#yeah I put AN in the middle of fic as explanation

[hp-hcs]

i didn’t realize the riddle brothers were a "buy one get one free" type of deal, but alright — simp! overprotective! yandere! riddle brothers x gn! oblivious! bullied! slytherin! reader

requested by 🎀!

2.5k words, not to brag 😌

i love writing the bros’ interactions with each other as like, actual sibling-core yk? they r just so cutie patootie

the reader's patronus makes an appearance in this, but i tried to make it as accessible to everyone as possible, so it's never explicitly stated what animal it is. it is implied that it’s able-to-fit-under-a-table sized though

also this is totally just pre-slash nothing that interesting happens

warnings: couple mentions of blood, mild descriptions of wounds, implied violence, implied bullying, murder

not edited!! this is my first like, really long fic so constructive criticism is welcome!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A well-timed shove to the small of your back sent you tumbling down an entire flight of moving stairs. 

You groaned as you hit the bottom, sprawled out on your back on the cold stone floor. You laid there for a moment, winded. You could hear the occupants of a nearby painting titter at your gracefulness (or lack thereof), so you rolled your head to the other side to give them an award winning smile and an unabashed middle finger. 

You could hear them all grumble about kids these days and how I never would’ve treated my elders this way. You just rolled your eyes at their pettiness. 

“Uh…what are you doing?” A decidedly alive voice interrupted your momentary satisfaction.

“Ah- evening, Riddle!” You said cheerily as soon as you recognized the speaker, scrambling to your feet and dusting off your uniform. “Nothing! Just…tripped. Couldn’t see very well in the dark, that’s all.”

Tom blinked, his lips twisted into a frown. “.....Fine. But don’t let me catch you out of bed past curfew again. You’re a Slytherin, for Salazar’s sake. Act like it.”

And that was it. Tom turned on his heel and continued down the hall without another word. Tom Riddle: prefect, teacher’s pet, and obnoxious hardass extraordinaire—he just...let you go, with no threats of detention or loss of house points. 

Huh. 

~~~

Tom, having just returned from a full night’s shift of prefect hall duty, flopped face-down onto his bed, his cheeks aflame as he let out a muffled shriek into his pillow. 

His brother, in the process of getting dressed for the day, paused at the scene in front of him. 

“Dude, what’s your deal?” 

“L/n,” Tom said by way of explanation, kicking his feet as he shrieked into his pillow again. “They acknowledged me. And they know my last name.”

“Most people know our last name, Tom,” Mattheo rolled his eyes.

“No- you don’t understand,” Tom said emphatically. “L/n is like…the cutest person to ever exist. And they’re so sweet, and smart, and funny, and-”

“And terrified of us?”

“Well…”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, putting his hands on his hips. “You talk about them too much. It’s getting insufferable.”

Tom just scowled and flicked his fingers to cast a wandless spell that straightened Mattheo’s tie and neatened his uniform. “The way you dress is insufferable. Slob.”

Mattheo stuck out his tongue at his brother before ruffling Tom’s hair to purposely mess it up. “Dick.”

“Idiot.”

~~~

Mattheo glanced up at you as you hovered uncertainly by the corner of his desk. 

“Can I sit here…?” You mumbled shyly, your cheeks flushing as the pretty dark-haired boy in your year smiled up at you.

“Course!” He grinned brightly before realizing that might have been too enthusiastic of a reply for eight in the morning and quickly tried to cover up his slip. “Uh…Y/n, right? I’m Mattheo.”

“Yeah, I know who you are.”

Mattheo’s stomach dropped.

Fuck, that’s not good.

“You let me copy your homework in third year for that essay on the properties of wormwood, or whatever.” You said offhandedly, like it wasn’t batshit insane to remember that pointlessly tiny detail. “Thank you for that, by the way. Potions sucks ass.”

Before Mattheo could even think, the words left his mouth. “I could tutor you if you want.”

You looked at him oddly, but grinned after a second. “Yeah, sure. That’d actually be really helpful. Snape hates me, man.”

“Really? Even though you’re in Slytherin?”

“Mhm, his baseless nepotism only extends so far.”

Mattheo barked out a startled laugh as your deadpan humor caught him off guard. You just grinned at him in response, causing the tips of his ears to immediately burn bright red.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, ducking his head in embarrassment. “Um…do you wanna meet in the library after school today? For our tutoring session,” Mattheo hurriedly added. 

“Sure, alright.” You shrugged. “See you there.”

He beamed, giving you that stupidly adorable grin once more. “Awesome! Yeah- yeah, cool. Awesome. See you there then.”

~~~

You were still shit at potions.

It had been six weeks of tutoring, and you’d learned pretty much nothing. Although, that wasn’t an issue on Mattheo’s part, but rather on his annoyingly hot older brother’s. 

Tom Riddle was surprisingly funny. For someone who gave off almost exclusively stoically austere bastard vibes, he enjoyed cracking jokes and enlisting your help in pulling pranks on his brother a bit too much.

It became your routine. Every Tuesday and Thursday after school, you would meet the two brothers in the library, waste like three hours joking around and getting absolutely no work done, and then going back to your dorm and ranting to your roommate about how fucking cute they are and how you would gladly pay for the opportunity to make out with one- no, both of them. 

(Your roommate is so fucking tired of hearing about the Riddles. You’d better buy them a latte and a cake-pop as an apology.)

~~~

You struggled to get up, your legs giving out. You cursed under your breath, putting a hand to your forehead as it throbbed in pain. 

It came away sticky with blood. 

This wasn’t going to work, you realized belatedly. With what remained of your strength, you were able to reach out and grab your wand, murmuring a quiet, “Expecto Patronum.”

A spectral creature formed in front of your eyes, remaining motionless as it stared at you. 

“Go find Riddle,” you mumbled to the Patronus, your eyelids growing heavy. 

You barely registered the wispy glowing animal immediately bounding off at your instructions, your vision doubling before your body went completely slack, the wand slipping from your fingers and hitting the tile floor with a clatter. 

~~~

Mattheo doodled mindlessly in the margins of his parchment as his brother droned on and on about the properties of willow bark in potions and really, this is important, Mattheo. Pay attention.

“Why isn’t Y/n here yet?” Mattheo asked his brother for the third time. 

Tom rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, Matt. Just like how I didn't know when you asked me five minutes ago. Maybe they just don’t want to see your stupid face any more, huh?”

“What if they’re in trouble? Or hurt?” Mattheo worried, chewing on his thumbnail and ignoring his brother’s insult. “They’re never late, Tommy.”

Tom wrinkled his nose at the use of the dumb (albeit endearing) nickname Mattheo gave him when they were children, but the sinking feeling in his gut at hearing his brother’s distressed tone didn’t help to ease the niggling worries at the back of his mind of maybe they are in trouble.

As if on cue, Mattheo shivered as something icy cold brushed against his ankles. He glanced down. A glowing spectral creature nudged his leg, looking up at him expectantly with unnervingly empty eyes. 

A Patronus. 

Y/n’s Patronus.

~~~

They followed the Patronus down the deserted hall, the animal occasionally pausing to make sure the boys were both still following it before bounding forward again.

The Patronus stopped in front of a bathroom door, giving them both that same unnervingly hollow-eyed stare of expectancy.

Tom gulped and pushed open the door, fearing that he might find the worst.

He did.

~~~

Your eyes cracked open slowly, and you winced at the multitude of stinging and stabbing pains that wracked your body.

You had to blink a couple times for everything to come into focus. You were in a small room with white walls and white flooring, and the gentle dawn illuminated the quiet space with soft rays of light. The steady beep of a vitals monitor faded into the background as you stared down at yourself.

You weren’t wearing a shirt, for one, or even a hospital gown. Pretty much your entire upper torso was wrapped in bloodstained gauze. The jagged edges of a brutal slash across your chest peeked out of the top of the dressings, and you had to close your eyes and hold your breath for a moment to keep from throwing up. Once you’d calmed back down, you opened your eyes, startled to see that you weren’t alone.

Mattheo had pulled up a chair to the side of your hospital bed and crossed his arms on the mattress, using them as a makeshift pillow. His dark lashes fanned across his cheeks, his breaths slow and even. He looked so peaceful and...unguarded in his sleep. You reached down to brush a loose curl away from his forehead.

“Having fun?”

You startled, jerking your hand back. 

Tom leaned against the doorframe of your room with an amused expression, quirking an eyebrow and wiggling his fingers in a wave.

“Shut up,” you hissed back in a whisper, your cheeks flaring red. 

Tom’s amused grin only grew at your dark blush as he invited himself into your room fully, closing the door behind him.

 “Your secret’s safe with me.” He jokingly winked, tapping the side of his nose.

“You’re insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“What am I doing here?” You quickly changed topics, refusing to even look down in Mattheo’s direction. 

Tom sighed, any amusement on his face rapidly vanishing. “You sent us a Patronus, thank Merlin. Pomfrey said you would’ve bled out if you hadn’t.”

You had no memory of casting the Patronus charm at all, but you trusted Tom’s recollection of events better than your own jumbled and spotty one. “Bled out?” You questioned, your heart hammering in your throat as your voice climbed an octave in anxiety.

Tom nodded, his face carefully schooled into a blank and neutral expression. “You were hit with the Sectumsempra spell. You've been out for three days now.”

Your brow furrowed. “Malfoy got hit with that last year though—and was in and out of the infirmary in less than a day.”

“Snape knew the counterspell and found ‘im just in time last year,” Mattheo mumbled sleepily, his eyes still closed as he tuned into the conversation at hand. “But whoever hit you with it just left you there to die.”

“Charming.” You mutter under your breath.

“Regardless of what happened in Malfoy’s instance,” Tom interrupted briskly. “You were on the brink of literal death. So I’ll ask you this one time and one time only. Who did it, Y/n?”

~~~

“I brought you a cookie from the Great Hall,” Mattheo grinned widely, climbing into your hospital bed next to you and unwrapping the napkin in his hand. “And the notes from today’s Charms lesson, but those’re boring and we both know you won’t actually read ‘em.”

“Aww, you know me so well.” You teased, breaking the cookie in half and handing him one of the pieces.

Mattheo cupped the cookie fragment in his hands like it was a priceless treasure, staring down at it in unrestrained awe. 

You just shook your head at his antics and brushed the odd reaction off.

~~~

You woke up this morning and just felt like shit. You were nauseous, and dizzy, and felt borderline faint. Tom’s voice, usually soothing and comforting to hear, sounded like nails on a chalkboard right now. He rambled on and on about the delicate process of making the temperamental Felix Felicis potion. 

“Tom,” you interrupted, your voice scratchy and quiet. “Can we take a break? Please?”

He blinked, surprised at being interrupted, but nodded slowly. “I suppose…? Why?”

“Don’t feel good,” you mumbled, setting your textbook down and rubbing your eyes. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Madame Pomfrey said brusquely as she bustled around your hospital room, shooing Tom out of the way to stand by your bedside. 

(Poppy Pomfrey remains the only person who can and has shooed Tom Riddle III and lived to tell the tale—and all without a single ounce of fear.)

“I’ve raised your dosage so that you can be out of here in time for your N.E.W.T.s.” Pomfrey elaborated upon seeing your confused look.

“Fantastic.” You mumbled dryly, grinning sleepily up at Tom as he grabbed onto your hand and interlaced your fingers together. He ignored the way his heart skipped a beat in favor of letting you hold his sweaty palm.

“Go to sleep, L/n,” Tom muttered under his breath. “Potions can wait.”

~~~

Tom lay in your hospital bed beside you, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Please? We promise we won’t do anything.”

“Yeah,” Mattheo chimed in from the other side of your crowded bed, one arm tossed over your waist as he rested his chin on your shoulder. “Or at least, nothing we’ll get caught for.”

You sigh, tired of their ceaseless pleading. “Alright, alright, fine. I’ll tell you who it was.”

Both boys leaned in close.

You sigh again and roll your eyes at their overprotectiveness. “Alright, it was-”

~~~

Tucker Thompson and Devin Dobbs: Gryffindor Sixth Years Found MURDERED at Hogwarts! Dumbledore: “No comment at this time.”

You tilted the newspaper so Madame Pomfrey could read the article over your shoulder as she replaced your IV bag. 

Pomfrey just sighed and rolled her eyes. “I don’t understand how Skeeter is still employed at the Prophet.”

“Cause shock value will always hold weight in the media?” You answered dryly around a mouthful of depressingly plain infirmary wing toast. “And Skeeter’s good at nothing if not coming up with bullshit shock value titles.”

“That may be true,” she began, snatching the paper from your hands. “But patients shouldn’t be reading about such dark subjects, and certainly not while under my care. And don’t talk while eating. I rather like your company, and would hate to see you choke.”

You rolled your eyes at her suffocatingly motherly behavior. “So are they? Thompson and Dobbs; they’re really dead?”

Madame Pomfrey hesitated.

You let out a relieved breath of air that you tried (and failed) to hide behind a cough. “That’s…terrible.”

She narrowed her eyes and studied you for a long moment, her fingers mindlessly worrying the deckle edge of the newspaper in her hands. “It was them, wasn’t it? Your boys.”

“My boys?”

“Yes, yes, Riddles one and two. Your boys.”

“Oh- we’re not…”

She raised an eyebrow, pursing her lips as she tried to hold back a laugh at the utter obliviousness of teenagers. “Do they know that, dear?”

You spluttered out a half-assed rebuke to her statement, but Pomfrey quickly interrupted you.

“They’ve been staying here for hours every day for the last month. They want more than just your friendship, hon.”

“No way. We’re just friends.” You insisted firmly. “That’s all.”

Madame Pomfrey rolled her eyes. “Uh huh. Friends. Keep telling yourself that.”

You stared after her, open-mouthed in bafflement, as she rolled up the Prophet, tucked it under her arm, and turned around without another word—leaving you with zero reading material and a million questions.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

you have to love how pomfrey could not give less of a fuck that the riddles murdered two students as long as she gets her ot3 absolutely iconic behavior

[glorious-spoon]

finding excuses to be alone with each other - Buddie

hi, and thank you! sorry this has taken a while, and also i have no explanation for why i decided to write new year's eve fic in june. BUT: here you are!

a stolen moment

1200 words | buddie | developing relationship | secret relationship | kissing | fluff

-

There are too many people at this party.

Normally, this isn't something Buck would even think to complain about. Maddie and Chim are hosting, since Bobby and Athena are still living out of a tiny one-bedroom while work continues on their house, and Hen and Karen are still trying to get Mara settled back at home—New Year's parties are apparently not conducive to a quiet, predictable bedtime routine, and the Wilson family unit will probably be heading out well before the ball drops anyway—and nobody else has even close to enough room. It's still packed to the brim, overflowing onto the back patio, clusters of people chatting over drinks in the kitchen while the kids have taken over the living room TV for a vicious Mario Kart showdown that Chris is currently winning. Maddie's in the back bedroom putting Jee down for bedtime, and Chim is holding court over the dessert table, and it's all—great, honestly, it's great. It's awesome, having his family here, and happy, and together under the same roof after the year they've all had.

He glances up and meets Eddie's eye from across the dining room. Gets a quick smile in return. Eddie's cheeks are pink, maybe from the warmth, maybe from the two glasses of wine he's had, since Buck will be the one driving them home. He's wearing a green Henley that Buck knows is exactly as soft as it looks and worn-in jeans that mold lovingly to the lines of his thighs as he leans back against the door frame, and it's all pretty distressing, honestly. Buck's hands are itching to touch.

When he meets Eddie's eyes again, Eddie is grinning broadly. Caught, Buck ducks his head. He's blushing, he knows, and he doesn't have the excuse of the wine.

They're keeping it to themselves, at least for now. That was the decision they both made after Eddie kissed him in the loft two nights ago, after Buck kissed him back, after they didn't actually manage to make it all the way up to the bed and ended up on the couch instead, gasping into each other's mouths, fumbling and eager as teenagers. They're keeping it to themselves until Eddie figures out how he's going to tell Chris. He's skittish about that still, and Buck isn't going to push. So he'll probably be sleeping on the fold-out couch tonight instead of in Eddie's bed, and he's not going to kiss Eddie in the middle of the party, no matter how much he wants to.

It's okay. They have time.

"Hey, didn't someone bring dessert plates?" Chim calls from the kitchen. "Please tell me someone brought dessert plates, we're all out of the big ones and I'm really not up for doing dishes tonight."

Ah, shit. Right. That was Buck's job. He's pretty sure he did pick some up, actually, but they're probably still out in the Jeep, which is parked somewhere in the snarl of cars crowding the Han driveway and pulled off to the side of the street in front of their lawn.

"I got 'em," he calls, setting his soda down.

"My hero," Chim retorts, only half-teasing by his tone. Buck rolls his eyes and goes to find his shoes.

He doesn't realize that Eddie is following him until he's already slipped them on in the entry hall, a few steps away from the party. "What's up?"

Eddie shrugs, guileless, and crouches down to retrieve his shoes as well. "Figured I'd help you."

"You figured you'd help me…. bring in a package of paper plates?"

"Yeah," Eddie says innocently, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and god, Buck really wants to kiss him.

"Okay," he agrees instead, and pulls open the door. Eddie follows him out into the night, cool and dim even with Christmas lights still lit up all down the street. There's a dampness to the air that feels like rain; it's not that cold, but it's enough of a contrast to the warm house that a shiver goes through him. Eddie falls into step beside him, then reaches for his hand.

Buck shivers again, for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold this time. Eddie's hand is warm and broad, and he strokes his thumb lightly against Buck's, lighting up nerve endings he didn't even know he had.

It's such a small thing. But they've never actually done this yet. It all feels so new, sparkling like fireworks through his veins.

"Okay?" Eddie asks, and Buck realizes that he's stopped walking. 

"Yeah," he says. He's not doing a very good job of keeping the smile off his face, or out of his voice, but Eddie's got the exact same dopey smile on his face, so it's fine. They weave through the cars to where Buck's Jeep is parked, close enough to the street that they'll probably be able to get out without playing vehicle Tetris. Far enough from the house that they're shielded from view by Bobby's truck parked alongside them, so he's not all that surprised when Eddie lets go of his hand only to push him gently against the side of the Jeep and kiss him.

He gets lost in that for a little bit. The heat of Eddie's mouth, his hands moving from Buck's shoulders to cradle his jaw—he did that the first time, too. Held Buck like he's holding him now, like he's something precious and worth treating with care, and Buck's already hooked on it. He slides his hand up Eddie's back, feeling the warmth of him, to cup the back of his neck as Eddie licks into his mouth with leisurely sweetness, like he's got all the time in the world to kiss Buck just like this on the sidewalk on New Year's Eve.

Sooner or later, someone's going to come looking for them. It still takes a while for Buck to break the kiss, and when Eddie tugs lightly at his lower lip with his teeth before pulling away, he almost dives back in again. Almost.

"We should probably get back to the party," he says, very reluctantly.

"Yeah," Eddie sighs. He leans in and kisses Buck again, a sweeter, softer thing before leaning past him to open the door. Buck ducks into the back seat to retrieve the package of plates and the bottle of wine they forgot to bring in earlier, and when he straightens up, Eddie is watching him. He looks—hesitant, almost. Nervous. He looks the way he looked two days ago, right before he kissed Buck.

"What's up?" Buck asks.

"I want to tell Chris," Eddie says, all in a rush. "Maybe not—right now, at the party, but when we get home, I want to tell him. About us."

Buck takes a quick, sharp breath. "Are you sure?"

"I've never been as sure about anything in my life as I am about you."

"Eddie."

"It's the truth. And—I want him to know. Even if it's an adjustment, even if it takes some time to—I want him to know. I want everyone to know. If that's okay with you."

"Eddie," Buck says again, and then, "yeah, yeah of course it's okay."

"Good," Eddie says, with a sudden, brilliant smile. And well—Chim can wait a few more minutes for his paper plates. Buck sets them down and pulls Eddie back in.

[suddencolds]

Atypical Occurrence [2/?]

hello!! 10 drafts and (exactly) 3 months later, I am finally back with part 2 of Atypical Occurrence 😭 You can read part 1 here!

This chapter is a little personal to me. I don't tend to linger on writing scenes like this (in part because they are a little difficult for me), so it took awhile to hammer out the dynamic I wanted. That said, here it is at long last!!

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves. Here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! :)

—

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit, and certain revelations)

—

There’s a grocery store that’s a ten minute drive from Vincent’s apartment. Yves picks out ingredients for chicken soup, two different kinds of cold and flu medicine, a new pack of cough drops, a few boxes of tissues, a small thermometer. All in all, it’s less than a thirty minute excursion—something he’s done many times before in uni, where everyone seemed to catch something in the middle of exam season, and a house visit was just a short walk away.

Chicken noodle soup isn’t difficult. He’s made it a hundred times—he’s experimented with a dozen different variations of it. He puts the groceries in the fridge, washes the vegetables, and gets to work.

While the soup cooks, he half watches it, half busies himself with cleaning the apartment—loading up the dishwasher and hand washing everything that doesn’t fit, stocking the fridge and the medicine cabinet with the groceries he’s gotten, vacuuming the floors with a vacuum cleaner he finds tucked behind the fridge.

Then he shreds the chicken, chops a round of fresh vegetables to add to the broth, and waits.

 It’s comfortably quiet. Outside, rain drums steadily on the windowpane. It shows no signs of stopping soon. It’s dark enough outside—the sun fully set, the clouds heavy overhead—that the lit interior of the apartment kitchen feels like a warm reprieve.

Yves likes cooking. He doesn’t actively enjoy doing chores, but there’s something comforting to how mindless they are. It’s an appreciated distraction. 

The rain outside is loud enough that he doesn’t hear the footsteps, approaching, until Vincent clears his throat from behind him.

Yves jumps.

“You’re up,” he says, spinning on his heels to face him. Vincent looks a little worse for the wear—his hair a little messy, his shirt slightly rumpled from sleep, his glasses perched haphazardly in place.

Yves watches him take everything in—the pot on the stove, the chopping board set out on the counter, the empty paper bags from the grocery run flattened and stacked into neat rectangles.

“And you’re still here,” Vincent says.

“I made soup,” Yves says, by way of explanation. “It’s chicken noodle. I wasn’t sure if you’d be up for trying something new.” He reaches over to lift the lid off of the pot of soup. Steam wafts up from it, carrying with it the faint scent of the aromatics he’d added—thyme, bay leaf, garlic, peppercorns. “Actually, you picked a good time to wake up. I just added in the noodles, so it’s almost done.”

Vincent eyes the pot, his expression unreadable. “Did you leave to get groceries?”

“Earlier, yeah. You weren’t kidding about your fridge being empty.”

Vincent frowns. “I can pay you back. Did you keep the receipt?”

In truth, the price of the groceries is the last thing on Yves’s mind right now. He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It must have taken a long time.”

“Soup is pretty forgiving. You just toss everything into a pot of boiling water and wait. It’s barely any work at all.”

Vincent stares at him for a moment longer. Then he says: “That’s an oversimplification.”

“Not really. Besides, I enjoy cooking,” Yves says. “Thanks for letting me use your kitchen—though, technically, I guess I’m asking forgiveness instead of permission. I’ll clean everything up, by the way.” He’s done dishes along the way, so there isn’t really much to do besides rinse off whatever’s left, load up the dishwasher, and store whatever’s left of the soup in the fridge.

“You don’t have to,” Vincent says, before turning into his elbow with a few harsh, grating coughs. “I can clean up. It’s my apartment.”

“If you think I’m letting you do household chores while you have a fever—”

“It’s not that high,” Vincent interrupts, perhaps a little stubbornly. Yves lets out a disbelieving laugh. He leans over the counter, shifts his weight forwards on his feet to press the back of his hand to Vincent’s forehead.

It’s concerningly hot, still, which isn’t a surprise. Though perhaps the way Vincent blinks, a little tiredly, and leans forward into Yves’s hand is a giveaway on its own.

“It’s definitely over a hundred,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll have you know that I bought a thermometer.”

For a moment, Vincent looks surprised. Then he sighs. “That was an unnecessary purchase.”

“Are you admitting that I’m right?”

Vincent just frowns at him, which—Yves notes—isn’t exactly a denial. “Fever or not, there’s not much I can do except sleep it off.”

“You can go back to sleep after you’ve had something to eat,” Yves says. “What was it that you said? That you haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday?”

“...You won’t leave unless I eat, then,” Vincent says. He says it evenly enough that it barely registers as a question.

Yves smiles at him. It’s not a wrong conclusion. “Exactly,” he says.

—

In between the hallway and Vincent’s kitchen is a small dining area, furnished with a high table and two high chairs. Yves waits until the noodles are cooked just enough. Then he turns off the stove, unrolls a placemat to lay out on the dining table, and carries the pot over.

He gets everything he needs: two bowls, two spoons, some of the fresh parsley he’d chopped earlier, for garnish—and lays it all out.

“I can help,” Vincent says, for maybe the third time. 

He’s seated on one of the chairs, which Yves had pointedly pulled out for him, looking like he’s perhaps a few seconds away from getting out of his seat and doing everything himself. It’s just like Vincent, Yves thinks, to offer to help—even at work, aside from all the work he takes on, it feels like he’s always finding some way or other to be useful. 

Yves says, “When you’re not running a fever, you can ask me again.”

When everything is laid out, he pulls up a chair for himself, so he can sit across from Vincent—who is still perched on his seat, though he looks a little less like he wants to get out of it. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Yves says.

Vincent blinks at him. “It would have been rude to get started on my own.”

“Nonsense,” Yves says. “I made it for you.”

He takes a bite. The soup tastes fine. That is, it tastes the same as every other time he’s made it—light and comforting. It’s just one of those recipes Yves thinks he can make in his sleep. Nothing about it is particularly inventive. Still, he hasn’t cooked for Vincent before—not formally, at least, other than the dish he’d bought to Joel’s potluck—so it’s a little nerve-wracking to watch Vincent take a bite. 

It’s worse, still, to watch his eyes widen by a fraction. For a moment, Yves wonders if he’s done something wrong—if perhaps, it isn’t to Vincent’s taste, after all. He sets his spoon down. “Is it okay?”

“It’s really good,” Vincent says. “I can see why Mikhail said what he said.” 

“What?”

“That your cooking was half the reason why he roomed with you.”

Yves laughs. “So does that mean you’ll forgive me for trespassing?” 

Vincent smiles back at him. “I’ll consider it.” Now, with his glasses off, Yves can see his eyes a little more clearly—they’re slightly red-rimmed, his eyelashes long and dark, his cheeks flushed brighter with fever. There’s a little crease at the edge of his eyes which shows up when he smiles.

Yves is caught off guard, for a moment. The tightness in his chest is nothing, he tells himself. Certainly not a crush that he shouldn’t be allowed to have. 

A crush. That’s new, too. It’s ironic, considering the terms of their fake relationship. He thinks it’s probably supposed to make him better at this—what better way to feign romantic interest than to not have his feelings be so fake, after all?—but instead, he finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, finds himself stumbling over the most basic of pleasantries. 

Of course, he has no intention of acting on his feelings. Vincent is attractive, yes—but he’s also considerate, and attentive, and hardworking enough to go early and stay late, to take on work he doesn’t get credit for. He’s thoughtful enough to entertain Yves’s friends, to have lunch with Yves’s siblings, to fly all the way to france to meet Yves’s family.

But all of that is inconsequential. None of it is going to amount to anything, because Yves knows how to keep his distance. Because Yves needs this—the perks of their fake relationship—more than he needs to indulge in any inconvenient crush. Because he knows enough to know how things would turn out if he were to say something.

That’s the thing. Vincent isn’t cruel. It’s for that reason, precisely, that Yves knows that he’d drop this arrangement immediately if he knew. Vincent would never string him along knowingly, and that’s what makes this so much worse—Yves has gone and gotten himself stupidly attached. 

Now that they’re sitting across from each other, in Vincent’s apartment, having dinner, Yves thinks—a little selfishly, perhaps—that this is the best that he can ask for. It is all that he can ask for. Far better to keep up the pretense entirely, far better to pretend that this is all just for show. When they put an end to this arrangement—someday, inevitably—Yves will thank Vincent for everything, and then they’ll go their separate ways. He already knows how it will go. There is no need to complicate things.

It’s quiet, for some time. Yves finishes his bowl first, heads over to the sink to rinse it off, and positions it neatly in the lowest compartment of the dishwasher. When he gets back, Vincent is spooning more soup into his bowl. Yves allows himself to feel a little relieved to see that he has an appetite.

“It’s been awhile,” Vincent says, after some time. “Since anyone’s done this for me.”

“Made you chicken soup?” Yves says, a little puzzled. “If you want the recipe, I can give it to you. I make it all the time.”

“No,” Vincent says. His expression is unparseable. “Just— since anyone’s looked after me, in general.”

“Oh.” Yves finds his mind is spinning. “How long have you been living alone?”

“Since university. I had suitemates, in my second year. Then I got an apartment of my own.”

“Because you like the privacy?”

“It was just simplest.”

Yves thinks back to his years, rooming with Mikhail—the conversations they’d have to have to figure out groceries, to alternate cooking dinner and doing dishes, to manage transportation. He has a studio apartment now, too, but he’s over at his neighbors’ house frequently enough, or otherwise at home with Leon and Victoire for dinner, so it doesn’t really get lonely.

“You have a pretty spacious kitchen,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind that I used your pots and pans. I’ll wash them, I swear.”

Vincent takes in a small, sharp breath. Yves looks up just in time to see him twist away from the table, tenting his hands over his nose and mouth.

“hhIHh’IIKTS-HHuhh-!”

“Bless you!” Yves exclaims. Judging by the way Vincent keeps his hands raised over his face, he assumes that there are going to be more. He rises from his seat, heads back into the kitchen in search for—ah. Six boxes of tissue boxes, stacked neatly into a block. He tears off the thin plastic film around them, removes a box from the pile, and pulls off the tab.

When he gets back to the dining table, Vincent is ducking into steepled hands with another—

“hhih’GKKT-SHHh-uuUh! hh’DDZSChh-HHuh! snf-Snf-! hhh… Hh… hh-HH-hh’yIIDDzsSHH-hHUH-!!”

The sneezes seem to scrape painfully against his throat, for the way he winces in their aftermath. He twists away from Yves to cough lightly, after, into his shoulder, his eyes watering. “Bless you!” Yves pushes the tissue box towards him. “Here.”

Vincent takes a tissue from the box, blows his nose quietly. When he emerges, lowering the tissue from his face, his eyes are a little watery. He eyes the tissue box. “Did you buy these earlier, too?”

“I did,” Yves says. “I picked up some medicine, too. I didn’t know what flavor you wanted, so I got a couple different kinds. And some other stuff—your fridge was getting pretty empty, by the way—in case you needed it.”

Vincent lifts his head to study him, as if there’s something he’s trying to understand. Finally, he says, “Do you do this for all of your friends?”

“What?”

Vincent frowns, as if the subject matter should be obvious. “Cook for them. Get groceries. Clean their apartment.”

“Sometimes,” Yves says. He’s certainly no stranger to stopping by to help—sometimes with homemade soup, or tea packed tightly in a thermos, or something else. Then again, that was easier to do back in uni, when everyone lived within a twenty minute radius. “It depends on what they need.”

“So this is just a Yves thing.”

“What? Showing consideration for my friends?” 

“Showing consideration is one thing,” Vincent answers. “You could have left after dropping off the files. You would still have been showing your consideration.”

“I guess that’s true. But at that point, I was already here,” Yves says, with a shrug. “It seemed logical to check up on you.”

“Well, now you’ve checked up on me,” Vincent says. “So you can go.”

Yves supposes this is true. 

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

Vincent says, “It’s late. I assume you have things to get home to.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Yves says.

Vincent says nothing to that.

But Yves gets the message, even without him saying it. If Vincent is the type of person who prefers to be alone when sick, Yves won’t take it personally. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome—arguably, he’s already stayed for much longer than Vincent had invited him to.

There’s leftover soup in the fridge—enough to last Vincent a couple days, hopefully through the worst of this—and Vincent’s apartment is reasonably well-stocked now. He has something to take if his fever gets any higher; he has all the basic supplies Yves could think of off the top of his head.

And Vincent is a lot of things, but he isn’t irresponsible. He’s shown himself to be self-sufficient more times than Yves can count. There’s no reason why Yves should have to stay and look after him for any longer—no reason, perhaps, aside from the fact that seeing Vincent ill has left him more worried than he’d like to admit.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll go. But at least let me clean up first.”

He does dishes, leaves the cutting boards and the pot out to dry on the drying rack, transfers the soup to smaller glass containers to store it in the fridge. He returns the vacuum cleaner to the storage closet he found it in. Then, as promised, he gathers his things—not much, just his phone and his car keys—and heads toward the front door.

Vincent follows him to the door, presumably to lock it after he leaves. 

Yves steps outside, lingers for just a moment on the doorstep. The car is parked close enough that he hadn’t bothered to grab his umbrella, but now it’s dark out, and it’s raining just as hard. 

“I left new cough drops on the kitchen countertop,” Yves says, biding his time under the overhang until he inevitably has to get rained on. “The medicine’s in your bathroom, behind the mirror, with the thermometer. Everything else is either on the counter or in the fridge. Don’t come back to work until your fever’s completely—”

It happens in a moment: Vincent stumbles. Yves is looking at him, which means he sees the exact moment when it happens. Yves doesn’t think, just reacts—he reaches out to grab his arm to keep him from falling entirely. 

“Woah,” he says, steadying him. “Are you—”

Vincent’s hand is concerningly warm, even through the fabric of his sleeve. For a moment, he leans into Yves’s touch, though this seems less intentional as it is inevitable. He’s breathing heavily, his eyes tightly shut, his shoulders rising and falling not as soundlessly as usual.

Yves swallows past the alarm he feels percolating in his chest. Had he been about to pass out? Just how high is his fever right now? “Vincent—”

“Sorry,” Vincent manages, through gritted teeth. He makes an effort to regain his balance, to move away. He sways on his feet, and Yves feels the panic in his chest rise anew. 

He reaches up and slings an arm around his waist. “Hey,” he says, trying for reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that. He just stands there, perfectly still, his eyebrows drawn together, his shoulders a little stiff under Yves’s touch. 

Without letting go of him, Yves shuts the front door gingerly behind him, toes his shoes off at the door again. “I think it would be best if you laid down,” he says. “Do you think you can walk?”

Vincent nods, slowly. Yves tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows. 

“Sorry,” Vincent says, again. “I… didn’t expect it to be an issue.”

He’s frowning, hard, as if he’s upset with himself, though Yves can’t quite piece apart why he’d have reason to be. “Hey, no apologizing,” Yves says. “Save your energy for walking.”

Vincent seems to understand that their current arrangement will not change until he’s in bed, so he lets Yves steer him towards the bedroom. It’s a short walk—down the hallway and then off to the left—but Yves spends half of it distracted by how warm Vincent is. Like this, he practically radiates heat.

It’s not until Vincent is settled on his bed, the blankets pulled loosely over him, that Yves allows himself to let go.

Truthfully, the last thing he wants to do right now is leave. But it isn’t about what he wants, and perhaps Vincent would sleep better if he did.

“Are you warm enough?” Yves asks. The words feel heavy on his tongue.

A nod. 

“Do you need me to get you anything else?”

Vincent shakes his head.

“Okay,” Yves says. “I guess I shouldn’t overstay my welcome, then.”

Vincent will be fine, he tells himself. At the end of the day, they are only coworkers, and Vincent is one of the most independent people he knows. If Vincent doesn’t want him here, the best Yves can do is comply with his wishes. He straightens. “Text me if you need anything, I mean it.”

He lets go of the blanket, rises to his feet. Only, then—

There’s a hand on his sleeve, tugging.

Yves goes very still.

When Vincent notices what he’s done, alarm flashes through his expression, and he pulls his hand away as if he’s burned. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, again. And just like that, he’s back to how he always is—his expression perfectly, carefully neutral, in a way that can only be constructed. “I’m sorry.” But Yves doesn’t forget what he’s seen. “You can go.”

Yves’s heart aches. He settles back at the edge of the bed, reaches out a hand, settles it gently at the edge of Vincent’s forehead. At the physical contact, Vincent’s breath catches.

And for a second, Yves wonders if he’s made a mistake—if maybe Vincent doesn’t want to be touched, right now. If he’s misread the situation; if Vincent wants him to go, after all. He opens his mouth to apologize.

But then Vincent shuts his eyes. The tenseness to his expression eases, almost imperceptibly, his eyebrows unfurrowing. Oh, Yves realizes. His head must hurt—Yves suspected as much—but if he’s not mistaken, the expression on Vincent’s face right now is…

Relief. Cautiously, Yves traces his fingertips lightly over the edge of Vincent’s temple, combs them slowly through his hair. Vincent’s eyes stay shut, but the furrow to his eyebrows loosens, and his jaw unclenches, just a bit. The change is minute, almost imperceptible. If Yves weren’t paying close attention, he might’ve missed it.

As if he could pay attention to anything else, right now.

Tentatively, Yves cards his fingers through Vincent’s hair, traces slow circles into his scalp, slowly, carefully.  He does it until the heartbeat he feels thrumming under his fingertips—quick and erratic—slows. Until Vincent’s breathing evens out, until the hurt in his expression dulls. Until the tension in his shoulders eases.

By the time he finally withdraws his hand, Vincent is fast asleep. Yves fetches a new glass of water for his nightstand, changes out the plastic bag lining the trash can, and lines the cough drops and medicine up at the edge of Vincent’s desk. He flips through folder 2-A, assessing.

Then he heads back out to his car to get his laptop, and gets to work.

—

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

But when he wakes at Vincent’s desk, it’s to an unpleasant ache in his neck that spreads laterally into his shoulders—probably from sleeping with his head pillowed awkwardly against his arms. He lifts his head. 

Behind him, there’s a weak, uncertain breath, and then the sort of cough that makes Yves’s chest hurt in sympathy. It sounds wrong, somehow—too quiet, for its proximity. Muffled.

It’s dark inside, aside from the faint glow of Vincent’s digital alarm clock, the pale green digits cutting into the black. He hears the rustling of blankets, followed by another short, painful intake of breath.

The sneeze that follows is stifled into something. Even stifled, it sounds uncharacteristically harsh—all force, pinched off into a short, muffled outburst which sounds barely relieving, at best.

“hH’ih’iNNGKkk-t!”

Yves blinks. Then he leans over the desk to flick on the lamp. Dull golden light suffuses the desk, bright enough to cast Vincent in form and graying color. 

“Are you okay?”

At the light, Vincent’s eyes widen. He looks—stricken, somehow. Then his expression shutters, and he frowns. “Did i—” he stops to cough again into his fist. It sounds as though each breath he’s taking in is an effort of its own, shallow and unsatisfying. When he speaks again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser. “—Did I wake you?”

Yves opens his mouth to respond. Before he can think up a convincing excuse, Vincent shakes his head dejectedly, as if he already knows the answer.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was - cough, cough - tryidg to be quiet.”

Quiet. As to not wake Yves, presumably. The revelation causes an ache to settle somewhere deep inside of him, heavy and inexorable. Yves is more than certain that this flu is already miserable enough on its own, even without the added challenge of having to be quiet about it. He wants to say, do you really think that’s what matters to me? He wants to ask, how long have you been up dealing with this on your own?

“You don’t have to be quiet,” is all he manages, instead.  It’s a miracle that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something. But before he has a chance to, he twists away to cough harshly into his shoulder. Now that he doesn’t make an attempt to muffle the coughing fit, Yves can hear just how harsh it sounds. 

It’s the kind of coughing fit that just sounds exhausting—forceful enough to leave tears brimming at the edges of his eyelashes, his breaths coming in shallowly. 

“Can I get you anything?” Yves asks, when Vincent is done coughing.

Vincent just looks back at him, unmoving. In the dim light of the desk lamp, he looks perhaps more exhausted than Yves has ever seen him—really, he looks as though he hasn’t slept at all. He’s seated with his back against the headboard with a blanket pulled around his shoulders. One of his hands is clenched loosely around it, pinning the corners in place. 

“Tea?” Yves offers, because it’s better than saying nothing. “Water, cough drops. A cold compress?” Vincent doesn’t say anything, but Yves thinks, a little helplessly, that there must be something he can do. “Extra blankets? Tissues? Ibuprofen?”

“Water… would be nice,” Vincent says, as if it takes a lot out of him to admit it. Yves blinks, surprised—he had half expected no answer at all. At Yves’s split second of hesitation, Vincent’s frown deepens, his grip around the blankets tightening slightly. “...If it’s not too much trouble.”

Yves has never gotten out of his seat faster. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” he swipes the empty glass from the nightstand and heads out into the hallway.

It’s dark. There aren’t many windows in the hallway to let in light from outside, but once he gets to the dining room, it gets easier to see. Judging by how dark it is outside, there are probably a few hours left until sunrise. It’s still early, then. Early enough that it’s quiet, around them—no traffic out on the streets, save for the original car, headed to who-knows-where; no neighbors going about their early morning routines; just the steady trickle of rain on the windowsill. Yves rinses the cup out in the sink, shakes it dry, and fills it again.

When he makes it back to the bedroom, it’s unusually quiet. Vincent is still sitting at the edge of his bed, looking like he hasn’t moved at all since Yves left the room.

Yves crosses the room to hand him the glass. Vincent blinks up at him, a little blearily.

“I got you water,” Yves says, unnecessarily.

Vincent takes the glass from him with both hands, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to hold it with just one. Yves looks away as he drinks.  

When Vincent lowers the glass at last, Yves takes it from him and sets it back into place onto the bedside table. He straightens, turns to face Vincent again. “Any better now?”

Vincent nods. It’s quiet, for a moment. Outside, the rain has nearly stopped—the room is soundless, aside from the thin whirring of the air conditioning. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” 

Yves hums. “To be honest, I didn’t either.” He stifles a yawn into one hand—he’s still a little tired. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You must be tired,” Vincent frowns, looking him over. “You came right from a full day of work to check on me. Does your neck hurt?” 

“What?”

Vincent inclines his head towards his desk. “I’ve fallen asleep there before. It’s not very comfortable.”

Yves thinks he shouldn’t be surprised, at this point, that Vincent has picked up on something so subtle. “It’s not that bad,” he says, reaching up with a hand to massage his neck. “My neck would probably be sorer if I’d slept through the whole night. I should thank you for waking me.”

“You could’ve taken the couch instead,” Vincent says, a little disapprovingly. “It would probably have been wiser.”

“I wanted to be here so I could keep an eye on you,” Yves says, because it’s true. “Besides, you sat in a chair while I slept in France. That can’t have been comfortable either.”

“It’s not just about that. You—” Vincent raises a hand up to his face, ducks into his wrist for a sudden: “hh-! hhiH’GKT-sSHuh! snf-!” He sniffles, then presses the wrist closer to his face, his expression shuttering. “Hh…  hh’IIDDZshH’Uhh-!” 

“Bless you!” Yves says, startled.

Vincent blinks, a little teary-eyed, turning over his shoulder to muffle a few harsh coughs into his wrist. “You shouldn’t have slept so close to me. I really don’t want you to catch this.”

He’s frowning, as if it really is a big deal. As if even now, even shivering and feverish, it’s somehow Yves that he’s more worried about right now.

Yves isn’t particularly concerned about that—he has no shortage of  sick time to take off of work, in any case. If he does manage to catch this from Vincent, he’ll just stock up on essentials before the worst of it hits. It would be nothing he hasn’t done before. Still, Vincent looks so—well, so tornby the mere possibility of it that Yves wants to say something to comfort him.

“How about this?” he says. “If you’re so worried about it, you can buy me cough drops next time I come down with something, deal? Then we’ll be even.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s a terrible deal for you.”

“I’ll get sick at some point in my life, anyways,” Yves says, with a shrug. “If this means I get free cough drops out of it, I’d say it’s a win.”

He moves the desk chair over so he can sit down at the edge of Vincent’s bed. Vincent watches him, uncertain. He looks like he’s resisting the urge to say something—to tell Yves to move further away, probably.

“Relax,” Yves says, reflexively. “It’ll be fine, seriously. I know what I signed up for.” 

He leans forward, presses the back of his hand against Vincent’s forehead. Vincent closes his eyes. A slight tremor passes through his shoulders at the contact, but aside from that, he stays perfectly still.

“Your fever’s worse than before,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand.

“It’s not.” Vincent’s eyes are still shut. “The temperature is just higher because it’s night time.”

The suggestion is so far from comforting that Yves almost laughs. “You know,” he says, “that’s not very reassuring.” The blanket around Vincent’s shoulders starts to slip, so Yves reaches over and snags an edge of it, fluffs the whole thing outwards to lay it neatly around Vincent’s shoulders, like a cloak. Secures it with a loose knot. “Are you feeling any better than before?”

Vincent does open his eyes, now. He looks as though he’s trying hard to figure out how acceptably he can lie. “I…”

“You can be honest.”

Vincent’s jaw clenches. He reaches up with one hand, his fingers curling around the blanket Yves set down around him.

“My head feels heavy,” he says. He screws his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowing. “And my chest hurts.” He lets out a short, frustrated breath, as if every sentence is a new and difficult admission. “I’m… not used to getting sick like this.”

Yves’s hands still. “Like what?”

“In any way that would necessitate taking time off from work,” Vincent says, looking away. The discomfort sits, plainly and indisputably, in the way he holds himself—his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched—everything a little too tense, despite his exhaustion.

Yves stares at him for a moment, considering. In the end, it’s the small, impulsive thought that wins out.

He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, next to Vincent. The mattress dips under his weight. 

Vincent has always been taller than him, but sitting down like this, they nearly see eye to eye. It’s a risk, of course, to offer this. He and Vincent haven’t been physically intimate outside of the times where they’ve had to prove their relationship to an audience. But when he thinks back to how Vincent reacted to Yves feeling his forehead, or Yves carding his hands through his hair—if he hasn’t misread, it almost feels like—

Yves opens his arms out in offering, tries on a smile. “I’ve been told I give good hugs. Good enough to cure all ailments, obviously.”

For a moment, Vincent stays perfectly still. Yves has five seconds to overthink all of his actions over the past twenty four hours. 

Then Vincent inches closer, ever so slightly, to lean his head on Yves’s shoulder.

Yves curls his arms around him. There’s the slightest hitch in Vincent’s breath, at the contact. Then the stiffness seeps out of his shoulders, and he presses a little closer—as if he’s allowed himself permission, at last, to let go.

His whole body is concerningly warm. “You’re burning up,” Yves says, softly. He reaches up with one hand to run his fingers through Vincent’s hair.

“...I figured,” Vincent says. The next breath he takes comes in a little shakily. “Whoever gave you the review was right. You are a good hugger.”

Yves laughs, a little surprised. “Careful. You’re going to inflate my ego if you keep talking.”

“I can’t help it if it’s true.”

Yves has hugged a fair share of people in his life. He doesn’t think he’d be able to list them all if he were asked to. It’s different, though, being so close to Vincent—so close that Yves can reach out and let his hair fall through his fingertips. He can lift up his palm and feel the rigid line of his spine, the slope of his shoulders; he could reach out and trace the dip of his wrist, the form of his hand. Vincent’s chin digs slightly into his left shoulder. His nose is turned slightly into Yves’s neck—like this, he is almost perfectly still. Yves can feel the warm brush of air against his neck whenever Vincent exhales. He is so close that Yves is afraid, for a moment, that he might hear how badly his heart is racing.

Would dating Vincent be like this? Would this kind of exchange be given and received as easily as anything? Yves wills himself not to think about it. This is nothing, he tells himself, but a simple offering of comfort between friends. To think otherwise would be disingenuous.

They stay like that for some time. Time slows, or perhaps it expands or collapses—really, Yves would be none the wiser. The whir of the ceiling fan and the light rain on the rooftop a constant. When Vincent pulls away at last, it’s to turn sharply off to the side to muffle a sneeze into his sleeve.

“Hh-! hhIH’IIDZsSHM-FF! snf-!” 

“Bless you,” Yves says, blinking. The sudden absence of warmth is a little jarring. But Vincent isn’t done.

His eyebrows draw together, and he ducks tighter into his elbow, his shoulders jerking forward. “hHIH’iiGKKTsSHH—! Sorry, I— Ihh-! hHHh’DZZSSCHh—uH-!”

“Bless you again,” Yves says, reaching past him to hand over the box of tissues on the nightstand. He holds out the box for Vincent to take.

Vincent turns away to blow his nose. When he returns, he’s a little teary eyed. The flush on the bridge of his nose hasn’t gone away.

“When I asked you to come over,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting you to stay.”

Yves blinks. “Is it so strange for me to be here?”

To that, Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Yves looks out the window, where he can see the skyline, off in the distance, the dark form of the apartment building across the streets, the street in between lit dimly with golden streetlights.

“A little,” he says. “When I was young, if I got sick, it wasn’t really a big deal.”

At Yves’s expression, he amends: “That’s not to say that my family didn’t care, because they did. No one spent too long in my room—better to not risk catching it, if they could help it—but back then, if I didn’t have much stomach room, my mom always cut fruits for me to leave on my desk. Sometimes she made ginseng tea, too.” he shuts his eyes. There’s a strange expression on his face—something a little more complicated than wistfulness.

“We had a habit of keeping the heat off, in the winters, and closing the windows. But if I was running a fever, my brother always made sure to keep the heat on.” His lip twitches, almost imperceptibly. Then: the smallest of smiles. “Sometimes he’d stay outside my door to talk about his day. He was the class lead, back when he was in high school. It was always something inconsequential, like which of his classmates he liked and which ones he held a grudge against, and why. Almost always for the smallest reasons, like someone borrowing a pencil and forgetting to give it back, or someone tossing the ball to him in gym class.”

“Were you and your brother close?” Yves asks.

“Close is relative,” Vincent says. “I never really knew how to—inhabit his world, I guess. When I moved to the states, and when I decided to stay here, part of it was out of some sort of defiance. I didn’t want to have to follow in his footsteps, because then I could only ever be focused on doing things differently.”

He shuts his eyes. “But I felt close to him, then. When he stood outside my room and told me those stories. Even if they were things I wouldn’t have cared about had they happened to me, I guess. It’s strange how that works.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Yves says. He’s always had a good relationship with Leon and Victoire, though that doesn’t mean they’ve always seen eye to eye on things. “Sometimes it’s less about what they say, and more about the fact that they’re saying it.”

Vincent nods. “They all cared about me in their own way,” he says, at last. “I don’t think I appreciated the extent of it at the time. When you’re a kid, you tend to take everything at face value.”

“Do you regret it?” Yves asks. “What?”

“Not appreciating them more, back then.”

Vincent smiles. “I was just a kid. I suppose it’s natural that I didn’t know better.” Yves has a feeling that that statement is perhaps further reaching than Vincent is making it out to be. “I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

“Do you ever miss being part of a large household?”

“It’s peaceful on my own,” Vincent says, at last. “I usually don’t mind it. I usually have other things to worry about.”

He hasn’t asked if the information is useful to Yves, Yves realizes, a little belatedly. Back then, at Joel and Cherie’s potluck, Vincent had seemed to believe that the only way Yves could possibly be interested in him was if the information could serve their fake relationship, somehow.

The realization settles him. Perhaps Vincent has shared this because he knows Yves cares.

“Your apartment is nice,” Yves says, trying to ignore the insistent beat of his heart in his chest, which all of a sudden seems to want to make itself known. “I can see why you would like living here.”

Vincent tilts his head up towards the ceiling. “It’s not the same, of course. As home. Though that’s a given.” Yves notes the usage of the word: home. Here, instead of home, the clarifier salient, even though Vincent’s done nothing to emphasize it. Could it be that after all these years, Vincent still considers Korea to be home, for him? “When I’ve had people over, it was just for dinner. Not for…”

He looks over to Yves, now. Yves knows what he means, knows how to fill in the rest of the sentence: not for the reason you’re here, now.

“I know I’ve intruded a little,” Yves says, with a laugh.

Vincent frowns at him, his eyebrows furrowing. “I wouldn’t consider it an intrusion,” he says. “You’ve helped me a lot. I just—I’m a little embarrassed that your first time over had to be under these circumstances.”

Your first time over. Yves ignores—well, tries to ignore—the implication that this could be the first out of many. That he might have another opportunity, in the future, to swing by. Vincent hasn’t confirmed anything, and it’s not likely that their fake dating arrangement would warrant another house visit, out of the public’s eye. Yves tells himself that the warmth he feels in his chest is misplaced.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I like seeing you,” Yves says.

Vincent raises an eyebrow at him. “Even bedridden with a fever?”

Isn’t it obvious? “Of course.”

“I’ve been terrible company,” Vincent says. “And even worse of a host. I recall I fell asleep yesterday, only for you to spend two hours cleaning my apartment?”

“Vacuuming is therapeutic.”

“You said that about cooking, too,” Vincent says, narrowing his eyes. “Am I supposed to believe that you enjoy doing all household chores?”

“It’s not like you made me do them. I just wanted to be useful, and your vacuum was easy to find.”

“I’ll be sure to hide it thoroughly next time,” Vincent says, deadpan.

Yves laughs. “It’s like I said,” he says. “I like spending time with you. Even—” To steal Vincent’s words from earlier. “—bedridden with a fever.”

Vincent huffs a sigh, a little incredulously. 

“Though, I promise I won’t intrude for much longer,” Yves tells him. “I’ll probably head out in the morning.” He’s almost done with the work Vincent has on his desk—he’d fallen asleep checking over one of the income statements for discrepancies. A few hours should be enough time to make sure that everything is in order. He still has work at eight—he’ll probably be a little tired for it, considering how late he’d slept, but that’s nothing new.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, averting his glance. He frowns down at himself, as if he really is apologetic. “You must’ve had other evening plans.”

None as important as taking care of you, Yves catches himself thinking. He can’t say things like that if he wants to keep this—well, this unfortunate recent development, i.e., his feelings for Vincent—to himself.

“It wasn’t just for you,” he says, instead.

“What?”

“I didn’t just do it for you.”

Vincent blinks at him, a little confused. “Are you going to say you get personal gratification out of seeing my apartment clean?”

“It’s like you said,” he says. “I’ve never seen you this unwell. You said this doesn’t happen often, right? When you didn’t show up at work, I…” The next admission feels a little too honest—but there’s a small, unwise part of him that wants to get it across, regardless. “I was really worried. Even though you said you had everything covered, I wanted to make sure you were fine.”

Vincent nods. “I get it. It would be an inconvenience if I were unfit to be your fake—”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Yves interrupts him. His heart hurts a little, with it. “I wanted to see that you were fine because I care about you. To be honest, I think I would’ve spent the entire night worrying if I hadn’t come.” He laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. “It’s a little selfish, I know.”

Vincent’s eyes are very wide.

“Anyways,” Yves says, with the sinking feeling that he’s said too much, “you should try to get some more sleep.” He rearranges the blankets around Vincent, a little unnecessarily, fluffs the extra pillow that’s leaned up against the headboard, and turns away. “It’s still really early. If you’re planning to be back in office next week, it would be best to keep your sleep schedule intact.”

“Yves,” Vincent says, from behind him.

“Hmm?”

“...Thank you.” 

When Yves works up the courage to look over, Vincent is smiling, unreservedly, as if something Yves has said has made him very happy.

Yves’s heart stutters in his chest. Fuck.

(On second thought, it might not be so easy to live with these feelings, after all.)

—

At daybreak, Yves drives home to get changed, takes a quick shower while he’s at it, and heads off for work. He yawns through half his morning meetings, adds an extra espresso shot to the coffee he snags from the break room.

The text arrives halfway through the day, just before he’s intending to head downstairs for lunch.

V: When I asked you to bring folder 2-A, I didn’t mean for you to complete my work along with it.

Yves smiles. He’d emailed Vincent the completed work from yesterday’s late-night work session before he’d left. Vincent must’ve seen it.

Y: some genie i met told me your wish was to have your work done before the deadline

V: What are you talking about?

Y: he also told me you were very stubborn about not redistributing your assignments to anyone else  Y: so you can’t blame me for taking matters into my own hands

V: Yves.

Y: feel free to check it over for errors :)

[spiritraccoon]

sweet treat | h. shoyo x reader

a quick little blurb based off of a video i seen on instagram and thought it would be cute<3

this is my first fic in years pls forgive me if it’s wonky :’) regardless i hope you enjoy!! mwah<3

—

your eyes quickly darted over in the living room where shoyo sits on the couch. the curtains were open and the sun was shining through, and the tv was playing one piece.

you smiled to yourself seeing such a domestic sight. though having been with shoyo for a few years now, the warm fuzzy feeling that blooms in your chest never goes away. whether it be he’s doing the laundry, tickling your sides till you’re screaming “stop! i’m gonna pee! i’m gonna pee!” , or picking you up so you don’t have to step in the puddle that's in the middle of the sidewalk regardless of telling him you can walk around it. loving shoyo came naturally, his radiance never fails to keep you warm.

you shifted your attention back to your project at hand. setting up your phone against the fruit basket so that the three glasses in front of you were in frame, you hit the record button.

“sho?” you called, grinning as you glanced over at the living room then back down at your screen.

“babe?” he parrots back, nearly instant.

“mind coming to the kitchen real quick?”

you heard him shuffling, tv now paused his footsteps could be heard getting closer to you. you watched on the phone screen as he came into view, and his arms wrapped around your torso, his cheek pressing into the side of your head. you watched his eyebrows press together in confusion upon seeing the counter.

“what’s this?”

“sit! sit! i have a game.”

he laughs and sits down on the stool, now noticing your phone propped up and recording he sends it a quick wink. his eyes then look confusedly at the three glass cups on the counter, with the center one having a eerily familiar object underneath.

“okay listen just trust me-“

“what is this? what am i doing?”

through your laughs that you couldn’t contain anymore you put your hand up in a ‘hold on’ motion.

“listen! trust me! okay so..” you pressed your hand down on the counter and gave him your full attention while explaining.

“under one of these cups, is your car keys.”

shoyo presses his lips together to suppress a laugh, and he nods along to your explanation. “yeah?”

“yeah. so, i’m gonna turn around for a few seconds, right?”

“uh-huh.”

“and you’re gonna mix them up real good. and if i pick the one with your car keys…”

you pause for a dramatic effect, a glimmer in your eyes as you grin.

“we go get a sweet lil’ treat.”

“ooohh!” shoyo laughs then, he throws his head back and tries to compose himself before looking back down at the cups. the very clear and see through glass cups.

“okay. okay i see, right. yeah-“

“well because, normally i say ‘baby i want a sweet lil’ treat.’ and you say-“

“you have been known to say that once or twice..” you lightly smack his chest, and hold back another laugh, trying to give him an offended look. “.. three times.” he finishes and nods happily to himself. you ignore him.

“and you say ‘okay honey!’ BUT. i’m trying to be better.”

“right.” he crosses his arms over his chest and nods, a grin on his face but trying to keep it serious for you(and failing).

“so instead, we’re gonna leave it up to the universe.”

“riiight, we’re gonna leave it up to chance- got it.”

“if the universe wants me to have a sweet lil’ treat, i’ll pick the one with the keys.”

“it’ll- it’ll give it to you! yeah. yeah! absolutely. why don’t you turn around?”

“okay, okay if you insist.” you laugh through your nose, turning around, leaning against his back with yours.

“i’ll mix ‘em up, don’t you worry.”

“give it a good mix!”

shoyo moves the cups around, middle to left, right to left, right to middle; giving the cups a good proper mix up. and as he’s doing so he’s going ‘woooaah’ each time he switches up two cups. he catches his eyes in the camera, a wide smile on his face as he shakes his head gently at his partners antics. he feels them moving side to side against his back each time he ‘wooah’s’ singing softly; mix em up! mix em up!

“you’re never gonna guess where it’s at. i’m a mixologist over here.”

“you ready?” you question excitedly, itching to turn around.

“yeah! yeah, good luck babe, may the universe be in your favor.”

you dramatically turn around and slap both palms on the counter, looking at the cups a little too seriously, eyes narrowed in.

“i need to use my women’s intuition.”

shoyo laughs at this. “yes! use your womanly instincts to figure out where it’s at.” he reached over one of your arms to hover around a cup before switching to another one, muttering “ooh- ooh is it this one? what about this one?”

you sigh dramatically, pressing a palm up against your mouth, squinting at the cups hard thinking. really selling the whole thing. silence rings throughout the kitchen. shoyo grabs your upper arm in suspense as you hover your hand over each cup. left, right, left, right, left- then your hand quickly goes over the right one and pick it up quickly, removing the (clear)cup that once contained his keys.

you both cheered happily in success, looking at each other with “shocked” expressions. you wrapped your arms around his neck and jostled him around.

“how did you get it?!”

“i would looove some ice cream.” you stated, leaning your face close to his laughing, peeling back before he could smother you with a kiss, heading towards the door to put your shoes on, and keys in your hand, forgetting that you were even recording.

“oh would you?! well we gotta go get some! the universe said so!” he laughs along with you, grabbing your phone and quickly ending the recording you started before following after you quickly to get yourself a well deserved sweet lil’ treat.

[juliusxxxxxx]

How to start your own cult

*this is more or less a crack fic

*au where Scar is trying to use Grian’s watcher power to start a cult

*2000+ words

*probably not a one-shot

Knock knock.

No one’s answering.

Knock knock.

This time Scar banged on the door.

No one’s answering.

“Excuse me?” Said Xelqua. Their face was obscured under the shadow of their ominous purple robe, appearing as a pitch-black void. “What—are you doing?”

“What are WE doing!” Scar corrected the being, then reached forward to pull on their hood. “Take it off. You’re going to make ‘em scared.”

“No! How dare you—” Xelqua clasped tightly onto the inexplicable fabric. It felt cold to the touch and almost weightless in Scar’s hand. “There’s a sacred ritual that needs to be done before we can reveal our faces to mortals—you can't do it right after you just manifested me!”

“You’re here to fulfill my wish, right?”

“Yes…unfortunately! Stop it, mortal!”

But the deed had already been done. After the shadow was lifted, there was a face.

It's just a typical face, belonging to a person who appeared to be male, with blonde hair, black eyes, and some light freckles. Their eyes didn't seem to have pupils. Just black as ink.

“Oh…that’s what you look like.” Scar rested his hand. “I thought you were going to look way cooler. Like a cyclone or something.”

Xelqua rolled their eyes. Two eyes, how disappointing. Scar couldn't help himself but sighed.

“Now, can you tell me why we are here, mortal?” They surveyed the dreadfully dull middle-class neighborhood, under the bright midday sun. All nice houses, with neatly manicured front yards. “You dragged me here without even telling me what your wish was. It is extremely rude, in case you don't know it already.”

“My wish?” Scar puffed out his chest, wearing a bright smile on his face. “I want to start a cult.”

“…What?”

They looked at Scar with clear disgust on their normal-looking face.

“Yeah. Since I had a desire strong enough to summon a literal god, I did my research and…volià, here you are!”

He put his arm around the being's shoulders. There were many things he chose not to mention in the explanation he gave, including the graphic description of too many fresh eyeballs and organs that grossed him out. But it was all worth it in the end, right at the moment this Watcher emerged in the center of the wired rectangle he had made. It was drawn with blood, of course.

Xelqua gave him an unimpressed look.

“You seem to have some doubts,” Scar gave them a tight squeeze. “Alright, picture this: a bright, luxurious convention hall with thousands and thousands of people gathering. I am the super duper charismatic orator, preaching about fighting evil and injustice in the world with the power of true happiness. Someone shouted in the crowd, ‘Scar, how are you going to convince me, a stubborn moron who’s never been scammed in my entire life because I’m so lame and boring?’”

“And?”

“That’s when you come in, and strike ‘em with the power of thunder! Everyone trembles and kneels, offering me their life savings out of their pure, heartfelt faith.”

Xelqua stuck their tongue out.

“Alright, I’m leaving.” They brushed off his arm. “Have fun with your scam. I don't want to be a part of it.”

“No, Xelqua—but my wish!”

“I don't even want your soul anymore. It’s too…morbid for my liking.”

“Please! You haven't even heard of the amazing books I’ve been planning—”

Before he could finish his wailing, the door in front of them suddenly swung open.

“Uh…hello?”

A woman held the door, looking bewildered at the pair.

“Why, hello!”

Scar pulled the being back to the porch and put on his best expression, whether they liked it or not.

“We don't need anything—”

“No, no. We’re not salesmen. Far from them, actually.” He rummaged through his blazer and found a name card, which he handed to the housewife. He was fully prepared for this moment. He had been preparing this day for quite some time, and he was determined not to let it end in vain. “Here, take my card. The first one is for free.”

“Uh…Church of the True Happyness…of the Third Watcher?” She frowned, trying to read the wordy name. “Is this a new religion or something? Why is the ‘happiness’ spelled wrong? And why are there two ‘of’? ”

“I’m not with this lunatic—”

“Yes! A new religion. For true happiness. Just ignore my spelling mistake, please.”

Scar cut them off.

“The two ‘of’ thing is trendy. Just look around the other popular cul—churches, like the one started with an M.” He then reached both of his hands toward the housewife and shook with her eagerly. “Me and this—this—” He quickly lowered his voice and whispered to this extraterrestrial being, “what’s your pronouns?”

“I—I—he him?” The being stuttered.

“This handsome young man,” Scar patted on his back and declared, “are here to help.”

“Help?”

“Uh-huh. The lady who lives down the street mentioned that you have a faulty vacuum cleaner you got from your MLM just weeks ago. How unfortunate.”

“My MLM? Excuse you! What are you talking about? My business is legit—”

“Can I take a look at it?”

He pulled Xelqua toward the doorway and squeezed past the woman.

“This is private property! You can't just come in like this!” She frantically followed them into her own house. “Get out before I call the police!”

Scar began opening each closet in the house, ignoring her warning. It didn't take him long to find the broken house appliance in question, lying lifelessly in the dust.

“Here it is! You are a big beauty.” He pulled it out from the closet and wiped it clean haphazardly. “Xelqua?”

“Wha—you are out of your mind!” Xelqua turned towards the approaching woman and then turned back to face him. “We have to leave! I don't want to deal with your mortals’ cops—they’re notorious, even in my dimension!”

“Come on—” Scar nagged. “You’re here to fulfill my wish, right? Then consider this to be it. Fix this vacuum cleaner then consider we even.”

“…Are you serious right now?” Xelqua dropped his jaw. “You’re going to waste your one and only wish…on this?”

“I don't see any reason why not, since you’re going to leave me anyways.” He said with arms crossed. “Just do it for me.”

“And you’ll let me go?”

The being widened his pupil-less eyes. It was even more eerie than usual.

“Yeah. You are one vacuum cleaner away from freedom.”

“Get out of my house! This is the final warning!”

The woman yelled in fury, rightfully so.

“You came at the right time, ma’am.” Scar turned toward her, putting on his smile again. “We just fixed it. Can you plug it in for me?”

“…Heh?”

She halted.

“Try it out. If it doesn't work right away then we’ll leave immediately, am I right?” He gave the being a nudge.

“…Yes.”

Xelqua answered unwillingly.

The housewife knelt down to plug in the vacuum cleaner, grumbling about how absurd everything was. The moment it was turned on, a spark of purple light emitted from its indicator.

It worked.

“Phew—that was close.” Scar wiped the nonexistent sweat from his forehead. He should have just lost his soul a second ago, yet he didn't feel anything. Well, maybe he really was the chosen one who didn't have a soul to begin with.

“It…it worked?” She kept pressing different buttons on the vacuum cleaner, and they all certainly performed their functions. “How—how did you do that? My hubby can't do anything about it!”

“By the power of true happiness and the third Watcher, of course. By the way, the ‘happyness’ is actually spelled with an ‘y’, I just decided it. It’s better for trademark legalization anyway.”

Then, he grabbed Xelqua’s robe as the being tried to dematerialize and slip away from reality. A small part of his body had gone transparent already.

“What more do you want?” Xelqua protested, trying to get rid of him. “I’m leaving.”

“Give me a second,” Scar whispered to him and called the woman, still in awe, admiring her newly reborned cleaner. “Could you please help me with something? As a repayment for our service?”

“Uh…I really don't want to pay you. You seem like a scammer.”

“No—not money, yet.” He shook his head. He was rather frustrated that she would think so lowly of him, but he decided to let it pass. “Do you have the business card I just gave you?”

“…Yes?”

She began searching for it as she was instructed.

“There’s a line in the back. Can you read it out loud?”

She turned it around and started laughing immediately. “How am I supposed to read this? This is gibberish.”

“Well—I should know it beforehand…” Scar took a deep sigh and scratched his neck. Guess normal people without any knowledge would definitely not be able to read it, but he had no one to test it out for him yet. “Just repeat after me, then.”

He cleared his throat and started reciting.

“Mggoka ya orr'e.”

“Mgg…oka…ya orr’e.”

The being called Xelqua let out a short gasp as soon as the words left her mouth.

“What are you doing, mortal?”

“Ng ya bthnk.”

Scar ignored him but continued the chant.

“Ng ya b…thnk.”

She was trying her best to speak the obscure language that had been long lost in this mortal land. As each forbidden word was spoken, defying all laws of nature, the being trembled by the power of a divine offering.

“—Xelqua.”

“Xelqua…?”

Right after she finished the chant, the entire room was momentarily illuminated by a cold, purple glow. It happened so quickly, too quick for her to even realize it was emanating from herself.

“Thank you.”

Scar bowed to her, then walked decisively towards the doorway without looking back.

A few moments later, he heard another set of footsteps approaching him.

“How do you know these words?” The being known as Xelqua called as soon as they stepped out of the house.

“I did my research,” he simply said. “I know you’d follow me.”

“Of course I will…you are despicable.”

Xelqua uttered, catching up to him and walking alongside him.

“You sacrificed her soul to me for a…vacuum cleaner?”

“Yeah, I guess?”

Scar raised his shoulders.

“One more soul for you to chew on in the Void. I bet mine tastes awful so—I did you a favor?”

“I don't chew on souls! What do you think I am?”

“But that’s what all you want, am I right?”

Xelqua’s gaze locked on him for a while.

He couldn't read the emotions behind those eyes; it was as if he was staring into the Void itself. They reminded him of the legends he had learned from those ancient books about how the Watcher’s eyes can see through a person's very true self. A self. He often wondered if he even possessed one of his own.

But then, the Watcher laughed.

“What are you trying to do, mortal?”

Perhaps he actually had one after all.

“I want to start a cult!” Said Scar. “I said it from the very beginning. I'm true to my words—well, sometimes.”

“So that is your plan.” Xelqua shook his head. “I get some free souls so that you can start your dream cult.”

“You’re a smart god.” He reached out a hand toward the being. “How’s the deal?

“Sounds fine to me.” Xelqua shook it. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I know. Doing the world a favor.” Scar released the being’s hand immediately. “Man, I can't wait!”

He didn't appreciate the being's lack of body temperature. He preferred interacting with real humans, especially someone who is willing to accompany him to a vibrant and dramatic apocalypse. Hopefully, cats and trees will be part of the experience.

“I’m thinking—I’m thinking we should go to a college campus next. Those students are so young and impressionable…and stupid.” He started marching down the street in victory, while the being followed him close behind. “Everyone is so anxious about their futures and—whatever the kids are worrying about nowadays. It’s perfect! You can give them some good grades or the body type of an Instagram model—or drugs, I don't care, then they will be your good little lambs.”

“Why do you hate the mortals so much, then?” After listening to his rambling in silence, the being asked.

“I don't?” Scar stopped sharply, turning toward him. “I love humanity! They are so great. So bright. So wishful and always so creative. I love them. Oh, how can I ever hate them!”

“Then why are you doing this, willing to condemn their souls for all of eternity?”

“For the money, I guess.”

“You can simply wish for it,” Xelqua said, slightly confused. “Many mortals wished for money and I granted them more than their wildest dreams.”

“Nah. That’s boring.” Scar waved his hand dismissively. “I’ll be bored to death, and nothing is more scary than that.”

Xelqua looked at him with a tilted head.

“You’re funny.”

“No, tell me I'm charismatic.” Scar continued his walk. “I need to be a cult leader after all.”

[oh-no-its-bird]

Sat down and was like "What's the dumbest, most out of pocket crossover I can think of with Naruto." Then remembered that one guy who just went "Madoka magica" under my TMA crossover post and started giggling

So yeah, @thr33dogsinatrenchcoat this one goes out to you, I hope ur happy

So my first thought was just Homura in Naruto, but then my brain said no. Kyubey in Naruto. And then I really lost it

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I present to you,

✨️ magical girl Kakashi ✨️

Major Spoilers for Madoka Magica below the cut

(Funilly enough, this has been in my drafts for a while now, well before I started getting really into my magical girl izuna AU)

A quick explanation for those of you here for Kakashi content who have no clue what Madoka Magica is;

Kyubey is a pink immortal rat thing from space who offers specifically pre-teen girls contracts to become magical girls. The girl will be granted a wish as their payment for the contract, then have to fight monsters known as Witches.

How big the wish that they can have granted (wishing for a cake vs wishing to revive the dead for example) depends on their potential as a magical girl. The girls magical girl theme and power will revolve around whatever wish they made— ask for someone to be healed and you may be able to heal faster, ask for happiness and maybe you get to be an empath, etc. As long as you can somehow connect the power to their wish, anything is fair game.

It's later revealed that a) the "soul gem" every magical girl is given when they become a magical girl is literally their soul in physical form. Kyubey just straight up removed their soul from their body and put it in a ROCK. Yes this does mean you can torture a magical girl via her soul gem, and yes if the soul gem gets too far from the girl she will collapse like a puppet who's strings were cut.

And b) witches are actually magical girls who fall victim to negative emotions and have their soul gems consumed by darkness either because they were swallowed by grief or from using too much magic without being able to clean their soul gem (which they can only do by killing witches)

Kyubey does all this because magical girls specifically within the age range of a middle schooler, give off a specific kind of energy when they transform into the witches that Kyubey's race farms for reasons I don't really remember anymore but I'm pretty sure has to do with it being mandatory for their race to live? Dunno it's been years since I watched madoka

Ok context over now for the fun part:

Something about the way humans are made in this world means Kyubey is not restricted to prepubescent girls in offering contracts. It's probably related to their chakra coils or something; Which also translates interestingly into how your amount of chakra and your chakra control affects your power as a magical girl.

Both of which Kakashi has in the bag.

I've read a few different takes about how Kakashi's chakra reserves are actually really big, he's just always running dangerously low bc of the constant drain of the sharingan. (I think this was actually confirmed in one of the novels? Which is neat) And since the overall 'potential' of his maximum chakra reserves is what wins out when it comes to the magical girl contract, he's our ideal customer.

Now, for this set up we aren't going to be using the "Kyubey and the magical girl system have just been around for a long while" but instead we're going with the "kyubey is new to this world and, seeing all of this potential energy, is looking to take a few of these bad boys on a test drive to see how well they work."

(Though there's a very interesting fic there with the angle of kyubey as maybe the equivalent of a 10th secret biiju, maybe locked away somewhere, and maybe released by forming a contract with someone— His junchuriki perhaps?)

This brings up an interesting question! A world where theyre havent been any magical girls yet made means that its a world without witches. And in a world without witches, what is Kyubey's explanation for why he needs magical girls when asked?

In the show we are shown that if pressed and asked the right questions, Kyubey will often tell the truth of the matter — that eventually a magical girl will self destruct and Kyubey farms the energy they release when they turn into a witch.

I can't see any shinobi worth their salt just accepting a suspicious contract for even more suspicious power from an impossibly MORE suspicious little magic rat thing. Kakashi especially. Questions WILL be asked and I do think it wouldn't actually be that hard to get Kyubey to give up the truth. Honestly, knowing the things personality and how it likes to take the logical approach, he might see that just telling the truth may actually help convince some people.

Because yeah, horrible fate aside, it's a lot easier to buy into promises of power when you know exactly what the catch will eventually be, and when it'll probably start kicking in.

There's a lot of people in Naruto who would can and have traded a LOT more than just their soul for power and a free wish. I can see people taking Kyubeys deal as is, Kakashi included under the right circumstances.

And besides that, there are plenty of times when the situation is last minute and intense to have the time to ask questions. Kyubey appearing in some life or death battle offering a miracle would probably be able to get a "fuck it what's the worst that can happen" from pretty much anyone

Anyways there are a few different paths we can take with the how's and why's Kakashi becomes a magical girl, and it largley depends on when exactly Kyubey approaches him about it.

1; Minato Route

Wishes for Minato and everyone to please just stay safe during "Madara's" attack, saving them and trading his soul for it in the process. He has no regrets tho, he refuses to.

This path I think would be fun if Kyubey shows up for the first time super last minute and Kakashi is pressed into a rushed contract and rushed wish. But I can also see if maybe he'd been approached by Kyubey beforehand, it's just that he was trying to sort out whether he trusted the rat enough to make a deal and sort out the exact wording of his wish. But oops no more time for that Kyubey please just keep his family safe!

It'd be fun if that was his exact wording actually. "I wish to keep my family safe"

Maybe it'd mean that even in the future, if he finds someone he considers to be his family, the wish will grow and apply to them? And then ""safe"" is such an abstract concept, especially to shinobi. What does it mean to be safe? Maybe it can end up backfiring in some way eventually, idk

2; Obito Route

^ Like he considers obito family, so maybe Obito is out there reaping the benefits of this wish as he tears shit up bc Kakashi never considered his wish could protect someone who might wish him harm.

This'd also mean Minato and Kushina are around!!! That'd impact a fuck ton of stuff for sure. I feel like without them dissapearing as his final push off the edge, Kakashi for sure wouldn't be the same guy we see in canon. He at least has some form of safety net to catch him, even if he's deep in depression and might not realize that net is there.

After either Kanabi bridge or Rin's death, Kakashi is approached by Kyubey, reads the terms and conditions of the contract, and then wishes for Obito and or Rin to come back to life. This, specifically with Obito, I see going one of two ways;

Kyubey, a bastard, who somehow magically knows Obito is alive: "Are you sure this is what you want to use your wish for?"

Kakashi: "fuck you yes I am"

Kyubey: "I mean if you say so lmao" (Less work for me)

Or,

Kyubey, somehow magically knowing Obito is alive and not wanting to have Kakashi waste this wish because say what you will, he's fair about this shit (to a degree anyways): "Unfortunatley I can't revive people who never died!"

Kakashi: "What."

*queue Kakashi going on a mission to find Obito and becoming a sparkly magical girl along the way wooo we love to see it*

3; The great dilemma, aka TIME TRAVEL !!!!!!!!!!!!

He failed Itachi, leading to the deaths of the entire Uchiha clan.

I'm so sorry you guys time travel is like 90% of what I do and I don't think it's gonna change any time soon

So, Kakashi is approached by Kyubey after the Uchiha massacre. At this point he has a whole fucking list of people he might want to try to revive or save, but he can only make a wish so big. He has enough power to wish one or two people back from the dead— an honestly incredibly feat in itself —but not everyone.

He failed his team, leading to their deaths and Naruto's sad orphan life.

He failed countless mission partners over the years, watching shinobi's fall dead left and right because of a wrong call or knife thrown a second too late

Now for his relationship with Kyubey—

He can't wish them all back. But he can wish for a second chance.

And yeah ok as I'm writing this I'm realizing we've turned right back around and started a fr Madoka magica AU I didn't mean to do that actually, oops.

But yeah time travel magical girl Kakashi !!! Given the time to really think about his wish and too many people to save, he wishes for a second chance.

Does he end up in his kid body or does he stay an 18 year old?

Is he alone or does Kyubey (having learned his mistake from Homura and Madoka) make sure to come along with?

Does his sharingan somehow pull Obito back with him or is he really alone?

Fuck ok actually as I write this one I think this might be The One, The AU, so we're gonna shelve this for another post on its own so we can keep just talking ab the set up.

So disclaimer, I haven't actually watched Madoka in forever, but I think it's safe to say that Kyubey is honestly pretty decent when it comes to guiding his magical girls? I mean, up until they fall off a cliff of despair and turn into monsters, but till then he holds up his end of the contract really well? He'll generally come when they call, answer their questions when asked, check in on them to make sure they're adapting to the lifestyle, sometimes even help keep them informed about local magical girls or witches or just give out free advice.

Don't get me wrong, Kyubey is a fucking rat and not to be trusted, he tricks little girls into literally selling their souls, but he has a clear work ethic and method. He's just also incapable of feeling human emotion and seems genuinely confused at why people would be alarmed or upset at, you know, everything.

But I think that's what would make him work so well in a shinobi world! Especially if he looks at the world and it's people and decides that upfront honesty would be the best play in recruiting someone as his magical girl test drive.

I think it could be interesting if Kakashi and Kyubey could have an actually somewhat positive relationship. Well, as positive as it can get for a traumatized ninja boy and a space rat with no real concept of human emotions outside of what it's read in a textbook about manipulating little girls.

They have an alarmingly functional workplace relationship. Kakashi signed a contract knowing what kind of death it'd probably lead him to (and it's not like it's that different from the end he already knows he'll face one day) and Kyubey is contractually bound to stick around and lend a helping hand and a bit of companionship when applicable.

Also, with Kakashi being his first magical girl test run in this world, he's just kind of monitoring the project? He wants to see it to the end before he gets started on widespread magical girl contracts, because again, logical emotionless little rat thing who knows better than to assume that since it's gone well so far it'll end well too. He wants to collect ALL the data before settling in for good.

Kyubey is giving Kakashi weirdly reaffirming (and much needed) positive reinforcement in all of this. He's impressed with how well the project is going! Kakashi is going through so much constant misery that despite somehow not turning into a witch out of despair, he's still giving a near constant output of that same energy Kyubey farms that usually only comes out when a magical girl witches out. Maybe that's also actually something related to the chakra coils— instead of giving one big explosion of energy when they turn into a witch, the people of this world are able to give a continuous stream of it just by existing and being miserable. Which also gives Kyubey even more of a reason to want to see Kakashi keep living! This guy is a one man army when it comes to energy! It's great!

Also it'd be kind of fucked up but in a funny way if Kyubey straight up told Kakashi this (Maybe Kakashi actually asks to be kept up to date on all of Kyubey's little project notes of studying him?) And it being somewhat of a comfort to him. Like. Yeah, he's a failure cursed to always have those he loves die in his arms or at his hands, but at least his suffering is helping the universe in some way! That's something, right? Right???

Anyways, power and appearence time

So like, obviously there's a VERY large chance that Kakashi would end up with some sort of healing power as a magical girl. Because yknow, there is basically no universe where Kakashi doesn't use his wish to either heal someone, protect someone, or bring someone back from the dead— which lines up pretty directly to a healing based power.

But just normal healing is too boring so lets get spicy with it! Let's lay out some power options!

1) Blood healing

So my favorite twist on a normal healing power is a simple one; He regenerates stupid fast, to the point that he can even reattach limbs, but it's all in his blood. As long as his blood is touching a wound, it's healed in seconds to minutes.

This is also means his blood can also be used to heal others! For good or for bad. Fights can get a lot more complicated when your enemy realizes that they can use your own healing methods on them— even if the blood does only work on what it can touch, so they gotta risk shoving that shit in there if the wound is too deep.

If you want an extra bit of spice on top of that also, you can say the blood doesn't just heal people. Maybe it can heal any living thing— plants included

(I'm ngl I typed all this out then kind of squinted at my screen and went wait isn't this what Karin does? I don't actually know the details of her powers no one tell me if I'm right, I don't actually care)

2) Wound substitution

Here's an incredibly in character ability; He can take on the wounds of his comrades. They get hurt but he takes the hit. It'd so fit his self sacrificing ass too.

Maybe he can have advanced healing from the wounds he steals from his companions, maybe he only inherits them by halves, maybe it's the full deal.

Maybe it's involuntary or maybe he can only do it on purpose. Involuntary could be interesting and offer serious consequences down the line.

I'd love to see a dog themed magical girl Kakashi I think it would cure all of my mental illnesses and give me like 30 more.

3) Sheilds but make them zappy

Thunder shields could be interesting. Maybe he can use the shields to encase his limbs to deliver an extra oomf or smthn, just for funzies.

4) Something to do with eyes

You know I gotta at least consider smthn with eyes, like cmon. Whether it's because his wish was phrased in a way that could catch on it, or it's just how the magic interacted with his sharingan, I wanna see some eye stuff!!!

Maybe whatever healing ability he has is all centered in the eye or smthn, or maybe if it's like a self healing ability he regenerates eyes first or smthn idk.

4) Time powers ✨️

You know I had to.

In the route where he wishes for a second chance he so gets time powers. It's very cool. It's also very very fucking OP so it'd be tricky to work around in giving him a fr obstacle. Maybe if Obito comes back with him, the sharingan somehow makes him immune? Like, whenever Kakashi stops time, Obito isn't stopped.

I'm ngl Im running low on power ideas rn so let's move on, but like leave that open ended

Would Kakashi's magical girl outfit be something that adapts to his style and is created by his subconscious desires, as I'm pretty sure is accurate according to Madoka Magica lore? Yes. But do I think it would be funny to put him in a fluffy magical girl skirt? Even bigger yes, put that man in a dress and heels immediatley.

For Kakashi's soul gem, I think it'd be really fun if instead of taking the form of a ring, it was instead either an earring or— hear me out guys, lip ring or tongue piercing

It's perfect! He already hides his face, no one would even know it was there! Also both lip rings and tongue piercings are so cute

His soul gem is red with a silver case and we all know why. When he transforms it doesn't glow red tho, it glows white because something something hatake white chakra or something, idk

Anyways this has been sitting in my drafts for like 2 weeks now, so I'm gonna go ahead and hit post even tho I'm not totally satisfied with what I have here. Better to put it out for the few who'd enjoy it than keep it in the trunk bc I'm unsatisfied, right? Maybe I'll come back to it later, idk.

[imongkoneho2]

Hi!! after reading your recent fic, I gotta request too! Can you also do a Earth 42 miles but with a bad boy x good girl trope? I am a sucker for that! Thanks in advance! >////<

Earth 42 Miles Morales X Reader !!

Bad boy x Good girl trope -

[Y/N] is a smart student, never failing to achieve straight A's. She's a cheerful girl, her smile never leaves her face, luring people with her calm aura. She's President of her class, voted by her classmates lovingly.

She's probably the most happiest girl alive despite the city they live in. Gangsters, robbers and kidnappers, villains and all, making the police's job harder than it already was.

She entered the class, as she heard students chattering amongst themselves, even if there's a teacher infront of them. The woman looked at the student, relief evident on her face.

"Sweetie, [Y/N] you're finally here. Could I quickly talk to you about something before we start?" "Sure, Miss Calleros!" She smiled sweetly in response. "Theres a new student, he's your seatmate."

The girl glanced at the new student, he was sat next to the window, looking out with narrowed eyes. She looked back at her teacher. "If I may ask, It's the middle of the school year, don't you think he joined too late..?" "He..he got expelled from his previous school dear, he's a delinquent you see.." "ah..."

She nodded at the explanation, as she glanced back at the student. "After school, I just want you to show him his locker, and give him his schedule." Miss Calleros smiled as she gave her the papers, she took them with a smile.

After that, she smacked the black board causing her classmates to quiet down. The teacher gave her a thankful look, as she sat on her chair.

-- [Y/N]'s POV --

After class, I got up, beginning to place my things on my backpack. "Hey cutie!" A familiar voice said, I glanced to my right. "Hey, Mei Mei." I greeted her. Mei Mei was my best friend, since childhood. She always had those big round, red glasses.

"How are you not scared? You sat next to the Miles Morales!" She exclaimed dramatically. Carrying my bag and raising an eyebrow up, I asked "Who?" "Miles Morales! The new student? He's a delinquent?"

I rolled my eyes and bumped my hips onto her as she staggered slightly away. The girl with glasses giggled catching up to me. "I'm serious though, I heard in his previous school - he was in a gang. He beats up people for fun, has a gun too.. I'm surprised he didn't hurt you..!!" We made our way in the school hall.

"Please, he won't hurt me. I'm too cute." I say jokingly as Mei Mei looked at me, her eyes narrowed. "Sure." She giggled poking my cheeks.

The day passed by quickly, and before I knew it, school had ended. Now, for my president duties! My eyes glanced around the halls, walking around the whole school, searching the face for this 'Mr. Bad boy.'

Then, my eyes spotted him. Exiting the bathroom, his hands rubbing together as he maybe put on hand sanitizer. Not bad for a bad guy. Hygienic.

I then catched up behind him, "Hello! Excuse me!" I called, catching up to the tall boy. "You're Miles Morales, right?" "Yeah." He said simply, his gaze piercing onto mine. An awkward silence passed by, keeping my eyes on his, his gaze gradually became more threatening. Now I know why people are scared of him.

"I like your accent." I said without thinking, "What?" He raised an eyebrow, My mouth closed in response. "Nothing! I'm [Y/N] and I'm the class president, here's your schedule.." I handed him the schedule with a sweet smile, though I can't manage to look him the eyes - since somehow, it's hard to. So looking him at his torso is the best way to avoid eye contact.

"Your locker number is 42, next to the science class! We're locker neighbours!!" A giggle escaped my mouth, immediately closing it in embarrassment. What was that giggle. My eyes creeped up to him, he had no emotion, he just looked at me.

He nodded and walked away. I breathed a sigh of relief, stomping childishly. "That's so embarrassing!! I'm gonna jump of a building - Locker neighbours!? What am I a child!?"

-----

Being Miles Morales' seatmate wasn't that bad. He's oddly quiet for a delinquent. He's smart too. My mind went to that one time last week - when we were paired up for a presentation. We exchanged numbers, and almost immediately - he sent the whole research and the script.

-- Miles Morales POV --

"Can you make it pink please ^⁠▽⁠^?" I laughed under my breath in amusement. What was her name again? [Y/N]? I searched her name on Instagram. Her face popped up, as I clicked it. My eyes flickered, scrolling through her pictures.

Most of her pictures were her studying, in the library, with friends, her with cats and random cute things she saw. I closed my phone, my uncle entering the room. "What's with that look, man?" "What look?" "And here I thought you won't catch feelings for anyone with that heart of yours." He laughed and exited.

------

[Y/N] shivered in the dark, as she walked in the street. City lights and dim street lamps were the only thing keeping the girl company. She sighed, walking faster, in hopes of getting to her apartment quickly, plastic bag on her hand. She passed by two guys, about her age - smoking.

One of them stopped her in her tracks by stepping infront of her, a smug look in his faced. "Hey sweetcheeks, whatchu doing so late?" She gave a small awkward smile and turned around, only to be blocked by his friend.

"Leaving so soon?" "Have fun with us." "No thank you, I need to go home..." She said meekly, as the two creeps laughed. Another gripped her wrist, she yelped in response. "That was an order, sweetheart." A harsh tug made her look around for help.

"Yo' move." A familiar voice said, as they all turned to look at it. It was Miles Morales, his eyebrows knit together, meeting her eyes. "Miles! Help-" "ah, this your boyfriend or something?" "Looks like a delinquent wanna be."

[Y/N] shot pleading eyes to her delinquent seatmate, as he stared back in return. He sighed. "I said move. People are trying to pass, bro." "Who you trying to 'bro', Man?" The two creeps approached him.

With a blink of an eye, the two were laying on the ground, one with a bruised eye who was also passed out and one with a busted lip. "Whatever! She looks like a whore anyways!" The guy cowered and ran away, leaving his friend.

Miles crouched down to the passed out guy, his hands roaming on his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Placing one on his lip, he ignited the lighter and lit up the tip of the cigarette.

"Thank you..." She said, trying to catch her breath, hand on her heart as she almost died. Miles grunted, blowing smoke and glanced at her. "Whatcu' even doing here?" "Was just trying to buy some meds for my cat. He's sick. I'm going back to my apartment now though.." she gripped the plastic bag, she was holding onto for dear life earlier.

"You're crazy for walking in the middle of the night." He continued walking forward. "Yeah...can you uhm, walk me to my apartment?" [Y/N] shyly asked. His eyes flickered to her.

"Why?" "'Cause...you saved me, so maybe you can keep doing that until I reach my apartment! I'll pay you back if you do, and also for saving me!" "You ain't need to pay me back." He said, quickening his pace.

The girl quickly ran up to him, trying to match his pace. "..Is that a yes..?" "Yeah, whatever." They walked in silence, somehow, this time it was calming and comfortable.

"Uhm- so...if you don't mind me asking..are the rumours really true..? the one where they say you're a delinquent, who's in a gang, who beats people up for fun..?" She shivered again in the cold, feeling a little brave to ask questions.

"The delinquent part is true. But Ion' go with gangs and beating people up for fun. I'm not that ridiculous 'Ma." He said, blowing the smoke from his cigarette. She nodded and smiled. "Well, you're not that bad for a delinquent." "Yeah?" "Yeah."

She stopped as Miles also halted, looking at her. She faced the building next to him. "This is me...thank you, again." "Don't go outside in middle of the night, next time. Don't wanna save your ass again."

----

Hope this was goodd, I also absolutely love this trope!! I'm taking more requests!! Any characters will be finee!!

[mayz-dayz]

HI! so here's the fic since people are asking to read it, sorry for any spelling mistakes I was in rush! The whole premise is that during the middle school bullying Midoriya and Bakugou both turned to the Internet for comfort where him and Bakugo end up e-dating without realizing it's eachother! It's a pretty NSFW fic which SH topics and child abuse (Bakugous mom is abusive which is why he takes out his anger on Midoriya) ENJOY(or don't)!! Feedback welcome!

Izuku felt the eyes of his peers pierce into his back, how they all waited for the teacher to get done with the lesson so they could terrorize him for the third time today. Izuku wouldn't say they were all bullies some people would just tease him and he was used to that kind of treatment. The real bullies were Katsuki and his little group of wannabe edgelord's. Izuku sat quietly and patiently and then it happend, the lesson ended, and now all hell is officially going to break loose.

"Midoriya did you understand that?"

"Midoriya is this hard for you to learn without having a quirk"

"Midoriya why are you even in this school you're quirkless"

Izuku's classmates yelled at him laughing and giggling. All things he would take out on himself later. Izuku's eyes grazed around the room watching everyone laugh at him, but then Katsuki stands up and izuku immediately feels tears welling in his eyes. Katsuki snickers,

"How's that sound Deku? The sound of extras who are worth nothing looking down on you? You have to be real fuckin' useless for that to happen"

Izuku looks at Katsuki, he thought to himself how those words weren't as hurtful as the ones Katsuki said right before the lesson started, but oh man how it hurt. Izuku rubbed away a few of his stray tears and could hear the class mocking him for being a "crybaby". It was now officially the end of the day and all of the students rushed out the room knowing what was to come. Izuku didn't pack up, he was well aware of his "end of the day routine". He stood up and walked to the back of the now empty class, Katsuki walked over and smiled, another bully handed him a marker, Katsuki uncapped it and smiled.

Izuku makes it back home and is greeted by his cheerful mother, he smiles at her and gives a vague explanation of his day before going to the bathroom.

Izuku takes off his clothes and sees the dehumanizing writing Katsuki wrote on his chest, mocking him, his body, and his intelligence. Izuku ran a bath and scrubed all of these things away, he looked down at his body, he looks at scars no one noticed. He steps out of the bath and goes searching under the bathroom cabinets and pulls out a razor blade, he steps back in the bath and places the blade against his wrist, digs in, and slices. He watches how the water goes from clear to a faint rosy color, he smiles and repeats his five more times before stepping out of the bath.

Izuku goes to his room and puts on a pair of shorts and an Allmight hoodie his mom bought him when he was twelve but it's still too big. He logs onto his computer and watches Allmight highlights then enters a chatroom,

ALLMIGHT FAN'S ONLY.(12 members)

Zuku-Might1527: "Did you guys see the new Allmight highlights from 4 hours ago??＼⁠(⁠^⁠o⁠^⁠)⁠／"

Redshadow: "omg yeah they were so good they got all the best angles :⁠-⁠)"

xXGlaoq.: "Let's all take a shot every time he says "I am here" LOL XD"

(replying to xXGlaoq) 69Allmight: "we'd be HAMMERED LMAOOOO"

*Welcome! "Your Hero." Officially now 13 members!*

TinyMight: "welcome!!"

xXGlaoq: "Hi! Thanks for joining"

Your Hero: "Hi."

Zuku-Might1527: "HAII!!(⁠｡⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠｡⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♡"

KIYONAN: "Zuku needs to be the destinated greeter he's always so nice to new ppl (⁠T-T⁠)"

Izuku flushed at that message, he joined the chatroom back when it only had three members and he's just glad to have a bunch of people who are interested in the same things as him. While Izuku was getting giddy over the praise he saw a notification pop up on the bottom of his screen

"*2 New Messages*"

Izuku wondered who this could be, he's pretty friendly with everyone, he's friends with people from many chatrooms so he's used to being talked to everyday. He pulled his legs up to his chest in his chair, the light from the computer lighting up his face and creating mood lighting for his room. He clicked on the mail icon to open the message,

Your Hero.: "hey. Saw your bio and thought you were pretty cool"

Your Hero.: "wanna be friends?"

Izuku's face flushed harder, he's used to making plenty of friends in the Internet but never had anyone compliment his bio on this profile, which was

"(He/Him)

STOP RIGHT THERE...HAI! (⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧ My name's Zuku! We can be friends, shoot me a DM at ANYTIME!(⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) Arguably Allmights #1 fan(•̀⁠ ⁠o•́⁠ ⁠) 15!!"

Izuku started typing on his keyboard,

Zuku-Might1527: "Of course! What's your name and pronouns?"

Your Hero.: "Oh yeah should've started with that. My name's"

Zuku-Might1527: "?"

Katsuki started at his computer screen, he didn't think this far, he just wanted to make a friend. He sat for a good three minutes, he thought about the names of the American business men his family worked with and it finally clicked in his head,

Your Hero.: "sorry, My mom called me for something right before I was about to type it I accidentally sent the message in a rush my name's Anderson"

Zuku-Might1527: "no worries! And nice name, sounds Western, are you?"

Your Hero.: "no, my parents are just creative"

Izuku smiled, Western names amused him. On the other side of the screen Katsuki was proud of himself for remembering a name he heard years ago, he was about to type again when he heard a bang on his door,

"KATSUKI GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE NOW"

he flinched, it was his mom, he hated when she was angry. He closed his laptop and ran out and was face to face with his mother "Y-yes Ma'am?" It wasn't long before his mother struck his face and he felt a long painful sting.

"I told you before I got home to clean the kitchen, bathroom, and basement."

Katsuki took a sharp breath,

"I forgot to clean the bathroom, I'm sorry, I cleaned everything else though."

He felt another slap hit his other cheek, he winced at the pain and covered his cheek.

"No sorry ass apologies. Go clean it now."

Katsuki mom walked off to her and her husband's room and slammed the door, Katsuki waited till she slammed the door to start crying, he went down to the basement and started cleaning. He hated his mom, his dad would try and defend him but she would get angry at him too.

He finished cleaning the basement after 4 hours, he slumped against the wall and cried, he punched the concrete wall of the basement and immediately yelped in pain, he thought to himself "that's what Deku is for. His face is easier to hit."

[writing-whump]

Sick and hurt

Part 2 of this fic

Hector hated two things most in the world. One, to ask anybody for help. Ever. Two, to ask anything of Isaiah, because he fucking never knew how to talk to him and usually tried to pretend they had nothing to talk about.

He felt rejected by Isaiah in so many ways, that it didn't matter how his eldest brother sounded or what peace offerings he made these days.

Right now, his other brother was asking him to do both, to call bloody Isaiah for help. And couldn't say no, cause as it was, Hector was completely useless.

And he hated that even more.

Every breath hurt. Every movement hurt. While Hector wasn't a stranger to pain, though maybe a bit less used to it than a human would be, he could handle this just fine.

When he was comfy and unmoving on the couch. Not when he was running around Arnie, who was all but delusional from the fever.

Crouching down hurt. Bending at all hurt. Getting up hurt. It was only the adrenaline to keep him doing both, and he didn't know how long he could do it. The bandages that felt firm and steadying a few hours ago felt suffocating, cutting into his bruised ribs. His chest and sides were on fire, flaring up depending on how he turned or held his neck.

Hector googled symptoms, then called their pack's private doctor for advice. Tepid bath, he said. Yeah, that would be great, if Hector could freaking carry Arnie out the bed and help him into it. As he normally could. As he was supposed to.

Arnie's suggestion didn't let him wallow in his failure for long though. It was 3.40 in the morning. Why would Isaiah even pick up?

Hector took Arnie's phone, unlocked it with the password and found Isaiah's number in the last three calls. He tapped at the phone icon with a sigh.

"Arnie? What is it?" Isaiah didn't pick up on the first ring, but on the second and somehow didn't sound tired at all.

"No, it's me," Hector grunted, not sure if that was very informative.

"Something is wrong," Isaiah said it as a statement and Hector could hear the ruffling of blankets as he got up from the bed.

"Arnie is sick. His fever if off the roof and I don't know what else to do." Hector clenched his jaw. "He has been asking for you."

"I'll be there in 15. Take his temperature before I come." The line ended.

Hector blinked at the speed. No explanations, no questions, no awkwardness.

As if it was that simple.

Hector called, so Isaiah was coming.

……….

"I can come with you," Seline offered, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

"It's okay. Hector is even more difficult, when he is worried. Especially about Arnie. Besides, you didn't catch my flu by a miracle, but let's not push our luck."

Seline leaned against the dining table, watching Isaiah pack his backpack with a yawn. "Take Vitamin D too. 20.000 units. Maybe it will keep Hector off the hook," she instructed.

Isaiah nodded, adding the package to his supplies, before throwing the bag over his shoulder and putting on his shoes.

"Go back to sleep, babe."

Seline ducked her head with a tiny blush, waving her hand. "Keep me updated."

………

The rain didn't help with the visibility as Isaiah drove through the darkness, roads glistening, the aggressive patting of raindrops against the windows.

Isaiah tapped his fingers on the wheel, impatient at the red lights.

He was a light sleeper since childhood and Arnie's name in the middle of the night had him wide awake, heart plummeting painfully. Hector's rough reluctant voice in the phone didn't help with the unease.

He still had the address saved from when he saw their apartment the first time, a few weeks ago, when Hector was sick. The only time he was allowed to visit.

He parked the car and sprinted as dignified as he could down the street and into the apartment.

Hector didn't exactly live around his other packmates, not on the same floor, but on the same street, some in the same building. It would be suspicious for him to run into any of them. He was the Wolfson traitor, not someone his brothers should associate with. The only good thing about this happening at night was the low probability of it happening.

The world rushed out of focus until Isaiah got to the right floor, knocking at the door, only to find Hector's head in the doorway.

One would think Hector was the one sick, with the pained expression and his naturally wild hair sticking out in every direction. He opened the door all the way wordlessly, watching Isaiah like he expected a slap to the face.

"Temperature?"

Hector turned away, leaning against the closed door, hand balled into a fist. "40.1. I can't lower it. Water or pills won't stay down-"

"Hector-"

"I filled the bath with water, you know the medium temperature, not too cold? I called the pack doc, and that's what he said-" Hector punched the door next to him, eyes burning with frustration with a desperate edge.

"Wait, calm dow-"

"-I would take him to a hospital, it's not like I would let him die-"

Christ, he was more freaked out than Isaiah thought.

Isaiah cringed internally, throwing logic out the window and following instinct instead.

He stepped closer, taking Hector's face in both of his hands. "Hey. Look at me. Nobody's dying. You did everything right. He is going to be fine. It's okay."

It was from that close that Isaiah realized Hector was holding himself up all weird, posture all skewed like a badly hung picture on the wall. His breathing was off, which could be just from distress, but his upper lip was covered in sweat and his eyes had a feverish gleam, though he didn't feel warm. "What's wrong with you?"

Hector murmmed something, gaze dropping to the floor.

Isaiah narrowed his eyes. Yeah, this wasn't normal. "You look ready to fall over..."

Hector said nothing, a muscle in his jaw visibly spasming.

"Go get some rest. I got this," Isaiah suggested softly.

Hector frowned, head shooting up immediately with a snarl. "I'm not going-"

"You will sit down." Isaiah let go of his face, giving him a stern look, voice cold. If his shadow was out in the open, it would loom over him and the walls threateningly. "Cause I said so. I'll go see Arnie. End of discussion."

Isaiah hated doing that, he hated using his Executioner voice. But Hector stopped protesting, bowing his head the way wolves did when allowing precedence to someone else. It was the tone Isaiah used to get around teenage Hector that would say 'no' in every sentence.

Hector retreated a step, leaning back against the wall, eyes shimmering, face flushed. His right hand pressed against his ribs and he took a shallow breath through his teeth.

Isaiah was starting to put the puzzle together, but turned around to get to Arnie's room.

His youngest brother was in bed, a dark blotch of sweat on the front of his shirt, hair plastered to his face.

Isaiah dropped to one knee beside the bed, pushing the hair out of his forehead to feel the heat for himself. Yep, alarming heat indeed. "You up, champ?"

Arnie didn't open his eyes, but gulped, chapped lips moving in a ghost of a smile. "Hi, Zaya."

"There is a bath there going for you. We'll get that annoying fever down, dose you up with some good anti-nausea meds and you will be up and kicking in a few days, okay?" Isaiah stood up, hands sliding under Arnie's back and his knees as he talked, hoisting him up.

Arnie's head lolled limply towards him, the side of his face pressed against Isaiah's chest.

Isaiah carried him to the bathroom, where the bathtub was filled with water as promised.

He helped Arnie strip down from the clothes and then gently put him inside, slowing as Arnie's hands shot up at the first contact with the water.

"Easy, easy. This will help a lot, I swear." Isaiah let Arnie brace against him as he eased him down to lean against the back of the tub.

Arnie's lips quivered from the cold, though Isaiah found the water mild and pleasant temperature. "Don't fall asleep. I'm gonna stay right here and watch you."

Arnie turned towards him, eyes glassy, the emerald green in contrast with how pasty his face went. "I-I c-could r-really u-use a s-s-sauna after this."

Isaiah smiled, sitting more comfortably on the carpet, though in a good position to quickly stand up if Arnie tipped to the side too much. "A nice spa sounds like a good idea. Just hot tub."

"A-and b–b-bubbles."

"Yeah. And the different kinds of sauna. Did you know it's recommended to get into cold water or snow after sauna and then go back again? The way it will make your veins contract is supposedly very healthy."

"S-so I'm skipping the sauna n-now? N-not fair." Arnie tried to smile in Isaiah's direction, eyes focusing slightly too much to the right to land on his face.

Isaiah wanted to keep the conversation going, to keep Arnie lucid, but that's when Arnie suddenly lurched forward with a heave.

Isaiah straightened on his knees that instant, planting his hand on Arnie's shoulder and arm as the blond heaved and heaved over the water, but only a couple of burps and a string of bile came up.

"Okay. Shhhhh, easy. You are okay." Isaiah rubbed his back, hand dipping all the way into the water, following the outline of Arnie's spine.

Arnie's heaves slowly died down, though his body sometimes jerked forward. "Bleeeh. That felt awful."

Isaiah helped him lean back again, noticing the tears, spit and the snot on Arnie's face sticking to his chin. "I bet." He took a roll of toilet paper and tore a bunch to dry Arnie's face. "You are holding up really well, kiddo."

Arnie closed his eyes, his breathing still fast from the heaving. "I'm sorry. You will catch it, if you stay with me like this."

Isaiah chuckled. "I already had the flu, don't worry. It's a nasty one, with high fever and nausea."

Arnie opened his eyes at that, squinting at Isaiah. "You were sick?"

"Yes," Isaiah leaned his elbow on the edge of the bathtub with a chuckle. "Three days of fever and I couldn't even smell food. Got around without vomiting though."

Arnie seemed fascinated by the idea, eyebrows meeting together. "You with the flu...."

"Yep- hey, don't fall asleep!" Isaiah jumped up to pat Arnie's cheek, when his head fell to the left all of a sudden as his voice trailed off. He kept patting it until he got him to open his eyes again. "Stay with me, kiddo, come on. Just a bit longer."

"Ughhhmmm. I understand why sleep deprivation is used as torture," Arnie mumbled.

Isaiah looked at his watch, counting down the minutes for Arnie to have something to focus on. When the time was up, he lifted him all the way from the water, getting half-soaked himself and bundled him up in a giant towel.

Dried off and with a much milder heat coming off Arnie, Isaiah pushed him into a fluffy bathrobe and carried him back into the bed.

Arnie curled up protectively around his stomach, but he wasn't shivering as much, which Isaiah counted as a win.

"I got these pills from Sel. They should calm things down there a little and they have an anti-emetic effect too, so the nausea should stop. If you keep them down, I will give you something for the fever too."

Arnie hummed in response, hand around his middle, eyes open to slits. Isaiah helped him swallow the two small white pills with the tiniest sip possible, then sat down on the floor again.

After 15 minutes of relative calm, Isaiah dared to try the paralen too, nervously shifting his weight as they waited.

It took another half an hour before Isaiah let himself relax, for Arnie's squirming calmed, though he still didn't close his eyes.

Isaiah combed his fingers through Arnie's hair, curling them around his fingers and smoothing them back and forth gently.

Arnie nuzzled his head against the pillow, muffling a slight burp, but sighed contentedly at Isaiah's ministrations.

"Zaya? Can I ask you something?" Arnie stumbled over his words a little, so Isaiah leaned closer.

"Anything."

"Check on Hex for me? His ribs are hurting..."

"Yeah, I'll check on him," Isaiah said, voice hoarse in the face of Arnie's concern. "Don't worry about it right now. Just sleep. I'll be here, when you wake up."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Arnie finally let his eyelids close. Isaiah kissed the top of his head, smoothing the covers over him.

…….

"Who did this to you?"

Hector lifted his head at Isaiah's question in alarm. He sat on the edge of his bed, bowed, face in his hands and Isaiah could see the bandages peeking out from under his shirt. "What?"

"Who did you get those from? If you are anything like you were as a teen, you wouldn't lose a fight easily. If you are getting hurt, it's serious."

"And you are going to do what, exactly?" Hector's eyes were wide, voice stunned. "They are my fights and I can handle them, thanks."

"Just tell me the damn name and I'll solve this," Isaiah said menacingly.

Hector huffed. "Stop ordering me around. In my own house, no less.”

“You don’t listen to me otherwise!”

“I don’t listen to anyone. You are not special,” Hector said, throwing back Isaiah’s words from the conversation, when Isaiah helped him with the broken leg. "Besides,” Hector dropped his gaze again, just like he did in the hall earlier, "this was my own fault."

Isaiah watched him quietly for a long minute, stunned by the admission. "Show me."

Hector snarled. "Can't you just-"

"Arnie asked me to."

That shut Hector up. Even more effective than orders.

Isaiah sat down next to him. Hector reluctantly rolled up his loose black shirt. Isaiah inspected the wrappings with a critical eye. "This is too tight. It will only hurt more."

Hector wheezed a little from pain at having to hold his shirt up with his hands pulling at his chest. Isaiah reached for it, helping it pull it over his head so he could have full access to the bandages, unwrapping them with experienced cold hands.

Hector flinched at the touch of Isaiah's fingers, but as the wrappings loosened, his breathing came easier, more relieved.

Isaiah worked quietly. He had many questions, but he didn't trust himself not to bark orders. Hector saying no to him one more time that evening would break him. Arnie's authority to intervene felt borrowed, like something he shouldn't be doing.

Hector held himself stiffly, breathing through his clenched teeth. "Arnie?"

"Asleep. His temp is lower and he kept the meds in. The worst part is over." Isaiah finished unwrapping the bandages, wrapping them around his hand into a roll to dispose of. He almost whistled at the amount of bruises covering Hector's torse.

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh, why don't you." Hector held his hands to his sides defensively.

"This is no laughing matter."

Hector winced at Isaiah's stern tone. "I know. My mistake, okay? I went overboard. I never thought that-" he broke off with a pained breath. "I'm going to be more careful. I'm never going to be too weak to help him next time."

Isaiah regarded him thoughtfully, then sighed, the sternness falling off at the declaration. "Hey, I'm not saying anything. You are doing a good job with him. You were basically in charge of him since he was 12? And he survived just fine."

Hector's head went back a little at the praise.

"Part of being an adult is also realizing, when you can't do something," Isaiah said tentatively. "You know I don't mind helping. You don't have to be alone with this anymore."

Hector grunted something, glaring at his shirt.

Isaiah sighed, taking it and pulling it over Hector's head and helping him slide his arms in. Hector made an annoyed noise, but didn't stop him, pulling his feet up so he could lean against the bed's headboard, softened by pillows.

"I won all the fights, you know."

Isaiah chuckled. "Yes."

"More than that friend of yours. Your useless second."

Isaiah raised a quizzical eyebrow. What did that have to do with anything?

Hector leaned his head back, hands folded underneath him. "What exactly does he have that I don't?"

Isaiah frowned. "Oh." They sat in silence as Isaiah thought about the implications of that sentence. "Hex, come on. You don't have to win to deserve-."

"I never won enough of them," Hector growled. "Not enough for you to let me train with you. Or with Father. You kept me out of everything. What did I do wrong?" He looked up at Isaiah, seemingly younger in an unguarded way, his amber brown eyes wide and open.

Isaiah stiffened. "You did nothing wrong. It was never about winning or deserving things." He stood up, all the calm replaced by nervousness as the guilt settled over him like a second coat.

"Then what was it about?"

Isaiah stood with his back to Hector, breathing very very carefully so his voice wouldn't catch, so he wouldn't show how deeply upsetting that question was. He could see how Hector came up with that wrong assumption now, but he didn't have the words to dispose of it.

Because I didn't want you to go through Father's training. Because he promised me he wouldn't touch you, if I did what he wanted. Because keeping you out was the only way I came up with.

"Right. You are so eager to come, but you shut me out. Again." Hector's voice went rough and bitter at the end, picking up his anger just as quickly as he dropped it.

Isaiah smoothed out his expression, but it was he who couldn't meet Hector's eyes this time. His tongue was frozen, his heart clenching anxiously.

He didn't know if it would be right to tell Hector about the pack's biggest secret. He didn't know if Hector could take losing the image of his perfect father, no matter how skewed it was.

And even if Isaiah knew if he should tell, he wasn't sure he could.

“I’ll get you some painkillers,” Isaiah said into the heavy silence.

As if that could fix anything.

@bellysoupset

[whatsk-poppinhomies]

Pairing : Seo Changbin x F!Reader TW : angsty in the beginning and middle ; kind of crackish/funny at the end ; children ; parenthood ; Word Count : 4.3k Request : Anon : is there any way you could make a part 2 of changbin’s “don’t waste your tears on me” fic? from the angst spin the wheel?? 😅 A/N : idk why this took me so long to write, I'm trying to work on all my requests!! I might make Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays request days. I linked part 1 though for anyone who hasn't read it!!

“We spending the weekend at grammas?!” Your son cheered as you held his hand tightly, walking down the sidewalk towards the car. You had explained a little bit to him during the walk, and thankfully his excitement had gotten the best of him and you didn’t have to give him a real explanation of why. “Hwa Hwa coming too, right?” He asked, wide brown eyes staring up at you questioningly, and you tried to be as enthusiastic as he was when you nodded in agreement. 

It was so much easier to pull something like this off for a child his age, he didn’t ask the big questions, he simply wanted to know what you all were going to do over the weekend. Chunhwa on the other hand, was full of questions on the car ride over to Changmins school. It’s not like you could hide it from her, and you didn’t want to hide it from her either. She had the right to know that her father had finally returned home, and if she wanted, you would drop her back off at the house so she could see him. You weren’t going to keep the kids from him, but you also wanted him to know the pain that not only you went through, but the children as well. 

“Your phone has been ringing nonstop. So has mine.” Chunhwa announced as you pulled open the back door for your son to climb in. You quickly shook your head as you looked at her through the rearview mirror, and a quick look of understanding flashed across her face before she put on a fake, tight lipped smile. “Grandma just wanted to know when you were gonna be here. I let her know that you had to pick Changmin up from school first.” 

You hummed with false understanding at the lie as you helped buckle your son in before sprinting around to the drivers side and climbing in. “She can be so impatient sometimes… Let’s just mute our phones so I don’t get distracted on my way there, yeah?” You suggested, and Chunhwa nodded her head slowly, putting her phone on silent before dropping it into the glove compartment and then doing the same with yours. “So tell me, how was school today?” 

The house had never felt so empty before. Instead of it being filled with the heartwarming sounds of his family’s daily lives, there was only the ticking of the clock that hung in the living room, and his quiet footsteps as he walked through his home. 

He knew that it wouldn’t happen, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring at the clock, waiting for the minute hand to land on the exact time that you and the kids would come walking through the front door. Changmin would come running over to him after kicking off his shoes, already in the process of raving over everything that happened in class today while Chunhwa would excuse herself to her room to study. He’d listen intently to his son, remembering every single little detail that he told him before excusing himself to go see Chunhwa. She was so smart, and he was always so proud of her, but he worried about her studying so much, so he always tried to find some way to get her to take breaks. He missed the kids, he missed you. 

The way you’d smile so brightly at him when you walked through the front door, like you were seeing him again for the first time, the look of love in your eyes and the way you seemed so excited to press your lips to his and be held in his arms. He’d do anything for that moment again, to just hold you tight and never let you go. 

It’s not even like he purposely ignored you or the kids, he’d never do something like that, he loved the three of you more than anything. He had fucked up though, he had gotten so caught up in what he was doing that he didn’t think to even say hello, to text you or Chunhwa… How could he be so stupid? He lost everything because of one stupid mistake…He couldn’t handle it though, he couldn’t. The silence that surrounded him was excruciatingly loud, it was unbearable. He needed his family back. 

“Hey Hwa… It’s your dad… This is my fifth time trying to call you. I just want to know how school went, and if you got picked up… Did you make it to your grandparents alright? Please… Call me back… I love you. You’re the best daughter in the whole world… Tell your brother I love him too… Have your mom call me, please?” The beep sounded through the phone to let him know the time had run out for the message, and he quickly hung up, letting his phone drop to the couch beside him as his head fell forward, tears slowly beginning to pool in his eyes. 

Since the day he married you, there hadn’t been a night that passed where he didn’t have you curled up next to him in bed, the both of you falling asleep enveloped in the warmth of each other. Since the day his children were born, he had never missed a goodnight ritual, standing in the hall between both of their doors, his arms outstretched to give them their hugs and wish them sweet dreams, telling them both that he loved them before they retreated into their rooms to sleep. Not until those days that he had, in yours and the kids minds, completely disappeared. 

It was impossible to do anything. Dinner time came and passed, and he couldn’t even bring himself to eat anything, it just wouldn’t feel right sitting at the table by himself. He couldn’t sleep, and he wasn’t even going to try to attempt to sleep in his own bed, it would feel too empty, and he’d probably end up crying the entire night. 

What was worse was the fact that neither you, or Chunhwa had ever answered his calls or his texts, and while he knew that you were just doing to him what he had done to you, he just wanted to know that you and the children had gotten to your parents house alright. He just wanted to know that you all were okay. Of course, that’s what you had been trying to do for five days straight and he had never answered you… But were you really going to keep up with this? How was he supposed to go an entire weekend without you and the kids? He couldn’t… He couldn’t do that. 

“You know I love when you all visit, I love seeing you and the children… But I’m worried about you.” Your mom said as she sunk down into the cushion on the opposite end of the couch. This was the fourth time she had tried to start this conversation, all the other times the kids would run in and interrupt, but now that they were sleeping, she could actually talk to you. 

Not that you wanted to have the conversation in the first place. You had been thankful every single time Changmin would come running into the room, excitedly going on about everything that had happened since the last time he had seen her. Now the kids were sleeping, at least they said they were, and it had given your mother ample opportunity to pick up right where she had left off. “I don’t want to talk about it, mom. I don’t want to think about it, that’s why I’m here.” 

She hummed in thought, her eyes burning holes into your hand that had worn your wedding bands that were now sitting in your purse. “Running away doesn’t solve problems, especially marriage problems.” She tsked her tongue, shaking her head as she spoke. “This isn’t just some high school relationship that you can avoid and hope goes away. You’ve got children, Y/N.” 

Your eyes rolled as your head fell back, a loud groan leaving you as you stared up at the ceiling. “Yes, I know this, mom. The children are the reason I left in the first place.” You explained, finally turning to face her. You didn’t want to have to explain everything to her, but it was clear that you’d have to so she wouldn’t attempt to be a marriage counselor. “Five days, mom. He went without calling or texting for five days… And if it were just me, I wouldn’t have cared. I know he gets busy with work… But he didn’t even call to check in on the kids. He never called Chunhwa back… He hurt my babies, and I can’t just let that slide.” 

“So you did this for the kids…?” She quizzed, and you nodded in agreement. Of course you did it for them, everything you did was for them. “But surely they’d rather be spending the weekend with their father that they haven’t seen in five days rather than being here with their grandparents.” She mused, and you couldn’t help but narrow your eyes at her, your lips set in a straight line as you stared. “And I’m sure that Changbin is suffering enough right now… I’ve never seen a man who loves his children and his wife more than he does… So, tell me… Are you really doing this for the children… Or are you doing it for yourself because you’re upset?” 

Dammit… She really did know everything. It’s not like you could lie to her either, you never could, not even when you were younger. “I just… I don’t know how he could forget about us, mom. I’m not upset for me… I’m upset for them. Changmin thought we were getting a divorce for Christ’s sake.” You ran your hands through your hair, sighing with aggravation. “I’m upset for them, I’m angry for them. What kind of father…” You trailed off, letting your palms slide down your face, wiping away the stray tears that had begun to fall. “I’ve never seen them look so hurt. They love him, I love him… What he did…” 

“What he did wasn’t okay… But it’s not unforgivable.” Your mom continued for you, her hand moving to ruffle your hair before she sat back and relaxed into the couch. “He’s a father, he’s also an idol. He’s living two very different lives at the same exact time, and it’s easy to lose track of things. I’m not trying to make excuses for him, but you said it yourself, Changmin thought you were getting a divorce… Do you think that being here will make him think any differently?” 

She was right, of course she was, it was rare for your mother to ever be wrong about anything. “Well… I can’t do anything about it right now. The kids are already in bed, they’re sleeping. I’m sure he’s already sleeping too. It’s late, mom… We should both head get some rest.” Your mom hummed in agreement, although you knew that she knew the only reason you said that was to change the subject, to end the conversation entirely. There was nothing else you could say to her, she had already proven her point. 

“Right… Sleep on it. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing for your family, you always do.” And with that, she had ended the conversation, pushing herself up off the couch and heading for the stairs. “Get some sleep now, hon. Think about everything. Okay?” 

The thunder crashed as lightning lit up the dark gray sky, the morning sun unable to shine through the thick cloud cover that brought hammering rains along with it. “Wanna go outside…” Your son moped at the breakfast table, dismally staring out the window beside him as you and your mother worked on preparing the food. “Want it to go away… Stupid rain.” He huffed, his chubby cheeks propped up against his fist as he glared at the raindrops that trickled down the window. 

“We wouldn’t have such pretty flowers and green grass and big trees if it didn’t rain, Min.” You explained as you filled his little cup, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head before patting his back. “How ‘bout you go make sure Hwa is awake so she can eat breakfast too. Hmm?” He grumbled out an annoyed okay before jumping from his chair and heading to the stairs, mumbling incoherently as he walked away. 

“Oh, I remember when you used to be the exact same way.” Your mother joked, laughing to herself as she shook her head. “You’d get so mad at me over the craziest things. Looks like that trait carried over.” She continued teasing, and just as you were about to begin defending your childhood actions that you couldn’t even begin to remember, the door knocked. “Can you go get that, hon? It’s probably just a package, the delivery person doesn’t want it to get all soaked on the porch.” 

You rushed over to the door, throwing it open, preparing yourself to step out into the torrential downpour to grab the apparent package, but you were met with your favorite person, the only person in the world that could break your heart and fix it at the same time. “Changbin…?” You whispered out his name, shocked that he was there, but even more shocked by the way he looked. 

There were dark circles under his eyes, his hair dripping from the rain that he was standing in, his clothes soaked, he was shivering, and even though the raindrops were pouring down his face, you could tell that he had been crying, and he still was crying. 

“I can’t… I can’t do this…” He stammered, not even trying to move past you to come in the house and get out of the rain, he just stood there, continuing to stare at you as though you were the only thing he needed, the only thing he wanted, and you were starting to think it was the truth when his hands shakily moved out to grab yours. “I couldn’t sleep last night… I couldn’t eat. I need you and the kids home with me… I’m sorry… I love you too much… I just need you all… Please…” 

You grabbed his hands, pulling him into the house and wrapping your arms around him, trying to warm him, and you could feel just how deep the rain had soaked him, his body so cold, it was so unfamiliar, it almost felt foreign. “You shouldn’t have driven all the way over here with no sleep… You could have gotten hurt. You need to eat… What the hell, Binnie?” You scolded him, quickly undoing the zipper on her jacket and pulling it off his shoulders. 

At that moment it felt like the two of you were the only people in the world, all you cared about was each other. You loved him, you didn’t want to leave him, you didn’t want to hurt him, you just wanted him to feel what you and the kids felt. “You… called me Binnie…” He whispered, the words catching you off guard for a moment. You always called him Binnie, that was his name. 

“Of course I did…” You murmured, stepping away for a moment to hang his jacket on the rack before going back to him, your hands felt so warm when they moved up to cup his red tinted cheeks. “I love you… That will never change…” You felt his cheeks twitch, the corners of his lips pulling up in a slight smile as he eyes softened, his pupils dilated as he stared at you. 

Were you about to kiss him? Absolutely. You missed the feeling of his lips against yours, the way his hands would hold onto the ends of your shirt so tightly as he tried to keep you close. You were slowly closing the distance between the two of you when you heard your son shout from behind you. “Dad! Dads here!” His tiny feet sounding so heavy against the floor as he ran over to where you and Changbin were standing. 

Bins smile only widened when he saw his son, but his eyes glossed over, and no matter how much he tried to blink it away, you could tell that he was once again on the verge of tears. “There you are!” Changbins voice cracked as he bent down to scoop his son up, holding him tightly to his chest. “I missed you so much, pal.” His hands smoothed through your son's hair as he held him close. “You’ve been good for your mom and your gramma, right?” 

Your son wiggled to get free of Changbins hold, giggling loudly as he nodded his head. “Yessss!” He squealed, finally running off once his feet were on the ground. “I get Hwa Hwa, she’s upstairs reading again.” He rushed to the stairs, your eyes following him until you heard the sound of his feet ascending before turning back to look at Changbin. 

“Come in and get some coffee, Bin. You’re gonna catch a cold.” You murmured, waiting for him to kick his shoes off before leading him into the kitchen. Your mom had at some point left the room, most likely to give the two of you the privacy that you needed to talk, and you were glad, but there was still some lingering tension between you and Bin, or maybe it was just awkwardness. “How do you want it?” You asked, standing next to the coffee pot, the cup already in your hands as you waited for his answer. 

“Were you actually going to come back home?” His voice was closer than you expected, and when you turned around, he was standing right behind you, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. “You packed a lot of stuff for yourself and the kids… I just… It didn’t seem like you were packing for just the weekend…” 

It was hard to look him in the eyes, he looked devastated, and maybe it was the fact that your son had his eyes and you hated seeing your son cry, maybe that’s what had you dropping your gaze to the floor to avoid the potential heartache that would come with seeing Bin cry. “I just wanted you to understand how we felt…” You murmured, keeping your eyes low. “I was gonna come home though, I was gonna bring them home…” 

“When?” He questioned, his head shaking in disbelief. “How long were you planning on being here?” His fingers ran through his already tousled hair that was finally beginning to dry. 

The last thing you wanted was an argument, not when the kids were around, and surely not at your mothers house. That’s why you were thankful when you heard your daughter coming down the stairs, her footsteps far quieter than those of her brother. “Hey dad..” She mumbled, shoving her hands into the pockets of her pajama pants as she made her way into the kitchen. Changbins arms were outstretched, waiting for her to walk right into them for a hug, but she instead walked right past him, and it was like you could hear his heart shattering from the silent maneuver. “Good morning, mom.” And as if on purpose, just to rub in his face that she didn’t hug him, her arms wrapped around you for a hug. 

“Chunghwa… Honey, I-” Changbin started, his words cut off by the sound of the chair being pulled away from the table, dragging across the tiled floor with a loud screech. She was upset, everyone knew that, and she was showing it in a way that most teenagers would. It was rude, but she was getting her point across in the only way she really knew how to. 

“Were you cheating on mom?” She asked once she had dropped down into the chair, and you knew that both yours and Changbins jaws dropped at the accusation. “Yeori from class said that her dad cheated and he said it was just a work thing too. Now her parents are divorced. Are you and mom getting a divorce?” It was like being in an interrogation room, the way she looked at him, the way she spoke. She was pissed, and you’d usually be upset with her for using that kind of tone with her father, but this was different, she had every right to be as angry as she was. “Is that why you didn’t respond to any of my texts or calls? You didn’t want your new girlfriend to know about your old family? Did you get bored? Are we not good enough?” Her voice broke at the end though, she could only stay strong for so long before the dam broke and all the emotions she was feeling took control. 

Changbins jaw was slacked, his eyes filled with tears as he stared at your daughter, the accusations hurt worse than anyone could imagine, but the pain that he felt at being accused, he knew, was nowhere near the pain that his daughter was feeling right now. “Chunghwa…” He whispered her name, his head shaking rapidly as tears poured down his cheeks, much like the rain that was pouring outside the windows. “I love your mom so much, I love you and your brother so so much… I would never do anything like that. I’m sorry, sorry that I didn’t answer you… I didn’t answer your mom. I got busy and… I messed up… But the three of you… You’re good enough, you’re more than good enough. You deserve a father better than me… A…” His voice was beginning to shake with silent sobs, his body trembling as he tried to hold them back. “A father that will be there for you and your brother when you need me to be… And… Your mother… she’s so beautiful… She deserves someone that can love her better than I can…” His hands ran over his face to wipe away the tears, his cheeks were blotchy and red when his arms fell to his sides again. “I haven’t been the best dad, or the best husband… But I’m trying… And I’ll keep trying… You’re my family, you’re all I have… And I don’t want to lose the three greatest things to ever happen to me…” 

Changbin was always an emotional person, he wore his heart on his sleeve, but right now his emotions were so raw. Seeing his daughter upset, knowing that he was the sole reason for her being that sad, it hurt him in a way that no one else could ever hurt him. “I just… I want to go home… I missed you…” Chunghwa could barely even whisper out the words, they were choked off and you wanted nothing more than to pull her into a hug and tell her everything would be okay. Changbin was faster than you though, pulling her up out of the chair and wrapping her in a bear hug. “You can’t… You can’t do that again!” She sobbed into his chest, sniffling loudly, the surge of emotion between the both of them was uncontrollable it seemed. 

“I won’t… I promise I won’t… I’ll never leave like that again…” He reassured her, his own words punctuated by small hiccups as he calmed down from crying. “I’m so sorry, Hwa…” 

“Oh my god!” Chunghwa groaned as she walked through the front door, dropping her bag and kicking off her shoes right at the entrance before storming off to her room and slamming the door shut behind her. Changbin and Changmin followed behind her, your son laughing hysterically as your husband sheepishly grinned at you. 

“What did you do?” You questioned, helping your son with his bag and his jacket while staring up at Changbin. It was the first time since Chunghwa had been in middle school that Changbin did after school pickup for the kids, but he had offered, and you weren’t going to say no. 

“In my defense…” He started, and you began to mentally prepare yourself for what he was going to say and how you’d have to help defend him to your daughter whenever she decided to reemerge from her room. “The boy was getting way too close to her! His arm was wrapped around her and it looked like he was trying to give her one of those hugs where he just… He was too close to my little girl. I can’t watch that! I won’t let that happen!” 

“Dad embarrassed Hwa in front of her boyfriend!” Changmin teased, clearly enjoying the embarrassment of his older sister, and you shot him a stern look before he ran off to his room giggling loudly. You had known about the boyfriend for a while now, but judging by Changbins expression of pure shock, it was clear that he had yet to be informed about it. 

“Her boyfriend?!” He was visibly cringing at the thought of it. “My little girl isn’t old enough to have a boyfriend yet! When did this happen?! Why didn’t anyone tell me about this? When?!” He followed you into the kitchen, leaning against the counter, his mouth still agape and his eyes wide as he stared at you. You couldn’t help but laugh at the way he was acting, but you could only imagine the embarrassment your daughter felt right now. “Oh no…” He murmured, his face morphing into one of realization as he slumped against the counter, his head in his hands. “She’s gonna hate me forever… Isn’t she? She’s more mad at me now than she was back when I was gone for a week… Oh my god… She’s never gonna talk to me again… Maybe I should go into hiding…?” 

You snorted loudly, turning to face him completely as you cupped his cheeks, pressing a kiss to his lips before speaking. “Nope… No hiding, honey. You’re going to enjoy the wrath of our teenage daughter that you embarrassed in front of not only her friends, but her very first boyfriend too.” You kissed him once more, biting your lip to stifle the laughter that continued to build when you saw the slight hint of worry and what looked to be fear flash in his eyes. “I love you so much, honey. We’re so happy to have you back.” 

[arriansarchive]

Jacob Portman/Male!Reader Drabble

I literally love him so much

He's just amazing

Argument won't be word for word because I finished the books a WHILE ago

Okay this is kind of like a parallel to one of my Emma fics where it's made up time whenever he and Emma break up

Summary: You talk to Jacob in the car whenever he and Emma have their fight.

You had woken up slightly in the dim light of the car. It was parked under a big bridge, and it was coaxing you back to sleep whenever you heard hushed voices in the front seat.

Not opening your eyes so you could eavesdrop, you listened to the strained whispering. Emma and Jacob were in the front seat, you remembered. You always found it intriguing when they fought due to the fact that you had a natural pull to the home-wrecking newcomer.

"You only see me as my grandpa! Just admit that's how it's always been; you aren't over him!" Jacob hissed.

"Jacob, I don't think of you as Abe! You're your own person, and I'm more over Abe than I ever have been." Emma seemed like she was starting to get exasperated with him.

Jacob huffed. "Sure you do. That's exactly why you tried to call him."

"You're obviously not listening to me. I'm going out of the car to get some air before we wake Enoch and don't hear the end of it." She slammed open the car door and got out.

"Yeah, you're obviously worried about not waking everybody." Jacob muttered.

You chuckled lightly and opened your eyes. The look on his face was priceless. It betrayed how angry he was, but there was also another look in his eyes that you couldn't really place.

"You both woke me up a while ago." You explained. "I heard everything."

Jacob turned back forward to look out the window solemnly. "I just don't know what to do anymore."

You drummed your fingers on the car door, trying to think of something to console him. You really didn't have much to say though; it's not like you cared that they broke up. You were pretty happy actually.

"Well, you want to know what I think?" You asked.

"Not really, but go ahead."

"I think that you both are a little bit stupid."

Jacob turned back to look at you with a dumbfounded look. You stared at him right back, definitely not backing down on this one.

"That's right; you're stupid. You, Jacob, are stupid for thinking a girl who dated your grandfather would think of you any different. And Emma is stupid for thinking she was over him."

"Wise words, I guess." Jacob rolled his eyes at your explanation.

"No, true words." You smiled.

Taking a leap of faith, you reached your hand over and put it on top of his that was resting on the middle console between you. He looked down at your hands, furrowing his brows.

"Just, you know, for moral support." You shrugged and a sly smile reached your face.

Despite his earlier worries, Jacob smiled too.

[tremendousconnoisseurgardener]

Ruthless! Player.

A Poppy Playtime AU

Author's Note: hello! This is my first time writing a Poppy Playtime fic. This is a different version of The Player, us, from the game, my version to be more exact. It will be a series of 4 chapters (for now), each one taking place in one of the game chapters. Some will be divided by parts.

This first chapter will be more of a way to show the Players life and intentions, as well his problems. Hope you like it!

Ps: “Reader” is referred as “Player”

Introduction:

Player: The Player is a already in their middle age; when younger, they went to a war and fought for a year on the battlefield. The war undoubtedly left scars, both physical and mentally. Although cold most of the time, they are calm, they don’t want to get involved in fights. When they came back home, after the war, they became a parent and started to take care of their child alone, after their partner left them for another person.

Player’s Child: he is a young man with a bright future ahead, he and Player would help each other a lot. He started working in Playtime’s Factory to gain some money, so that he can pay for his college. But, he disappeared, along with all staff from the factory.

Warnings!

This fics will have sensitive topics:

PTSD

Death

Blood

Gore

Swears

Consumption of alcohol and smoking

If you do not like any of these topics, you are free to leave. Have a nice day/night.

Chapter 0: Prologue.

August 8th, 1995

Player sat down on their couch in their living room as they read a pamphlet, it was for a Veteran Meeting Event to celebrate the heroic actions of those veterans. Player was happy because they will be able to see some of his comrades once again.

their son came in and sat beside them, he was adjusting his uniform to get ready for work

“Oh, it’s the event today? I thought it was next week.” He said, a bit disappointed

“Yeah, is it a problem?” Player asked

“No no… It’s because,Today is the “Bring your family to Work” day at the factory. The staff can bring their children and parents to take a look around the place for free, I thought it would be fun to bring you for a visit.” The son explained

“I see. Maybe i can leave the event early and-“ He was interrupted by his son

“Don’t worry. This meeting is very important to you.” The son said “Don’t worry about me, I just wanna see you happy. Ok?” He hugged Player, which in return made them smile.

“Ok… I love you son.”

“Love you too. Gotta go now, see you later!” The son said, waving a goodbye, he went to the front door and exited the house.

Who knew that those would be the last words that Player would hear from their son?

.

.

.

(The Present)

August 8th, 2005

After their son’s disappearance, Player did not take it very well. But, you can’t blame them, the only family they had is now gone, without explanation.

Player wakes up on their bed, the alarm blaring beside them, they turn it off and starts getting ready for their job, as a delivery guy. They walks around the house retrieving their clothes and going to the bathroom; the place where they live was a mess, it looked like it wasn’t cleaned in weeks, empty bottles of alcohol layed around the ground, dirty dishes overflowing the sink, it wasn’t a pleasant scenery

After taking a bath, Player put on their working clothes and went to the delivery agency to start his shift. There, some colleagues waved them a good morning, but they gave them only the cold shoulder. They sorted and placed the packages inside a truck, getting ready to deliver the boxes of products. They drove the vehicle around the town, finding the addresses for the products. It was a very repetitive task.

Finally, after delivering most of the packages, it was already night and Player’s shift ended; they brought back the truck to the agency and went home to take some rest. Not before passing by a liquor store and buying a whisky bottle. drunk ass

On the doorstep of their house, Player saw an envelope with his name on it, he picked it up and started to inspect the object. They noticed a logo from a company stamped on the envelope… It was Playtime’s logo…

Player kept staring at the package placed on a table, while they took sips from a cup full of whisky and smoked a cigarette; they were rather scared to open it, even questioning if it was real. But, curiosity got them first; using a knife, Player cut open the package and pulled out a letter and a vhs tape written “Vintage Poppy Commercial”

They read the letter, their eyes widened about what it was written.

“This… can’t be real.” Player said.

“Everyone thinks we dissapeared 10 years ago, wer’e still here. Find the flower.”

That’s what was written on the letter.

After chugging down half of the whisky bottle and being clearly drunk, Player laid on their bed and went to sleep, trying to forget what they had just read.

.

.

“Find me. Save me, I need your help.”

Player woke up shocked, their eyes shot open. They sat on his bed while his face was covered in sweat. The alarm clock marked 6AM.

“It was just a dream.” They assured themselves. They dreamed about their son, the factory, and heard a voice talking to them.

Player grabbed the again letter that was laying on the ground and took a closer look, noticing the clear spelling errors of a 5 year old and how it was written with red crayons. Maybe it was a prank, but why would a kid do that? And if so, how did they know their address? The disappearance happened 10 years ago, most people moved on or just don’t remember. That gotta be a clue, it doesn't make sense.

“Maybe I should bring that to the police.” Player suggested “no… they will think I’m crazy…” they said with a sad tone.

They grabbed, inside their pocket, a photo of them and their son when younger and looked at it, a wave of determination started to spread inside.

“I guess I don’t have any choice, I’m doing it myself!” Player said, getting up from the bed

They started preparing for their new mission, investigating the old factory. Player grabbed only the necessary, they opened up the closet and retrieved an old hunting rifle, caressing the wooden part of the gun. Besides that, they retrieved 5 bullets.

“That's enough, hopefully.” They said, putting the small amount of ammunition inside their pocket.

Not only that, but Player got a hunting knife, a flashli and, of course, a whole ass bottle of whisky and a pack of cigarettes, placing them inside their jacket pocket. Get some help my guy

Player exited the house and got inside their car, turning it on and drove to the abandoned factory. The path was long, it took almost one hour to get there, but after sometime driving on the road, they finally saw the factory in the distance.

A metal fence was blocking the entrance for the factory parking lot, but Player only accelerated the car even more, breaking the gate open, the lock and chains being thrown away. With a screech, the car stopped in the middle of the big parking lot that the factory had.

Player exited their car and lit up a cigarette, puffing the smoke while eyeing the place.

“Well, if I don’t find my son… At least I might find answers.” They said, throwing the cigarette butt on the ground and stepping on it. They grabbed the rifle and carried it on their shoulder “Honestly, I actually wanted to visit this factory before.” Player commented, while opening the front door from the building. With a deep breath, they entered the abandoned place.

.

.

.

(To be continue)

[demoiselettes]

Heyo! Thought I'd drop in with a request, but realized I couldn't tell if they were closed or not, so! If they're open, I have a small (I hope?) request/idea for you! If they're closed... Well, refer to the end of this for the relevant information (it's relevant either way, I'm just saying you can skip the request).

Anyways-

The request: So... I was wondering if you could do a multi character scenario or something? I had an idea where Y/N (probably from our world or something, for plot convenience) manages to get the power to remove Kagaya's curse (plat! Relationship with him. Like, he thinks of them as his child?) But, the repercussions of said power is that the curse is now transferred to them and they hide they have it until they physically can't anymore? Um... Yeah. But, basically, what would everyone's reactions be?

But, yeah. That's it for the request.

NOW!

The relevant information:

Your writing is amazing. Keep it up. YOU are amazing. I hope your life is going well, and that it only gets better. Anyways, have a good day/afternoon/night/whatever-it-is-when-you-see-this. 💜

Unknown Angel

Pairing: Hashiras x reader/ Platonic! Kagaya x reader

Category: angst

Warning(s)/note(s):gn! Reader, death, talk and descriptions of diseases(Kagaya’s curse), platonic! Kagaya, reader got isekai-d into kny, author took a deep dive down Japanese mythology/folklore but i’m no expert so i apologize for any inaccuracies and feel free to correct me! Not proofread

A/n: OMG OMG OMG THIS IS SO SWEET thank you so much for the kind words, it really means a lot to me that you enjoy my writing! And thank you for reading my fics! I hope you have a wonderful day/afternoon/night as well alongside all the joy in life 💕 also! My requests are open! Creating a request rules post has completely escaped my mind but i’ll get to it soon

It was the soothing tranquility, strangely yet comfortingly frolicking around you in what you imagined to be similar to the mist that slightly alleviated the inner turmoil that was eating at your insides.

Even with the Master’s requests of being given an Estate, you had asked to be accommodated in a regular minka, far from the Estates of the hashiras, far from the Master himself, far from prying eyes and into a secluded location only the leader of the Corps and yourself knew about. It had seemed ridiculous, you knew you had been surely criticized by the other slayers(which was further backed by the fact that Sanemi had all too happily sneered in your direction upon hearing of your request), but you knew you needed to be far away from everyone else to be able to put your plan into action. You would not be a burden. Instead, you would remove the burden from their shoulders.

One would think, being transported into an anime would be the root of newfound love, friendships and all the goodies. But was the really true, when you were here with a role to fulfill? And not your typical become a demon-slayer and defeat Muzan role though..perhaps you’d play a small role in achieving that. On your first night when Shinobu Kocho had graciously volunteered to house you, your sleep had been interrupted by a shikigami. Perhaps, waking up screaming in the middle of the night would alert the entire Butterfly Estate which is exactly what happened. And Shinobu Kocho had barged into your room with her sword at the ready. But when she’d set sight on the bird, she reassured you- and you had the feeling her patience wore thin- that crows often flew into the manor at night.

But crows don’t bring foreboding news, do they? After Kocho had retreated back to her room, it was in a dry voice that the so called crow had announced your purpose amidst lots of squawking; to rid the Ubuyashiki line of their curse.

It seemed to wait for you to pick your jaw back up from the ground before continuing with its explanation. What you had previously mistaken to be a mission to kill Muzan(which before you had gotten thrown into the anime, you had thought to be the only way to remove the curse) turned out to actually be a piece of cake.

Fruit cake.

Removing the curse as a whole would be impossible without the death of Muzan—and you had taken pride in saying told ya to the crow who promptly pecked you— but it could be transferred from one body to another. In this case, from Kagaya to yourself. You had visibly winced at that, contemplating the pros and the cons. You had little choice but to accept as you knew you were not skilled enough to become slayer. Perhaps this little contribution the corps could go a long way, right? Even if it meant gambling your life away.

You had performed the ritual unbeknownst to anyone, spilling your blood which had sealed the path the curse would take to leave the Master’s body and enter yours. You had watched as the veins on his forehead lessened and more appeared on yours instead. Day by day, his health improved while yours deteriorated. Though you felt the satisfaction at being useful for once, it did hurt to say goodbye to your life, watching it recede little by little.

The shikigami stayed by your side, that much you were grateful for. In your stead, it flew around the Corps, gathering information and reporting back to you. You knew then, that their happiness was short-lived, because they had found a new source of worry. You.

It seemed to them that you had completely skipped off the radar. Though Kagaya remained true to his words of not disclosing your location, he was being pestered so to speak about your current state.

When he did visit, the truth which you had tried so hard to conceal was at last revealed. He had nearly fallen when witnessing your state. You mirrored himself when he was younger, sicklier. Nothing coming from you helped ease the tension and at the end, all he could do was cradle your weak body like a child’s and weep.

The hashiras knew something was wrong when their had returned and carefully avoided the topic of interest. What would he tell them? That you were dying? That you had done something which should place you at the head of the Corps because you were more deserving of the place than him. But they deserved to know. In their absence, the curse had advanced too far— in fact it seemed to have quickened its pace after the transmission— and by the time Muzan would be defeated..

You hadn’t been expecting a reunion or anything. You hadn’t thought of throwing around a pity party. Perhaps it was unfair to them, but you had thought it better to drift off into the afterlife without informing anyone. Your reasoning was that it would lessen the pain. Besides, it’s not like mattered.

Why, then, was your shikigami trying to chase them away from your house?

The first person to materialize by your side was Mitsuri. Her voice turned shrill when she tried, tried to ask you what you had done but the hiccups and sobbing made it hard for her to fully form sentences and she took to instead hugging you, sobbing into your shoulder. While the others didn’t have such a hysterical reaction, they were still stunned, watching the scene unfold. They seemed unsure of how to react and you didn’t blame them. Oh, if only they hadn’t come. Your sight had been long lost to the curse but you knew by the sound of the footsteps and the by the rough skin of the hands that was tracing the scarred skin on your forehead, that Sanemi was also worried.

Your skin pricked from their gazes, you knew they had gotten closer. Maybe they were surrounding you? You could only offer a sad smile and you felt Mitsuri sob a little harder. Throughout the time you had spent with them, though short, you had built a special bond with each of them(though some of them blatantly refused to admit it). And now, they were watching your lifeline disappear and just as unexpectedly as you had appeared into their lives, you would be gone. They understood better than anyone that lives were precious things, that it could so easily be ripped away. Becoming a member of the Demon Slayer Corps wad akin to signing your death warrant. But you weren’t even a part of it. You weren’t dying because of a demon. It was on your own volition that you had helped them, washing away a centuries old curse.

This was not a fairytale because if it were, perhaps they wouldn’t have been by your side as you took in your last breath.

[wideeyedloner]

[fic] [sga | mckay/sheppard] we're still here

Summary: "We're here. That's our status." ----- “‘So long, Rodney,’” comes McKay’s slurred mimicry of what Sheppard’s last words to him could have been. His attempt at a baleful glare is dimmed by obvious sleep deprivation. “Asshole.”

ao3

He doesn’t bother knocking. He does lock the door behind him, though.

Rodney is face-down on his bed, hand still half on his tablet screen. His eyes are hazy, and he had clearly been in the middle of something when his brain gave up on him. Sheppard tosses the turkey sandwich onto his back, causing him to jolt into something resembling wakefulness.

“‘So long, Rodney,’” comes McKay’s slurred mimicry of what Sheppard’s last words to him could have been. His attempt at a baleful glare is dimmed by obvious sleep deprivation. “Asshole.”

Sheppard leans against the wall next to the bed while McKay sits up to wipe the drool from his mouth and nibble with uncharacteristic daintiness at his food. It’s the most standard-sized sandwich they have.

“I didn’t exactly have time to recite a sonnet before flying off to my death.”

He stands there, watching McKay slowly chew the corner of his sandwich until he decides enough is enough. He pushes the tablet towards McKay’s feet and sits at the head of the bed beside him.

McKay’s eyes are trying to focus somewhere in the direction of the doorway. “I’m sorry about Lieutenant Ford.”

That’s why Sheppard is here. He’d laid in the dark, eyes pointed at the ceiling but still seeing Ford’s wrathful expression as the transporter doors closed between them. He was–is–responsible. For Ford. Markham. Smith. Sumner. He’d figured Rodney would be up, detoxing from the amphetamines or doing a postmortem on one thing or another, and he’d been right.

“Yeah,” is all he can really say. He looks at the tablet by their feet, gestures with his chin. “What were you working on?”

McKay tosses the rest of the sandwich on his nightstand and blinks tears from his bloodshot eyes. “Grodin, he–” Tears well up again and he sets his jaw, shakes his head, and instead picks up his tablet and shows Sheppard his weekly agenda. “Very few remaining have the interdisciplinary skills to be as useful in the field, and I’m not putting Zelenka at risk by sending him out there with any regularity. I’ve been looking at where it would make sense to squeeze in worksho-o-o–” McKay interrupts his high-speed explanation with a protracted yawn, opening his mouth wide and stretching. “Workshops.”

“That’s–a really good idea, Rodney.”

“I’m so…” McKay’s chin trembles, and he stares at where his hands sit, face-up in his lap.

“Hey,” Sheppard says, waiting until McKay’s eyes slowly come up to meet his. “Hey. Think you can sleep?” McKay nods, glassy-eyed.

Sheppard switches the lights off with a thought, ignoring McKay’s bitter ‘show-off,’ placing the tablet on the nightstand beside him. He gets his boots and gear off, helps McKay with his, and pulls the sheet up over them both.

McKay is pretty rank from a week of amphetamine usage, stress sweat, and not showering. But this quiet space, with McKay’s overheated body and heavy breathing, is the reassurance he needed. Atlantis is still standing, most of them remain to fight another day, and McKay is here to keep his eyes on the horizon while Sheppard watches his six.

It’s unlike anything Sheppard has had anywhere else. Better than the wind in his hair on a flat stretch of highway, the view of the sky from a ferris wheel, or the freedom of flight.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” McKay murmurs, barely awake.

Sheppard grins at him. “Ditto.”

[flownwrong]

no tether (star trek: discovery fic)

Burnham/Rayner, rated M; tags: post s05e05 Mirrors, PWP, praise kink, ~3200 words

A/N: Fair warning: I'm not very familiar with Star Trek universe. I am here mainly through the misfortune of being obsessed with a certain Canadian actor. So if anything doesn't make sense — you know who to blame.

read on ao3

The hour is just about to turn from late into early when Michael finds him tucked into a narrow nook, in a hallway that's mostly deserted during all shifts.

He's sitting on the floor, tucked into the corner, one knee pulled up, a hand with a drink resting on it. Likely too wired to sleep, too suffocated in the solitude of his quarters. That's why she comes here, anyway. It's rare for them to be off the bridge at the same time; figures that they would end up in the same spot.

She approaches slowly, makes sure she doesn't creep up on him. Rayner doesn't move, eyes fixed on the floor, or, no—his profile is illuminated by soft bluish light. A screen, then.

"Hey," she says, leaning against the wall. "You wouldn't take the chair, but you'd steal my hiding spot, huh?"

"Good morning to you too, Captain." Rayner looks up and raises his glass in a toast. "Hiding spot?"

"Well, isn't that what you're here for?"

His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Oh, I'm just catching up on my reading."

"Kellerun classics?"

His mouth lifts at one side, that quiet pleased almost-smile she never quite expects. "Terran, actually."

She leans down to see, raises her eyebrows. "Odyssey. You're full of surprises."

He shuts it down and shrugs. "A good book can save a life." He gives her a flash of a wink.

Michael laughs, caught off guard. He watches her and takes a sip of his drink.

She lowers herself to the floor and scoots until her back meets the opposite wall. The toes of their boots touch in the middle. He doesn't move away.

"So, what's keeping you up?"

"Could ask you the same question." Rayner's eyes are fixed on her face, intense, and for a second, she struggles for words.

"Nothing. Everything. All of this"—she waves her hand, trying to point it all out, the rest of the ship, the mission—"is new. Like nothing I've done before."

He huffs an approximation of a laugh. "You could say that." He doesn't sound nearly as bitter as before, and it's a relief she didn't know she craved.

Still, she's not sure where they stand on this, where the lines are drawn, here, huddled away when they should be sleeping. She clears her throat.

"The things I saw—in the time cycles, and today."

She tries to think of an explanation. Rayner keeps silent, waiting.

"The could have beens. They're hard to shut out."

He shrugs and looks up, out the viewport. "Yeah. Never did well with those."

"Neither have I." It's late, and they're both exhausted, and she's been through way too much weird to bother, so she nudges his boot with her own. "What are you going to do? After, I mean?"

He hums dismissively. "Does it matter?"

Yes, Michael wants to say, of course it does. I want to know what you're waiting for. I want to know if you'll stay. Instead, she says, "Oh? Nowhere you would go? Home?"

Rayner looks uncomfortable, hunches in on himself. When he speaks, his voice is low, like he hopes she won't hear. "Kind of supposed I'd go out before I go home."

She'd be taken aback, except it sounds exactly like him. "Just like that?"

He gives her a challenging look, a rare one that make his face unreadable. "Would you choose any different?"

Would she? He's thought about this, Michael realises, is used to the thought. She forgets, sometimes, how much older he is. Her thoughts are filled with hope, fear, longing—she hasn't chosen how she wants to go, not yet.

Still, there's something here he isn't sharing. She files it away, out of both curiosity and necessity, and reaches out to squeeze his knee. "I don't believe you."

"No?" His sharp features are tense, his cheeks hollowed like he's gritting his teeth.

"No. For one, it would take the heat death of the universe to put you down."

He snorts. "That's flattering."

She ignores him, goes on while she has an in, "But what I mean is that there's too much wonder in you, Rayner. You don't want to go down fighting. You're out here because you want this"—she nods at the stars—"to last." And there's something you left undone, she doesn't add.

He worries at his bottom lip, one of his minute tells. His eyelashes brush his cheeks, a startlingly gentle image.

Michael tilts her head, trying to catch his eye. "Am I wrong?"

Rayner's still for a moment, then shakes his head, lips a thin line, like it costs him. "No. You're not."

"Yeah." She strokes her thumb lightly across his knee. His skin feels feverish through the fabric of his uniform, and she remembers the Kellerun run hotter than humans. He looks down at her hand, swipes his eyes up, over her knees, her chest, shoulders. When he meets her gaze, very slowly, there's a quiet, almost sweet expectation in his look.

She clears her throat. "You haven't finished your drink."

"You want it?" His smile is soft.

She hums an agreement and reaches for his glass, less than a finger of light amber liquid left in it, and he passes it carefully, his fingertips brushing hers. She expects the drink to be acidic, sweet and excessive in all the ways something called citrus mash should be, since she heard the name about seventeen times today, but it's—wow, it's a whiskey. Strong, fragrant, with an aftertaste she can't place, a sharp burn.

She coughs. "Wow. This is good."

"Fair warning, this one kicks." He looks pleased at her surprise, his whole shape looser, waiting.

Michael shakes her head, showing him what feels like the tenth smile of the night. "Thanks for the heads-up. It's good."

"Yeah? There's more where that came from."

"Not the bar?"

"Oh, no. My quarters."

"Oh," she says, appreciative. "You have a bottle with you?"

"As I learned today, keeping a good bar can prove motivational," he says, dead serious.

"Very practical."

His eyes flicker down to her hands and back. "What can I say, I'm a practical guy."

She chuckles. "Yeah, you are."

They breathe in silence for a little while, just watching each other, and Michael knows it will have to be her call. And, oh—she wants it. Wants to not think about the clues, and failed relationships, and the bridge, wants to feel good and make someone feel good—and this is oddly uncomplicated. If there's anyone on this ship she can trust with this, it's Rayner.

"I could join you. For another glass, I mean." She counts down the steps. Three.

He gives her a hard, no-bullshit look. Waiting for her to cave. When all she does is look back, he says, "I suppose you could." Two.

They get up silently, in sync. It feels good, them on the same page, an already familiar hum, the only new thing in it the simmering anticipation.

One.

As soon as they clear his door, Rayner turns, blocking her way into the room. "Captain."

"Michael," she says. She won't do this in command, not to him, and not to herself.

He nods. "Michael. Do you actually want me to pour you a drink?"

An out, then. For her or for himself, though, she's not sure. She's halfway through a no, not really when he raises a hand, halting her words, staring her down. Fine.

"Yes," she offers, as firm as she can. "Later."

He watches her with narrowed eyes for a second, then turns to go in. She catches his wrist and tugs until he looks back at her. "This isn't part of your job," she says, wanting him to know—he must, but this isn't something she can afford to misjudge.

He barks out a laugh, looking genuinely amused. "That what you think of me?"

"Shush," she says, before he locks down and this whole thing breaks. He looks shocked at the word. "This is not part of your job."

She holds very still until he tugs his wrist free, his mouth twitching in an abortive smile. "Fine." He raises his chin, but his eyes are still laughing.

Rayner drops the empty glass onto a bedside table, dims the lights, disappears into the bathroom. She lingers back, takes it in. She expected his room to be stark, impersonal. It's not. Mostly dark, now that he's turned the warm lights down. There's a soft-looking blue throw, not Starfleet issue, over the bed that's tucked neatly against the wall. An unfamiliar vine with round purple leaves framing the viewport above. A bottle with two matching glasses in the cabinet on the far wall. It's sparse, but nothing like the ascetic box she'd imagined.

He walks back into the room, barefoot, and stops, a little awkward, two steps in front of the bed, not wanting to—presume? Michael realises just then she was hoping—once they got past the questions—for urgent, for tumble into the room, fall into bed, shut everything out sex, and barely manages not to laugh out loud. Good pick of a partner here, Burnham.

So she steps closer and looks up at him. He's tall enough that she's used to it, but up close it's a new feeling. He seems to be holding his breath when she raises her hands to his neck. She undoes his collar and keeps hold of it—she could probably drag him wherever she wants like this. He exhales on a laughter, like he's getting the joke, and folds himself down to sit on the bed.

"Here," she unzips his jacket, slides it down his shoulders, until he shrugs out of it. It's weird to be undressing someone wearing the same uniform. She wonders how long it's been since he wore anything but. She bares his soft undershirt, regulation, same as hers. He smells good, spicy, not unlike his drink. Getting to look down at him—she's struck by his angles, his pale shoulders almost narrow. Nothing like Book.

And here's the truth of it, isn't it? She could say she's getting it out of her system, a distraction from the one thing she can't have, and it wouldn't be a lie, but—she wants Rayner, here. He's sharp, and audacious, and oddly easy to provoke into uncertainty, and his eyes go warm and a little lost when someone—when she's proud of him.

So she reaches out, palm on his cheek, and he turns immediately to mouth at it, slow, eyes fluttering closed. It's dizzying. "Good," she says, has to say, and he shudders with it. She traces the edge of his ear with a finger, light, sees the start of a blush right at the tip. He leans into it. This, here. Michael wonders why he's doing this. What it is he's looking for, or trying to shut out.

His eyes still closed, Rayner opens his mouth to speak—and she drops her knee onto the bed, between his legs, warm and close. His eyes fly open, bright and stunned. She slides her hands back to cradle the base of his skull. The short buzz of his hair there is soft, silky.

"Okay," he says, and moves in, stretching up to press an open-mouthed kiss just below her ear. She draws a sharp breath. Good instincts. He moves lower. Her clavicle. The dip between her breasts. She isn't guiding him. His lips are hot through the fabric covering her ribs, hotter on her belly. He goes to slide off the bed, to his knees, and she strokes the back of his neck, and doesn't let him. He scoffs—of course he does, and looks up with almost comical annoyance.

Michael scoffs right back. "You don't hold back in uniform—this is where you start?"

Rayner laughs then, full-on, a grin splitting his face. She's heard his annoyed laugh, incredulous laugh, hiding-something-important laugh. This one is a first. "Me on your knees for you is holding back?"

Blunt—there we go, blunt is familiar territory, and she raises her eyebrows at him. "Do what you want, not what you think I want, yeah?"

He watches her for a second, like he's considering the concept, then slowly, deliberately sits back, spreads his legs further.

"Good," she says again, presses her knee right where he's—yes, hard for it, and waits out his low, uneven moan.

"Come on," Michael says, shucks everything off until she's left in her top and underwear. He grabs at her blindly then, reaches her elbows, her waist, slides further up the bed and lies down, pulling her in. She climbs up after him, not quite straddling his hips, says, "come on, Rayner,do your part," and he rises just enough to match her, bare but for his uniform top and shorts, allows her hands to settle at his face again. She thumbs over his cheekbones, over the scar crossing his eyebrow, and he spreads his fingers over her lower back, pulls her down on a hard exhale.

She takes his hand and slides it right there between them, says "go ahead", has to grind down on his knuckles as he palms at himself, rocking up into his own hand, holds his face firmly until he's gasping with it. He's slick when she finally gets him out; bites off a curse when she slides down his body. He doesn't feel any different than what she knows—coarse grey hair at the base of a long, flushed cock; soft, vulnerable sack below it. There's so much heat under her touch when her fingers circle him, a vague reminder of his origin, and that's all she gets to file away before Rayner sinks his fingers in her hair, green light, going in now.

He's quiet and almost still as she takes him in, but that's to be expected, and she closes her eyes, goes slow, gets really into it for a while, until he sucks in a shaky breath, squeezes her neck and arches up hard, says "fuck", sharp and meaning it, and "please", and that's so mind-meltingly hot Michael moans around him and can't manage more than five seconds before coming up because she needs to see him, now.

Rayner's eyes are shut tight, teeth bared. His hands slip down her arms, shaky, his chest is moving with harsh, shallow breaths. "God, Rayner," she says, taking him in hand and pumping slowly, "you're—you're good, you're so good—" and he actually keens at that, an odd high sound.

"Stop," he says, "Michael," and she doesn't, and oh, to see what this costs him.

"What do you want?"

He gasps for breath for a moment, shakes his head. Michael sighs and stills her hand on him.

"Rayner. Look at me."

He makes a cut-off sound of frustration, almost a snarl, breathes in, and meets her eyes dead-on, clear and precise. "Fuck me."

She can't help her smile. "Thought you'd never ask."

She rolls over onto her back. His eyes are all pupil as he lands on his elbows above her, and she throws her legs around him, high on his waist, draws him in.

"Wait," he says, "let me," and strokes just the tips of his fingers under her top, watching her carefully.

"Yeah," she says, "it's alright," and he helps her take it off, nuzzles her neck, then down to her breasts. She feels him hard, leaking against her thigh, and she presses her heel sharply into his lower back until he thrusts against her with a gasp, slowly, and again, keeps it up as he kisses her nipples, her shoulder, the inside of her elbow. She groans, because fuck, he's honest about this, wanting her, wanting her approval, and she whispers, "hey, come here already," and then he's inside her, his hips rolling smoothly, stroking in, and she holds his shoulders, murmurs to him, "yeah, that's it, it's good, you feel good, come on," hears his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, and in the soft creamy glow in the room the planes of his face blur a little. His hair is damp at the roots, a soft white lock falling down against his forehead.

Michael rides his steady rhythm, closes her eyes, too, his long, heated body oddly malleable under her hands and heels, and then his breath is suddenly hot and close, and she looks up to see him unsure again, doesn't get it until his hand cups her cheek and he drops his head an inch closer, hovering, waiting for permission. Oh, God, he's so—Michael draws him into the kiss, soft and wet and scratchy with his beard, and he moans into it, sounding so relieved she has to kiss him harder, fists her hands in the back of his shirt and clenches around him until his hips snap forward harder, again and again, and then he's gone.

After—when he's stopped shivering, when he's finished her off with such care she didn't know what to do with it and kept her hands fisted in his hair, holding on—they lie next to each other, on their backs, for long, quiet minutes. It's peaceful. It's what she came here for.

The room is warmer than what Michael's used to. She thinks about dressing, then discards the idea, sits up and stretches instead. Rayner's eyes don't follow her.

"I'll take that drink now."

He snaps out of his daze and looks at her. "Oh. Um, that way." He nods in the general direction of the cabinet. She finally gets to see the bottle up close—thin, pearlescent material, the liquid inside almost sparkling as the light reflects off it.

She returns to the bed with her glass, sits down, hugging her knees. Rayner hasn't moved, watching her from where he's stretched on his back, hands behind his head, bare but for his shorts. She takes a drink and strokes his shoulder, lets herself look back.

There are scars on his body, paler against pale skin, more than he'd get on a ship—even in battles, even in decades. She doesn't know if he was hiding them, and if he was, why he'd show her now, after. He looks calm, steady, but his face is pale and tired, the lines around his mouth more pronounced.

She slides a hand into his damp hair, smoothes it back. "This time, do get some rest, okay?"

"Aye-aye." He catches her hand and kisses it. His long fingers circle her wrist, thumb stroking gently at the base of her palm.

Something sharp shifts in her throat, a fierce protectiveness. This, she knows, goes both ways.

She takes one more chance. "I'd like to keep you, after. As my number one."

Rayner frowns and lets her hand drop. "Let's see how this one goes first."

Michael sighs and shakes her head at him. "You don't have to swear to it. Just consider it." She gives his shoulder a parting squeeze and gets up to collect her clothes.

As she sits down on the edge of the bed to tug her boots back on, he puts a warm hand between her shoulder blades. "Thank you," he says to her back.

"And you." She raises her hand to her badge, but turns back to give him a smile, and, for once, he doesn't look trapped. "I'll see you on the bridge, Commander."

[chickensarentcheap]

Little snippet :)

Some folks have been inquiring whether I would ever consider adding onto the first story or writing some pieces that include cannon things from the first movie. A long time ago, the OG story 'Lost and Found' was supposed to include 'flashbacks' of canon events. but I ended up not including them, and regrettably ending the fic way sooner than I'd really wanted to :(

I have started a little something. It won't be an actual fic, but just individual pieces of a collection of canon things. From the first film ONLY.

So if there's anything my readers would like to see involving Taesme and E1 stuff, please just let me know :)

@tragiclyhip @youflickedtooharddamnit @secretaryunpaid @watermeezer @munstysmind

@themaradwrites @mrsmungus @alisbackalleybbq @asirensrage @residentdormouse

@kmc1989 @karimac @ninjasawakenedmystar

“You have a really nice smile, you know that?”

Giving a small, embarrassed laugh, he takes a large swallow of beer.

“What? You’ve never heard that before? No one has ever told you?”

“Once. A very long time ago.”

“I find that hard to believe.  What’s the deal with that? People just too blind to notice? Or do you just not do it much? Smile.”

“Someone needs a reason to, yeah? I haven’t had one of those in quite a while.”

“You’re doing it now.  What’s the explanation for it?  The whisky or the tequila?”

“I’m thinking  it has less to do with the booze and more to do with the company.”

She feels the heat that rises in her cheeks and spreads to her ears. A mixture of embarrassment and the handful of shots and glasses of beer that have already been consumed.

“Did you just bust out your game on me, Tyler Rake? Because THAT was smooth.”

“Game? What game? I don’t have any game. That’s just me telling it like it is. What’s the saying?”  Reaching for one of the remaining full shot glasses, he sets it in front of her. Then helps himself to the final one.  “Drunk minds speak sober thoughts? Or some shit like that.”

“Well, it certainly makes you chatty, that’s for sure.”   She picks up her shot and leans across the table; tapping the tiny glass against his before downing the liquor.  Wincing and then rapidly patting her chest -in vain- to relieve it of the painful burn the tequila leaves behind.  “I don’t mind, though...” She puts the empty glass upside down on the table.   “I like it.”

“What?”

“This side of you.”

“Yeah?” He nods his thanks at the waiter who arrives to retrieve the tray of empty shot glasses and deposit a platter of various appetizers in the middle of the table. Ordering another round and a fresh pitcher of beer. he waits until the man departs before addressing Esme once more. “What side is that?”

“The non-mercenary side.  It’s…nice.”

“Nice, huh?” He chuckles. "Something tells me you won't find it that nice once you get to know me better.”