… well, kept at arm’s length. Which was how he liked it. But unfortunately his independence meant poor Mr. Ukki sometimes went without water for a while.

Kakashi meant to go directly to the Hokage tower, but he spotted Gai buying watame from a street vendor and couldn’t resist getting two for himself.

“You only did that to one-up me,” Gai said sourly.

Kakashi continued on, cotton candy in hand. The blue one was the same soft shade as the sky overhead, and the pink was almost the exact color of Sakura’s hair. Like the smooth inside of a conch shell, or the cherry blossoms she was named for.

He hadn’t seen Sakura in three or four months, and he wondered how she was faring. He heard about her occasionally from his fellow jounin. What a skilled kunoichi she’d turned out to be, with the promise of becoming as strong as the Hokage herself someday.

Not much surprised Kakashi, but Sakura did.

He handed the blue cotton candy to a passing child, whose mother immediately yanked it out of his hands and glared daggers at Kakashi. The little boy wailed and reached for the spun sugar treat while his mother lectured him about not taking food from strangers.

Kakashi ate the pink one as he meandered his way toward the Hokage tower. By the time he arrived, he’d finished the cotton candy. He pulled his mask back up over his face, dropped the plastic stick in the lobby trash can, and went up the stairs to Tsunade’s office.

“You’re late,” she said, without looking up from her desk.

Kakashi leaned against the wall, tempted to pull Icha Icha out of his kunai pouch, but Tsunade’s temper and monstrous strength were a formidable combination. He’d like to keep his nose unbroken.

“It was hard to get Akinobu alone.”

Tsunade snorted. “You were the youngest shinobi to be promoted to chuunin in the history of Konoha, and you know a thousand jutsu. You’re creative enough to kill a measly samurai in a timely manner.”

Kakashi didn’t argue. Fighting with the Hokage was an exercise in futility.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I ought to dock your pay.”

He shrugged. “If you want.”

He had a nice nest egg set away, thanks to his thriftiness and over ten years of A-rank and S-rank mission rewards.

Tsunade sighed. “I expect your report on my desk by twelve tomorrow. And I do mean twelve in the afternoon, not midnight.”

Kakashi nodded with all the deference he could muster. “As you say, Lady Hokage.”

She didn’t look like she believed him, even though he did plan to turn in his mission report on time.

Probably.

Someone knocked on the door, and Tsunade called, “Come in.”

It was Sakura, carrying a stack of binders and looking very harassed. “I got those files you asked for, shishou—”

She stopped dead, green eyes wide as she looked up at him.

“Kakashi-sensei!” Sakura’s words were ruthless and so painfully high that he almost winced. 

She hurried to set the binders on Tsunade’s desk, then turned back to him.

"Hey, Sakura. Long time no see."

The surprise fell from her expression and something harder took its place. 

"Yeah," she said. "Been busy?" 

"I was on a long mission," Kakashi said. 

She raised one rosy eyebrow. "Oh? Four months long?" 

Apparently Sakura hadn't grown out of her passive aggressive streak.

"Two weeks,” Tsunade said. “And it shouldn't have taken that long.”

Sakura smirked. "Are you losing your touch, Kakashi-sensei?" 

He laughed a little. "Don't get too big for your britches. I can still take you."

She opened her mouth, no doubt to toss some retort at him, but Tsunade beat her to it.

“Don’t be so sure. You might be surprised by what she’s accomplished.”

“With a proper teacher,” Sakura said sweetly.

Kakashi scratched the back of his head. “Don’t blame me. If any students besides Team 7 had ever passed the bell test, I would have had more practice before you guys.”

“Please. You didn’t have any problems teaching Sa—” She paused for a moment, and in that brief silence Kakashi heard everything she wasn’t saying. She shook it off and went on. “You taught Sasuke fine. Naruto too sometimes, even though he was dead-last in our class.”

Kakashi canted his head. “Sasuke and Naruto were focused on becoming better shinobi. You were too busy nursing a school-girl crush.”

That was a low blow, but he wasn’t going to take all of the blame here. Sakura was as responsible for her lack of growth as a genin as he was. 

She clenched her fists at her sides. “So I wasn’t worth your time? Is that it?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You might as well have!” She took a few steps toward him, glaring ferociously enough to intimidate a lesser man. Too bad for her he’d seen worse than a spitting mad chuunin. “At least you’re finally honest enough to admit it. Not that you haven’t already made it astoundingly clear how weak you thought I was.”

Tsunade stood up and put her hands on her desk. “If you’re going to brawl, take it outside.”

Sakura’s chest was heaving with ragged breaths, her gaze fierce. She barely topped five feet and might weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet, but size didn’t mean much for a kunoichi of her caliber. Especially a girl trained by one of the legendary Sannin.

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s go to the training grounds.”

“Come back and challenge me when you’re a jounin.”

He ruffled her hair, and Sakura smacked his hand away.

“Don’t treat me like a child, Kakashi!”

That brought him up short in a way that her temper tantrum hadn’t. She never called him by his name alone.

“Then don’t act like one.” He looked to Tsunade. “Am I free to go?”

She waved at him vaguely. “Get out of here before Sakura kills you.”

Kakashi took the shortest route home, barely hearing the hustle and bustle of the village around him. Mrs. Kurosawa, one of his neighbors, berated him for something on his way up the stairs to his apartment, but he didn’t bother to listen. He locked his door behind him, took off his hitai-ate, pulled down his mask, and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He should read, maybe watch TV. Reruns of his favorite soap opera would start airing in an hour, and he needed to catch up before watching the new episode. Immersing himself in Marriage Contract would help him wind down from his overdrawn mission.

And his fight with Sakura. Which, if he was honest with himself, bothered him more.

He shouldn’t have called her feelings for Sasuke a school-girl crush. He’d watched Sakura’s childish infatuation grow into love, and diminishing it was downright cruel.

Some people would say that thirteen was too young to understand love, but Kakashi knew better. Shinobi learned hard lessons of the heart long before other children. Rin had loved him, and Obito had loved Rin. Kakashi didn’t know who he’d loved. He lost them both before he could figure it out.

Maybe if their team could bring Sasuke home, things would turn out better for Sakura.

He hoped so.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

chasing pegasus (part two)

part one

[horse racing au]

tw: there’s some discussions of unhealthy dieting in this one, so watch out!

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

a lap around the yard

The Trainer

Four days later, the sound of hoofsteps came crunching up the driveway of the Netherworld. It was a wet, early morning, the sun not even up yet. Animals were still asleep, as were Barbara and Adam- not even Lydia had showed up for work.

And yet, there were hoofsteps coming from the street.

It had taken little persuasion to convince Presley Lind’s parents into allowing Beetlejuice to be her new trainer once they found out he was associated with the Maitland’s. Their bored expressions lit up instantly, and Beetlejuice easily saw the greed shining inside of their eyes. He had managed to bite back a laugh in the moment, not wanting to ruin this opportunity.

As a child, horses were Beetlejuice’s entire world. Despite his mother working in politics, he lived on a farm, where the plains rolled out to him every morning like green carpets and the air was fresh and clean. There was so much space, and absolutely nothing to fill it.

Lawrence “Beetlejuice” Shoggoth longed for a pony of his own more than anything. Almost every day, he would watch the neighbors ride around on their horses, practically radiating smugness like, “Hahaha! Look at us! We got horses and you don’t! Hahaha!”

He tried to get a horse. Every single Christmas, every single birthday, he would ask his mother for a pony of his own. And every single time he was shot down. She would say that his wonder towards the animals was just a “phase,” that he would lose interest in the beast and leave her to take care of it, but Beetlejuice knew the real reason she said no was because she didn’t like when he got anything he wanted.

It wasn’t until he was seventeen that he finally got the horse he had been dreaming about.

She was a little black-and-white thoroughbred filly that Beetlejuice nursed himself after her mother was killed by a pack of hungry coyotes. His mother had been furious when he carried the foal into the house that dark evening, but he managed to convince her into letting him keep the animal, as long as he paid for everything and didn’t come running to her when he needed help. He was ecstatic.

That little black-and-white thoroughbred filly was the same large black-and-white thoroughbred mare standing beside him at five-thirty in the morning before the sun had even risen, waiting for their pupils.

Sandy, aka It’s Showtime, was the highlight of Beetlejuice’s life. She was fast, full of energy, and had more of a personality than most people Beetlejuice had met. She was everything he dreamed about and more. He didn’t know what he would do without her.  

 “Good morning, student!” Beetlejuice greeted Presley animatedly when she finally finished her walk down the driveway. Strangely enough, she wasn’t riding her horse, instead guiding him by a halter. She didn’t seem to have been on his back at all that morning, deciding to make the whole trip on foot.

 “Good morning, Mr. Shoggoth,” Presley greeted back. In the faint glow from the light attached to the wall of the nearby barn, he saw that she was dressed in a soft-looking flannel, a tank top underneath that, leggings, and boots. Her helmet and goggles were hanging from the side of her saddle. She had her crop with her and she kept fidgeting with it as some sort of nervous tic.

Beetlejuice couldn’t help but laugh at her insistence in formality. She truly was the epitome of a Southern Belle, even up in Connecticut.

 “You can call me Beetlejuice, kiddo, it’s okay.”

Presley wrinkled her nose, but nodded anyway. Beetlejuice was sure that was going to last for maybe an hour, and then she would be back to referring to him like he was the president of the United States or something.

 “So, are you ready for our first day of training?” Beetlejuice asked, hoping he didn’t sound too much like an excited child on Christmas. He had been waiting for the perfect protégé for what felt like forever and he finally found someone who showed real promise. He couldn’t wait to teach her about everything he knew.

 “Yes, sir!” Presley answered. She matched his energy, so Beetlejuice decided to ignore the fact that she replied to him like he was a drill sergeant and she was a wannabe soldier preparing for war.

 “That’s what I like to hear!” Beetlejuice clapped her on the back. “Let’s get out to the track.”

--- --- ---

The first hour and a half, they didn’t even touch the horses.

Sandy and Presley’s stallion, a scraggly grey thoroughbred stallion named Peril, were put into the carousel to get their muscles warmed up for later riding--

--except Peril attempted to physically fight the equipment the moment it turned on and tried to guide him around the circle, which he did not like at all. Beetlejuice and Presley both had to rush to calm him down before he could break something or hurt himself or worse: wake up Barbara. After a few moments of resistance, he finally gave into the tug of the machine and relented to following its pull.

By the time the sun had finally come up, Presley was soaked in a fine layer of sweat. They spent those first few hours exercising; or, rather, Presley was exercising. Beetlejuice watched over her with a hose at the ready if he caught her slacking off.

Being a jockey was a lot harder than anyone initially thought. Despite being small in stature, easily half the size of any NFL player most of the time, they were required to guide twelve hundred pounds of pure flesh and muscle at speeds of up to forty miles per hour. Strength was needed to stay on the backs of the sprinting beasts, hence why the training regimen for jockeys were so intense.

After the initial stretches, Beetlejuice had Presley do a myriad of exercises- squats, lunges, jumping lunges, flutter kicks, bear crawls, burpees, and one-leg deadlifts, and even after finishing all of that she still wasn’t done. He told her to run a mile around the track, and she went without complaining.

 “Lawrence, you better not be killing our jockey. We just got her.”

A voice like a songbird’s sweet chirping broke through the silence of the morning. Beetlejuice turned to see Barbara and Adam walking over, both of them smiling. He perked up.

By then, the sun had come up, bathing the Netherworld in soft golden rays. Horses emerged from the stables, moseying out into the pasture to graze, though some of them stopped to peer curiously at Peril. He and Sandy were mulling in a nearby holding pen after they finished their own exercise on the carousel. When Peril caught the stares he was getting from the other horses, he lifted his head, grass hanging from his mouth, and flicked his ears at them in some kind of silent, equine gesture, then went back to eating.

 “I’m not!” Beetlejuice said, laughing. “She’s fine. Doing great, actually!”

With impeccable comedic timing, Presley skidded to a halt at the fencing in front of them, kicking up a plume of dirt, which only furthered to dirty her even more than she already was: head-to-toe, she was completely covered in silt from the track, turning her pale skin a faint orangey color. It effectively stuck to the sweat already coating her body, making her look like she had tried to test the dust baths the horses sometimes took.

She raised her head, face red from exertion and orange-brown from dirt, and squinted through the morning sun at Barbara and Adam.

 “Good morning, Mrs. Maitland. Good morning, Mr. Maitland,” She greeted the couple with her trademarked politeness, even as she was doubled over and heaving her breaths.

 “Morning, Presley,” Adam said.

 “Good morning, dear. How are you?” Barbara asked.

 “Good,” Presley answered. “You?”

 “I’m doing very well.”

Presley nodded. She shook herself out, though it did little to remove the dirt clinging to her frame, then stood up straight, hands pressed against her lower back like she was trying to pop her spine.

 “BJ isn’t working you too hard, is he?” Adam asked, looking at her, then squinting at Beetlejuice in playful suspiciousness.

 “No, sir,” Presley answered. “I’m okay.” She dragged her feet through the dirt, brewing up another storm around her, as she walked over to the fence and braced herself against the wood.

 “Rude,” Beetlejuice poked Adam in the ribs. “You’re acting like I’m gonna torture her or something! I’m a great teacher! Right, kid?”

 “I got sand in my boots,” Presley said distractedly, kicking the heel of one of her musty boots against a small rock.

 “See!” Beetlejuice said, and Adam and Barbara laughed.

 “Before you continue your teachings, I want you both to eat breakfast,” Barbara said, for all the world sounding like a mother to a soccer team. She looked at Presley. “Do you like danishes?”

 “Oh, uhh,” Presley shuffled her feet awkwardly, then scrunched her face up like a disturbed bunny when the sand must have scratched around in her boots. “I don’t eat breakfast.”

Barbara and Adam stared at her. She blinked back at them, then glanced up at Beetlejuice with a worried expression that said, “Did I do something wrong?”

 “Ever?” Adam asked.

 “No,” Presley shook her head. “Sometimes I’ll have a shake. Maybe an apple. That’s usually it, though.”

 “Honey, you have to eat,” Barbara said, sounding concerned.

 “I’m on a diet,” Presley said back, as if that justified her skipping meals all the time. “It’s kinda strict, so…” She kicked at a pebble, avoiding their gazes.

 “Diet for what?” Adam probed. “You’re already so thin!”

 “We have to be thin,” Presley reprimanded. “Jockeys, I mean. There’s a weight restriction for a reason. And if I slack off one day, then I’ll snowball, and you know how easy it is to regain weight?”

 “How much do you weigh right now?” Beetlejuice joined in on the questioning. He hoped nobody could hear the curl of concerned sickness edging his voice.

 “Uhhh,” Presley had the audacity to count on her fingers, which made Adam’s eyes practically bulge out of his skull, as if he were expecting her to say some absurd number like seven or ten. Though, in his defense, what she actually ended up saying was equally as concerning.

 “If I remember correctly from the last time I checked… I think ninety-nine pounds?”

 “Ninety--” Adam sputtered, cutting himself off. “NINETY-NINE?!”

Presley scrunched her face up at him again. “Yeah…” She said slowly. “Usually I’m ninety-four, though.”

 “NINETY-FOUR?!”

Presley blinked at him. She seemed innocently oblivious to how worrying what she said was…or maybe she did know how worrying it was and was just acting like she didn’t in a way to convince herself that what she was doing was okay and perfectly healthy.

She didn’t look emaciated. To be honest, Beetlejuice used to think that anyone under a hundred pounds were like those people in the sad pictures of Africa, the ones that stated that everyone on the continent were starving to death and tried to convince you to do some twenty-four hour fasting thing to “see how they lived” or something like that instead of doing something useful like asking for donations to help those people. You know- drum-tight skin, ribs showing, stomachs sunken into empty caverns, every detail of the hip bone being perfectly highlighted, limbs like matchsticks, more skeleton than human.

But Presley looked like the exact opposite of that. Her skin wasn’t pulled tight over her bones, her bones weren’t showing at all, even, and she definitely was not a skeleton.

But Beetlejuice also knew firsthand that the effects of “jockey dieting” weren’t always physical. Sometimes it all on the inside- throat eroded from constant purging, muscles weak with no energy, stomach cannibalizing itself in a desperate attempt to get nutrients.

He knew because he, too, had slaved himself over the jockey diet before eventually accepting that he would never meet the weight restriction and get to race in a real derby.

Seeing his new pupil torture herself with such a hellish thing did not make him happy.

 “Presley, you have to eat,” Barbara said gently before Beetlejuice could blow his top and scold his new student.

 “I do,” Presley tried to assure her. “I eat dinner. One meal per day; that’s what the regimen says. I have to follow it if I want to be a jockey. Those are, like, the rules.”

 “Well, I don’t see any rule book around here,” Adam said.

 “It’s an unspoken one.”

 “Presley, Barbara is right,” Beetlejuice spoke up. “You have to eat. I get the whole ‘staying in shape to stay in the weight requirement’ thing, I do, but you’ll be no use in a race if you’re too weak to ride.”

Presley seemed to be getting flustered. She opened her mouth, then closed it and ducked her head. Her boot scuffed at the grass.

 “Danishes sound nice. Thank you, Mrs. Maitland.”

--- --- ---

After a breakfast of danishes, scrambled eggs, grilled ham, and orange juice, Beetlejuice and his student were back outside. Now that it was light out, he decided to let her muscles rest a little longer and give her a tour. Lydia, who had been dropped off by her father, joined them.

Most of the horses were out in the pasture, as were the other farm animals the Maitland’s kept, but most of the broodmares spent their time inside the stables, a breezy building that smelled like hay and dirt. The pregnant horses rumbled and huffed to each other, and Beetlejuice recognized the low-level threat in those sounds. Foaling mares were often aggressive. They were kept separately from each other, in large stalls with heavy wooden walls and thick layers of rushes on the floor.

Six mothers filled the stables. Barbara and Adam were encouraging more breeding to replace the three mares they had recently lost, and to fill the orders they had gotten from richer racers that were seeking out a good horse. Lydia pointed out all the foaling horses as they went by, and Presley listened with great interest.

The first was Bullseye aka Target’s Grand Splash, a solid black Arabian with a single white spot around her left eye and pure white socks. She was fierce and standoffish.

The next was Sky aka Up, Up, and Away, a pure white standardbred with hints of pink around her dark eyes. She was the restless type, constantly resetting her bedding because it wasn’t good enough for her liking.

Then there was Flicker aka Light The Night, a buckskin paint horse with white splotches all across her body and a constant need for playing. As they passed by, she was throwing her hay up into the air with her teeth.

After her was Pisces aka The Zodiac Killer, a dark chestnut thoroughbred with even darker socks around her hooves. Her ears were pinned back and she glared as they walked by her pen.

Fifth was Magi aka Blaze of Enchantment, a blonde quarter horse with a silky brown mane and tail. Her gentle nature made her easy to care for.

Finally, there was Sneeze-Breeze aka It’s A Long Story, a second thoroughbred, this one with a coat of red roan. Upon hearing her name, Presley gave Lydia a confused look, to which Lydia replied with, “It’s a long story.”

Presley laughed.

 “And then that’s my horse!” Lydia said, pointing to a black abyss that was a Tennessee walker gelding. Its dark coat really fit Lydia’s aesthetic. “Well, he’s my favorite horse, but I still like to call him my horse. His name is Gloom!”

Gloom lifted his head from his stall and blinked big blue eyes at Lydia. She patted his large cheek.

 “His show name is The Moon Man,” Lydia further informed.

 “He’s so handsome,” Presley said in awe, staring up at the void.

Beetlejuice allowed the two teenagers to chat a little longer before pulling Presley back out to begin training. It was good that Lydia talked to girls her age. She usually just made conversation with the horses ever since the recent passing of her mother. Maybe a human friend would be good for her.

 “Alright, kiddo,” Beetlejuice said once they were all back outside. Presley had Peril by his halter for an inspection. “Let’s see what you got.”

Beetlejuice, for one, knew a pretty horse when he saw one, and Peril was the epitome of thoroughbred beauty. His coat was a glossy steel grey, rippling rays of light when the sun hit the fur, and his mane and tail were the color of storm clouds. He had four black stockings up each of his legs as if he had crawled out from the shadows. There was a freckling of grey on his snout and his eyes were a bright flame blue. Beetlejuice could see why Presley liked him so much.

Unfortunately, outward looks were just about the only thing Peril had going for him.

Although he was huge, easily twice, maybe three times the size of his tiny jockey, he was gangly and awkward. His legs were stalky, knees knobby, and his tail was bushy. His ears were moving constantly, like spirits were whispering in them, telling him secrets, and his eyes were always looking around.

Peril twitched when Beetlejuice laid hands on him. He lifted one of his back legs, scraping the dirt with the edge of his hoof, but seemed to decide against kicking for the moment, though he still leered at Beetlejuice out from the corner of his eyes, silently warning him.

Beetlejuice went on.

Peril quickly proved to be the exact opposite of the phrase “gentle giant.” He was a stubborn thing, bearing enough tenaciousness to fill all of Connecticut. Even Adam’s mule wasn’t as hard headed as this beast.

The stallion refused to lift his hooves for Beetlejuice. Beetlejuice had to wrestle with his leg just to be able to check his feet, though he decided to let the attitude slide because it made Lydia and Presley giggle.

Peril had thoroughbred-typical shitty feet. Thin soles. Too flat. Underrun heels. Typical racer. Best to get the farrier down to the farm to start drawing the toe back into something that would at least be considered a little healthy.

He dropped the foot. The joints flexed cleanly. Peril had muscle, Beetlejuice could see, but it was hidden beneath his bulk and awkward girth. At least his ribs weren’t showing.

Beetlejuice stole a glance at Presley, who was holding Peril steady by his halter and chatting avidly with Lydia. Her horse ate better than she did.

Dropping the subject from his mind for now, Beetlejuice began to check Peril’s withers and back. Peril humored his touch, keeping his hindquarters cocked for the moment, not ready to kick just yet. Beetlejuice eyed them wryly. As lanky as his legs were, he could knock someone’s brains out with those hooves.

Beetlejuice ran his hands over Peril’s soft hide. Peril shifted beneath his palms, letting out an impatient huff. He looked at Presley, who looked back with a nervous expression.

 “How often do you train with him?” Beetlejuice asked.

 “Six days a week,” Presley answered, and Beetlejuice caught the anxious tremors in her voice. “Sundays are our off days.”

Beetlejuice nodded. “It’s good that you both have time to relax.” He stroked Peril’s broad neck, and the muscles bunched and released beneath his fingers. “What is his diet like?”

 “I give him two to three meals a day of grain and hay,” Presley told him. She was whiteknuckling the halter leash nervously, as if she fed Peril baby heads or something and didn’t want to reveal her bloody secret. “He gets carrot and apple slices in the evenings. Sometimes other fruits and vegetables I have at home. And if he’s good I give him peppermints.”

At the sound of the treat, Peril’s ears flicked to alertness and he began to lip at Presley’s hand. Presley laughed and fished out a mint she had in her pocket. Peril devoured it instantly.

Beetlejuice began to rattle off several questions, and Presley answered them with little hesitation, though her anxiety remained.

 “Does he receive yearly vaccinations?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “When was he last seen by a vet?”

 “Two months ago, I believe.”

 “Who grooms him?”

 “I do.”

 “Has he ever had colic?”

 “No, sir.”

 “What kind of bit do you use?”

 “Usually a D-ring snaffle, but sometimes I use an eggbutt snaffle. They’re both easiest on his mouth and he gets cranky if it isn’t comfortable.”

 “Where did you get him?”

 “My neighbor gave him to me.”

 “For how much?”

 “For free.”

Beetlejuice raised an eyebrow at Presley. “Really?”

 “Yes, sir,” Presley said, and Beetlejuice was sure he had been called ‘sir’ more times in one day than he had in his entire life. “He really didn’t want him anymore and just gave him to me.”

 “Huh,” Beetlejuice looked up at Peril. “Well, let’s see how he rides, shall we?”

The four of them walked to the hooded paddock. Presley looked supremely uneasy. She wouldn’t stop fidgeting for some reason.

 “Be safe,” Presley whispered.

Beetlejuice couldn’t help but give her a weird look as he climbed onto Peril’s back.

Oh, Beetlejuice thought as he was being bucked off mere moments after sitting down. THAT’S why he was given away for free.

--- --- ---

 “He’s certainly an…opinionated horse.”

Several hours later, Beetlejuice and Presley were sitting on white picket fence together: Beetlejuice nursing a half-empty bottle of bitter apple cider, Presley sipping lukewarm water. In the enclosed field they were balanced before, Peril trotted the length of his pasture, tail flagged, head snaking in front of him.

 “He’s not bad.”

 “Never said he was, kid.”

Presley ducked her head. She looked guilty. Beetlejuice hadn’t realized someone could say sorry so much in one breath, and yet Presley had. Even though he only had a minor bruise on his side from being bucked off, she still wasn’t over what happened.

 “Doesn’t like doors very much,” Beetlejuice observed.

Presley winced. He was referring to when Peril had viciously fought the door to a small pen she had tried to put him into earlier that afternoon.

 “He’s not-- I mean, he doesn’t usually--” Presley was fumbling. She was pale, hands clenched in her flannel. She looked like she was about to spiral into a full blown anxiety attack.

Beetlejuice put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” He said. “Horses have their quirks. Sandy used to snort sand all the time.”

Presley blinked big doe eyes at him. “Really?”

 “You didn’t think she was named because of her colors, did you?” Beetlejuice tipped his head at her, looking amused.

 “There’s black sand! That exists!” Presley tried to argue in an attempt to save face.

Beetlejuice laughed. “When she was a filly, she used to stick her nose in EVERYTHING. Always these big mounds of dirt, and then she would sneeze, knock herself backwards, and look at me indignantly, to which I would say, ‘Then stop sticking sand up your nose!’ She never listened.”

Presley giggled.

They both watched Peril for a minute. His head was still in the air, neck arched, ears pointed at some unknown distant object he deemed worthy of his attention. Then, he caught them staring and took off in a dead sprint around the corner of the yard, ripping up chunks of turf with his hooves. He stopped abruptly, glanced to make sure they were still looking at him, and then trotted away regally.

 “I like this horse,” Beetlejuice said, breaking the silence. “I want him to win.”

 “Everyone wants their horse to win, Mr. Shoggoth,” Presley mumbled, shoulders slumped like they were being weighed down by some unruly sin.

Guilt, Beetlejuice rationalized.

He gave Presley a look.

 “Beetlejuice,” She corrected herself. “Mr. Beetlejuice.”

 “That’s Mr. Juice to you,” Beetlejuice said, poking her in the side, and she nearly squirmed right off of the fencepost. She giggled again. It didn’t last long.

 “I want him to win, too,” Presley whispered.

As awkward and ill-tempered as Peril was, he could.

Beetlejuice had met a lot of horses. He had run his eyes and his hands over champions. Hundreds from afar, and dozens up close. A.P. Indy, The Strawman, Stay Thirsty. Even Ocean Liner, though he’d been long retired by that time. There had been Sweet Devil, getting roses draped around his mud-spattered neck; Slipstream, bounding around the winners circle; Permafrost, head held up in haughty pride as he passed by other horses.

Beside The Dying Fire could outrun them all.

 “I just don’t know if I’m enough for him.”

The comment caught Beetlejuice off guard. He looked down at Presley, and he could see it now: the self-doubt, the worry, the fear, the painful anxiety raking up and down her insides like jagged horse hooves.

Presley “Jeopardy” Lind wasn’t just timid, she was fragile, too. Much too fragile for the awful things spiraling in her head.

Beetlejuice set a hand on her shoulder. “We chose you for a reason. You rode that beast and got third. You have skill, Presley. You’re exactly what he needs.”

Presley’s eyes were sparkling up at him. Beetlejuice smiled.

 “You’re our jockey.”

Presley looked out at Peril. He looked back at her. A thousand plus pounds of muscle, and even heavier than that, the weight of all the dreams each one of these beasts carried. A dark, sharp look in his eye that was either intelligence or haughty pride, or maybe just the hope of his human creators reflecting back at them.

She looked up at Beetlejuice again and, buried beneath the fear and anxiety and doubt, there was confidence.

 “I’m your jockey.”

[awkwardpenguinproductions]

Anchor Point

Part 1 of the Dragon of the Yuyan

Read on AO3 | Series Masterpost

Someone asked me to post my Dragon of the Yuyan series on Tumblr as they were unable to access AO3. So here we are. I’m going to try and put a Read More cut after the first paragraph or so, let me know if this works or doesn’t work and I’ll adjust accordingly.

–––

Zuko has never been this hungry before. The scary thing is, he can’t really feel it anymore––his stomach has ceased sending shooting pains through his gut, has stopped gurgling and roaring in demand for sustanence. He can feel weakness nipping at his limbs like eel-hounds on the hunt, and his firebending grows weaker by the day.

He’d thought he'd been hungry when he’d missed three meals in a row after Azula had locked him in a closet when he was eleven. No one had realized that he was missing until dinnertime, and then Father had commanded him confined to his chambers without dinner in punishment for not taking the initiative to free himself--never mind that the door couldn't be opened at all except from the outside, and Zuko's fireblasts weren't yet strong enough to blow it open.

He hadn't slept that night, tossing and turning in his bed as his stomach growled fiercely, cursing Azula and promising himself that he'd never get caught like that again. The next morning, Uncle had met him at the training yards with a bowl of okayu, and Zuko had been so hungry that he hadn't even cared that he was eating food meant for babies and sick people.

He'd thought he'd been hungry then.

He knew now that that had been a simple inconvenience.

When he'd been dumped in the northwestern mountains of the Earth Kingdom, it had been early spring, his burn had been fresh and agonizing, and Zuko had known absolutely nothing about surviving in the wilderness. But desperation makes for quick learning, and by the height of summer, he was hunting and foraging enough to at least maintain his firebending, if nothing else.

Now, though…

It's miserably cold, and it feels like it's been raining for years. Zuko is soaked, and shivering, and hasn't had a successful hunt in two weeks. Anything he might forage is rotten with the wet. Sometimes the rain comes down as hard little pellets that sting his skin, and in the morning the forest shines with the coating of ice. Winter is a looming terror, but at this point, if something doesn't change, Zuko won't live long enough to see snow for the first time.

There is nothing for him here. He should move on while he can still move.

Walking is agony. If he tries to think in terms of distance, in terms of miles, he feels like curling up on the frozen ground and waiting for death, so instead he thinks in terms of getting from one tree to the next, in terms of putting one foot in front of the other. Exhaustion weighs on him, and his limbs shake.

Somehow, he makes it out of the forest, and face to face with the sea. He toys with the idea of simply walking into the water until it covers his head and letting La do with him what he will, until he spots a ship.

It's too far out to see him, and his inner fire is so smothered by the cold that it's barely embers in the yawning pit of his stomach, so he wouldn't be able to signal it. But he can follow it, and see where it makes port. Maybe he can beg or steal some rations to keep starvation at bay.

The ship (a Fire Nation Ironclad, which fills him with equal parts terror and hope) steams only a few miles north and docks at the foot of an enormous fort. Pohuai Stronghold, whispers the Crown Prince part of his mind. Supply and troop depot for forces stationed in the Earth Kingdom. If anywhere was going to have food, it would be this place. Now to get inside…

A road, a komodo-rhino-driven cart, and Zuko is hunkering down behind a crate in silence as it carries him past the three massive walls that he never would have managed to scale in the state he's currently in. Once the cart lurches to a stop, he manages to slip out and into the shadows without anyone seeing him, and creeps around until he finds a storeroom. It's full of uniforms and other clothes, and Zuko promises himself that once he finds some food, he'll return for some clothes that might actually keep him warm, instead of the ragged silk tunic and trousers he'd been dropped off in. He does snag a sack to carry whatever rations he manages to find.

The next storeroom contains weapons, and Zuko helps himself to a brand new utility knife and a blade-maintenance kit, since his dagger from Uncle has grown dull from months of being used to dress his kills. He eyes a pair of dao broadswords, but food is more important right now, and he moves on.

Finally, he finds the dry rations. It takes everything he has not to grab the nearest box and stuff his face, but he's already spent too long here and he needs to leave before he's caught. He fills his sack with three days worth, knowing that in his state, that amount will last him at least a week, and retraces his steps back to where he found the clothes.

But someone else finds him first.

The arrows thunk into the wall behind him through the sleeves of his tunic, pinning his arms without even scratching his skin. Zuko drops his sack in surprise and tries to pull free, but the risk of losing his only clothing with winter barreling down on him like a stampeding komodo-rhino is not one he wants to take. More arrows sink into the wall along his sides and legs, until Zuko can't move at all.

His heart races, and he can feel his scar pull as his eyes go wide, watching the five archers closing in on him. Zuko wonders if they'll return him to his father, to be dumped in the Capital Prison to rot or be killed outright for disgracing the Fire Lord and the Royal Family with his weakness, or if he'll be dumped back in the wilderness to starve or freeze to death. He has no doubt that the Fire Lord wants him dead, he's just so useless and pathetic that it's not even worth the effort of killing him himself or ordering his death. He looks at the five broad-headed arrows pointing at him, and a tiny part of himself thinks finally.

But they don't loose. The arrows slowly drift down to point at the floor, as the archers seem to actually look at him for the first time. One archer, a woman, actually loops her bow over her head and shoulder to free her hands. Her expression is hard as she makes signs and symbols that mean nothing to Zuko, but apparently have meaning for her comrades. One of the other archers, a young man, nearly drops his own bow in his haste to reply, his expression incredulous. The woman flings her hand at Zuko in a clear expression of "well look at him!", gritting her teeth at the young man who glares right back. The archer in the center of the formation, literally in the middle of the conversation, holds up both hands to stop it. This man is obviously the leader, as both the woman and the younger man subside immediately. The leader directs a hard look at the younger man, his hands moving furiously as he signs, then he turns to the rest of the archers and moves his hands some more. The woman looks satisfied, and the other two archers nod. Rope is produced, and Zuko is efficiently freed from the wall and trussed up like a Summer Solstice komodo-chicken before he can really register what is happening.

The archers take him to a room in the tall center tower of the Stronghold, empty except for a table. Zuko is forced to sit on one side of the table, flanked by a pair of archers, while the leader sits across from him, the woman standing at his right. The younger man is sent out of the room, and returns within a few minutes carrying paper and a writing set, which he sets in front of the leader before taking his place sullenly at his leader's side.

The leader writes something on a piece of paper and slides it across the table for Zuko to read. From his expression, Zuko thinks that the leader doesn't expect him to know how to read. Granted, Zuko hasn't seen a mirror in about six months, so he thinks it might be a reasonable assumption.

My name is Toshiaki, Troop Commander of the Yuyan Archers. Who are you, and how did you get into the Stronghold?

Zuko should've known. The Yuyan Archers are legendary throughout the Fire Nation for their skills, not only in archery but in all manner of stealth arts. He opens his mouth to reply, but the words stick in his throat as his scar burns and Commander Toshiaki is replaced with a vision of Father reaching out to him. He cringes back, only to jerk away when one of the Archers flanking him puts a hand on his shoulder. The dark iron walls, lit by red lamps, turn into the brig of the ship that had taken him out of the Fire Nation, and the hand on his shoulder turns into that of one of the sailors that had pushed him out of the tiny cell he'd spent the month-long journey in. The ropes binding his wrists turn into the metal handcuffs he wore when he was taken off the ship and dumped in the wilderness. His vision darkens as his breathing speeds up.

He comes to laid out on the floor of the room, the woman Archer and one of the other men, younger than either Commander Toshiaki or the grumpy one, peering at him worriedly. His head pounds, and his mouth is drier than the Si Wong Desert. The Archers seem to understand this, as the woman holds out a canteen. Zuko grabs it and hugs it to his chest, taking small sips and keeping his eyes fixed on the Archers in case they try to grab it from him. They back off, joining the two other Archers against the wall behind where Commander Toshiaki is still sitting across the table from him. Nothing else has changed, except that now there's a small bowl of okayu and another of applesauce placed beside the single sheet of paper that the Commander had written on, as well as a second writing set.

The bribe is obvious, but Zuko doesn't care. All of the water he's sipped in the last couple of minutes comes back to his mouth as he looks at the two bowls, and his hands shake as he reaches for the okayu. The first taste is pure enlightenment, and Zuko has to police himself brutally to avoid simply shoving his face in the bowl like an animal. He barely makes a dent in it before he has to stop, but he already feels steadier.

He picks up the brush and writes, My name is Zuko. I snuck in on a supply cart.

The hairless eyebrow Commander Toshiaki raises is eloquent in its skepticism, but the youngest Archer creeps up behind his commanding officer, reads over his shoulder, and when Commander Toshiaki turns to him with his mouth a flat line of annoyance, nods and signs rapidly. Commander Toshiaki blinks in surprise, then turns to Zuko with renewed interest. Zuko immediately shrinks back––experience has taught him that interest in him is not always a good thing.

Commander Toshiaki writes again. How old are you? Where's your family?

Thirteen, Zuko writes, then shakes his head and crosses it out, remembering that his birthday is in early autumn, and it's now the cusp of winter. Fourteen. And gone.

That he knows for certain. The entire reason he's even in this situation at all is because Father wanted to get rid of him, and his outburst in the war room and his weakness in the dueling arena gave him the perfect opportunity. Zuko doesn't know if he's been declared dead, or is simply being allowed to fade into obscurity, but either way he can't imagine anyone in the Royal Family looking for him. Uncle might, but then again, Zuko disobeyed him as well when he spoke out in the war room. Maybe Uncle's just as angry at him as Father is. The thought tears him even worse than the knowledge that Father hated him enough to leave him for dead like this. Azula is undoubtably exalting in the knowledge that she is now the Crown Princess.

Commander Toshiaki doesn't look surprised, merely resigned. The youngest Archer grins broadly, while the woman shoots him a sympathetic expression. The commander writes again.

You look like you could use a place to crash for a while, and it appears that we have some holes to plug in our security. How about an equal exchange? Food, a safe place to sleep, medical care, clothes appropriate for the weather, and education in our ways, for help finding and repairing security leaks, and eventually enlistment?

Zuko remembers Uncle trying to teach him pai sho, and informing him once with a tinge of repressed frustration that he "never thinks things through". But he's thinking now, and he can't really see any other options but to take the Commander's offer. It's either this, or prison for theft, or simply being booted out to freeze to death. And if he's perfectly honest with himself, he's always admired the Yuyan Archers, who are historically non-benders but still manage to be absolutely amazing to the point that any sane firebender would think twice about taking one on. If he can manage to learn even a little bit from them before they get tired of him and kick him out, he'll be so much better off.

He doesn't even bother picking up the brush again, but simply looks Commander Toshiaki in the eye and nods solemnly. The Commander nods back, and the youngest Archer grins broadly before gesturing to himself and making a sign. Zuko's pretty sure that he's trying to introduce himself, but as much as he admired the Yuyan Archers back when he was younger, he was never able to study their hand-language (only soldiers stationed here at Pohuai Stronghold get to learn it, and they're sworn to never teach it to anyone else). All he's able to do in return is shrug.

This doesn't seem to deter the youngest Archer, but the Commander holds up a hand to stop him. He then writes, It's getting late, and I want the base doctor to examine you before she goes off duty. We'll begin your instruction in our language tomorrow morning, after you've had a good night's sleep. Finish the okayu, and then we'll go.

Zuko needs no more urging, and slowly empties the bowl, barely stopping himself from licking it clean. It takes forever, and the grumpy Archer is scowling fiercely at him the entire time, but Zuko has endured over twelve years of Azula smirking at him, and is not at all phased.

After an awful examination by the Chief Medical Officer of the Stronghold, made so simply because it's been over six whole months since anyone touched him (and the last significant touch Zuko can remember is Father setting his face on fire), Zuko finds himself handed a stack of clothing and directed to a cot in the back corner of the dormitory where the Yuyan Archers are quartered.  The young Archer, whom the CMO had called Kai, has his bunk right next to Zuko's, and accompanies him to the men's bathing room. They scrub down together in silence, and Zuko would feel incredibly awkward about it if he wasn't so damn tired. His stomach is full for the first time in weeks, and all he wants to do now is scrub himself down, have a good hot soak, and put on clothes that aren't filthy and ragged and so wet that they suck the heat right out of him. He and Kai share the ofuro, with the older boy keeping a respectful distance, until Zuko nearly falls asleep and Kai chivvies him out.

They get dressed, and Zuko can't stop stroking the simple hemp cloth, thick and warm but so soft. The silks he'd been dropped off in had obviously been grabbed from his wardrobe before he'd been removed from the palace, probably by a well-meaning servant, but they'd done very little to keep him warm, and had torn at the slightest touch of a tree branch. Hemp cloth is usually worn by commoners and soldiers, and for good reason––it's incredibly durable, if you take care of it right, warm in cold weather and breathable in hot. Zuko is never ever wearing silk again.

Kai practically has to drag Zuko back down the hall to the dorm, where he collapses on his cot with a sigh. Someone drapes a blanket over him, and he rolls in place like a catgator until he's wrapped up in it like an eggroll. He can feel Kai and the other Archers laughing at him, even if he can't hear it, but he gives exactly zero fucks, and is asleep between one breath and the next.

★ | Next

[marvelous-writer]

Phobias & Tight Spaces

Summary: In which Peter gets stuck under another building while he’s on an Avenger’s mission. 

Whumptober Day 4: Collapsed Building

Word Count: 2,034

Genre: whump, light angst, fluff

Link to read on AO3

A/N: Part 4 of @whumptober2020

Peter wakes to the sound of water dripping, droplets hitting his forehead and soaking into the fabric of his mask. He slowly blinks his heavy eyes open, meeting darkness. That’s when he realizes he’s pinned to the ground by a giant slab of concrete under a mountain of debris. 

There’s a building on top of him. 

Panic flows through Peter at the sudden realization as the memories come back to him. It happened so fast. He wasn’t able to get out of the building in time before it collapsed. And judging by the way his head is pounding, something must have hit him on the head and knocked him out. That explains why his thoughts are so foggy. 

He tries to take a deep, grounding breath, only to realize that he can’t with the concrete pushing down on his chest, threatening to squash him like the bug he is. 

A wave of panic washes over him as the memories of Homecoming night flash through his mind. He hasn’t been good with tight spaces since then, let alone the dark, and now he has to face two of his greatest fears at the same time. 

Peter grabs at the concrete and ties to move it, but it’s too heavy for him to lift on his own. His arms shake and burn from the effort, feeling something painfully shift in his chest, probably a broken rib or two.

He lets out a desperate, choked gasp. “H-Help! S-Someone please help me!” He hoarsely screams. 

He jumps a bit at the sudden, familiar voice in his ears. “Peter, you appear to be in distress.” 

“K-Karen?”

“I’m here, Peter.“

Peter blinks, feeling his tears soak further into his mask as he lets out a sob. “I-I’m stuck. I-I can’t move.” 

“You’re going to be alright, Peter. I’ve contacted Mr. Stark and gave him your location. He’s on his way with the team.” Karen says in a calm tone. 

Peter sucks in a breath, only to break out in a round of harsh coughs, tasting a thick layer of dust. He tries to take in a breath, only to find that he can’t. 

He can’t breathe. 

Peter’s eyes widen as a fresh wave of panic comes over him. “I-I can’t breathe,” he gasps out. “K-Karen, I-I c’nt-”

“The team's on the way, Peter. Try to stay calm.” 

Peter shakes his head and lets out a choked gasp, starting to weakly push at the concrete weighing down on his chest. He has to get out of here. He needs air, like right now. 

“Peter?” A new voice says and Peter instantly recognizes it. 

“T-Tony?” He whispers. 

“I’m right here, kiddo. You’re gonna be okay.” 

“I-I can’t breathe. I-I can’t m-move. T-Tony h-help.” Peter cries, breaking out into a gasping sob. 

“You gotta listen to me, bud. You’re gonna be okay. We’re trying to get you out of there, but it’s going to take a bit of time, so you have to try to calm down. Okay? Do you think you can do that for me?” 

Peter shakily nods, even though Tony can’t see him. “Y-Yeah.”

“Good. You’re gonna be alright, kiddo. I promise. Okay? And after this, we can go back to the cabin and watch the new season of the Mandalorian and have whatever you want for dinner. How’s that sound?” 

“Y-Yeah but t-that doesn’t come out until the end of the month.” 

“Well, you know me. I know people in high places and I managed to convince them into giving us an early screening since I have a pretty big Star Wars fan at home.” Tony says and Peter can almost picture the grin on his face. 

Peter breathes out a small laugh. “Y-You know me s-so well.” 

“You betcha I do,” Tony says fondly. 

Peter drops his arms and rests his head against the ground, feeling like he can at least breathe a little easier now that he feels a little more at ease. The fear and panic are still there, but he feels better knowing that Tony and the team were working on getting him out. 

…

What feels like an hour passes by and Tony is still on the phone with Peter, filling the time with telling him about the shenanigans Gerald has been getting into around the cabin, like stealing a fresh batch of carrots and turnips Pepper grew in the garden outback. But as the minutes go by, Peter feels more distant and floaty (the lack of clean oxygen probably to blame). His headache has also gotten worse with a persistent throbbing behind his eyes. It doesn’t help that he’s been feeling pretty nauseous now . 

Tony lets out a chuckle. “Happy didn’t even see it coming. He was just in there for five minutes and he walked out with half of his shirt gone because Gerald decided to take a bite out of it-”

“T’ny,” Peter mumbles, cutting him off. “I don’ feel so good...” 

“What do you mean? Are you in pain anywhere?”

“Mhmm… head hurts. F-Feel sick.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo. We’re almost to you, okay? Just try to hang in there for a few more minutes. Think you can do that for me?” 

“I’ll try,” Peter says, even though it feels like he’s going to lose the battle against the nausea at any moment with how badly his stomach is churning. 

He can hear movement in the debris from somewhere around him, as well as the faint murmuring of voices. It’s been getting closer over the past half hour, which hopefully meant he’d be out of here soon. 

Peter closes his eyes and tries to ignore the water droplets falling on his masked face, which is now soaking wet from how long he’s been down here (mixed with his tears too). 

Tony goes silent on the other end for a few minutes, and Peter can hear voices in the background but he can’t understand what they’re saying. 

They’ve almost hit the two-hour mark when the nausea seems to kick it up a few notches. Peter swallows hard as he shuts his eyes tightly, trying to keep the contents of his stomach where they are for the time being. The last thing he needs is to throw up all over himself. 

This day just keeps getting better and better. 

“T’ny,” Peter says thickly, stopping to swallow again. “I r’lly don’t f-feel good.” 

“I know, bud. We’re almost to you, okay?” 

Peter slowly shakes his head as he feels something warm creeping up his throat. 

This is going to suck. 

Peter’s hand flies up to his mask and he manages to rip it up to his nose just in time before he lets out a harsh gag, bile immediately shooting up his throat. He turns his head to the side, managing to not fully throw up on himself. The feeling of something warm seeping into his suit has him gagging again. 

“Peter?” He faintly hears Tony yell worriedly in the background over his retching. 

It feels like forever before it stops, leaving Peter coughing and gasping like a fish out of water. His ears fill with static as the pounding in his head intensifies, blocking out all sounds for a few long seconds. 

“Peter?” He hears Tony’s concerned voice as his hearing comes back. 

Peter groans. “Feel s’ gross.”

“I know, bud. I’m sorry,” Tony says sympathetically as the concrete on top of Peter shifts slightly, causing him to flinch in surprise.  “We’ve almost got you, alright? Just… one more… second…” 

Dust and pebbles rain down on Peter before he sees a small sliver of light from above. The light grows as the debris above him shift, dust falling around him. He can see someone above him, a dark silhouette against the sun.

It’s Steve. 

“I found him! He’s over here!” Steve yells over his shoulder as he starts pulling away more chunks of debris until there’s a decent size hole above Peter. 

Steve jumps in and lands gracefully before kneeling at Peter’s side, inspecting the giant slab of concrete on him before his eyes settle on Peter’s. “How’re you holding up, Pete?” He asks, offering a small, sympathetic smile. 

“Not s’ good,” Peter says, his words slurring a little. “Threw up.” 

Steve places a hand on his arm, gently squeezing. “I’m sorry. We’ll get you out of here in no time.” He says before looking up when someone else is above them. 

Peter squints in the harsh sunlight, seeing Iron Man standing there, his helmet rolling away, only to reveal Tony’s wide-eyed, panicked face. A wave of relief flows over Peter at the sight of him, wanting nothing more than to be in his Tony’s arms. 

“Oh my God,” Tony exclaims as he carefully crawls down to them, kneeling on the ground on Peter’s other side, carefully cupping the back of Peter’s head in his metal hand. “How about we get you our here, kiddo?”

Peter offers him a tired smile. “S-S’nds good.” 

“Thor,” Steve says, looking up when Thor stands at the top of the hole. “We have to get this off of him so let’s carefully lift it and Tony will get him out.” 

Thor nods in agreement. “Right.” 

Steve reaches over Peter, avoiding the puke all over him, and braces his hands against the concrete. “On three. One… two… three!” 

As soon as they move the chunk of concrete, Peter feels it painfully press further down on his chest, cutting off what little air he has left. Peter lets out a choked cry, too weak to lift his arms to try to push it off himself.

“Stop! It’s crushing him!” Tony yells as he reaches forward and grabs the concrete, the nanotech rolling back out to form his helmet once again. “FRIDAY, help me out here!” 

Peter misses her answer because his ears are ringing, his lungs screaming for air as black dots dance around in his vision. The last thing he sees is the two eye slits of the Iron Man mask before his ears fill with static and he blacks out. 

…

Sounds return to him first, hearing faint beeping around him. Peter slowly opens his heavy eyes, finding that he’s in a dimly lit room on a comfy bed with an oxygen mask over his face. He reaches a shaky hand up to take it off, only for someone to gently grab his hand. 

“You need to keep that on, kiddo.” A voice says softly. 

Peter rolls his head to the right, his eyes landing on Tony, who’s sitting in a chair beside the bed with a relieved look on his face. 

“How’re you feeling?” Tony asks. 

Peter takes a second to take stock of himself—his head hurts a little, as well as his chest but he feels okay for the most part.

“Better,” Peter breathes out, sluggishly blinking. 

Tony gives him a small smile as he reaches a hand out and brushes a stray curl away from Peter’s forehead. “That’s good. You gave us all a scare.” 

“S’rry,” Peter mumbles guiltily. 

“It’s alright, kiddo but let’s stop making this a habit, okay? You almost gave Capcicle a heart-attack and you’re going to make me go grey.” Tony says, jokingly. 

The memories of being trapped under the debris flood back to Peter. “How’d you get me out?” 

Tony’s smile falls at the question. “I had to use a laser to cut away most of the concrete and Steve and Thor managed to lift it off you. I dragged you out... but you were passed out by then.”

“M’ sorry.” Peter murmurs. 

Tony shakes his head as he starts to card his fingers through Peter’s curls, just the way Peter likes it. “It’s not your fault, bud. You didn’t know the building was going to come down—none of us did until it was too late. The important thing is that you’re okay, just a little banged up.”

Peter smiles as he blinks slowly, feeling his eyes growing heavy. 

Tony seems to notice. “How about you get some more sleep? I’ll be right here when you wake up.” 

“M’kay…” Peter murmurs, closing his eyes, feeling Tony’s hand run through his hair soothingly, lulling him into a peaceful slumber.