#His scar is quite fun to draw as well ah - scars tend to be like that haha ♪ The stitches and discolouration give it a unique look!
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26 + 70 please! I'm loving these!
Anonymous asked: 89 + 70 to ease ur boredom?
26. Massage Fic + 70. Locked in a Room + 89. First Time
from fanfiction trope mash-up prompts here
some VERY OLD prompt fills I never got around to finishing! im talking like 3 years old. better late than never? this fic has a similar conceit to this one I posted last year, but it’s not like newt and hermann aren’t probably quarantining themselves constantly after lab accidents LMAO. sexy/not SFW stuff under cut
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“Mandatory isolation,” Newton says. “This blows.”
Hermann says nothing, choosing instead to aggressively turn a page in his book. He’s already said plenty to Newton on the subject, and he doesn’t imagine anything he has to say now will provide any new insights, or indeed even be moderately politer. Newton has—really, really—royally screwed things up this time. More than anything he has before. Hermann finds his anger over it all to be quite righteous, really. “Hm,” he hums instead. He turns another page.
“One whole week,” Newton says. “Locked in, nothing to do…”
Hermann grits his teeth. Truthfully, the book is for show, and for the excuse to ignore Newton, but it’s very hard to pretend to concentrate on it when Newton won’t stop talking to him. It’s especially irritating considering Newton is saying absolutely nothing of value. Then again, when is he ever? “Is there something you’re trying to say to me?” Hermann says.
Newton shakes his head. He’s playing with one of the little stress toys he keeps in his desk (a large foam strawberry), squeezing it over and over. “Oh, nothing. Just trying to make small talk.”
One whole week, locked inside the laboratory after one stupid little mistake meant Newton’s scalpel slipped where it shouldn’t have on his kaiju sample. One whole week of bloody self-isolation to make sure they don’t…infect the Shatterdome with anything they might’ve picked up in the resulting explosion. Not even a day in and Newton is already acting up. Kaiju withdrawal, perhaps, having been explicitly forbidden from working on any new samples until their containment passes. Squeeze. Squeeze. Hermann flips another page in his book. Newton clears his throat. “I know you’re not actually reading that,” he says.
“Aren’t I?” Hermann says.
Newton tosses the foam strawberry in the air with one hand and catches it with the other. “Tell me one thing that’s happened so far in it. Actually—tell me the title.”
“The title,” Hermann says, “is—”
“And no peeking,” Newton says.
This stumps Hermann. He slams the cover shut and makes to chuck the whole thing at Newton’s head, but decides better of it. He could get written up for workplace violence or some rubbish of that sort. Plus, without access to medical until the end of the week, Hermann would be the one who had to tend to any resulting wounds. Not worth it. “Fine,” he says. “I’m not reading it. Are you pleased, now that you have my undivided attention?”
Squeeze. “I guess,” Newton says. He smiles at Hermann. “Want me to suck your dick?”
This the last thing Hermann expects to hear. He startles; he blushes; he stammers; he nearly falls off his chair. Surely he must’ve misheard Newton—or, if he didn’t, surely Newton is teasing him. Newton has never done anything of that sort to Hermann before. Nor has he ever offered. It’s simply not how their relationship works. “I,” he says. “What?”
“Do you want a blowjob?” Newton says. So Hermann didn’t imagine it. “I just thought, since we’re both stuck here and bored as shit, may as well have some fun. People tell me I’m pretty good at it.”
“Good at—what?” Hermann says.
“At sucking dick,” Newton says. “Obviously.”
Hermann wonders what the appropriate response here is. Certainly he would like nothing more than to take Newton up on the offer and forget all his annoyances for a few wonderful minutes, or rather, to take his annoyances out on Newton’s never-ceasing mouth. If Newton’s offer is serious, Hermann is sure such an acceptance would be welcome. If Newton is not serious—if he means it as a joke—it could only lead to humiliation for Hermann. Something for Newton to hold over his head for the rest of the week. Hermann really thought Newton would suck him off? But the temptation of getting Newton’s mouth on him is too much for Hermann to resist, and he really is quite bored: he nods, shyly, and legs his legs part open an inch.
Newton grins.
He tosses his stress toy to his desk and gets down on his knees in front of Hermann with an admirable speed. Not saying a word, he settles his hand on Hermann’s thigh, then creeps his fingers along Hermann’s right inseam. “I bet it’ll make you feel better,” he says. “It’s gonna make me feel better. When’s the last time someone blew you, Hermann?” He fixes his eyes on the vee of Hermann’s parted legs, where the fabric of his trousers is tightening none-too-subtly at the mere notion of what Newton is offering. Hermann makes a weak show of closing them. He swallows a few times.
“I don’t, ah—I don’t remember.” Newton’s wandering fingers stop just before where Hermann wants them most, then skip over to the left side. “A few months. Years. Newton, I must—must ask—why are you…?”
Newton shrugs, and begins rubbing circles across Hermann’s inner thigh. “I’ve been thinking about how to get you to stop being pissed at me all day, and honestly, this seemed like it would work. Pretend it’s an apology or something. Man, Hermann, you’re tense.”
“You have no one to thank for that but yourself,” Hermann says. He shuts his eyes with a groan when Newton squeezes his left thigh like it’s his bloody stress toy. “By Jove, Newton, that feels marvelous.”
“Tense,” Newton says. “I told you. You don’t need a blowjob, dude, you need a goddamn massage.” He braces a hand on each of Hermann’s thighs and begins to work them over—clumsily, since (for all his skills in human biology) Newton is hardly a masseuse, but far better than anything Hermann could do all the same. Hermann sinks lower in his seat and muffles another embarrassing noise behind his hand. “Luckily, though,” Newton says, “I’m gonna give you both, because I’m an awesome lab partner. Let me know if something starts to hurt.”
Newton begins to focus his efforts on Hermann’s left leg, avoiding his knee at first, and then tentatively working his fingers over it as well. Hermann wonders if Newton can feel the scar tissue beneath his fingertips, or if Hermann’s trousers are acting as buffer enough for it. Hermann begins to sag in his chair. He feels positively boneless. He also feels that if Newton does not move those fingers (or, better yet, and as promised, his mouth) to his rapidly-stiffening prick soon, he’ll positively burst. “You enjoying yourself?” Newton says.
“Mm,” Hermann says. “Though, Newton—I don’t mean to be impolite, as I’m awfully grateful for this, but…”
Newton laughs, and with a final parting squeeze to Hermann’s leg, moves those lovely fingers to Hermann’s belt buckle and fly instead. “I got you, man.”
Hermann opens his eyes (not fancying missing this) and watches with bated breath as Newton draws down his trousers to settle comfortably at Hermann’s knees. He nearly blushes at the sight of his white boxer briefs, not just for their plainness, but for how badly they hide how wet his prickhead is already. Newton must feel Hermann’s eyes on him; he shoots Hermann a wink, and, not breaking eye contact, leans forward to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Hermann through his briefs.
Immediately Hermann clamps a hand down over his mouth to keep from shouting. He feels Newton laugh again, a vibration that thrums in the pit of Hermann’s stomach, and he pushes his hips eagerly up towards Newton’s mouth. Newton darts his tongue out this time, dampening the fabric of Hermann’s briefs further. Then he tucks their elastic waistband down below Hermann’s prick. “I didn’t expect it to look like this,” he says, and grazes his thumb idly across the head. He pulls it away sticky, and Hermann whimpers.
He moves his hand from his mouth long enough to say, “Have—have you thought about it often, then?” He means it teasingly—to regain some ground from Newton, some sliver of self-respect—but his voice trembles, and Newton’s grin returns with a certain lasciviousness to it that it’d not held before, and Hermann knows he’s merely given Newton more ammunition. He licks Hermann’s precum off his thumb. Hermann shivers.
“Oh, sure,” Newton says. “I jerk off thinking about your dick all the time.” He flicks his tongue over Hermann and makes a satisfied little noise, his eyelashes fluttering. He leaves another sucking kiss further down Hermann’s prick. Then another back up at the top. His fingers (Hermann notices vaguely, as if through a heavy fog) have begun rubbing soothingly at Hermann’s left hip. Hermann can only take so much: when Newton finally gets his whole mouth on him, two pink lips circling just under his head, Hermann grips blindly at Newton’s hair and comes down Newton’s throat with a muffled grunt. He feels Newton choke, but swallow it all down.
“I’m sorry,” he gasps, when he finally finds himself able to speak. “I ought—ought to have warned you.”
But Newton merely wipes his smug little mouth on the cuff of his sleeve and waves Hermann off. “I’m just that awesome, huh?” he says. He gently tucks Hermann back into his briefs, then does up his trousers. “It’s cool. It was pretty hot, actually.” Once he finishes looping Hermann’s belt, he stands and stretches his arms above his head with a groan. “Hey, you want some coffee?”
“Coffee?” Hermann says, dizzily.
“Yeah, I was gonna brew a pot,” Newton says. “Get the taste out of my mouth and everything.”
Hermann blinks at him. Newton’s rather thrown him for a loop. Aren’t these sorts of things meant to be reciprocated? Hermann didn’t mean to assume—but he really was looking forward to the chance to, er, give Newton a similar favor. Very much looking forward to it. “That’s it, then?” he says.
“We have six days to go, dude,” Newton says. “No need to rush anything, right? We can work on your,” he smirks, “endurance after lunch.”
“Oh,” Hermann says. He considers it. “Coffee would be nice, then.”
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Safe Pt 2
Pt 1
@satanskatze
@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @sweeticedtea, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @here2have-fun, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars, @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore, @mariannetora, @shes-a-killer-kween, @ggbbhehe4455
@changlingkhat
…
Hopes of not being alone rose again in the morning to the automated replay of the second disk of shows beginning for the second time his ears strained finally to hear the subtle sigh in a shift to the sound of another triple beep from a scan. One sharp gasp and a relieved sigh had the Prince smirking to you saying, “Vision, morning.”
“Yes, yes it is. One hundred percent restoration of eye sight. Very well done.”
“Thank you,” you groaned back clearly rubbing your face through his floating to Loki’s bed, asking at his nearness, “How is Loki’s?”
The direction of the question towards the Prince alerting him to the three beeps above his face granting Vision to say, “Still recovering nicely. Improvement is constant so far.” Like one would pet a dog he patted Loki’s shoulder saying, “Very well done.” Loki simply laid still to the red man straightening up to the distant smoke alarm urging a clearly faked gasp from him, “My muffins!” Out the open door he flew to soar up through the hall to his own floor to save what could be saved of said muffins.
Softly Loki couldn’t help but chuckle imagining the look on Vision’s face in fleeing and wet his lips moving to sit up hearing you folding your blanket that was laid on the couch. “Would you like a shower?”
“Yes, I seem to have, perspired in my sleep. Quite the active dream.” Brushing the blankets back he slid to the edge of the bed wetting his lips waiting for your nearing him with a hand raised.
“Perhaps I should remove your bandages first, or I will have to climb a sink in there.”
“Ah, perhaps, yes.” A clip on the side of his head was undone and steadily the top bandage was unwound granting no less light in its removal at all worsening his hope he could have been somehow miraculously cured overnight. Second layer was removed along with two swatches over his eyes and he asked, “How are my eyes?”
Under his lids milky pink eyed looked back at you on the face cow patterned between Jotun and Asgardian toned skin at his body’s trouble in holding a steady shield while the white scars of the lingering burn marks were being healed by the shared healing abilities your dna continued trying to remove fully while also repairing his eyes. “A lovely shade of pink like strawberry starburst.” The comment had his mouth drop open and you said easing a strip of his hair back behind his ear, “I am a Doctor Loki, you are entitled doctor patient confidentiality.”
“You are a Doctor, or a scientist? Because the two are very different, there are many Doctors on this team.”
“Strange was a Neurosurgeon while I worked for over a decade as a Pediatric Surgeon, which between brains and babies I do have to be biased in saying my field is more complex than an eight pound grey blob.” The argument made him smirk knowing the pair of you had it out several times arguing over fake doctor shows on tv all the time on how that surgery would actually go often leading to you being at odds.
“Pray do say what you truly feel.”
“No teasing, same as you and Thor, he’s got a hammer and you have your magic and daggers with all the cunning you can muster against that giant puppy dog of a Prince.”
“I am not a puppy?” Rolling your eyes you shook your head while he wondered what you were feeling tapping fingertips across his forehead and upper cheeks, “I can be quite adorable myself.”
“True, I did not mean to offend.”
“None taken, though the comparison to the cuddle friendly creature has been made several times towards my brother.”
“In truth it is because he can be quite aloof and oblivious to things while ultimately friendly and eager to please.”
“Ah, there it is. You say that as if it is a fault, it has served him well.”
“Perhaps, and sent many down a downward spiral when their self image is based on approval of others.”
“You do not seek approval?”
“I am a Doctor, no one expected me to be their best friend, they paid me to save their children. To give them as much time and as full a life as possible once they left my table, or a kind send off when I wasn’t able to. No one certainly liked me then when a baby is lost.”
To the solemn tone of your voice his hand shifted from his knee to the side of your leg wishing he could find your arm, “Oh, forgive me. I had no intention-,”
“No, medicine has its limits, as do my abilities. Generals and Surgeons alike see the ins and out bloody battles skirting death.”
“I take it there was a patient here to drag you in to all this.”
“You could say that. One of those whales you brought here made me break my secrecy and rush out to help people on the streets.”
“Ah,”
“I got another three months in my hospital before the questions drove me out on how much I was relying on my surgical prowess or just hiding behind my ability. Either way the horse learned to tap dance it shouldn’t matter if he’s wearing a bonnet or not.” To himself he chuckled and you said, “The scabs from the burn are mostly gone, as is the swelling and bruising. What color did you want to wear today?”
“Uh, I haven’t worn my maroon shirt in a good while, and the black jeans.” He heard his closet door open, “Gold under trousers and socks should do nicely.”
“Under trousers,” you mouthed to yourself assembling his requested items that were folded in a pile on top of the towel you picked for him and settled into the bathroom that once you started the shower for him the tour of how his clothes were stacked and where his soaps were lined up along with his loofa and towel for when he was done.
Once the door was shut the Prince stripped nudging the discarded clothes aside as you had said to, stepping into his open shower sighing under the hot water beading over his skin both welcome and a near to too hot around his eyelids he kept shut. From soaping up his body a small dab of shampoo was used to ensure none would be left in his hair or risk any getting into his already wounded eyes. To himself he basked in the wafting scent of the soap washing away the faint musk he awoke with due to his sweat inducing dream for what seemed to be a suitable amount of time signaling his fumble to shut the water off and find his way back to his waiting towel.
Pats and slides of the towel across his skin found him dried and naked ruffling the towel through his hair tightening up to its natural curly poof drawing a huff from the blinded Prince in no way capable of straightening it out himself outing him of another secret of his daily routine. A leg at a time his briefs and socks were added with jeans next and shirt after, bending down he found his clothes he counted his way back to the door and located his closet and hamper inside from there then to bed again with comb in hand to try and manage something of his curls.
“Breakfast,” followed a knock on the door that slid back.
Following a huff he said, “Not a word on my hair.”
“Really? Add four feet to yours and you will face my daily dilemma Prince Charming.” Curiously his head tilted and a foot tapping his had his hand up for the walk to his table again. “I’ll wrangle your curls,” you said taking the comb to work with the straightener from the bath to his chair to work strip by strip all the strands to his preferred slicked back style. “There, now you won’t have to face the agonizing shame of displaying those curly locks.”
“That is a stretch,”
“So you would parade your curls for all to see?”
“No, commoners see my hair and they want to touch it. I slick it back and they leave me be.”
“I think that might just be from the horns.” You teased.
“Ha, ha.” He flatly replied lifting another of the breakfast wraps you had made for him.
“Then again some women like the horns.”
“Doubtful,” Your throaty giggle had him lowering his wrap facing his head to you, “The giggle?”
“Not to be crude, but horns would give them something to hold onto.”
“In what sense? For battle that would be a poor place to grip an opponent with horns on their helmet.”
“Wow, now I feel bad bringing it up,”
“Tell me.”
“I have a feeling it would jar a certain view you might have on the world.”
“The suspense is not assisting you in any way. Tell me now, if this is any way to do with how my attire is being mocked by this culture tell me now.”
“Trust me it is not being mocked in that sense.” He gave a pointed huff and you said, “Fine, a partner would take hold of the horns in an amorous sense.”
“Amorous?” he said flatly with brows furrowing.
“Were you to be holding a lover off the ground while having your way with them the horns would give them something to hold onto if they weren’t against a wall.” His mouth fell open and you said, “You asked.”
“You think that?!”
“I don’t have to think it there are countless women writing quite detailed stories on what they would do with you if given the chance, in several different manners of attire from battle armor to, well, a towel or nothing at all.”
“You think that, that is what I am asking.”
“Which part are you asking, if I would assume the helmet could be used to anchor ones self or if I imagine amorous encounters with you?”
“I-, well one could bet a kingdom you wouldn’t think of me in that way.”
“They would definitely lose a kingdom with those odds.”
Even more his brows furrowed in a lean closer to you with his arm on the table between you once his wrap was back on the plate, “What?!” He sharply asked to the thundering race of his heart.
“I may be ace but I do tend to have guest stars in my dreams from time to time. Majority are quite domestic on your part if that helps calm you down.”
“And the rest?”
“I won’t bother you with.”
“They are concerning me, tell me. Every detail, now.”
“Loki you couldn’t possibly think a demand could have me spilling my every fantasy to you. Prince or not no kingdom would give you that power.”
“I am a fantasy for you?” he lowly whispered as it washed over him.
“Smile like yours could make a whole cosmos go dark with shame for a glimpse of it.”
Had he the ability to blush fully he would have been beet red in his turn of focus back to his plate and finding his wrap again while muttering, “A simple yes would have sufficed.”
“If it helps,” you said halting his motion for food and tilting his head to face you again, “You don’t smile very often, or around very many. For most it is just imagination. They don’t get to know you.”
“Ah, then they would change their minds.”
“No, they would realize you don’t live in rooms of satin sheets and tapestries of yourself in golden halls lit by twenty four seven roaring fires in fireplaces bigger than cars with servants to line your path with rose petals and incense burners for dramatic effect.”
“That is oddly specific.”
“That is one of the vaguer stories.”
“Are there any on Thor? These stories?”
“Thor’s usually involve harems, from my own single browse through summaries, while you are for the most part seen as monogamous.”
“I am expected to be King, why would I not be faithful to my partner?”
“Can’t read about any monarchy where there isn’t a Mistress or pretty young maid being toyed with while the Queen has taken a mood against her husband. Even in Norse mythology Odin had lovers.”
“I am not privy to much of those details pertaining Mother’s marriage-,”
“I know the myths aren’t real.”
“Mother would have slaughtered him, as was her right were she to feel the least bit disrespected.”
“Good to know. She sounds pretty spectacular, had to be to put up with your dad.” Again he paused and you said, “Thor said he pushed you off the rainbow bridge into space. Got to be awful, I can’t imagine you were a terrible child, out being cruel or hurting people or spitting out demons deserving of being pushed into the nothingness of space. Now that kid from the Omen, I would punt him into space, or the girl from Poltergeist, or that meowing boy from the Grudge, him no problem.”
“Meowing boy?”
“When your eyes heal we’ll watch it. Demon child.”
“He truly said pushed?”
“That was how he said it to me first time I carried his sappy drunk self to bed when he was mourning you.”
“Thank you, for telling me.”
“I do have to ask, he says you stabbed him often,”
“In jest, yes.”
“Jest, how deep, paper cut, or to the hilt? And did you study anatomy to know where to not kill him or just guess at it?”
“Most of the time no more than an inch or two, they were very small blades, close to scalpels I would guess. Our bodies are sturdier than mortals.”
“Yes, but most children aren’t built like Thor is now, and if he was I have all the more respect for your mother.”
To himself he chuckled and replied, “There is an extra layer of fat in our youths, fat and fluids which over time shift to musculature in our young adulthood.”
“Still not building confidence.”
“We survived, just fine.”
“Alright,” you giggled out, “Eat up so I can wrap your head again.”
“Do you have to?”
“At least another day until the bruises heal. It is very sensitive to light.”
“Ah, one more day.”
“By then by my guess you should have basic grey blobs coming into view, start taking in light sources faintly.”
.
That was the start of it, a second day of being essentially blindfolded through an audio book playing while he lounged to a call taking you away from the tower leaving Peter taking up Loki’s table to not be distracted while working on his latest paper. A break from which leading to the teen’s fumbled try to explain what was happening to the audio of the show he’d missed the day prior through the film with you.
“Whoa! Table, out of nowhere!”
“Table?” Loki asked curious for what was happening in the fight scene just beginning in the otherwise uneventful show.
“I don’t know who threw it, but Hilary is now on top of Nathaniel. It, it looks like she’s shoveling cake down his shirt. I think that’s cake, unless it’s the gravy, but he’s not screaming like he’s been burn-,” Peter cringed and groaned, “Ooh, nasty. Emma just got clothes-lined into the laundry room by Ben, ooh,” again he winced while Loki could hear Sam and Steve from the kitchen on the main tower socializing floor coming to clamber over the back of the couch to join in the show. Both groaning too as Peter cringed again, “Robert just got shoved out a window, that stained glass one Hilby worked so hard on.”
Sam, “Oh she’s going to be so pissed when she gets back from that project in Rio.”
Bucky’s bound over his usual chair was hinted by the sound of the springs rebounding under his weight on the couch Nat was clearly on by her near hiss from whatever she was holding nearly spilling over with hushed Russian curses to follow. Loki rarely spent time with all of the team so casually, yet this train wreck of a show even in his blindness he wouldn’t dare miss out on granted you a break from the full day of caring for him. The warmth alone of the open walls of windows lighting the room with sunlight proving your assumption he required the wrap another day. Clips of this show could be re-watched but for his usually isolated self he did enjoy his silent place in the group reacting to the hour long debacle each week to fill his social time quote a good chunk of the way matched by laundry day and retrieving his purchases.
In all this though he missed you. Among the others your absence was noted by the lack of giggles from the chair no one else claimed except for Bruce, with whom you shared a rivalry on who could reach it first with tongues displayed for the loser or far below mediocre faces cast to one another on the loser’s path to another spot. Your losses however would place you in the bare spot on his right, a tight squeeze but Peter would squish himself up against the arm so Loki could casually scoot over to Sam and Steve practically intertwining to make space with glares through arms being laid out behind or in front of the pair naturally prone to shifting in place.
Wafting of smoke however hours later you returned to the tower helping Bruce with his clothing dilemma, who when his stretchy pants had failed to shrink again had taken two of the new worn seams around the band to ease his arms through like a giant pair of overall shorts. Strange with a wet cat’s attitude hovering with a tarp under him to collect the water he was covered in exited next. Quicksilver raced to change his now halter top of a shirt with pants shorn to chaps as Wanda was in Vision’s arms still laughing about her brother, draped in Vision’s cape after her skirt had been caught and the giant swarm of giant moths had been led away by her sweater she tossed down a stairwell.
There was no logic in the mission at all and to Peter’s confusion you were inside the body of a giant octopus plushie you had cut a hole in the head of when a binding of Hawkeye’s leg had been followed by a flame thrower incident in the carnival you had been sent to inspect requiring an improvisation of clothing. “She’s wearing an octopus...” Peter murmured and Loki’s head turned.
“Who? How does an octopus-?”
Tony strolled in with a woven kilt of stuffed snakes and popped beach balls arguing over his ear piece to the man who had given them the tip off with arms full of his dismantled suit off to his office to repair that not caring about his state of undress. Hawkeye, though drenched seemed altogether unfazed and limped in to stretch out across the sliver of couch between Natasha and Bucky using both their laps as cushions. Stealing snacks to munch on only making Bucky ask, “How did it go?”
Hawkeye chuckled to himself, lifting a finger to each thing said, “Shark tank, giant moths, flamethrower clown heads, enough said.”
Natasha, “I don’t think it is.”
Loki cut Hawkeye off asking, “Was Miss Pear injured?”
Hawkeye, “Oh yeah. Damn near singed her to bits those clowns, but she managed to push Bruce out of the way into the shark tank as Quick slammed through the wall freeing the moths who went crazy and Vision traces the signal for the heads as Hulk just about tore apart the rest of the booby trapped carnival wing we were in.”
“She was burned?! Is she in the hospital?!”
Hawkeye said as Sam waved a hand in front of his eyes reminding him of Loki’s eyes and that he couldn’t see your irritated return. “Oh no, nothing like that! Burns healed right off, though she was sent scrambling for something to wear. Tore the head open on a giant octopus and hopped right in it. We have pictures for later. Don’t you mind her,” he said pausing at Loki’s head turning through the lower half of his face and neck visible turning blue in his body’s try to blush in thinking of your body being revealed bare in an eruption of flames making Sam bite his lip and bury his head into Steve’s shoulder to keep from laughing out loud. “Just needs a good scrub down and something fluffy to put on and she’ll bounce back with a good meal. Ordered food on the way, nice and fattening soul food to brighten her mood again.”
Post subtle clearing of his throat to his face rippling back in patches to his shielded shade he asked, “Was anyone else injured?”
Hawkeye replied, “Just Tony’s pride a bit when a shark tore off the leg of his suit and then his arm got stuck in one of those duck shooting games and he blacked out on the tunnel of love. Went round three times we figured before finding him. But Strange handled the moths and we managed to put out the fire before we left. They wanted to remodel the carnival anyways.”
Loki, “How did Banner manage to calm down again? His last change I recall took him a week.”
Hawkeye, “Ah no, just a few minutes, Pear taught him this meditation trick so he can talk to the big guy.”
Natasha, “Good it’s finally working. He was skeptical at first.”
Sam, “No doubt he tried hiding in India and Asia for years trying out all forms of meditation, not sure what she did different.”
Strange strolled in stating after having changed and left his suit hanging up on his bathroom, “Merely tapped into his frontal lobe telepathically and gave it a good hard kick.”
Sam chuckled as Bucky said, “That your medical opinion?”
Strange, “Ha ha, no, he agreed to be scanned while she worked. I’ve never seen brains light up like that before. Full rage and dark frontal cortex to a Christmas tree moment where he was able to steadily switch back again. Then it was like mood lighting and Bruce said it was like he could hear what Hulk was saying.”
Loki, “So they may converse now, interesting.”
Strange, “More feelings than words, at the moment at least. Though Hulk did take offense to something that Venom said.”
Loki, “Venom?” Wondering who that might be.
Hawkeye, “Oh, um Pear said he was her brother. Researching a big story said he just wanted a scoop and wouldn’t get in the way. Bounded off into the distance like a creepy giant bullfrog.”
Strange, “If they are related I certainly can’t see the resemblance. Unless she’s got a secret three foot tongue hidden from us.”
Peter, “Three foot tongue?”
Hawkeye, “Oh ya, he’s creepy.”
Strange, “Thought you might know him Peter, huge white spider on his chest and back,” Peter shook his head, “Oh well, you don’t need to be his friend, just out there running around naked like that.”
Loki, “Miss Pear’s brother investigated in the nude?”
Hawkeye, “Well, he doesn’t exactly have any junk to need hiding, all smooth down below in the nether regions.”
Steve, “Why were you scoping out his nether regions?”
Hawkeye, “Because his nether regions landed right in front of my scope when I was laid out keeping watch. I didn’t do it on purpose.”
The commercial was used to full advantage and even with the show back on the commentary picked up lasting through the rest of the show. Behind Peter in a weaving path from the kitchen Loki finally made it to his room again with special box of crackers and muffins from Vision added to his collection of food in his closet. Alone on his own floor with you again following the wall to his door he drew in a breath and to the best he could manage traced the path to your door from memory. Tracing the doorway with his hands he confirmed it was yours by the imprint of a squirrel from the frame of your wardrobe Steve had been less than attentive in guiding to its new home causing the side to split and it getting shipped back for a replacement out of his pocket by his own offer. Shakily he drew breath again and raised a hand to knock only to find air in the slide of the door to the side.
“Whoa,” you said shifting your weight to miss his curved knuckle from colliding with your cheek, in a reach up your hand planted on his forearm his hand found as he quickly flashed you a grin.
“Hello, I wished to check on you. I heard you had a rough trip.”
“Not as rough as it could have gone.”
That was when he paused. It dawned on him that he had never seen your suite in this tower. He had noticed the indent in the door on the way to the laundry room you shared and caught no more than a glimpse of the screen used to block off the milky door panel to your bath that Tony was still ‘debating’ which would fit the flow of the floor. One of his latest claming quirks. Starting from light switch covers to doorknobs and now the doors themselves inside the suites with front doors that slid into the walls. Even ignoring the personal taste of the person using them he had chosen and even without practically any guests in your apartment still you angled screens to not be caught through the obscuring glass even just crossing the room.
He wanted to see it all. You had slept in his apartment. Memorized it enough to share how many steps to and from everything had been laid out. Still a mystery he ached to know everything about you he didn’t yet know.
“Everything ok?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat, “Stark has not bought you a new door yet, has he?”
“Well he bought it, but might as well asked it be hand carved from the horns of the goats Thor has in Norse myths that regenerate each morning after he ate them from supper for the three month wait on them.”
A ghost of a smirk eased across his lips and he said, “You missed quite the episode. Unless you watched it yesterday.”
“Watched it on the flight back, needed to calm down.”
“Yes,” he swallowed again, “I heard of the fire, and your burns.”
“Burns are easy. Though now Stark will be distracted from decorating to come up with a super suit for each of us B team members and replacing Bruce’s stretchy shrink pants.”
The conversation only lasted a few moments more before he turned saying, “I should leave you.” That was deliberate, as was his wide armed walk back to the opposite wall luring his guide from you to lead him back to his couch that to silence his reiterated notion he was a burden a film was agreed to.
.
Morning came and instead of on his bed across his couch he was draped. By the feel of his palm legs were crossed and laid out to his side, meaning you were seated upright. Breaths slow and deep hinting to a deep sleep showing he could sneak just a bit more. Anxiously he wet his lips and his heart began to race in the cupping of your hip to ease you down more to lay flat. With one hand he did this impossibly heart racing task, blindly moving you to lie under him, his first tiny victory a pausing moment with his hand settled on your bare belly below the shirt bunched up in the move and knotted under your back. Proof of your lingering slumber came in a grumbling shift ending with the legs beside his uncrossing to lay one over his granting him a chance to lift his hips and slide you just a bit closer so he might drape across your chest.
He knew right where he wanted his head right in the curve of your neck so he might ghost his lips across the flesh there for a brief try of a kiss. There where like the other curves and folds of your body the natural scent you gave off lingered the longest now revealed to be exactly why his mouth tended to water in your every entrance to a common space. It was a musk ever so gently turning his chin that now mingled in the sweat come from another humid day in this supposed paradise of a home wrapped in glass, a material Stark had yet to master the workings of insulation and placing all for full display to the neighboring sky scrapers left it either a bit too warm or chilly in the mornings, no in between.
Just one, he promised himself, only he could feel the ridges on his skin protruding to his Jotun side releasing its own cinnamon like musk of its own he knew you could sense as in his few times of crossing paths post training or missions among the women nearby all came closet to floating like cartoon characters to chase his wafting aroma passing by. A hum, one pleased glorious hum had urged him on and breaths began to lighten, the neck under his lips began to shift welcoming more and to the opening of your eyes your head turned to align with his in a blind hover above you. Low and velvety he spoke his request, “I would very much like to kiss you, on the lips.”
Back to him you teased, “Kissing me again won’t hurry things along.”
“This has absolutely nothing to do with that,” he said leaning in, more for your ear making you smirk and reach up to turn his head to guide him lips to yours. Just one. The promise came again, yet somewhere in the mingling of tongues and a grip of his hair bandages shifted and lost focusing on the kiss he ached to press his forehead to yours in pausing breaths leading to a breathy giggle from you at untangling the cloth there revealing his fully blue face and still milky pink eyes taking in just the slightest hint of a head beneath his. Faint shoulders and neck were traceable in this grey mysterious blob of a world he did not care to inspect when you were here and the deliberate act of kissing was at hand. Forehead to forehead a kiss broke granting another breath and a moment for you to adjust the legs subtly wrapping around his.
Down again and lips met freezing fully to the sound of his door sliding open and Wanda’s stunned crack of her voice came with Vision’s hushed arguments muffled behind the door closing again surely in her guiding the scan happy team member surely pouting on his way to make breakfast instead, a task granting you time before that next scan. “I should probably go,” somehow in his open mouthed stammering you had found your feet and him his knees luring him to the edge of the bed as you turned away.
“Please stay,” he pled finding hold of your wrist with the other hand outstretched to meet your waist he felt you step into so he might smooth his hand there sweetly, “Please. Don’t run away. I swear-,”
“Loki, I’m all sweaty. It’s just, my pheromones, all pheromones.”
That had him huff and ease you down to sit on his knee, where through the slits of sunlight he could clearly trace the elegant blob of you inches from his face, “Please stay,” he pled again leaned in to press a sweet kiss just ever so slightly off center to your cheek where he had meant it to go. Guiding your hand up to lay an arm around his shoulders aching to have you embrace him through another fiery kiss just like moments before.
“I have to shower.”
“Shower here,” he offered, “Then you will see it is not pheromones to me.”
A sigh and you rose taking hold of his wrist this time parting his lips, “Come on then. Leaving you sweaty would defeat the purpose.”
A gathering of clothes came with yours summoned from your room with the discarded layers left outside the door. Surely it was his blindness to have you so boldly offer to be bare before him, so that you might have the courage to admire him fully without fear of him possibly finding something disapproving on your bare figure. Only, he never could. Wrinkle, fold, scar or blemish he would never turn you away or make you feel anything less than a Goddess had he the chance to convince you it wasn’t a farce.
Ripples, to the first drop of water there were flashes of light in a pale blue reminding him of the neon caves back on Asgard. Pure darkness with ripples of glittering blue waves of water lapping against the sea cave’s floor and walls reflected upon the smooth black walls and ceiling above. And he could see you, no not in color but he could trace every bead and stream of water cascading and outlining your magnificent shape before him. Separate shower heads were claimed and used with soaps shared and passed between you to fully scrub leaving him blinded to streaks of you in the bubbles hindering full paths of water down your skin that lit up once more when clear.
He didn’t know how long he waited, merely that he wanted one more. “See, no pheromones.” Up behind you he could sense the ache to arch the elegantly curved back into his chest to the press of his lips to your shoulder.
“Loki,” The only word it seemed you could say or needed to urge him on as a kiss to your neck followed with a shift around you to find your lips together again. Against the wall he planted you in the loop of your arms around his neck to balance on your toes. With hands tracing down to your hips and once there to your neck his lips went again, trailing down and down until he hit his knees and the most perfect gasp came to his somehow stunning lift of your thigh to rest on his shoulder.
Chuckles came to the unsteady drop of your body he cushioned with a drape of his arms behind your backside to his apology, “I apologize, my Starlight.” He hummed guiding you onto his lap where in the moment of your steadying he relinquished control allowing you full advantage on top of his lap guiding the pace through a clinging amorous unending kiss muffling the moans, hums and eventual cries of ecstasy.
From the water to bed dried and tucked into his arms. Warmly he held you against his chest knowing you hadn’t gotten much sleep seated up like that. So to a soft film playing he cuddled close ignoring the food left to wait on the table until you stirred to eventual hunger taking him and you to the kitchen to make something more forgiving to ignorance if you were to get distracted again.
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the jasmine dragon, mark ii
“After I reconquer Ba Sing Se,” Uncle Iroh says, smiling, “I’m going to reconquer my tea shop, and I’m going to play Pai Sho every day.”
Zuko nods and tries to imagine the world of tomorrow. Will Uncle get his shop? Will Ba Sing Se be saved? Will it be peaceful, happy, everything Zuko has never known? Or will they be corpses, ashes still smoking somewhere in his father’s fire nation?
--
It’s a week later. And, miraculously, everything is new.
OR, It's the re-opening day of the Jasmine Dragon.
Words: 3408
AO3 link in notes
“So if I’m going to be Firelord after the war is over, what are you going to do?” Zuko asks. He’s sitting on Appa, hands gripping the reins, and the fur under his legs is a stark contrast to the cold metal of his old ship. It’s strange, now, to remember that it’s only been a year. Twelve months ago, Zuko’s only goal was to catch the Avatar. A life under his father in the Fire Nation was all he thought he wanted. That searing, long-simmering rage was a constant for him.
Now he’s on the side of his former enemy, and they’re preparing to ride into a battle he’s not sure he’ll come out of. The world has turned upside down.
Zuko is pretty sure that’s not a bad thing.
“After I reconquer Ba Sing Se,” Uncle Iroh says, smiling, “I’m going to reconquer my tea shop, and I’m going to play Pai Sho every day.”
Zuko nods and tries to imagine the world of tomorrow. Will Uncle get his shop? Will Ba Sing Se be saved? Will it be peaceful, happy, everything Zuko has never known? Or will they be corpses, ashes still smoking somewhere in his father’s fire nation?
“Goodbye, General Iroh,” Suki says.
“Goodbye, everyone. Today, destiny is our friend. I know it.” There’s something in his voice, something warm and angry and hopeful.
The wind is gentle, and there’s a blue sky ahead of them. Sun falls over the soldiers as they stand facing the kids. The world is still, hesitant, waiting.
Zuko clenches his fists on the reins, takes a breath, and they set off.
--
It’s a week later. And, miraculously, everything is new.
Ba Sing Se is unrecognizable, a joyful clamor of green. Storefronts have been unshuttered and there are children running about. There’s a stall where Katara and a couple villagers have been handing out food and clothing to those who lost their homes to Ozai. There are volunteers cleaning the streets, sweeping up the crumbled earth. It should be a sad scene, a broken scene, but somehow it’s not. Instead, It’s kind, hopeful. In the ashes of the hundred year war, people are preparing for their new life.
When Zuko steps out of the palace, the palanquin bearers come rushing over, but Zuko holds up a hand. “These people are already going to be distrustful of me. I don’t want to look like my father.”
“But the teashop is a long way—”
“It’s okay,” he says, “I can walk.” He’s relieved when they step back without protesting again.
Zuko doesn’t wear his grand robes today, or even tie his hair back. Instead, he’s wearing a modest outfit, and he lets his hair down, although he pushes it out of his eyes every so often so people can see his face. He won’t hide his scar any longer. When some see him, they smile, rush forward. Thank you, Firelord Zuko. or, We are forever indebted to you. Some of them talk about the family that have come back from war unscathed, some just want to thank him for returning their homes to him. He smiles and bows to them, even giving a stiff hug to a little girl. Some, though, are not so friendly. They cast him sideways glares, whisper to their friends as he passes. They turn their backs and close their windows. Zuko looks away, bows his head. He’s not sure he would trust himself either. But that’s okay. His family has done terrible damage to the world in the last century, but he’s going to try and repair at least some of it.
Separate from the people, Zuko enjoys being able to just walk through the city. A week ago was his coronation, and the days since had so much official business to tend to at the palace that he didn’t once step foot outside. Taking care of refugees, repaying damage, and the like. This is a relief. And it’s nice to see the actual citizens of Ba Sing Se for the first time since the end of the war.
There are pieces of paper stuck up on walls, too, denser the closer he gets to the tea shop. Visit the Jasmine Dragon Today! they say, above a mangled scribble of a drawing and an address. Zuko frowns. It doesn’t seem like Uncle to do something like that. He stares at them for a moment and then keeps going.
He reaches the Jasmine Dragon soon enough. It looks good from the outside—the sign is intact, as is the rest of the entryway, outside of a few stains and cracks. This is good. Zuko walks up the steps and knocks on the door twice, proper. It opens wide and Uncle is on the other side, a grin lighting up his face. He throws his arms around Zuko, holding him tightly. Zuko, in turn, melts into the hug, smiling too.
“Firelord Zuko, at my doorstep?” Uncle Iroh asks, stepping away. “Why, this is an honor.”
“Well, I’d finished with my plans, and I wanted to be here today. I know it’s important.”
“Important for me as well as for the citizens of Ba Sing Se. I had forgotten how bad their tea can be. Bitter and flat. I don’t know how they stand it.” He claps a hand on Zuko’s shoulder and leads him into the shop. “But anyway, we have a lot of work to do if we’re going to open tonight! The people are waiting.”
“I’m sure they’ve missed you.”
“They definitely have. Don’t tell him I told you this, but Jiang’s tea shop next door? The worst of the bunch. Remember the tea you made me in the forest?”
Zuko frowns. “I do.”
“Like that, but much worse. Completely flavorless.”
“Ah. Like leaf juice.”
Uncle Iroh chuckles. “Very much like leaf juice. Now, let’s get to work.”
The tea house is in better shape than they might have expected. While Ozai was in charge of the city, there were strict rules about Earth Nation citizens’s businesses. Most local-owned shops were either taken over by fire nation people and rebuilt according to code, and Zuko had been afraid the same would happen to the Jasmine Dragon. Luckily, the place was well-kept enough that the soldiers merely gave it a new coat of paint, and it sat otherwise nearly untouched from the day of the coup. In the past days, Uncle and some of the kids (Katara and Aang, mostly) helped clean up the surfaces and straighten furniture. The place looks nearly as good as new.
“What can I do?”
“You can start by buying some porcelain tea sets for me. We originally had twenty, but some of them were damaged in the last few months,” Uncle says. “Toph helped to draw the dirt off of the fifteen that were still intact.” He gestures to the pots, lined up on the counter behind him and gleaming like they were a day old.
“She’s good,” Zuko says.
“The best of our time,” Uncle says, and his voice carries the warmth it does whenever he talks about Zuko or his friends. “Now, hurry along. I have to set the tables.”
Zuko takes the money that Uncle holds out, smiling, and turns. He’s several steps out of the shop before he doubles back. “Where can I buy the teapots?”
Uncle Iroh chuckles. “I was beginning to wonder if you would remember to ask. It’s to the left, across the park.”
Zuko nods and leaves again.
The park isn’t far, and he’s halfway there when he hears someone behind him, calling his name.
“Zuko! Zuko, back here!” It’s Aang, in new green robes, shoes too big for his feet and a ridiculous hat. He’s waving both arms above his head while he runs, and trips and only just stops himself from falling. “Hey, Zuko!”
“Hi,” Zuko says. “You bought new clothes.”
“Yeah,” Aang cries, falling into step beside Zuko. “Sokka and I went shopping this morning. He got a new bag, and a belt. We got to try the food, too. Have you ever tried an ma po do fu?”
“Yeah. My family took a lot of trips here when I was little. They made us try all the delicacies.”
“Aren’t they great? I thought after the months we spent here I would have had everything, but there’s still a lot more to go. I love the Earth Nation. Have you tried the unfried dough? Not their best.”
“I haven’t, but it sounds terrible.”
“Did you know I inspired that? An Earth Nation village planned to have me fried in oil, but they decided not to when they realised I was the only one who could save them from the Rough Rhinos. I’m starting to wish I didn’t,” he says, fishing a wet lump out of his bag. He takes a small bite from it and makes a face. “You want some?”
“No, thanks.”
They walk in silence for a moment, before Zuko says, “By the way, I wanted to thank you for helping Uncle clean up the tea shop. I’m sure it made him happy.”
“It was fun! And that reminds me. We’ve been spreading the word about the tea shop’s opening so lots of people will show up!”
Zuko smiles. “Thank you for that too.”
“Yeah! We’ve been putting up posters. See, Sokka made them!” Aang holds up a poster like the one Zuko had seen earlier.
“Yeah...are you sure those aren’t the Appa posters you showed me with different writing?”
Aang frowns and squints at the drawing. “No, it’s definitely a teapot. At least, Sokka said it was supposed to be a teapot.”
“Maybe Sokka shouldn’t be doing the art.”
Aang shrugs. “Well, he was enthusiastic.”
“I guess that counts for something. Is that Katara?” There’s a blue figure across the square, and Zuko can recognize her from behind.
“Yeah, I think so! Let’s go talk to her!”
“You go ahead. I need to buy some stuff for Uncle.”
“Okay, see you later!” Aang says, and dashes off. Smiling, Zuko turns into to the porcelainware shop.
--
The opening is scheduled for five o’clock. When the clock strikes, Zuko looks around. It’s not yet quite the state it was months before—the walls are slightly stained and cracked, and a couple of the teacups he bought had chips in them. But they’ve repainted the outside so that it looks and reads the way it did before, and the egg drop soup that Uncle Iroh has been cooking smells delicious. There’s even a pai sho table in the corner for visitors to play. All in all, they’ve done a decent job. It’s not perfect, but Uncle wanted to open as soon as possible. “We can sort out the details later. As long as the tea is good, people will be happy.”
Zuko stands behind the counter with his hands around a kettle, heating it with a gentle flame. Once it boils, he keeps it the right temperature: hot enough for a slow bubble, but not so hot that it boils over. It took a little bit of practice to get the balance right the first time he’d tried, but now it’s easy. Later, Uncle will keep the water hot, and Zuko will be waiter. After today, of course, he’ll have to be firelord. But today, until Uncle gets paid help, he’s more than willing to pitch in.
Uncle is ready next to him. The tea leaves are loose, kept in tins lined up behind the teapots. He prepares everything on order, so all there really is to do now is wait for people to start pouring in.
The first customer comes soon after five. It’s a little man, a little bewildered-looking, in tiny, thick-lensed spectacles. He sits down at the table closest to the window and pulls out a book, leafing through it and murmuring to himself.
“How can I help you, sir?” Zuko asks.
The man looks up as if he hadn’t realised he was in a restaurant at all. “Could I...well, I guess I’ll have a green tea.”
“And will that be for one person?”
The man cocks his head like he’s trying to understand the question, and then says, “just me, yes.”
“Okay, sir, coming right up,” Zuko says, and rushes back over to Uncle. “Green tea for one, Uncle.”
“A classic,” Uncle Iroh says, spooning the leaves into a pot and filling it with water. When the tea has steeped, he places it on a tray for Zuko, who hurries it over to the customer.
“Your tea.”
“Thank you,” the man says, and then goes back to his reading.
And then fifteen minutes pass, and still the only person in the shop is the spectacled man.
“Do you think he likes it?” Zuko asks, leaning over to Uncle.
“I think so. He smiled when he took his first sip.”
“I think that was a grimace from burning his tongue,” Zuko says, and Iroh casts a dirty look. “I’m sure he liked it.”
Uncle fiddles with the tins of tea leaves, rearranging them by color instead of size. Zuko taps his fingers on the counter.
“Maybe your friends had a hard time spreading the word,” Uncle says.
“Maybe people just don’t feel like tea today,” Zuko says, frowning.
“I know what it is,” Uncle says with a smile, “it still looks like we’re closed. Let me go open the door.”
He does, and then joins Zuko back at the counter. It’s quiet outside, and darkening quickly. Zuko pulls his hair back, considering tying it, and then lets it hang in his face instead. Uncle hums a tune.
They hear footsteps outside and both brighten up. “Hey, maybe that’s someone,” Zuko says.
But it’s just Aang and Katara. “Hi!” Aang cries, and then wilts a little as he looks around at the near-empty shop. “Oh.”
“What’s going on?” Katara asks, brow furrowed. “I thought people loved your tea.”
Zuko looks down.
“I think we’re just having an off day,” Uncle Iroh says.
Katara nods. “I’m sure something’s wrong. I saw your tea shop before, and it was full. I didn’t have time to try the tea, but it smelled amazing.”
“Hey,” Aang says, “I have an idea. What if I got Sokka and Toph and we tried to spread the word?”
“You did that two hours ago,” Zuko says.
Aang shrugs. “Just an idea. Besides, second time’s the charm, right?”
“That’s...not the saying.”
Iroh speaks up. “We would be grateful for your help, Aang.”
Aang breaks into a face-splitting grin. “Thank you, Uncle Iroh!” He grabs Katara’s hand and runs outside and to the right, already yelling about the Jasmine Dragon.
Zuko grimaces. “Why did you tell him that was a good idea?”
“Because it would make him happy to help. And because we need it. It’s never a bad thing to accept help, Zuko, even when you don’t yet believe that help is right for you.”
Zuko looks out the windows at Aang, now doubling back to the left, and hms. Then, there’s nothing to do but wait.
And shockingly, it works. The second customer comes in just five minutes later, with a little boy in tow. Zuko delivers his order to Uncle, who starts heating up the water again. After that, it never goes cold. Another family—this one three kids and two mothers, comes and sits at the table closest to the counter. They order soup to go with their tea. From there, the customers just keep coming. Couples, families, groups of friends. It’s inexplicable, and Uncle and Zuko can barely keep up.
“How are you liking your tea? Is there anything I can do?” he asks one of the mothers.
“It’s just wonderful,” she says.
“Thank you,” Zuko says, bowing his head.
“We just loved this tea house when you first opened, months ago,” the other woman says. “We were so happy to see that it was reopening. Of course, the address on the posters confused us.”
“What do you mean, the address on the poster?”
“It said it was on Mei Hua street instead of Mei Li street. It must have been a mistake.”
Zuko is speechless for a moment, and then he says, “It was. Thank you for coming in spite of it.”
“Of course!” she says, smiling sweetly.
Zuko hurries up to Uncle. “Uncle, good news about—”
He hears another group coming through the door and turns. He opens his mouth to ask how many seats they’ll need, but it’s just Katara, Toph, Sokka, and Suki.
“Hi, Zuko. Uncle,” Katara says, waving and smiling. “We were wondering if there was anything more we could do to help.”
“We,” Sokka says, arms crossed, “were actually on a date. But we’ve decided to grace you with our presence.”
Katara casts him a sideways glare. “By the way, we figured out why business was so bad. Sokka—”
“Wrote the wrong address,” Zuko interrupts. “We know.”
“Actually,” Sokka says, “I asked Toph for the address. Which is where we ran into a bit of an issue.” He glares at Toph.
“I don’t see what the big deal is!” Toph cries, throwing her hands up. “I can’t read signs, remember? I just heard someone say it. It’s not my fault Sokka always forgets I’m blind.”
Sokka pouts. “That’s why you don’t ask the blind girl for help.”
“Yes!” Toph yells.
“People are here now, and that’s what matters,” Uncle Iroh says. “Thank you for the help.”
Katara steps forward. “Aang is outside spreading the word and fixing the posters. Is there anything else you need?”
“You, Toph, and Suki could help me wait tables,” Zuko says. “And Sokka could help make tea.” Uncle Iroh elbows him, and Zuko corrects himself. “Sokka could help heat water. Uncle can make the tea.”
Sokka gasps. “I’m great at making tea!” They ignore him.
They all go to their jobs, and things start to smooth out. The tea house is the warm, bustling hub it was months ago, and Zuko feels ridiculously happy. Aang and Toph come in to help, and Suki and Katara are doing well, and the flow of customers doesn’t ebb.
When he can, Zuko finds a moment to go talk to Uncle Iroh, but before he says what he was planning to say, he notices something and his brow furrows. “What’s Katara doing?” She’s been standing at a table at the other end of the room for several minutes.
“She’s entertaining the children. She’s been doing it for some time now. See?”
Now that he’s paying attention, Zuko does see. She’s bending the tea from the cups and making it spin, dance in front of the childrens’ eyes. They laugh and grab at it, delighted.
Zuko glances around the room. Aang is talking earnestly to an old woman by the window. Toph repairs a dropped teacup for a customer, and Sokka and Suki are in the corner flirting. Sokka tries to tuck Suki’s hair behind her face, but she moves and he hits her eye instead. She laughs and says something, then kisses him quickly. They glance around to make sure no one saw, and Zuko looks away.
He thinks, for a moment, back to his time in the fire nation. His tense hours with Mai, Ty Lee, and Azula. The snide comments, the backhanded compliments. At one point Azula had mentioned his banishment, called him weak, and he’d bitten the inside of his cheek so hard he drew blood. She said she was joking, but he knew she wasn’t. Nothing Azula said was a joke.
“It’s so easy,” Zuko says, almost to himself.
“What do you mean?” Uncle asks, although Zuko gets the feeling that Uncle knows.
“Never mind.” Zuko shakes his head. Then, “Congratulations, Uncle.”
“Thank you,” Uncle Iroh says, looking up at Zuko as he spoons tea leaves into a pot. “When we were ambushed in the palace, I thought my dream of spending my life serving tea was lost. I’m only thankful that we managed to win it back, and I’m more thankful that we won it back together.”
“I’m happy I got to be here today.”
“So am I..”
Uncle Iroh stills his hands, and they look at the scene together, for a moment.
“You have good taste in friends, Firelord Zuko” Uncle says.
Zuko nods, and he lets himself smile before he goes back out to join them.
#fluff#atla#atla fic#zuko#gen fic#friendship#aang#katara#sokka#suki#iroh#yes i only wrote this because iw anted to see more tea shop scenes#happy iroh and zuko makes me cry on the daily#my writing#avatar
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Music and Mischief, Chapter 2
(Also on AO3 under errantnight!)
(A bit edited and changed on my AO3)
For all that everyone is singing songs about her, Threnod is pleasantly surprised to discover that not one single person in the Bard’s College knows who she is. It probably helps that she’s dumped her chain mail in the bottom of her satchel and put everything else on top; even with a sword on her belt she’s gloriously anonymous. Who doesn’t go armed these days, anyway?
Somehow it must be in the way she walks that lets people know she’s competent with that weapon and probably a lot more likely to survive in some far flung dungeon than anyone else in residence… so she gets asked a favor. A very dangerous favor, one she really doesn’t want to do if she doesn’t have to… but Viarmo had actually asked nicely, explaining that although they often ask potential students to do small errands and tasks in exchange for admittance… well, not many of them showed up looking like they could handle the one thing no one else felt up to doing.
It was a familiar sort of task, one she’d been doing for years before she’d been conscripted into hero-dom… She shakes her head and shoves that word deep down where she won’t be bothered by it. She’s getting better at that, the longer she goes insisting on telling people her name. And, of course, she’d been told to have fun… Getting King Olaf’s Verse and then having a drunken party where they burn an effigy and sing sounds, well, fun definitely.
Dead Man’s Respite doesn’t sound like a pleasant place, so she stops and exchanges her empty potion bottles for fresh at a small discount. She always tries to hold onto the empties, most alchemists appreciate not having to buy so many of them when most customers seem to toss them aside when they’re finished.
When she gets inside the barrow she sees how right she is and groans when her eyes fall on the familiar shape of a dragon’s claw and the ghostly figure that silently beckons her forward.
She follows reluctantly, drawing her sword. Her free hand falls on the long stem of the carved rose on her other hip, biting gently at the inside of her cheek and curiosity nips back at her as the pad of one finger catches on a thorn. She sticks her finger in her mouth, a terrible habit, and continues on into the dungeon. She doesn’t want to waste it, most artifacts like this only summon something for a minute or so and eventually burn out if you use them too often.
She’s expecting the traps, she’s almost used to the giant venomous spiders, she’ll never quite get used to the draugr. When she was a child the bitch who ran the orphanage had told her stories about how the draugr woke and gathered grave goods and offerings to distribute to the dead - they were the ones who tended the fires and lit the lamps, who reset the traps to protect the dead who hadn’t been warriors in life. Even if you struck them down, they’d be back at it in a few days. And, of course, they ate little children and dragged their bodies into the barrow to slave away their undeath forever.
Some of them were… a bit more aggressive than others. Once the power inside of her had been unlocked, she’d often screamed back when the Speakers among the dead would loose their own power from dry dusty throats. But it was a bit more difficult when her sword has been Shouted right out of her grip and she can’t find it anywhere.
She’s backed against a wall just out of sight, trying to control her pounding heart and working through the words she knows and wondering if any of them will do much good against a Deathlord, when her finger throbs and she feels the wooden Rose burning through her hip. She pulls it free from the sheath she’s made for it and holds it out in front of her, passing her will into it as she would any other magical device, and a searing red light explodes forth to materialize into a red and black armored Dremora.
He tilts his head in her direction, a slow smile tugging at his lips to bare sharp teeth before he spins about and begins to lay waste to the Draugr Lord and the lesser draugr around him. She’s summoned Dremora before, with scrolls, and they’re usually annoyed at the interruption of whatever they’d been doing on their plane - staying only the brief alloted time they’re bound to their task and then growling at her as they vanished again.
This time is different. The sounds of battle continue for several minutes at least, the Dremora obviously taking his time as he hunts down each and every enemy in the area and doesn’t stop until he’s finished. Perhaps, she thinks, the summoning lasts longer since the Rose was Lord Sanguine’s gift to her personally.
The Daedra has wandered back in her direction, heavy mace leaning against his shoulder as he stalks back and forth in front of her. She swallows as he releases the weapon and it dissipates, his hands coming up to pull the sharp edged helmet from his head and dropping it on the cracked floor with a dull thud.
“Ah,” he says, “Threnod, isn’t it?” His voice is low and rough, a strange accent twisting her name on his tongue as though he hasn’t spoken her language in a thousand years - and that might be true.
She straightens and nods, her own throat going dry as he smiles again and his eyes move from her face down to her chainmail covered chest and lower, gaze pinning her in place as he steps closer. She’s quickly pinned against the wall in truth as he chuckles quietly, the sound echoing through the silent barrow.
He flicks his hands to the side and, just like any other conjured armor, the metal plates shrouding his body dissipate in a wreathing swirl of smoke and flecks of glowing embers. His body is lean and scarred, some of the cuts are from wounds but more of them are in deliberate designs excised into his flesh in jagged patterns and runes.
“There’s been bets, you see,” he says as he hooks two fingers into the top of her mail shirt and jingles it in an obvious demand, “about who would get a chance to… visit you first. I won, it seems, and I’m going to take my reward now. For services rendered, you understand.”
Threnod shivers, as she pulls the armor over her head and dumps it to one side. She’s not fast enough, apparently, in unlacing the leather cord closing her trousers. His fingernail slides through it like the leather were an errant thread.
“Eager little thing aren’t you?” He stops and stares down at her, waiting.
“Yes,” she can’t stop the sigh at the end of her reply and he grins again.
“So we’ve heard,” he purrs, stripping the soft cloth away from her neck that had hidden the golden collar and sliding both of his hands around her throat with the smallest squeeze. Fear thrills through her, but at the same time her knees go weak with need and for a brief moment she can’t breathe as he holds her upright.
He releases her all at once and she’s on her knees, anticipation curling in her stomach and rolling lower as his fingers run through her hair and make a fist - a small pained sound whimpers from her mouth and he shakes her head back and forth as his free hand slides up and down his cock. He’s not as terrifyingly large as her… their master, but it’s thoroughly intimidating all the same - particularly without the relaxation of mead and wine to soften her. He lets her go and bends his knee and rifles through the pile of cloth at their feet, twining the longest piece of cut lacing between his fingers.
“Turn around,” he says, the amusement seeming to vanish from his voice and countenance as he slaps the side of her head and her sudden cry at the unexpected blow bouncing back along the twisting corridors.
Her first instinct is anger, glaring up at him and scrambling back. Her hands find her empty sheath and she remembers she hasn’t even looked for her fallen weapon…
She falters as his own glare roves over her bare skin and she’s suddenly uncertain…
“You will obey me,” he says, “as you would obey our lord. The covenant,” he says, “is unbreakable - but you, little one, are not.”
Firelight flickers over his face, reflecting back in his black eyes.
“Alright,” she drags the word out of her tight throat, her eyes burning as she feels unexpected tears welling up.
“That’s better,” he says reaching down and grabbing her hair again, “now be a good little thrall and put your hands behind your back.”
He walks behind her as she obeys, feeling the thin leather cord wrap around her wrists and gasps as it’s pulled painfully tight.
“Spread your legs,” the Dremora taps the inside her thighs with a finger, “no, wider than that,” he directs until her muscles are twinging in discomfort and her sex is nearly touching the filthy floor. She cringes as the thought and the Dremora makes an amused sound, “you’d lick this spot clean if I told you to slave, but I won’t order that sort of thing when I have better uses for your mouth.”
There’s a moment of silence, “Say, ‘thank you, lord K’tarn’.”
“Th… thank you,” she says, catching herself and forcing the volume of her voice above a whisper, “thank you, lord K’tarn.”
“That’s a good little slave. It doesn’t matter who you are to anyone on this wretched plane of Mundus - you’re not a hero, you’re not a <i>descendant</i> of the gods, you’re an obedient thrall and belong on your knees amongst your betters. Meaning, of course, we undying of the Daedra and especially beneath the heel of our Lord Sanguine who you will never hesitate to obey. Yes?”
“I would never,” she gasps out as he walks around to her front, whatever else she might say is cut off as he thrusts himself into her open mouth and then more slowly works his way into her throat.
“Of course you won’t,” he says, his rough voice deepening and trailing into a soft groan.
He runs his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her head and drawing himself out to give her space to breathe and then beginning a rough rhythm that leaves her half sobbing and gasping until he finally pulls back and growls down at her, “Keep it open, yes just like that.”
He spends himself on her tongue and wipes the the rest of the mess onto her cheek.
“Don’t you dare waste any of that,” he smiles, “let me see.”
She closes her mouth, eyes rolling back in her head as she swallows and then opens her mouth again to show she’d done as she was told.
“Very nice, now what do you say?”
She tilts her head back and blinks slowly, “Thank you lord K’tarn.”
“Stand up,” he says, then laughs when she nearly collapses - legs aching from the long held position trying to keep her sex from touching the stone beneath her. He grabs her by the back of the golden collar and drags her to her feet, then higher until she’s on her tip toes and trying desperately to breathe.
He lets her feet touch the floor, pushing her head down and guiding her away through the empty halls of the barrow until he’s found what he wants. From the corner of her eye she sees him sweep the scattered tools and scrolls from atop an offering table, an urn crashing to pieces on the floor before he lifts her up to lay face down on top of it.
“Beg me to fuck you,” he runs his fingertips down her back, trailing down her sides and then digging his nails into her hips. She gasps at the sharp pain, knowing without looking he’s drawn blood.
“Tell me you’ll let me do whatever I want so long as I let you come.”
She squirms as he presses between her legs, so much hotter than a human man, so much better now that she’s had both.
“Please,” she yelps as his nails claw deeper into her skin and she can feel her blood now running down to drip on the table beneath her, “fuck me, and…,” she stills and then writhes back against him, “hurt me, whatever you need, I’ll let you. No, no I want you to hurt me!” Her eyes are wide, this new horizon opening up inside of her and uncurling a white hot need in her belly to spread through her body.
The nails digging into her hips drag her backward and she moans, “Yes, please!”
“You’re such a good learner little thrall, I’ll give you what you want then since you asked so nicely.”
He thrusts himself inside of her, not waiting even a second to let her become accustomed to his size and she screams - all thought blotted out as he grabs her bound hands in one fist and the back of her collar with the other and begins rocking in and out of her with a punishing speed.
He’s laughing softly as she cries out, coming so hard that she can barely breathe between screams - but it doesn’t stop, the next wave of pleasure bleeds into the previous one, “Just look at you,” he’s growling, “in the hall of your ancestors, a wonton slave giving yourself to a demon.”
He slows, thrusts harder even than before, draws slowly out and releases her collar to let her speak, “How does it feel?”
She whines quietly, throat raw from screaming and tears running down her cheeks, “I… I love it, please don’t stop.”
He draws away, sliding out of her and eliciting a whimper. “I’m not done yet,” he says, “and I don’t take orders from thralls.”
The tie around her wrists loosens, “I’m only undoing this so you don’t lose your hands,” he explains, flipping her over and patting her cheek, “if you move your arms or try to touch me or yourself you’ll regret it.”
“Now, where were we? Oh, yes, pain. Not too much, this time, because we wouldn’t want you getting used to it. You’ll have to earn it next time.”
She fights to stay still, to not raise her head or move her hands as he steps away silently and disappears from her peripheral vision. Her ragged breathing catches and slows as she waits, wondering what would happen if she did move but she realizes she’s more afraid that he’ll stop and leave her rather than what he’ll do to her when he returns.
When he comes back he has a handful of… things, soft sounds of whatever they are being arranged beside her. When she tries to look he slaps her, hard enough to whip her head to the side and further hide the plans he’s made.
“Ah, no,” he bares his teeth at her, “you’ll just have to wait for the surprise.”
(Oh no, a cliffhanger! Don’t worry, the rest will get finished tonight. I just thought this was a good torture device I mean a good point to stop the chapter before I have to go to bed!)
#skyrim#skyrim fanfic#sanguine#dremora x dragonborn#things you wouldn't expect to happen in a barrow#Threnod has more fun
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a while back people requested that i share some of my headcanons for certain bnha characters, so here's some of the characters that i did
Shota Aizawa
- he absolutely has at LEAST 3 cats, he spoils the heck out of them too. that's why he's always eating those gel packs... he spends too much on his cats.
- he really does love his class. and we all know honey??? u haven't expelled any of them. ur soft for them ok.
- he likes to sleep with his cats bc he gets lonely at night... he will not admit it, but he likes having someone/something there :)
- he has reuccuring nightmares about the usj attack and how he could have failed to save his students
- has a very low alcohol tolerance and often ends up getting dragged back to his apartment by mic or midnight when they go out whilst he rambles and whines the entire time
- he hates crying and tries his best to keep his emotions held in, he's only cried in front of a select few people
- he tries not to let others opinions on him rule his life and tends to block it out if someone hates him
- he doesn't know it, but he is the entirety of class 1-a's dad.
- he really likes tea, and dislikes sweets
- as you would expect, he takes his coffee black
Hanta Sero
- he really likes kpop! he stans multiple groups and really wants to attend a concert
- though he seems really chill on the outside, he's actually quite sensitive and has some self confidence issues
- he loves being around people and finds that he gets his energy from being around those he loves
- definitely into e-boy fashion, and he is open about it
- pierced his own ears at 3 am and called kaminari crying about how he screwed it up
- he actually likes to draw a lot in his free time, it's very relaxing. he puts on some nice low-fi music and draws for hours
- he hasn't had many crushes in his life and doesn't find romance to be a big issue currently, but he's open to anything
- accidentally taped his hamster to the ceiling in 2nd grade, he didn't mean to and cried for hours (the hamster was ok)
Nemuri Kayama
- she is a BRO, she likes to crack a cold one open with the boys on the weekends
- she is bisexual and thinks everyone is beautiful in their own unique ways
- most likely talks shit about her coworkers to her classes
- she thinks children are adorable and loves them, often scaring them with her enthusiasm
- very touchy, she loves hugs and will probably not pass up a chance to use you as an armrest if she has the chance
- she secretly worries about aizawa a lot and is scared that he lets the past effect him too much
- did you guys know she has a cat?!
- i like to think she and mic are like... EPIC bros, she loves to paint his nails and do his hair while gossiping with him (aizawa would NEVER let her do this to him lmao)
- she isn't a mom, but finds the idea of having her own children very nice, for now having a cat will suffice
- she enjoys trying to make all might flustered, she thinks his reactions to things are always very cute and funny (it's all in good fun!)
- she's the mom friend! though she may seem very sexual, which she undoubtedly is, she is also very caring and has a very nuturing motherly personality, she's a lot more than just fanservice !!!!!
Todoroki Shoto
- completely oblivious when it comes to love... he doesn't even understand his own crushes
- "of course you can borrow my credit card uraraka" *pulls out endeavors card which he sneakily took*
- would be the person to tell a child that their pet guinea pig didn't go to heaven and be confused when they start sobbing... like "what... don't be honest?"
- allows his friends to huddle up to his warm side when they are cold
- is confused when people show him copious amounts of love and affection
- he would beat up anyone if they tried to do ANYTHING bad to midoriya
- he wants more friends. he really is enjoying meeting new people and having some new friends at ua!
- he gives really good hugs, he doesn't try to hug you too tight, but he doesn't half ass it either, very nice and warm
- he hates his scar. like. a lot. he wants to cover it up so bad but it just doesn't work. he's afraid it'll make other people scared of him.
Shinsou Hitoshi
- loves patd! and fall out boy, a brendon urie STAN
- loves to kiss his kitties on the forehead but dreads human interaction
- he loves to squish his cats' toebeans... he takes pictures of them and posts them to his secret cat social media acc
- he is gay but doesn't know how to feel about it and/or come out, he's really nervous and doesn't trust people to accept him
- he doesn't smile often but when he does it's the cutest thing ever
- he secretly really likes deku and kaminari and is hesitant about accepting their friendship, but appreciates the gestures a lot
- he suffers with social anxiety and doesn't really know how to make friends very well??? like, in middle school people were total dickbags to him so he kinda just closed himself off and decided he was gonna like... not make friends, but now that there's nice people around him he just kind of- doesn't know how
- this is actually canon! but he feels guilty about having to manipulate people when he uses his quirk, during the 4th school briefs book he feels guilty when he overhears midoriya and ojiro talking about him using his quirk during the sports festival, and he's like "i wish ojiro would say something rude about me to show he's angry so i wouldn't have to feel so guilty about this" since ojiro showed no ill feelings towards him
Izuku Midoriya
- "hold on I'll go get a blanket!" *opens closet* *thousands of all might figurines tumble out*
- watches cat vine compilations until 2 am, than freaks out when he realizes it is 2 am
- very good with children!
- used to be very self conscious about his freckles bc of bakugou insulting them; hid them with concealer for a while until someone told him they were beautiful
- loves his momma so muchhh he would do anything for her, he likes to surprise her with small favors to see her happy
- does not understand the concept of letting people handle their own problems
- stays after to class to offer his teachers help
- he has a lot of self doubts and is still struggling to this day to come to terms with the fact that he is worthy of having one for all
- he wants to learn how to cook for his mom and friends
Kyoka Jirou
- she is a lesbian!!!!! she has a crush on momo but is completely convinced that it's unrequited
- struggled with judgmental kids in middle school because of her sexual identity and style
- gets very easily flustered by anyone complimenting her
- that one person sitting at the back of the bus with their earbuds blasting full volume
- was a GOD at guitar hero
- acts like she's fed up with kaminari's (which she can be sometimes), but truly he's one of the people she can trust the most. she secretly appreciates the way he hypes up her talents and how he really helps her through the day sometimes!
- she loves heroes so much... when she was a little girl and didn't know what to do she'd ask herself "what would my favorite heroes do!?"
- she also secretly buys hero merch but hides it in fear of her being seen as sappy
Amajiki Tamaki
- would have trouble standing up for himself but if he sees ANYONE messing with mirio he WILL throw hands
- likes to watch bob ross videos when hes feeling anxious
- he once went to a butterfly museum with his parents and cried out of joy when one landed on his nose
- leaves food out for strays in his neighborhood, ends up attracting an entire hoard of animals.
- he can paint very nicely, he began to paint after he discovered bob ross
- mirio then saw his paintings and showed the entire class to tamaki's dismay, but everyone absolutely LOVED them!!!
- every day he becomes more and more capable and sure of himself, he is still very anxious, but he's learning to open up and embrace his talents <3
- he really loves to listen to music and any time he's not around others he'll probably have earbuds in, gently swaying back and forth to whatever he has on
- nejire loves to try out new hairstyles on him, and strangely enough, tamaki lets her, he loves it when people play with his hair
Shirakumo Oboro
- shares one collective braincell with mic
- that one person that brings EVERYONE valentine treats on valentines day at school
- most likely plays ding dong ditch
- *draws stick figure* "ah yes. just like van goh" (he cannot draw)
- hates to see his friends (and even random strangers upset) and will go out of his way to do dumb things to make them smile
- probably played soccer
- he's a massive flirt and likes to believe he will become a stereotypical anime protagonist with a massive harem
- he really wants to see aizawa come out of his shell more and tries his best to encourage him to see the best in everything
- he has most likely worn a schoolgirl uniform to class once
- he's very affectionate and loves to hug his friends (even if they don't want hugs), it's his way of showing he likes people
Hizashi Yamada
- he lives off of caffeine. he is a teacher, pro hero, and radio show host, im honestly not sure how he does it
- gives out stickers when students get the correct answer in class and has class parties when they are well behaved for the semester
- just like everyone else, he has his own turmoil as well, he likes to stay busy because it prevents him from having a lot of time to dwell on the past
- he gives really good hugs, and loves to feel the touch of others, it's very comforting to him
- was probably pretty troublesome when he was very young while he learned to get control of his quirk
- overall a really happy and excitable guy, he loves being the center of attention and if he can make people happy by being what he is, that's awesome!
- he shows his appreciation for people in odd ways, but he always means good, even if his wild antics can be a bit stressful lol
- he likes to sing a lot and does it a bunch when he's alone, he can also play a lot of instruments
- he can be very serious if needed, he does often put on a persona when he's present mic
- when he's hizashi (out of hero persona) he's even more of a dork than usual, very goofy, awkward and pouty. a manchild.
OK so I reached my image limit, if u guys wanna see the rest I might post some more later PLUS feel free to request some in my asks, I don't really know how all that stuff works bc I'm kinda new to Tumblr but ILL FIGURE IT OUT
#midoriya izuku#izuku midoriya#midoriya headcanons#my hero academia#boku no hero academia#shota aizawa#aizawa#bnha headcanons#mha headcanons#shirakumo#shirakumo oboro#shouta aizawa#aizawa shouta#jirou kyouka#kyoka jiro#nemuri kayama#hizashi yamada#hanta sero#tamaki amakiji#hitoshi shinsou#midnight bnha#todoroki shōto
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“What if a reader accidentally hits one of the La Squadra boys with her car? Instead of calling for a ambulance, she freaks out and puts them in her car and drives home and attempted to care for them?” - asked by @jashin-priestess
Ohh, this was a fun one to write! I’m sorry for the wait, but I made it extra long this time~ thank you for sending in that request! ^^
(Under the cut for length!)
Risotto Nero:
You still don’t know how exactly you managed to do it, but apparently the shock made you develop superhuman abilities, because somehow you placed the huge 2-meter man you accidently ran over into the back of your car and drove back to your home with him.
While you were preparing some cooling pads for his broken leg and bruises, you suddenly feel an icy shiver running down your spine. Turning around slowly, you almost drop the ice with a loud shriek: The man you had placed onto the floor just a few minutes ago in order to tend to his wounds is now kneeling in front of you with a knife in his hand that he points straight at your throat. His gaze out of red eyes resting inside pitch black sclerae is piercing right through you.
“Tell me. Where am I?”, the silver-haired man asks calmly and yet the underlying threat in his dark voice is undeniable. You swallow down an anxious cry and gather together all your courage to answer: “I…I brought you home since I kinda, uhm…I hit you with my car and I wanted to help you. I think yo…your leg is broken.”
For a moment the man keeps on staring at you, before his crimson eyes wander down to his wounded leg. Apparently, he didn’t even realize that he was injured until now.
Seeing him lowering his knife, you feel a confidence bubbling up inside you again and you finally allow yourself to take a deep, steady breath.
“Sorry for not taking you to a hospital”, you mumble, “but I sorta freaked out when I saw the blood on the tires, and I couldn’t even think clearly anymore so I brought you back to my place. I hope it’s okay…yeah?”
The man’s strange eyes still scare you, but despite his intimidating appearance, you move closer to him in order to have a better look on his injuries. His muscles visibly tense when you approach him, but he holds back with any movements. Apparently, he has concluded that you are of no danger to him, so he lets you take care of his leg with the cooling pads.
Some time afterwards the man even decides to break the ear-crushing silence between you two by saying: “Why are you helping me?”
“I feel really bad about the accident”, you respond in shame, “so I want to take care of your wounds. Really, it’s the least I can do.”
Risotto stares at you a tad longer in taciturnity before giving you a short nod.
“Thank you.”
Prosciutto:
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god”, you mumble like a mantra under your breath as you try to carry the man you just hit with your car into your living room. Momentarily, you are simply glad that he isn’t that heavy so that it is easy for you to lay him down safely onto your sofa. The blonde groans lowly, eyes shut tight from the pain visibly coursing through his body.
“I am so sorry. I just…I didn’t see you standing there, really, It was so dark and when I noticed you, I hit the brakes too late, and I-“
Your mouth comes to a halt when you receive an angry glare out of blue eyes.
“Why did you bring me to your home then instead of the hospital? Aren’t you afraid of letting a stranger in without even knowing if he is dangerous or not? I could do horrible things to you and you wouldn’t even have the slightest chance to defend yourself! How fucking naïve can you be?”
The man’s words might have been harsh, but there was a concerned undertone in his voice, something akin to the scolding of a teacher.
Upon seeing the intimidation present on your face, the blonde lets out a deep sigh.
“Well, it is how it is”, he says with much less vigour than before. “The hospital would have probably been a bad choice anyway. Too risky.”
You look at the stranger, questioningly tilting your head at his remark.
“None of your business.”
He presses his fists into the cushion of the sofa with clenched teeth to get himself into a sitting position, trying to carefully rest his leg onto the pillow you had fetched him earlier from your bedroom. You help him with the whole ordeal the best you possibly can.
During the crushing silence between you two, you finally ask: “So, uhm, your name is…?”
A stern look is thrown your way and you already brace yourself for a chiding retort, but instead he really does answer your question – his name is Prosciutto. How weird.
“Don’t worry, I am going to care for you until you can walk again. It’s the least I can do to make up for the accident”, you say to him while you put some cooling ointment onto his injuries.
Prosciutto opens his mouth to respond, but then closes it again after a moment of overthinking. Surely, he wanted to reprimand you again for your gullibility, however, he decided to let it slide. After all, he really could need some assistance with his wounds for now.
Formaggio:
“Okay so, you are…ouch-!”
“Sorry!”, you say as you dab the cotton drenched in alcohol onto the man’s wound. It would certainly not leave a scar (you think), but nevertheless you need to disinfect it.
“Ngh, never mind, I put up with worse in the past”, the man with the buzzcut says, flashing you a cocky grin, one that quickly melds into a pained grimace when the burning disinfectant meets his bruised skin.
“I gotta say though that I’ve never been the victim of a car accident. There’s a first time for anything, huh?”
You look at him – the man who had introduced himself as Formaggio to you earlier – in shock and you wonder how he is able to laugh at a time like this. Especially since you could have killed him right then and there with your car.
“I am sorry”, you repeat yourself, lowering your head in shame. “I’ll make it up to you, okay? I’ll treat your injuries the best I can, and you can stay here until you feel better. It’s the least I can do.”
Formaggio nods at your words, letting himself fall back into the sofa’s cushion with a yawn.
“Alright then, fine by me! But don’t be too good at your job cuz I could get used to a personal nurse!”, he says with a mischievous smirk on his lips.
Illuso:
You tried to be careful – really! – and yet you still handled his ankle too roughly, making the injured man on your couch cry out in pain.
“Fuck, can you be a little more careful perhaps!?”, he snaps at you.
“S-sorry”, you mumble in response, feeling even worse when you notice the man is grinding his teeth in agony from your treatment. “Can I do anything for you?”
“Yeah, there really is something you could do for me…say, do you have a mirror somewhere?”
You blink, confused about his request.
“Uhm, yes, it’s hanging right there-“
Illuso follows the pointing of your finger with his eyes, looking quite content.
“Ah yes, perfect. I mean…could you get me a glass of water?”
Nodding, you move into the kitchen to fetch the man some water, but once you return to the living room, you draw in a sharp breath.
He…he is gone!
Frantically you look around your living room for the slightest trace of the strange man with the dark pigtails, but there is no trace of him, none at all! It’s as if Illuso had only been a…well, an illusion.
Suddenly, you hear a small noise, something akin to a huff of exertion or pain coming from the mirror that hangs on the wall next to the sofa. Huh, how weird. Maybe you had just imagined that sound, your nerves were still playing tricks on you apparently.
Pesci:
You watch the man on your couch anxiously as he tries to stretch his leg, only for him to let it drop back onto the cushion of your sofa with a yelp.
“Moving hurts too much”, he groans, trying to fight back tears from the seething pain radiating from his injured limb.
“I am so sorry! I didn’t see you there crossing the street and it was too late for the brakes to work”, you try to explain yourself, the guilt of your careless action making you sick to the stomach.
“Why didn’t you get me to a hospital then?”, the man asks, looking up at you with a pang of fear. “What a-are you gonna do with me now?”
“Well, I just kinda freaked out and then took you back to my place. Don’t worry, really, I’m just trying to help you!”, you add quickly when you notice that the man – Pesci was his name, if you recall correctly – eyed you with apparent fear, his hands slightly trembling.
“I’ll make sure to make you feel alright again! It’s my fault after all that you got involved in a car accident after all.”
Pesci gives you an uncertain look, clearly not too sure how to react to your offer. “That is, uhm, nice. I think. Thank you…”
Melone:
You could almost cry from relief when the stranger on your couch finally opens his eyes. Well, it’s just one eye if you were exact, because his other eye was covered by a translucent mask and a curtain of lilac hair.
“Where am I?”, he asked, his voice still a bit drowsy. You couldn’t blame him for that, after all he had just woken up from an unpleasant encounter with the bumper of your car.
“You are in my house. I brought you here after I, uhm, after I hit you with my car”, you say, the last few words added very, very quietly. The man blinks two, three times, before he tries to sit up, only to sink back into the cushion when he feels the sizzling pain in his leg.
“Ah, I see”, is his only comment to the whole situation.
The man seems to contemplate about something, the gears in his heads working in pregnant silence, before he finally says: “Melone.”
“Huh?”
You stare at the man in confusion. Melone? Was he hungry or something?
“That´s my name. I think you ought to know now that I am already here in the security of your home.”
The man with the lilac hair looks up to you, his turquois eye throwing an attentive gaze at you.
“I presume you are intending to care for me then? Since you didn’t get me to a hospital for medical treatment?”
Well, he had a point! Panic had overtaken you the moment you decided to take the injured man back to your home instead of getting him proper treatment. So, you simply nod as response to his question.
“Di molto!”
Melone’s mouth curves upwards into a sly smile and suddenly you feel like taking this stranger into your home wasn’t a very good idea.
“You know what, I think I prefer your treatment over the hospital. You are the cutest nurse I have ever had the pleasure to meet!”
Ghiaccio:
“Why didn’t you get me to a fucking hospital? You hit me with your goddamn car!”
The loud voice of the man currently perched on your sofa makes you wince. Apparently, he isn’t all too familiar with the concept of ‘indoor voice’.
“I’m…I’m sorry, everything was just a bit much for me and you ran across the street without looking and I couldn’t stop the car in time and I panicked and then I-“
“Listen, I don’t need you telling me in detail how you fucking RAN ME OVER! It just happened an hour ago and I remember”, the blue haired man tried to sit up, but recoiled in pain when he tried moving his broken foot, “I fucking remember it well…”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry”, you blurt out again for what feels like the hundredth time. In a fit of panic, you had tried to tend to the stranger’s wounds by yourself – a terrible idea in retrospective.
The snarling man on your sofa had grudgingly introduced himself as Ghiaccio and you truly couldn’t be mad at his foul mood, considering that you were the reason for his current predicament.
However, the prospect of you taking care of him until he could properly walk again was at first met with an iron resistance (and a plethora of excessive cursing), after a while Ghiaccio seemed to accept that he didn’t really have much of a choice anyway.
“Trust me, I will treat you well!”, you assure him.
His response hits you like a frosty blizzard: “I hope for your sake that you fucking will or else you’re gonna regret it.”
#la squadra di esecuzione#jjba headcanons#la squadra x reader#vento aureo#golden wind#jjba part 5#jojo's bizarre adventure#jojo part 5#jjba#risotto nero#pesci#prosciutto#melone#ghiaccio#formaggio#illuso#hitman team#request#jashin-priestess#fem s/o
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75, Izuku and Kaminari, angst? It might be a weird combo idk.
this was a really fun combo to write!! i haven’t written much kaminari before, so i hope i did him justice!
Prompt #75 - Can I be alone right now?
read on AO3 - request a prompt and character(s) for me to write!
Izuku would like to think that he had a pretty good grasp on the characters that made up his class, thank you very much. Not even a year had passed since they had started here, at U.A, and Izuku would be proud to call the nineteen other members of his class his friends.
Aside from the boy being very knowledgeable in all of their quirks (although this was not something he liked admitting out loud), but he figured he knew a great deal about the individual hobbies his classmates took on, or other little quirky things about them others might not notice.
He knew that Iida always set aside an hour for reading every day, except Sunday’s where he did two. He knew Uraraka, despite her money issues, often liked to partake in homemade craft, often using disposable items that people were about to recycle. He knew that Asui (no, Tsu, he reminded himself) had a collection of pebbles and small rocks in her room, some she had been holding onto since she was a small child with a variety of colors, sizes and shapes.
Kirishima often liked to make his own little wooden figurines that he painted as gifts, thanks to his quirks. Ashido was amazingly good at cooking spicy foods, sometimes even managing to rival Kacchan. Tokoyami would take any sweaters or jumpers that somehow got left in the common room, ’borrowing’ them in his room for the time being and Jirou seemed to, surprisingly, be a big fan of classical and orchestral music. Yaoyorozu and Kouda seemed to both be fans of writing and drawing, respectively.
Last he knew, the latter two were trying to work together and make a short story about their classmates, which he honestly couldn’t wait to see.
But yes, Izuku would say that he knew all of his classmates fairly well - even Kacchan, as hostile as ever, seemed to have a fascination in reptiles of all creatures, and was currently set on getting permission from Mr. Aizawa to bring one to the dorms.
The boy didn’t know if this was normal or not…after all, before coming to U.A, he hadn’t had many, if any friends at all, reluctant to even consider that Kacchan so close…so can you really blame him, wanting to know everything he could about his classmates?
But if he was being honest…there was one classmate who despite all of this, and despite his own outwardly demeanor…Izuku had to admit that he knew the least about this particular student.
And it wasn’t that he wasn’t observing the other - it was quite the opposite, really. It just appeared that the student, Kaminari, knew how to hide his interests extremely well. It wasn’t something one would call the electricity-quirked user - secretive.
But…Izuku didn’t know what else to put to the other boy. Maybe he was just really shy with whatever it was that he liked doing? But surely he knew none of the class would laugh or make fun of him…
Not to mention that he wasn’t exactly the closest with the blond - who was usually a member of Kacchan’s small group, and the thought of asking the explosive blond leader was out of the question. Kacchan would tell him…but in his own loud, profanity-filled Kacchan-esque way.
No, if Izuku wanted to get closer to another classmate, this was the perfect opportunity. This was his chance.
And Izuku might not be the best when it came to socializing and getting together with others…but surely it couldn’t be that hard, right?
—–
"Ah, Kaminari!!“
Izuku had waited until the following Monday, carefully keeping an eye on the blond as the group finished their classes for the day, waiting until they all got back to the dorms before he decided to approach the other with a raised hand and a light call. The boy startled out of whatever conversation he’d been having with Mineta, and Izuku only felt a little bad.
Judging by the blush and slight nosebleed on Mineta’s face, he should give himself a bigger pat on the back for stopping wherever that talk had been heading.
"Midoriya?”
The other hero-in-training looked confused, and Izuku couldn’t really blame him - neither went out of their way that much to talk about one another. Izuku could only smile sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Ah, it’s about the English assignment we got today…I know you’re pretty good with English, and Todoroki’s not available to help out today…mind if we maybe work out the assignment together?”
Kaminari looked shocked, as if he’d literally shocked himself with his own quirk. “You want me…to help you?”
In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t the best excuse…but Izuku wasn’t exactly lying either. His English could be downright awful at times. Even with his admiration of All Might…it left him with something less than desired.
"I…I don’t think I could really be that helpful, eh? I’d just be distraction…“
Izuku refused to back down, "Think about it, Kaminari– you say you always have trouble writing it all down, right? We can help each other…I could even give you some notes on our Maths and Art classes-”
Kaminari moved in the blink of an eye, snatching Izuku’s arms. “Why didn’t you say anything before?! Man, not that I appreciate help from Kacchan, but he can be a reaaaal bummer!”
Izuku smiled at the use of his childhood friend’s nickname, letting the other teen start to drag him along towards the elevators. “So I take that as a yes?”
“Totally!! Oh, dude, we’re gonna have soo much fun!” It seemed as if Kaminari forgot the whole reason they were doing this already, “We’ll go to my room…no offence, but studying and doing homework, All Might watching me from every corner? A real creepy vibe, dude.”
"Haha, yeah…….wait, what?“
—–
"Just throw your stuff wherever ya need to, bro!”
Izuku had seen the blond’s room once - when they had first moved in. He’d been…surprised, sure, by the others taste. But this…
“What an…interesting set up…”
Izuku had no clue where to look first. Kaminari just grinned, trotting right in and all but dumping his schoolbag onto the small table in the middle of the room, books spilling out as he searched through to find his English book.
And that’s when Izuku saw it.
A small notebook slid out, falling off the edge and landing on the floor with a quiet thump. Kaminari, too engrossed in finding the correct schoolwork, didn’t notice as Izuku walked over, picking up the notebook carefully in both hands.
It seemed to be about the same size as most of his quirk analysis notebooks…and it seemed extremely worn out, like it had been used a lot. On the front, in big kanji, was just one word that make the unruly-haired teen’s eyes lighten up in excitement.
‘QUIRKS’
Ehhh?! Kaminari keeps a book on quirks?! I mean, I guess it could be anything really…maybe he just thinks of quirks that would be cool to have? Or maybe…
“Hey, Kaminari? I never knew you were one for liking to know things about quirks!” Izuku proclaimed, waving the book around shyly with a hand as the blond’s head whipped up to look at him with wide eyes. Izuku just grinned, turning the notebook over in his hands, almost admiring it. “We should compare notes sometime! It’d be interesting to see how different or alike our notes could be…do you keep updated on heroes or just the class?”
As Izuku spoke excitedly, his scarred fingers began to open the cover of the book. He had no time to react to what came next. As fast as a snake striking, Kaminari’s hand grabbed onto Izuku’s wrist, squeezing tightly as the other hand grasped the book, snatching it out of Izuku’s own.
All Izuku could do was give some sort of yelp of surprise, yanking his hand back hard enough to almost stumble the other teen with his eyes wide.
A throbbing pain started in Izuku’s wrist, and he hissed, covering it with his free hand. “What was that for?”
The One for All user hadn’t seen how Kaminari’s face darkened, snapping back. “You shouldn’t open up other people’s stuff, Midoriya.”
Izuku had never heard as much malice in the others tone, and even Kaminari seemed caught off guard, taking a step back. “Holy crap dude, I didn’t mean to snap!” he murmured apologetically, keeping his distance as he set the notebook aside on his shelf. “Really, I was way out of line…my notes aren’t any good though, sorry to grab you like that. Is your wrist alright?”
“Ah…yeah, it’s ok…” Izuku mumbled , stretching his fingers before looking at the boy who’d lashed out. “It should be fine.”
“Let me go get you an ice pack from downstairs!” Kaminari insisted, hurrying towards his door. “We can compare notes when I get back, if you’re still up for it?”
“…sure.”
Izuku didn’t like the unease crawling in his gut, listening halfheartedly as the other told him to sit down and wait before dashing out. Izuku’s free hand tentatively rubbed at his sore wrist, frowning slightly at the force his classmate had decided to use.
Man, I mean, he’s right…but I’ve never seen Kaminari react like that before, and I know he tends to let other people get way closer than that…
An uneasy thought nagged at him, suggesting that perhaps the other had been hiding something within the notebooks contents - but Izuku decided to push that away with a shake of his head. This was Kaminari, after all, one of the nicest people in the class! Surely he, of all people, wasn’t hiding anything to warrant that kind of reaction…
But…
Izuku found himself carefully, quietly heading to the very same shelf Kaminari had put the notebook in the middle of the conflict, only hesitating for a few moments before he reached out, taking the item and sighing softly.
This feels really bad but…I feel like something’s…
Izuku couldn’t really put his finger on the unnatural, bad feeling about it all.
He opened the book–
only for the first page to be empty.
Frowning, Izuku flipped through the next five, that were equally as blank, and stopped for a moment, eyes raking down the page critically.
Is it invisible ink maybe? Or maybe he hasn’t even written anything…
But the hero student flipped to the next page, and his throat ran dry. For this page was full…very full. He nearly dropped it, green eyes frantically scanning the pages.
His stomach crawled as he read the information on the page.
Name: Aoyama Yuuga (Hero Name: Can’t Stop Twinkling)
D.O.B: 30/5/2XXX
Quirk: Naval Laser
Strengths: Able to shoot out laser in various spots with hero costume. Hyper-aware of surroundings. Able to bend his own light in various shapes. His quirk is exceptionally powerful on its own, and he has deadly accurate aim.
Weaknesses: Stomach hurts after using quirk at full-blast for 10-20 seconds. Has a bit of an ego. Body isn’t very adaptable to his quirk without his belt. Seems to be the odd one out in the class, and acts strangely around them - stands out.
Aoyama seems to think extremely highly of himself, and it would be quite easy to go under the guise of a fan of his, or even a civilian asking about what he calls his “fashion sense”. He loves anything related to France, as well as cheese. Not terribly too smart, but not one you would want to mess with, either. Has not yet trained himself in much when it comes to hand-to-hand or quirkless battling, and being hit with his quirk isn’t an option. Close range battling is best for taking him out.
Rating: 1/5. Body is too unstable to use for different quirks - however his quirk, with the right base, would be acceptable for H.E.N Project #021
and that wasn’t all - in any clear space were pictures of the boy himself in all his glory, for once unaware a photo had been taken. There was also a picture taken of the boys hero costume, little bits of writing detailing every part, and even where he would be most vulnerable to strike.
On the next page stated more information about the other blond in their class - his birthplace, current address, and even the basic information about his immediate family - and their quirks, too!
What the hell is all of this…? And this H.E.N Project…
Izuku wanted to put the book down and leave, feeling a chill go down his spine…but the boy kept going, flicking through the pages and feeling his stomach sink even lower with every filled page he came across.
Ashido Mina
Asui Tsuyu
Iida Tenya
Uraraka Ochako
Mashirao Ojirou
Kirishima Eijirou
Kouda Koji
Satou Rikido
Shouji Mezou
Jirou Kyouka
Sero Hanta
Tokoyami Fumikage
Todoroki Shouto
Hagakure Tooru
Bakugou Katsuki…
and finally,
Midoriya Izuku
Izuku didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, staring at the bottom of Kacchan’s final page before turning it to his own, not sure what he was suppose to be expecting. Well, what he had been expecting, at the least, was writing about as detailed as all his other classmates.
But how wrong he was.
Kaminari’s assessment on him didn’t only have pictures on the hero student himself - no. There were pictures of several others - heroes.
All Might and Gran Torino.
Izuku’s heart sped up, all air leaving his lungs when he also noticed older photos - not of him, but of an younger Gran Torino, of a younger All Might.
Of Shimura Nana. All Might’s mentor.
Izuku’s hands shook as he finally read the information listed, although his green eyes only stuck to one very specific part, one that just about sent the boy into pure terror at the thought of being found out.
Quirk: One for All.
Counterpart to All for One. One for All allows Midoriya to have access to immense speed and strength. He is currently the ninth holder, inheriting the quirk from All Might, and is likely being trained to be the next Symbol of Peace. One for All grows as the holder grows and mends with the quirk themselves, meaning that Midoriya’s output will eventually be much stronger than that of All Might in his prime. It also appears that One for All can influence the user whenever stuck under any quirks that capture their mind, or force them to go against their will. One for All is not able to be stolen, and can only be passed with the holder’s permission. This quirk can cause dreams forced by those previous, some of which can cause the quirk to lash out violently whilst the current user is sleeping.
No…no way…Kaminari…
He know’s about One for All!
Izuku slammed the book shut, putting the book back where he found it as he stumbled back, eyes wide and body almost trembling. His hands found their way to the straps of his backpack, clutching tightly.
He knows about One for All…I know I’ve almost spilled it a couple of times, but there can’t be any way he could’ve heard one of my talks with All Might, or even Kacchan…No one else would’ve told him. No one else knew the secret and Kaminari well enough to talk about it, especially not to his face! What the heck am I suppose to tell All Might?!
…..
Unless…
All for One.
It felt as if cold water had been thrown over Izuku at the suggestion conquered up…logically, there was no other way the electric quirked boy knew but…
Kaminari…working with All for One? The League of Villains…?
…it all made too much sense. The attacks. The camp. Kacchan’s kidnapping and Kamino…everything.
He felt sick. Emotions coiled and squeezed at his insides, as if stones were weighing him down under water, and Izuku wasn’t aware of how hard he had been biting his lip, the coppery iron taste of blood filling his mouth. His face paled at what exactly he was accusing the other boy of.
Of being a traitor…
I have to go…I can’t be here, it’s too dangerous–
He couldn’t take the book with him. It would arouse too much suspicion. Izuku turned his back on the notebook, hurrying to the door, which Kaminari hadn’t closed behind him. But just before he got out to the hallway–
“Midoriya? Dude, you alright? You’re looking kinda pale there.”
Izuku jumped almost several feet in the air, whipping around in fright as Kaminari appeared at the other end of the hallway, coming to meet him with an ice pack in one hand. The One for All user couldn’t help but step back, earning a puzzled look from the blond.
“Midoriya…?”
“A-Ah, sorry Kaminari…something came up,” Izuku couldn’t stop the stutter in his voice, pulling on his bag straps and forcing a wane smile across his face in an attempt to convince the other. “My, uh, my mum called me. Something happened at home and I– I just really gotta go and sort this out, you know? I need to…can I be alone right now?”
Izuku’s gaze averted to the carpet hallway flooring, toeing at the material before he made to go around Kaminari, giving him another uncertain smile. “Thanks for the ice pack, but my wrist barely hurts–”
"Midoriya.“
Izuku blinked, and Kaminari went on the offensive. With his quirk crackling around his fingers, the blond had struck out, slamming a hand on Izuku’s chest and letting loose. All in time that was not enough for the target to react as the taller boys quirk reacted immediately, striking out.
The electricity ran its course through Izuku’s veins, setting them alight in fiery pain as he let out a shriek - one that Kaminari quickly covered up with his other hand, dropping the ice pack. Izuku’s legs gave way as the shocks zapped and crackled across his entire body, limbs locking up with Izuku’s mouth gaping open. His throat closed over, stopping any oxygen.
With a vision swimming of black and white, Izuku tried to give out a weak cry, doing his best to fight off the unconsciousness that threatened to submerge him. The sting of copper filled the back of his mouth, and Kaminari crouched besides the fallen boy, golden eyes watching him like a predator.
Kaminari, hair standing up due to the voltage of his quirk, only gave a sickly sweet smile at his classmates predicament, going to pat the cheek of the freckled boy. His voice was muffled, but Izuku could still hear him. Hear the calmness cold that took over the others tone.
"If only you had kept your hands to yourself, Deku…what a naive little hero wannabe.”
No…I can’t…All Might!! Someone…!
But the downed boy couldn’t move his mouth, his tongue as heavy as led, and the student above him sighed.
“I kinda liked your work ethic, ya know? But, well…all good things gotta come to an end, right?”
And that was the last thing Izuku heard, his body finally going into shutdown and static filling his eardrums, the unconsciousness gripping him and dragging him into the void with its deathly claws, claiming its prize.
Kaminari scowled at the now knocked-out boy, scoffing as he got up and nudged the smaller boy’s face with his foot. What an idiot.
He quickly looked, making sure no one was entering the floor nor leaving their rooms before he grabbed hold of one of Izuku’s arms, dragging him into his room and shutting the door behind him.
“That was easier than I thought…”
Dragging him across the floor, Kaminari quickly found some rope he had stored away to tie and bound the others arms and legs, shoving him all too roughly into his closet before fishing his phone out of his pocket.
The number he dialed he practically knew off by heart, and he was sure to send a password via text so that the receiver knew it was in fact him.
The phone rung three times before being picked up.
“You better have a good reason for calling, kid.”
Kaminari couldn’t help the grin that spread across his features. The giddiness that filled his being, almost wanting to make the boy prance around his room in delight.
“Dr. Tsubasa, I got him. Midoriya Izuku is ready for transport to your facility.”
#bnha#mha#boku no hero academia#my hero academia#midoriya izuku#kaminari denki#my writing#tumblr prompt#bnha fanfiction
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{Part III: A COLLAR OF SPIKES}
tagging @bebemoon, @ayzrules, @interluxetumbra, @bubblingbeautifully
the aftermath of march 18th, or: aaargh
‘So, you just kidnapped a werewolf.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, did my saving your furry little butt interrupt your dying-in-a-cellar-while-the-whole-island-burns-down party?’
He stumbled, and the vampire grunted under his weight. It was dark, and the air smelled musty and damp.
‘Alright’, he managed, between gritted teeth, ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Did you help me?’
There was a pause. He could sense the faintest traces of human presence, of booze and cocaine. A century old, at least.
‘I didn’t like what they did to you’, she said. ‘And I make very bad decisions.’
‘Obviously.’
He grimaced. The pain he could take - that dull, reassuring ache - but he hated feeling this dizzy and limp. Ruddy vampires. They shouldn’t have known about the wolfsbane - no one had known for centuries. The wolves had made sure of it, ever since -
‘I’ve had worse’, he said, and she scoffed like someone who had never been tortured for information on the Borgia family in a Milanese dungeon.
‘Even so, shouldn’t you be healing by now?’
‘Your friends had a little too much fun with me.’
‘Not my friends.’
There was a thudding noise and he was doused in a cloud of dust. Coughing, he reached for something to hold on to and found rough brick. He could feel the darkness reaching for him, and fought. She was tugging him into a room filled with ghosts of scents - oak, perfume, whisky, and sweat…
If I die here, he’ll never find me…
Then, the darkness claimed him.
///////////
The smoke cleared slowly, retreating from broken city walls and leaving the corpses exposed. Raf licked the coppery taste of blood from his lips, and felt the adrenalin slowly drain out of his body. A dull pain raged in him, and he realised a deep cut in his shoulder had almost cleft his arm from his torso. He waited for the sharp sensation of flesh knitting itself back together, and came up empty. A wave of nausea washed over him.
I have to find the others.
Ten paces, with the world spinning around him, and then he was on his knees.
I don’t understand.
Someone calling his name. Ferrando, with black hair and blood-stained features, suddenly next to him, cursing and slapping his face. Raf growled.
‘Wolfsbane’, Ferrando explained, his face grimy with dust, as he pulled him to his feet, ‘laced on their blades. The one poison that may affect a werewolf. It dulls the senses and stops the healing.’
‘How did they know?’
Ferrando shook his head. ‘That I don’t know, my friend, but you may be assured that I will find out - as soon as we get you out of here. You’ll heal as soon as the poison wears off.’
Raf grimaced as they stumbled across the battlefield, the scents of scarred flesh, smoke, and blood loud in his nostrils.
‘Cesare?’, he asked.
‘Spanked Sforza’s arrogant little arse. We’ve earned him a resounding victory, old boy, and the Borgia Pope will have no choice but to throw us one of his feasts!’
Raf grinned. That was good news indeed.
/////////////
Well, thought Nessa, watching a pale, amber-coloured whisky swirl around in her glass, as far as insanely stupid ideas are concerned, this one has to be my fucking masterpiece. I should get a trophy.
She looked across the room to where the huge werewolf was curled up on one of the deep, plush sofas. In their best times, these sofas had easily carried six flappers and a dandy - now, the biggest one ached under just one wolf. She had draped one of the curtains from the Really Private Booths over him, feeling a little foolish. Did werewolves even feel cold?
Nessa sipped her hundred-year-old whisky knowing it would do absolutely fuck-all, and remembered the sound of bones breaking, that night on the ice. He had healed in less than a minute then - so why not now?
Well, if he dies on me, at least no one will ever know, and not just because I know how to dump a body.
Her thoughts turned towards the coven. Had they all got out? If anyone took care of their own, it was certainly the Bloodmother… but there had been so much chaos. And all because one sleazy, pompous old fart without even one shred of substance or style - well- plenty substance, just not where it counted. Nessa knew a gang war when she saw one, and this one had just escalated.
A sound interrupted her thoughts, and when she turned, the wolf was looking at her.
‘You’re still here’, he said, taking in the plush furniture, the old-fashioned chandelier, the curved ceiling, the bar. Nessa found herself wondering if he liked the place.
‘Don’t flatter yourself. It’s daylight out, which means I’m stuck here.’
He stared, annoyingly handsome even when dishevelled. Or especially then. Focus, Nessa.
‘Either you’re incredibly cocky’ he said slowly, ‘or you have the survival instincts of a dodo.’
Nessa huffed. ‘What do you know about dodos?’
His shrug turned into a wince. ‘Met them. Madagascar, 1694. They’re pretty dumb.’
‘Well, I’m not… a dodo.’ How the fuck did we get here? ‘I’m just counting on your sense of fair play. And don’t tell me you don’t have one, I saw you race.’
He relented. ‘Won’t your coven miss you?’
Given they survived that mess.
She shrugged. ‘Probably. They might just think I got lost, which isn’t that far from the truth - happens surprisingly often-’
‘You don’t say.’
‘-once, I landed in the middle of a rave in St Petersburg…’ Nessa squinted at him. Haha, funny werewolf. She was this close to poking her tongue at him. ‘Anyway, they’ll expect nothing less.’ Let’s hope that’s true.
He leaned back on the sofa and crossed his arms. If he was still groggy, he didn’t show it. ‘So- what is this place?’
Nessa swivelled around on her barstool, trying to hide a fond pride under assumed casualness. ‘Used to be a speakeasy.’
He nodded, annoyingly unsurprised. ‘Run it yourself?’
‘Oh you know, it was all the rage back then, every girl wanted one.’
‘How come it looks like a time capsule?’
‘You remember that crashing sound when we came through the door?’
‘Yeah?’
‘That was a wall.’
‘Ah.’
‘This used to be a railway tunnel, in the 1880s. I guess they just bricked it back up…I haven’t really been here since the fifties, but you should’ve seen the place in its heyday.’
He nodded. ‘Smells like it.’
Now he was just showing off. ‘No way you can smell that.’
Ah - wolfish smile. And a spark of mischief? Or the thrill of the chase?
‘Self-made moonshine, from the back. The very stuff you’re drinking right now, although I can’t say why… A smuggling tunnel to the harbour. Dancing and a band. Cocaine, quite a lot. And jazz.’
‘Oh come on, even you can’t smell music!’
He grinned. ‘No, but the odds of guessing that one wrong were slim.’
‘Granted.’ She leaned back on the bar. ‘By the way, do you want some? There’s nothing to eat down here and we’re all out of shirts, but if you’re thirsty, I got you covered.’
The wolf shook his head, apparently done with smalltalk. He got up slowly, grimaced, and started pacing to and fro. She didn’t object.
‘You go by Pixie, right?’
‘With my human friends, mostly, but yeah. You can also call me Nessa.’
He tilted his head. ‘Since when do vampires have human friends?’
She crossed her arms. ‘Look here, wolf boy, I’d like to see your primary food source course through the veins of something that won’t shut up about cars and the economy and… fucking Game of Thrones. Of course, I would never drink Ian.’
‘What the hell is an Ian?’
‘Oh, he finds my food for me. You’d be surprised how many weirdos out there want to see their own blood in a wine glass. I think it’s a goth thing.’
Wolf boy looked confused. Luckily, she was used to getting that reaction from people.
‘Anyway, what do I call you?’, she asked, politely steering the conversation into more stranger-friendly territory.
‘Raf.’
There was a pause.
‘Oh, that’s it? That’s not your whole name, is it?’
‘It’s enough.’
Only for Nessa, it wasn’t. ‘What’s it short for?’, she asked, and then, drawing a blank on names in general, suggested the only thing she could think of: ‘Rafaello?’
He stared at her, and said ‘no’ in that deadpan voice people sometimes assumed when dealing with her. She didn’t mind. Already, she was filing him away as Rafaello in her memory, even though he seemed to have little in common with a small, coconut-flavoured sweet. She took in his broad, bare shoulders, the movement written into every sinew and fibre of his body, and the keen green eyes that kept her in view.
‘You don’t seem the zealous type’, she concluded, finally. ‘I thought you werewolves were all about the blood war.’
He shrugged. Bruises shone in the half-light. ‘I’m a mercenary. Always have been.’
‘Even in your first life?’
‘Especially then.’
It wasn’t a joke or a brag, just a statement. Perhaps it was that this old speakeasy, with all its memories and the century-old shadows of party-goers, awakened her nostalgia, but Nessa felt something click into place.
‘Ah’ she said, with a little smile. ‘I always did have a soft spot for the stupid boys.’
Raf’s face darkened a little. ‘First off, I’m 550 years old, and second- you know nothing about me.’
She looked into her empty whisky glass. ‘True’, she agreed, ‘but you do kind of remind me of the ones I did know. Rakish and reckless, the lot of them.’ Cocky, and brave. ‘Nothing to lose and nowhere to go, and rage deep in their bones. Not like yours, of course, not the kind that comes out at full moon. It just… went into knuckle rings and switchblades and tommy guns.’ Rakish, and reckless, and needlessly dead before their time. ‘They wanted to run with the wolves, too - metaphorical ones, these ones, street gangs and rum runners and mobsters.’ She paused. ‘They tended to die badly.’
He stared and paced and said nothing.
‘And I know what you’re thinking, wolf, but I had nothing to do with that’ she went on. ‘I could never stand to watch all that spark- all that life- go to waste.’
She gestured vaguely at the empty space, which seemed for a moment to be filled with the spectres of long-dead dancers, and felt sad. ‘Even tried to turn some of them, back in the 1940s, when that seemed a very romantic thing to do. So much pain when they died, torn to shreds on the battlefields of France. Never tried it again, after that.’
In the ensuing silence, the dancers slowly faded back into darkness, and with it the faces of those young men that had come and gone for over a century.
The wolf looked away when he said, ‘You still don’t know me.’
Her gaze wandered gently over his furrowed brows, the tired, yet defiant look in his eyes, the half-heeled cuts on his torso, and the hand clenching restlessly.
‘If you say so, Raffaello’, she said, with a shrug.
And then he looked back at her, with just a flicker of a smile.
She grinned. ‘Do you want that drink now?’
.
#btr: a collar of spikes#vampy's writing#c o m p l e t e#but really.... bergh#it was fun in my head#hope you enjoy
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Coffee, Quirks, and Tigers
Summary: Ootsuki runs a kirei shop in a popular shopping district, but he mostly keeps to himself. And then Fukuda shows up with his boss, who tells him to stay and pick out something for someone's birthday present. He stays, it's awkward, but apparently not that awkward because Fukuda comes back again. And again. And pretty soon it becomes a weekly Thing for the two of them to go get coffee together. Now if only Suzuki and his henchmen could leave the two of them alone.
A/N: Starring Ootsuki and Fukuda from Mob Psycho 100!! (Two of the guys who helped Shou in the finale of Season 2.) They had basically five seconds of screen time...so I got to make up 99% of their personalities! BWAHAHAHA THE POWAAAAAH!
Ootsuki squinted. He'd been drawing a sketch of two fish swimming through trailing willow leaves. It was a commission for a prestigious high school, but he couldn’t get it right yet.
He sat back and stretched, glancing at his shop. His drawing desk was in the back. Framed kirei hung on the left and right walls, showing lacy outlines of flowers, people, even whole cherry trees. Delicate three-dimensional paper animals hung from the ceiling, and three patterned kimonos were displayed in the window.
Outside, the Tatooin Shopping District was swarming with tourists. Street loudspeakers played a constant pop culture soundtrack barely audible over the roar of people. People came here for the chic cafes, high-end clothing stores, and a few electronic places - he got free cable from the flatscreen TVs displayed across the street. It was usually news stories about heroes, although lately there had been a few missing person cases mixed in. Specialty stores like Ootsuki’s kirei shop didn’t get a lot of customers. That was fine with him. Most of his business came from commissions, anyway. He sighed and turned back to his drawing.
Ding!
The front door opened and a giant strode into his shop, accompanied by a rush of street noise. He had spiky orange hair, electric blue eyes and a blazer swung over his shoulders like a cape.
“Now this is more like it!” he proclaimed.
“Shou, be careful!”
A second man appeared behind the first, following close enough to be his shadow. He was built like a bear, with short black hair and anxiety written all over his face. “Did you bump your shoulder in the doorway? You did, didn't you? Are you alright?”
Shou’s eyes caught Ootsuki and he jumped. “Oi! This your shop?”
“H-hai! Irasshaimase.” He started to bow, realized he was sitting, and scrambled to his feet, but the giant had already turned away.
“Pretty impressive,” he said, inspecting a paper sparrow hanging from the ceiling. “Even got the texture of the feathers in there. Nice.”
“Shou, please!” the other man insisted. “Be careful, you could get a paper cut -”
“Fukuda!”
This time both men jumped. “H-hai!” Fukuda stammered.
Shou jabbed a thumb at a framed kirei piece. “Find me something like this for Mom's birthday. I don't want you back at HQ until you've given it at least two hours of thought – after all, it's the thought that counts!”
“But –”
“Two hours! Countin' on ya!”
Shou waved and slipped out the door faster than Ootsuki could follow, vanishing instantly into the crowd. He glanced over. Fukuda was doing such a perfect impression of a sad puppy that Ootsuki snorted with laughter.
“Oh – er, sorry,” he said, catching himself.
Fukuda sighed. “No, no. I apologize for the disturbance. I tend to get a bit...overprotective...and Shou is my boss. I’m Fukuda Itsuki, I’ll be in your care.”
“Ootsuki Souta,” he said, and repeated the greeting. After that he wasn’t sure what to do. He ran a hand self-consciously over his bangs, glad they were long enough to cover his eyes. “Er, well...would you like help picking something out, or…?”
“Yes please,” Fukuda said. He nodded at the bird Shou had inspected. “I've never been in a shop like this before. What kind of art is this?”
“It's kirei. Most of what I sell involves cut paper. That includes the sculptures, but most of it is two-dimensional.” He stopped there - most people’s eyes glazed over at that point - but Fukuda was looking at him as if genuinely interested. Ootsuki gestured to the framed pieces leaning in neat rows along the walls. “Those are all made with a single sheet of paper each, and a very sharp knife. I make faces, landscapes, animals – there's one I did of paper fans, just for the irony. They're all organized by size and category...”
He led Fukuda on a brief tour of the shop, discussing his favorite pieces and the techniques he’d used to make them. Fukuda was much calmer now that he wasn’t fussing over Shou, and asked questions about the types of paper he used and the tools he worked with. Ootsuki grinned and pushed his bangs back from his eyes. He never got to talk about this in such detail, but Fukuda made it easy. Fukuda made it fun.
They made a full circuit around the shop, ending at the window display. The kimonos were beautiful even from the back. Each of them had been printed in a tiny repeating pattern: a lotus blossom, a seashell, or the kanji for “jewel.”
Fukuda looked at them with obvious admiration. “They’re gorgeous. Although I'm a little surprised to see clothing in a kirei shop.”
“It’s the patterns. I stamped it onto the fabric by hand.”
Fukuda's eyes actually boggled. “That's hand-stamped? I thought that was machinery!”
Ootsuki grinned. “Nope, it’s all me. This one was especially tricky.” He reached for the one with seashells.
“Ah – your hands!”
Ootsuki glanced down. The light from outside caught the sheen of all the tiny, nearly invisible scars covering his fingers and palms. “Oh, that. Well, to get the best cut in a piece of paper, you have to drag the blade toward you. Better control that way. But the knives I use have to be quite sharp, and it took practice learning how to do it.”
“And your palms?”
“Pardon?”
“Knives wouldn’t cut your palms like that, look.” He took Ootsuki’s left hand and gently turned it over. The scars were thicker, darker.
Ootsuki flinched and pulled away. “I don’t like people touching my hands.”
“Sorry, I’m sorry. It's just, my quirk is healing, but I can't heal scars...it bothers me when I see wounds that haven't been properly tended.”
“They were tended just fine,” Ootsuki said, a little too sharply. “I just wasn't good at controlling my quirk when I was little. So!” He turned away. “I think that wraps up the tour.”
“Of course. I'm sorry to have taken so much of your time.”
He sounded so sincere about it that Ootsuki softened. “No, it's just that your two hours are almost up,” he said, and realized it was true. How did it go by so fast?
“Then, if it’s alright...could I have that one?” Fukuda asked. He pointed to a piece hanging on the wall, a particularly intricate kirei with cuts so fine you could almost see the texture of the fur.
“You like it?”
Fukuda smiled. “Suzuki-san did always have a fondness for cats.”
Ootsuki sat at his desk again, doodling.
He was done with the fish commission, and now he had nothing to do while he waited to hear back. It didn’t help that his thoughts kept wandering to Fukuda. The visit had been two days ago. Ootsuki was sorry he’d been rude at the end, and it felt worse every time he thought about it. Why did he have to be so - so emo and awkward? He tugged anxiously at his bangs. He could be clever. If Fukuda ever did come back, he’d -
Ding!
“Fukuda!”
“It's good to see you, too,” Fukuda said, grinning, and he realized he'd jumped to his feet.
Ootsuki flushed. “Well, um, yes,” he said. With zero cleverness at all.
Fukuda didn’t seem to notice. “I’m sorry to bother you again, but Shou's mother wanted to commission a piece of her cat. Is that alright? I brought a photo.”
Familiar territory! “Of course, I do commission pieces all the time. Can I see it?”
“Right, here…” Fukuda started digging through the bag slung over his shoulder. “Sorry, sorry, I keep everything in here. I don’t even know how old that granola bar is...ah, here we go!”
He held out a photo of a small white cat. Ootsuki moved to take it, and when he did, two coupons for the Golden Bean fanned out from behind it.
“Oh, isn’t this that shop down the street?” Ootsuki asked, glancing up.
He stopped cold. Fukuda’s warm brown skin was suddenly ash-gray, and he was staring at the tickets like they were vipers poised to strike.
“I don’t...remember these,” he whispered.
“It’s okay!” Ootsuki said quickly. He wasn’t sure why the coupons had unsettled Fukuda so deeply, but the look on his face was unbearable. He yanked them out of Fukuda’s grip.
“Wait, wait -”
“They’re just coupons!” Ootsuki said, holding the coupons well out of sight. “Look! I’ll just throw them away - oh.”
“‘Oh’?” Fukuda said, his face practically slate gray. “O-Ootsuki, quickly, those tickets might be from -”
“From ‘Shou’?” Ootsuki asked drily, holding them up. The silvery foil on the back of the coupons was covered in thick red scrawl.
Yo, Ootsuki! Thanks for looking after Fukuda. Take him for a walk, wouldja? Have a cup of coffee, my treat! - Shou
Immediately Fukuda’s shoulders slumped and color flooded into his face. “Oh thank goodness. It’s just Shou.”
Yes, pegging you like the lost puppy you are, Ootsuki thought. Aloud he said, “I guess you’d like to have these back then?”
“They seem to be addressed to you,” Fukuda said. “Would you want to go? I feel really silly for reacting like that, and I’d like to make it up to you. Do you like the Golden Bean?”
Ootsuki shrugged. “I’ve never been there.”
“You’ve nev - you work five minutes away!”
“The streets are crowded,” Ootsuki protested, but it sounded lame even to his own ears.
Fukuda’s lips twitched like he was hiding a smile. “I’m big enough to make a path for us. Please?”
It was that unbearable puppy dog look that did him in. Ootsuki found himself locking up the shop and heading out into the street behind Fukuda. At least he was right - his bulk really did carve an easier path.
The Golden Bean, however, was even worse. It was easily three times as crowded. People kept bumping Ootsuki and hitting his hands and he was about five seconds from bolting, self-conscious anxiety or not.
Fukuda, oblivious, looped an arm through Ootsuki’s and somehow stepped right up to the counter.
“What do you want to order?” Fukuda yelled cheerfully over the noise.
Ootsuki looked at the menu, which was the size of a billboard and crammed with 12-pt font.
“Are you kidding?” he gasped out.
Fukuda grinned, turned to the cashier, and shouted something else. Somehow Fukuda managed to place an order, grab their cups, and find the last table left, in a little corner of the shop where the noise was down to a dull roar.
“I am convinced this is your Quirk,” Ootsuki said, practically collapsing into his chair.
“What, ordering coffee?”
“Finding tables in this madhouse!”
“It comes from having to keep a sharp eye out.” Before Ootsuki could ask what that meant, Fukuda passed him his coffee. “Here, drink. You’re looking a little pale.”
“I’m not used to dealing with people,” he said faintly.
“But you work in one of the busiest streets of the city.”
“Most of the people stay outside my shop. Being near people is one thing, interacting is another. I get nervous when people are really close to me.”
“Oh.” Something in Fukuda’s tone made Ootsuki look up. He was staring at Ootsuki’s hands again, and there was something behind his eyes that made Ootsuki remember how big he was. “Ootsuki, is someone...hurting you?”
“What? No!”
“Because if they are, I’d really like to do something about it.”
“They’re not, no one is, I promise,” Ootsuki said, barely managing to keep his hands above the table. “Look, the scars are my fault. I couldn’t control my quirk when I was younger. I can channel kinetic energy through thin, flexible objects. Plastic works, but paper is best, and school was full of paper. Every time I picked up a piece of homework or a quiz…” He gestured, indicating an explosion. “It made school interesting, I'll say that much.”
Fukuda stared at him. “But you work with paper.”
“I learned to control it.”
“You saw a quirk counselor?”
“Er...no…” He shifted in his seat. “When I was little, we had a neighbor three apartments over who liked origami. He’d make tigers or cranes and blow into them. They’d come to life, just for a day or two, and he’d leave them out for other kids in the complex to play with.”
Fukuda’s face lit up. “That's amazing! So he taught you origami, too?”
Ootsuki fidgeted anxiously with a napkin. “No. I thought it would be fun to blow his tigers up. I'm not like that anymore!” he added quickly. Fukuda’s shock made his guts twist. “I thought choosing not to control my quirk was easier than admitting I couldn’t. I pretended it was funny. So one day I blew his tigers up, and then I turned around and - and saw him standing there. I saw his face. And after that it wasn’t funny anymore.”
“Ootsuki...”
He ducked his head. “I avoided him for months. Then I got it into my head that if I could put the tigers back, everything would be alright. So I got a book on origami and a bunch of paper and practiced. Even with homework. Before I’d moved it around with erasers, but now I actively tried to manage it all the time, because if I didn’t, I couldn’t make the tigers. When I was done, my hands looked like this and I had a dozen or so crappy tigers lined up in the courtyard.”
“And? What did he say?”
“Nothing,” Ootsuki said quietly. “He wasn't there anymore. He moved away. I was a coward for so long that I never got the chance to apologize.”
“And I think a kind person like that would have been happy with the gift you made for him.”
“It wasn't a gift. They weren't even all that good.”
“I beg to differ.”
Fukuda caught Ootsuki's wrist and he looked down, startled. He'd been folding a napkin into a paper tiger without realizing it, and he'd been about to rip it in half.
“It's quite good,” Fukuda said. “And one more thing. I don’t think you’re a coward, Ootsuki.”
“I literally hide behind my bangs,” he said flatly.
“You came to coffee with me,” Fukuda countered.
“That was just because -” He stopped short, flushing. He wasn’t about to mention that obnoxious puppy dog face. Mostly because Fukuda was doing it right now.
“You’re braver than you think you are,” Fukuda said. “And I’m taking this to keep as proof.”
He plucked the tiger from Ootsuki’s hand and tucked it safely into his bag.
Fukuda came back two days later, and again two days after that. He said it was because Shou's mother had more orders, but Ootsuki secretly suspected that Shou himself was responsible. He was probably the littlest bit annoyed with being watched like a hawk for stubbed toes and sent Fukuda off for two straight hours of peace.
Ootsuki didn't mind.
Fukuda, meanwhile, seem to have extended his overprotectiveness to Ootsuki, and was frequently checking to make sure he didn't have any fresh paper cuts, got eight hours of sleep a night, and took breaks from drawing so he wouldn't strain his eyes.
Ootsuki didn't mind that, either.
The two of them took to buying coffee and walking around to look at all the shops. Once in a while Fukuda saw a window display for a fluffy sweater and just had to have it, and Ootsuki bought a new halogen lamp for his desk. Fukuda finally got Ootsuki hooked on pistachio-flavored coffee, which Ootsuki hadn’t even known existed (and wasn’t convinced that it should).
Two weeks into their coffee tradition, Ootsuki was hanging a new sparrow sculpture when he heard the door open behind him.
“You’re early,” he said, turning. Then he stopped short. “What happened?”
Fukuda was standing in the doorway, face pale, hands shaking at his sides, clothes rumpled like he hadn’t slept for days. He was looking around the shop like he didn’t even see it.
Ootsuki jumped off the stepstool and hurried over. “Are you alright? Are you injured anywhere?”
“Huh? No, I...no…”
“You look like hell!”
Fukuda laughed weakly, but it wasn’t a joke, and they both knew it. “Sorry. I’m, uh, I had a rough day. Should we get going?”
“Now? Like this?”
“I really will be fine after some tea. Or something.”
Ootsuki hesitated, thinking. “Alright,” he said slowly. “But it’s getting kind of cool out. Come on back, I need to grab my jacket.”
“Sure.”
Ootsuki headed for the back of the shop - without letting go of Fukuda’s hand. He trailed along after him like an oversized puppy. Ootsuki reached the employee’s door and pushed it open. He even got a few feet inside before Fukuda drew up short.
“I-I’m sorry for intruding,” he stammered. “I didn’t know you lived back here.”
Ootsuki had converted the back room into a one-room apartment. There was a western-style bed on the right, a table in the center, and a kitchenette on the left, with the bathroom door in the back left corner. Most of his expendable income had gone into a TV and game system set up next to the bed. The place was spare but functional.
He shrugged. “My budget’s pretty modest, and anyway I don’t see the point in buying a second place just for a bed and a bad commute.”
Fukuda’s lips twitched. “You do have a point.”
“Sit down anywhere, I’ll just be a second.”
Ootsuki went to the kitchenette and Fukuda sat down at the table. A few copies of Ootsuki’s best works hung on the walls, and Fukuda was looking at the cityscape one with interest. Then he blinked and seemed to come back to himself again. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Ootsuki turned around, a mug in each hand. “Making tea.”
“You didn’t have to,” Fukuda said weakly.
“It’s just instant tea, nothing fancy.”
“We were gonna get coffee.”
“Next time.” He set the mug down. “Sit. Drink. Breathe.”
Fukuda obeyed while Ootsuki grabbed the quilt from his bed. He sat down next to Fukuda so their legs were touching and wrapped the blanket around their shoulders.
“Let me know if this bothers you, but sometimes pressure helps me calm down.”
“I’m the same,” Fukuda murmured. “When it’s someone like you.”
Ootsuki’s face felt as hot as the tea. “Okay. Um. Anime. I mean - let’s put on an anime or something. Or not. Or we can talk if you want. Or not.” Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking.
“Anything is fine.” Fukuda lowered his mug to the table, eyes down. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
Ootsuki rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure I did. You worry a lot about other people, Fukuda, but not enough about yourself.”
Fukuda gave a tiny smile. “You know, in your own way, you're nearly as stubborn as Shou.”
“Your boss?”
“And longtime friend. We met doing underground hero work.”
“Ah,” Ootsuki said. Then the words sank into his brain. “Wait, what? Underground heroes? How is he an underground hero with that bright red hai – I'm sorry did you say you're a hero?!”
“Yes?” Fukuda glanced up, eyes twinkling. “Is it that much of a surprise?”
“I mean – you're so – lost puppy –”
“I'm a what now?”
“Mild-mannered! Is what I meant to say!”
“Yes, I'm a hero,” Fukuda said, grinning. He had absolutely heard the puppy comment. “My healing quirk isn't particularly useful for offense, but it's invaluable as backup for the others in our agency.”
“I can imagine,” Ootsuki managed. Fukuda didn't fit Ootsuki's image of a hero at all. Fukuda wore fluffy sweaters and an open expression and exuded the kind of warm calm people normally associated with a good cup of hot chocolate. Being a “hero” seemed to involve more exaggerated muscle development, primary colors and...teeth?
Fukuda chuckled as if he could read Ootsuki’s thoughts. “That's exactly why I'm so useful as an underground hero. I know how to dress and act a certain way. How to give off a certain impression or persona. If you drop me in the middle of a city anywhere in Japan, I could disappear in an hour and never be found. I mostly work on organizational crimes, but sometimes I get asked to pursue missing person's cases.”
“Missing...but don't kidnapped people usually end up –”
“Yes,” Fukuda said. His voice was low and his shoulders were trembling. Ootsuki wrapped him in a hug.
“It must be hard,” Ootsuki said quietly.
Fukuda leaned into him, eyes cast down. “I can - I can usually find them in time. And heal them. I’m very, very good at both. But Shou - there’s a man we’ve been tracking - you’ve seen the rash of missing people in the news?”
“I think so,” Ootsuki said slowly. It sounded vaguely familiar.
“The man we’re tracking is responsible, and today we found one of his facilities. They’d known we were coming and abandoned the place. But we found evidence of some of the missing people, and the - the Quirk research they were doing -”
His voice broke. Ootsuki rubbed his back in small, slow circles. “I can’t even imagine what it’s that’s like,” Ootsuki said softly. He wished he had something better to say. “I guess this explains why you were so scared when we found Shou’s coupons in your bag.”
Fukuda rubbed at his eyes with one hand. “I’ve been wondering lately if I’m being tracked. One of the man’s top followers is very good at electronic spying. We’re closer to finding them every day, and I think they’re finally feeling the pressure. We’re going to have to face them soon.”
“Shou doesn’t seem like the type of person to lose,” Ootsuki said.
“He’s not. He really doesn’t need my help most of the time. But with the man we’re tracking, he will. Soon. Even then we might not be enough to beat him. I have to make sure he’s at the top of his game. If I don’t, if he’s even a little bit tired, a little bit slow, if I’m not enough, then he might – he might actually –”
Fukuda folded into himself. Ootsuki pulled him gently so that Fukuda was leaning into him, head just below Ootsuki’s chin. He knew there was nothing he could say, nothing he could do. For the first time he wished he knew how to use his quirk for something...more. His heart ached.
When Fukuda was calmer, they drank their tea and quietly watched anime movies on Ootsuki’s cell phone. Ootsuki pulled the blanket off his bed and wrapped them up in it, shoulder to shoulder. They stayed like that, pressed together in quiet, comforting warmth, for a long time.
It was two minutes past coffee time.
Ootsuki sat at his desk, trying not to fidget. He glanced out the window. Back to his desk. Back to the window. Then he got up and looked down the street, shoving his face between the kimonos, trying to peer through the crowd. Five minutes past coffee time. Still no Fukuda. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.
Fukuda picked up on the second ring. “Yes?”
“You’re late.”
“I’m five minutes late,” Fukuda said, and Ootsuki could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m rubbing off on you. You didn’t worry so much last week.”
“Last week I didn’t know that you regularly risk your life for a living,” Ootsuki retorted.
Fukuda laughed. They’d texted a few times since the last time he came over, but it wasn’t the same. Ootsuki was glad to hear him back to his usual self.
“You’re almost here?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, I’m almost there. You can probably see me from your window. Look.”
Ootsuki looked. An arm in a fluffy green sweater sprouted from the crowd three stores down, waving.
“You look like a bean sprout,” Ootsuki told him, just to hear him laugh again. “Alright, alright, I’m hanging up. But you owe me coffee for making me worry.”
“It’s a deal.”
Ootsuki pocketed the phone and realized he was smiling. A new coffee shop had opened next to the Golden Bean. There was a semi-playful war between the two on which was better. Even the music on the street speakers was interrupted with updates on which shop had gotten more likes on Facebrick. Ootsuki and Fukuda both thought it was hilarious.
And Ootsuki wanted to try the new shop. More specifically, he wanted to try it with Fukuda.
His friend’s face finally came into view, swimming toward him in the crowd. Ootsuki’s grin widened and he turned for the door.
Suddenly the street speakers screeched. The sound was so loud Ootsuki felt it in his teeth. He jerked badly and people outside shouted in pain and surprise.
Then the security gates on every shop came slamming down.
“HEY!”
Ootsuki flung himself at his door. The bars were on the outside, but Ootsuki couldn’t even get to them; the door had locked and wouldn’t open. He heard screams and saw that some people had been crushed under the gates and were struggling to get free. The electronic store across the street had a safety gate that swung down like a garage door, and it had someone pinned by her shoulder. Fukuda was already cutting through the fleeing crowd, hand outstretched and glowing. Ootsuki took a shuddering breath. That’s right, Fukuda was a hero, he could help –
“AH-AH-AH,” tutted a voice from the speakers.
The electronics shop exploded. Every single device inside suddenly burst through the windows, walls, and ceiling. Fukuda dove right into the falling shards, shielding the pinned woman. Pipes and cables ripped up from the street. The electronic devices whizzed toward them and the wires and metal wrapped around them, rising up to form a many-tentacled octopus shape. A multitude of cables coiled and writhed ceaselessly around a bulbous conglomerate of tech, studded with cameras that blinked in every direction and crowned with three flat screen TVs. The screens flashed to life, showing a composite view of a pale man in square-framed glasses. .
Fukuda snarled. “Hatori!”
“You really made it too easy to find you,” Hatori sneered. “For an underground hero, it’s surprising that you’d risk falling into a routine.”
Ootsuki sucked in a breath. The electronic spy! Fukuda was right, they’d been watching, they knew he’d been meeting with Ootsuki every week!
Fukuda’s hand plunged into his bag. Immediately Hatori’s cables lashed out, striking Fukuda’s chest so hard Ootsuki could hear an audible crack from across the street. He flew through the air until he hit a telephone pole and the cables immediately caught him, ripping his bag from his shoulder and lifting him into the air.
“Fukuda!” Ootsuki slams his palms against the glass, desperate. Kinetic energy vibrated painfully through his wrists and the glass buzzed but didn’t break. No, no, the villain had him, it was going to kill him!
He backed up and a hanging sculpture hit his head. All that paper – but he wasn’t a hero, he had to call the police, had to get help –
“Rats are really more trouble than they’re worth to keep around,” Hatori said, smirking. Fukuda gave an airless scream, and Ootsuki heard a terrible, organic pop.
The cables were squeezing.
“GET AWAY FROM HIM!”
He wasn’t sure how it had happened. He’d been standing in his shop, frozen in horror, and then he was outside and his arm was moving in slow-motion and the paper fan he was holding cut clean through the cables holding Fukuda.
Fukuda hit the ground with a gasp, still wrapped in the metal coils, but his eyes were on something past Ootsuki. Immediately he turned and swung the paper. Again time skipped and there were stripped wires and computer bits littering the street in a circular blast radius, and Hatori’s metal octopus was hissing and stitching three of its limbs back together with angry clanks.
“Not another one!” Hatori snapped, face red. “Why – are – there – heroes – everywhere?!”
“Ootsuki!” Fukuda gasped.
Cables reared up behind the octopus and struck like snakes. Ootsuki tried to dodge but his legs were frozen. Fukuda tackled him and they went rolling seconds before electrified prongs gored them to the street. Fukuda grabbed a metal trash can and flung it hard. Ootsuki winced when he heard the noise Fukuda’s chest made, but the trash can slammed down on the prongs with extra force and it lodged in the asphalt. The two of them ducked into a narrow alley.
“The hell do you think you’re doing?!” Hatori demanded.
“I don’t know, I don’t know, my body just moved! What do we do?!”
“I need my bag, you stay here!”
“Somehow I don’t think he’ll let me!”
“Correct!”
Ootsuki shrieked and flung his arm up right before a huge muscled octopus limb came sweeping down on them. The blast broke it in two and they darted out of the alley. Fukuda grabbed a loose bit of the broken limb and jammed it into another tentacle as they ran, forcing it back. Ootsuki sent two more blasts at the tentacles darting into Fukuda’s blind spots and they sprinted out of range.
Hatori snarled. “Hold still already!”
“No thanks!”
The street was almost empty of shoppers except for the few who had been pinned or those trying to help them. Ootsuki saw the moment Hatori caught sight of two teenagers wedged in a clothing shop entrance. Something blazed in his chest and he slammed the fan down through the air, again and again, actually forcing Hatori back.
“Agh! Little freak!”
“Ootsuki, your hands!”
He glanced down. He saw the red dripping down his fingers and wrist but couldn’t feel the pain or even the wetness.
“Forget it, get the bag!”
“But – you – fine, just don’t die!” He turned and sprinted down the street, where his bag was sticking out from under someone’s discarded shopping bag. Ootsuki darted forward, scooped a handful of receipts off the ground and hurled them. The paper burst into confetti and was immediately attracted by the static cling of the TVs, blocking out all the video cameras facing their way. Hatori shouted with rage.
Ootsuki stumbled back, gasping. He was starting to feel the pain now. His hands were shaking and blood dripped from his skin, under his fingernails. He knew he’d cracked his bones because he suddenly knew exactly where they were in both hands.
He turned and sprinted for Fukuda, who was desperately hunting through his bag.
“Where is it, where is it, where is it,” he muttered.
“What are you looking for?”
“The EMP gun. Small, black, yellow tape – I know I packed it, I definitely grabbed it off the counter –”
“THERE YOU ARE!”
Something sharp and hard slammed into the side of Ootsuki’s head. He hit the ground. The drone that had hit him banked hard and circled, two more joining it. Ootsuki realized his hands were empty and rolled away before their blades could slice his arms. Fukuda had done the same, but his broken ribs had hampered his movement and a lucky hit had knocked him flat. Immediately a cable burst out of the ground and bound him tight.
Ootsuki’s hand plunged into Fukuda’s bag and pulled out what he’d hoped he would find - his little leatherbound book. He tore out a dozen pages and struck, kinetic energy blasting the drones away.
He’d forgotten the octopus, though, and just as he made to cut Fukuda loose a cable came out of nowhere and slammed him in the stomach.
He lost time in a daze of gray and yellow pain until sharp hit his shoulder and he fell to his knees with a cry. His vision slowly cleared.
The drone that had been aiming for his shoulder had switched off at the last second and now lay cracked and silent on the ground. The other drones hit the ground beside him, and the cable that had been whipping out to grab him suddenly collapsed on the asphalt, limp, live wires still sparking at its tip.
Fukuda was standing in front of him, a small, buzzing gadget the size of a cell phone in his raised fist.
Hatori’s octopus spasmed and flailed. Chunks of machinery were already falling off. For a second Hatori looked livid, but then his face twisted in a vicious sneer and an octopus leg sliced clean through the whole front wall of a restaurant, peeling it away from the building like a slice of cake. The people inside screamed. Ootsuki readied his fan, but apparently that had been the most Hatori could do. The TV screens distorted to static and went black. With a final, ear-splitting shriek of tearing metal, the octopus slumped over, dead.
Ootsuki hadn’t realized he was about to join it until Fukuda grabbed his shoulder to keep him upright. The two of them stared at each other for a few seconds, breathing hard.
“You,” Ootsuki said finally, “are going to owe me so many coffees after this.”
“You can have them after I murder you for jumping into the line of fire,” Fukuda said. But there wasn’t any venom in his voice, and his eyes had the puppy dog look cranked up to eleven. “What were you even thinking?! You have zero battle experience, and that guy was - villains aren’t a video game, Ootsuki! He would have actually murdered you!”
He ducked his head. “Sorry.”
“Don’t - don’t apologize, just -”
“Hero-san!” called a voice. It was one of the teenagers Hatori had almost attacked. They were in the store right next to the restaurant, and it looked like he’d managed to squeeze himself out, but his companion had a thick river of blood running down their face that Ootsuki hadn’t noticed before. “Hero-san, I - please help him - ”
“Coming,” Fukuda called immediately. “And stay put, Ootsuki, you’re next.”
“Not going anywhere ‘till I get my coffee.”
Fukuda shot him a look, part concern, part exasperation, then turned to help the teenager.
Ootsuki leaned on a trashcan, catching his breath. His hands hurt. He was trying to avoid looking at them because he was pretty sure they were fractured and he’d pass out if he saw it.
It had felt...strange, to be out on the battlefield like that. Not natural, not exactly, but like he had fit perfectly into place. As if the universe had simply been waiting for him to do it and the response was simply, “Of course.”
Shock gave people such weird thoughts. He shook his head and looked around. Little shreds of torn paper drifted through the air, like scattered snowfall. Bits of computer modems and gaming consoles covered the street, torn open, their silicon circuits glittering in the sun. The security gates had retracted. Some of the trapped shoppers were cautiously poking their heads out of the buildings, checking that it was safe. It wasn’t; there were a lot of live wires sticking out of the ground and the octopus carcass, throwing sparks.
It didn’t smell all that great, either. His senses were still sharp from all the adrenaline pouring through him. He could smell the burned plastic from the machines and the ozone of the sparking wires. He could even smell something odd from the restaurant Hatori had sliced open. Something burning?
He looked closer. A dark shape was sticking out of the wall. It looked like a pipe with a little yellow sticker on it.
Gas.
He saw everything in perfect clarity. The brilliance of the sky, so bright blue it looked painted by a child. The shadow of Fukuda’s back, the exact way his head turned when he smelled it too. The hot metal of the trash can under Ootsuki’s broken fingers. And floating gently past, torn free from that little book by the explosions, a napkin folded like a tiger.
He grabbed it and slashed with everything he had.
The blast he made created a huge vacuum down the middle of the street, sucking away the explosion and heat and gas. Hot blades drove up the bones in Ootsuki’s arms, splitting them in half. Blazing pain seared his brain. Sound warped and distorted like it was coming from underwater. He thought he heard someone screaming, realized it was himself.
He was on the ground. His arms were on fire. They had to be on fire. They hurt so badly. Shadows were moving over him. One of them reached out to him, familiar, calling his name, but before he could answer more shadows came down like a curtain and he sank into the heavy black.
Ootsuki woke up slowly. He was lying on a bed that crinkled loudly whenever he existed, and the ceiling was styrofoam-white. The smell of rubber and cleaner filled his nostrils. A hospital.
“I guess it’s nice that I survived,” he mused aloud.
“Gee, you think?”
“Fukuda!”
He bolted upright. Fukuda was sitting on a chair next to him, a book on his lap. He smiled and put a warm hand on Ootsuki’s arm. “Relax, the doctors saw you but you’re still going to be pretty tired.”
“You’re okay!”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine, but how are your hands?”
“My - oh…”
He held them up. The last thing he remembered, they were bleeding like crazy and felt like he’d fractured every bone in his fingers. Now they looked perfectly fine. In fact…
“No scars? They’re gone?”
Fukuda looked apologetic. “You, er. Sort of blasted most of your skin off. So when I healed it, all the skin grew back more or less uniform. I hope you don’t mind. We’re mostly here because it’s standard procedure to bring someone to the hospital just in case there’s something a field medic missed.”
“But you’re okay?” Ootsuki asked again, searching his face. “Last time I saw you, you were covered in blood and I think your rib had broken.”
He grimaced. “Ribs, plural. But I promise I’m okay. I just - the way you nearly got killed - ” He broke off, shaking his head. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I...I guess so?” He looked around, trying to distract himself. It wasn’t just a hospital room, it was a private room, with a flatscreen TV, a vase of fresh flowers, and a window with a panoramic view of the city. “I can’t afford all this.”
“Don’t worry, heroes get free private rooms.”
“I’m not a hero.”
“I don’t see why not,” said a voice from the door. They looked up as Shou phased through the doorway, a tray of hospital goop in his hands. “Whoops, almost lost the Jell-O. I pulled a few strings and got you a temporary hero’s license about thirty minutes after the whole Hatori thing. So technically you’re a hero for the next three months. Welcome to my agency.”
“I-I’m not a hero!”
Shou raised an eyebrow. “Again, I don’t see why not. How do you feel? I’m not asking about your physical state. Do you feel horrified, apathetic, jittery - or do you feel like you’re ready to do it all over again?”
Ootsuki blinked a few times. “The second one, I guess. How did you…?”
He nodded. “I saw the fight. You got thrashed because you’re a total noob, but you have good reflexes and use your quirk in creative ways. My agency could use you. And Fukuda’s obsessed with you now and not me, which is a plus.”
“Shou!” Fukuda protested. “I’m not obsessed with him -”
“You use the first sweater he ever bought you for ‘emergency hugs’ and set his picture as the background on your phone. Besides,” Shou continued cheerfully over Fukuda’s sputtering, “Hero work pays well. Unless you have another source of income I don’t know about, because your shop is basically gravel.”
“What?!”
He leaped for the TV remote and flipped channels frantically. He found the evening news and, there in the background, was his shop - or rather, a lot of vacant air and broken plaster where his shop used to be. He could still see a few strips of paper fluttering through the air.
“Oh, no no no no no,” he moaned. “Everything I owned was in that shop!”
“Everything?” Shou asked curiously.
“He lived in the storeroom at the back,” Fukuda explained.
Ootsuki dragged a hand down his face. “I have a little money saved up, but I’ll need that for food and inventory until my insurance kicks in.”
“I have an extra bedroom,” Fukuda said. “I mean - it could be only temporary, if you like. And only if you’re comfortable with it. I have about three bonuses I haven’t even used yet, we could buy furniture or paper or anything you’d need.”
Shou made a muffled-sounding squeak.
“What,” Fukuda said flatly.
“You two are actually sharing an apartment?” Shou asked.
Ootsuki turned red. “I - I guess you could say that? We never really - I
Shou was grinning like a cat that had drunk half the cream and intentionally spilled the rest. “So, to be clear. You met by chance, had a coffee shop AU side story, fought a villain, and then…”
“Don’t you dare,” Fukuda warned.
Shou was grinning from ear to ear.
“And then they were roommates,” he whispered.
Then he phased through the door, laughing, dodging pillows from two very red-faced heroes.
#mob psycho 100#mp100#ootsuki#fukuda#rarepair#boku no hero academia au#bnha au#my hero academia au#hatori makes a brief cameo#shou#shou is also in here#queerplatonic
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Would You...? (Pascal x Nyraen)
A fun little Valentine’s Day excerpt from Mistren. Got three more of these to finish after this one... And Valentine’s Day is long over.
Basic Summary: Nyraen is a dark elf noble and a self-absorbed and sadistic brat. Pascal is a blind dark elf thief who grew up outside of the home country of his people. These two have a thing for each other despite homosexuality being banned in the dark elf home nation of Nesmeri. Pascal is in love and just really wishes that Nyraen weren’t brainwashed into believing that love is a weakness.
Enjoy.
---
Nyraen awoke to a tapping noise coming from his window.
A pair of pale grey eyes seemed to peer inside his dorm room, although he knew their owner couldn’t possibly be looking in. He rolled his own bright red eyes and opened the window for his visitor. “Pascal...”
The blind dark elf grinned and pecked the smaller elf’s lips playfully. “Nyraen~”
Pascal climbed through the window. He reached into his bag and produced a rectangular object with text written on it in a language Nyraen was unfamiliar with. “I brought you something I think you may like.”
Nyraen took it from Pascal and tried to decipher what it said. He ticked one long, pointed fingernail against his teeth as he tried to guess what the characters meant, but it was no use. They weren’t elvish letters, nor any he’d studied.
“It’s called chocolate, in case you were wondering. You’re meant to eat it.”
“Trying to poison me?” Nyraen scoffed.
Pascal snickered, until he realized Nyraen wasn’t laughing. He tensed up.“You... You’re not serious, are you?”
Nyraen chuckled and assured him, “Please. I know you won’t try to kill me. You have no reason to.”
“I wouldn’t try to kill you because the very thought is abhorrent to me,” Pascal said softly.
Nyraen popped a square of chocolate into his mouth, eyes lighting up at the sweet flavor. After a moment, he rolled his eyes again and replied, “And I suppose you’d never hurt a single dark elf within this entire city.”
“If I were forced to, then I would kill someone to save myself or my friends... Or you.”
Nyraen smirked. “If you’re trying to impress me, that’s not gonna cut it. Just about any dark elf would be willing to kill. I could go to any street corner and get someone to play assassin for me.”
“I never said I’d assassinate someone for you. I meant that if your life were in danger, or if you were being imprisoned or tortured, then I’d kill someone to save you.”
“Ah, my knight in shining armor! That’s almost storybook...” Nyraen purred. He set his treat on the nightstand, climbed onto Pascal’s lap, and wrapped his arms around the taller elf’s shoulders.
The tension left Pascal’s body as he felt Nyraen’s soft lips on his own.
They parted slowly, Pascal drawing in a deep breath to calm his racing heart. “I love you.”
They both froze...
Pascal knew that Nyraen had been raised to believe that attachments were a sign of weakness. He knew that, and yet he’d let it slip out so easily. To say “I love you” was borderline blasphemy in Nesmeri. It went against the teachings of their gods... The only ones deserving of love and devotion in the belief system of dark elves were the gods, as they were the only beings who would never betray you.
Pascal’s heart felt as if it had turned to ice in his chest. The warmth and tenderness had been replaced by fear of rejection... Fear of losing his first love.
Nyraen, meanwhile, was desperately trying to stop the warmth budding in his heart. His eyes were wide as he studied Pascal, who looked as if he’d just accidentally admitted to a horrendous crime instead of simply confessing his love.
But then again, in Nesmeri he had committed a horrendous crime.
Quickly, Nyraen thought of a way to remedy the situation. A smug grin spread across his face as he relaxed. “Come on now. You don’t really mean that.”
Pascal took another deep breath. “I’m sorry, Nyraen... I meant it.”
Nyraen pouted and glared at Pascal, trying again to stifle the fluttering in his chest. He was glad Pascal couldn’t see the redness creeping onto his cheeks.
The small wizard whispered a spell of Telepathy and sent a quick message to a professor.
“Nyraen, what are you doing?”
“Proving a point.”
“What do you mean?!” Pascal asked frantically.
“I sent a message to one of the professors. He should be here soon,” Nyraen smirked. “So if you love me, will you stay if I ask you to, Pascal? Would you die for me? They’ll send you to the executioner’s block if they catch you.”
“And if they find a wanted criminal in your room?”
“I’ll tell them you were trying to steal something from me. I have a few gems for spell components after all.”
Nyraen climbed off of Pascal’s lap and crossed his arms smugly, knowing that surely Pascal would leave.
...The thief sat obediently on the edge of the bed. He didn’t move a muscle.
Nyraen’s smirk slowly slipped away. He pursed his lips, waiting - hoping - for Pascal to get up and make his escape.
As the professor’s torch light shined beneath the door, Nyraen quickly cast another spell and magically locked him out. “What are you doing?!” he whispered frantically to Pascal. “Get out of here! Run away!”
The professor knocked on the door and tried to push the door open.
“Go, you moron!” Nyraen said, his voice only barely above a whisper. “You’ve proven your love, okay? So please just go!”
“They’ll whip you if they think you called a professor in the middle of the night for no reason. I’m not letting you get hurt.”
The professor was practically beating the door down. “Nyraen! You open this door right now or you will be punished!”
Nyraen pulled Pascal off the bed with a strength he never knew he had. “I can take a whipping. I can’t watch you die! Please, Pascal, go!”
Finally, Pascal escaped back out through the window.
Nyraen grabbed the chocolate from the nightstand and hid it under his pillow.
He opened the door for the professor, heart still hammering from fear, and innocently asked, “What is it, professor?”
“Your message,” the professor growled.
“I don’t recall sending a message... Are you sure it wasn’t another student?”
The professor grabbed his arm roughly, sneering at the lie. “I should hope you remember the punishment for wasting my ti-”
A tap at the window caught both of their attention.
“What is that?”
Nyraen shrugged. “I have no idea, sir.”
Another tap.
The professor released him to check the window. Nyraen took a deep, shaky breath.
The window opened, and in a blur of movement, Pascal had his professor pinned against the wall with a dagger at his throat. Nyraen gasped, somehow still shocked by Pascal’s speed, though he’d seen the rogue in fights several times already. “Am I to presume that you are the reason for the scars on my Nyraen’s back?”
“Nyraen, you little bastard! What is the meaning of this?!”
Nyraen only stared, jaw hanging open at Pascal’s boldness.
Pascal’s dagger cut ever-so-slightly into his professor’s throat. “You would insult him in my presence? Bold. Incredibly stupid as well, but bold.”
“Pascal...”
“You conspire with a rogue? A blind, thieving rogue?! And against a master wizard?!” The professor cried furiously.
Nyraen shut the door behind him, fearing the academy’s soundproof walls wouldn’t be enough to keep this situation private if it were left open. And he knew exactly where this situation had to go if Pascal didn’t want the both of them getting executed.
“Well, Pascal, you know you have to kill him now. He knows too much.”
“Not if you leave Nesmeri with me...”
“I’m not leaving, Pascal. Kill him and be done with it.”
Pascal sighed, and lifted the professor almost effortlessly. (Pascal was tall for a dark elf at five-foot-eleven, and was thus quite a bit stronger than the diminutive five-foot-four professor. Not to mention that wizards typically aren’t capable of physically overpowering an opponent at close range.) He threw the professor out the window, ignoring the curses, protests, and struggling.
“Why didn’t you just stab him?”
“Because this way they’ll conclude that he fell. His room is right above yours, isn’t it?”
Nyraen nodded. As a noble, there was really no way that he’d be blamed for the professor’s death, unless he was found in his room. Murders committed by nobles tended to be overlooked in Nesmeri... But he knew that Pascal was raised outside of Nesmeri, and may not know that particular fact.
“At least there’s one less person giving you whippings.”
Nyraen shrugged. “Mother-” he paused, quickly correcting himself. A household Matron or Patron must always be addressed as such. “Matron Maleira will still give out punishments when I return home.”
Pascal growled, muttering Maleira’s name almost as a curse rather than a name.
Nyraen reached up a hand to caress Pascal’s cheek tenderly. “You surprised me.”
Pascal leaned down to kiss Nyraen.
They kissed passionately, but Nyraen pushed Pascal away when it started to become too heated. “You need to go. I don’t want to be awake if someone finds his body before morning.”
“Right,” Pascal nodded.
As he left, he heard Nyraen say teasingly, “Goodbye, my handsome knight.”
He snickered. “Sleep well, my spoiled prince.”
#lgbt#mistren#nyraen#pascal#nyraen mistren#pascal mistren#modern fantasy#fantasy#dark elf#dark elves#romance
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The Trail (Part 4)
Zuko gives the fire one last glance before making his way behind a tree. He gets his zipper unzipped and is about to do as nature is commanding when he hears a crack.
“Pretty spooky out here isn’t it.”
Zuko jolts, his face flushing with embarrassment and irritation. “What the hell, man!?” He exclaims.
“Sorry.” Sokka apologizes.
With a sigh, Zuko grumbles, “I can’t do my business with you standing here. Go bother Zhao or something.”
Sokka laughs, “well that’s kind of a problem because I’m kind of scared to go alone.”
“Zhao is over there…” Zuko scans the forest, trying to gauge where to point. Eventually he picks a random spot, “somewhere.” He knows that he is going to have to accept defeat because he can’t hold it any longer, and Sokka is making it pretty clear that he isn’t going anywhere.
He supposes that the other boy will be tending to his own business anyhow, he won’t be paying him much mind. He carries on with what he had begun moments ago. For once, he wishes that the whistling he hears is a catcall.
Breaking the golden rule of bathroom etiquette, Zuko looks at Sokka who meets his gaze.
“Looks like we should hurry things up.” Sokka comments.
.oOo.
Azula pokes at the fire, stirring the smoldering ashes with a stick. She draws her hood over her head.
“How long does it take them to use the bathroom?” Katara grumbles.
Azula shrugs, “longer than it should. They better get back here soon because it’s freezing out here.” Katara is nice enough, she supposes, but after a good while of conversation, she finds that they don’t have very much in common. Katara is a sweet and caring girl, Azula is more reserved and hard to talk to. Not that she isn’t trying to make conversation.
She can use a friend.
Especially with Mai and TyLee having parted ways with her after a rather questionable night involving an ouija board.
“Have you ever dealt with a spirit before?” Azula asks.
“I think, once, when I was really little.” Katara replies. “Dad says that a spirit is what killed my mother. It got into her soul and got her sick.”
Azula nods. “Our mother was killed by something too. That’s why Zuzu wanted to come out here.”
“What was she killed by?”
Azula doesn’t get to answer, a stick falls at her feet. She certainly hasn’t asked for more firewood. “I’m going to go check on them.”
Katara stands with her. She calls out for her brother and received no reply.
“Zuzu?” Azula tries. She could have sworn that they hadn’t gone that far.
“The lad’s that way, Ah think.” Zhao pointed. “Ah tol’ the botha them that Ah’d meet ‘em at the tent.”
Azula looks down at the man’s belt. “Give me that.”
He shoots her a puzzled look.
“The pistol, Zhao. Give it to me.” Her command is accented by a shrill whistle that has her shuddering and reminds her of why she wants the gun in the first place.
“Do ye even know how to use it, lass?”
“I wouldn't have asked for it if I didn’t know how to use it!” She replies. Reluctantly, Zhao hands her the pistol. “Stay here and watch the tent.” Her stomach begins to knot and she wonders if this is how Zuko had felt upon seeing her go under the water. She hears Katara call out for Sokka again. Katara follows her towards the treeline. A furiously cold breeze stirs flakes of snow from the branches and into her face. Azula shivers, the night only seems to be getting more dismal.
“Zuko, where the hell are you?” Azula shouts again. Each word that spills from her lips sends a new trill of dread through her, she knows that she is attracting attention, but it is not the attention she wants. The rustles seem to get closer but she calls for Zuko again. A hand clamps over her mouth and tugs her behind the tree, she reaches for the gun.
“Quiet.”
Her fingers go lax. She wishes that it was Zuko. “Where is…”
“I don’t know.” Sokka replied. “I was...I was being kind of obnoxious and he stormed off to get some privacy.”
She raises the gun and holds it to his chest. “If I find out he got killed because of you...” she hisses.
Sokka pushes the gun down. “Look, you can yell at me later, right now we need to be quiet.”
Azula supposes that it is horrible of her, but she doesn’t mention that Katara hadn’t followed her behind the tree. If she is going to lose her brother, then he can lose his sister. There is a snap and a crack, her breath catches. “We have to go.” She whispers.
Sokka nods.
She peeks around the silver fir and finds nothing in their path, but the feeling of eyes on her is unrelenting. She looks up, the only movement comes from the rocking of the fir branches and the snow they shake off. She motions Sokka forward but doesn’t venture any further.
Instead, she stops to listen.
She only hears that silence.
That terrible silence .
.oOo.
“Turn that off!” Katara snaps.
“Sorry.” Zuko mumbles. Even still, he hesitates before actually switching the flashlight off. The dark that settles around him is much too complete. He stares longingly at the flashlight; that thing is practically a beacon, but it gives him an illusion of safety.
He follows Katara through the forest.
“You wouldn’t happen to know which way the campground is, would you?”
“I wish I did.” She replies, adding something that he doesn’t quite catch.
“What was that?”
Katara looks at him, her eyes wide. It is dark, very much so, but the moon pierces through the canopy just enough to cast a halo of light upon her face. The whisper comes again, but her lips do not move. His heart drops like a rock. He can’t place where exactly the sound emits from, but he thinks that it is coming from the trees.
He can’t believe that he hadn’t recognized it from the start. Katara acts first, pulling him towards...he doesn’t know where. He decides that wandering aimlessly is better than standing still.
At least until he recalls that these creatures are known for leading travelers astray, not that they aren’t hopelessly lost anyways. “We should have booked a hotel.” He grumbles for the upteeth time.
Katara holds a finger to her lips.
“They already know that we’re here!” Zuko throws his hands up. He is acting like a child about this. He takes a deep breath and tries to get a hold of himself. Quieter he says, “sorry, I’ll keep it down.”
Katara nods before tugging him into the shadows. From what she is helping him gather, Zuko realizes that the shadows are just as much of allies to them as they are to the forest spirits. He isn’t sure how long nor how far they creep along for, but the ruffling noises are growing distant and the air doesn’t seem quite so heavy.
“Here.” She mouths, and pulls him behind a large hemlock.
.oOo.
The scuffling is all around them and the whistling is only growing louder. It seems to come from every inch of the forest, drawn out and warped and with the quality of a diseased bird. Azula knows that the sound will haunt her dreams for some time to come.
She and Sokka are so perplexingly far from the path they’d started on and she has no sense of where they are at. Just how the hell is she supposed to find Zuzu if she can’t even get a sense of where she is? She looks to Sokka, he probably knows the woods better than she.
He returns her stare with a frown and a mumbled apology. “I never really leave the reservation at night. One of dad’s rules.”
She sees it on his face that he understands his father’s rules now. She wishes that her father would have put some research into Salish lore. She wishes that she wouldn’t have underestimated it. She catches a flash of movement. She doesn’t have to resist the urge to step closer to Sokka because he closes the space between them.
Azula holds herself rigid, and the gun in the direction of the movement. She sees the same something dart out of the bush. She releases her breath as two beady raccoon eyes judge her for her not unwarranted paranoia.
God, she doesn’t remember the last time she has been this alert.
A pretty lie.
She recalls it very vividly.
As sharply as she recalls the fear in her father’s eyes.
The same fear that had been there before she’d lost her mother.
“Azula!”
She breathes a sigh of relief. “I’m going to have to hold your hand next time, aren’t I, Zuzu?”
.oOo.
“This is all my fault.” Zuko says with a soft apology. “Your dad was right, Azula and I should have just left things alone.” The tree bark is uncomfortable on his back and he can’t imagine that Katara feels much more comfy than he. She should be sleeping in a cozy house, instead snow is whipping at her cheeks and bark is pricking at her skin. He thinks that he can see some scrapes from their run.
“Sometimes you don’t have to mess with things for them to come after you.” Katara states. “These spirits go after children, Zuko. They don’t care if you’ve done nothing to them at all. It’s just fun for them to spirit people away.”
“I didn’t help anything.” He mumbles. He never does. He knows it is a bad time, but his mind wanders. If father were there…
He doesn’t want to know what kind of insults were to be had. The man had said it many times, that he loved his son. That he was proud of Zuko. But he never snaps at Azula, never calls her incompetent on hunts for mistakes both mundane and profound.
Ozai swore, he was adamant that he wanted to keep hunting with him.
Yet the last thing he had said before vanishing was, “why can’t you just do what you’re told boy?”
And Zuko thinks of the scar.
The long and jagged burn marks that rip across Azula’s back.
She says that it’s fine. That she doesn’t remember much of that night anyhow.
But he does.
He remembers that night so vividly.
He touches his own scar.
Zuko’s dread only grows. Because, once again, he has lost track of Azula. Not that she doesn’t make doing so easy. He can’t protect his own sister, he should at least protect Sokka’s.
So why is she pressing the talisman into his palm saying, “you need this more than I do?”
He swears that they are closing in on them. The sound of laughter intensifies like some premature victory celebration. They know that they’ve won and all Zuko and Katara can do is press themselves closer to the rough and icy bark of the tree.
Zuko curls his fingers around the talisman.
His lip curls into a snarl.
He’d made another mistake and he won’t let Katara pay for it.
.oOo.
Sokka grabs her shoulder before she can step forward.
“Sokka…”
“Listen again. Closely.”
“Azula, where are you?”
Azula finds her senses waking into a fuller brand of awareness and she can’t quite place why. Sokka’s firm grip on her doesn’t do her any favors. “Azula?” Sokka is right, she realizes; there is something off about it. It sounds just enough like Zuko to pass for him. But there is something else there, some uncanny underlying factor. Something that sets the voice apart from Zuko’s real voice.
It calls out again and she leads Sokka in the other direction. She hopes that the real Zuko is having better luck than she and Sokka. She imagines that he and Katara are doing about the same; wandering aimlessly about a dense frosty woodland.
Azula finds that she doesn’t trust the noises around her. She can hear them now, bird calls and coyote yips but they don’t bring her the comfort she assumed they would. They are now almost as ominous as the hunter’s quiet.
There is one thing that she still trusts and it is the smell of smoke. “Do you smell that?”
Sokka sniffs the air and nods.
She grabs his hand and tugs him in the direction of the fire. It is hard to track with the wind pushing it in many directions but eventually her eyes find a trail of smoke. Had she any doubts, Sokka clears them.
“I think that I know where we are.” Sokka replies. “I just hope that dad will let me in.” He scratches the back of his head.
The walk takes longer than she is comfortable with, she still has Sokka’s hand and she tells herself that it is strictly because he seems like the kind of dolt who needs to be guided--disregarding that he is more familiar with the area. He doesn’t jerk her in another direction so she believes that she has a decent sense of things for herself.
She only regrets, in full, not letting go of his hand when he stumbles over a log and pulls her down with him. Azula cringes, between the two of them they hae made a mighty ruckus.
“I thought that you said you’re a hunter.” Azula hisses.
“I never said I was a graceful one.”
The whistling reawakens with a greater, mocking intensity. She tosses most caution to the frigid wind, takes Sokka’s hand again, and bolts. She doesn’t need strategy this time around, she needs speed and agility. She just hopes that Sokka can match her own.
Branches rip at her skin, but her cheeks have grown too numb with the cold to be bothered by it. Every once in a while her hair snags on a branch. There is a sharp pinch is it tears out. The smell of fire grows soothingly more powerful.
One blubbering apology later and a shaky confession that he’d lost track of Katara later and they were back inside of the reservation. She can see it in Hakoda’s eyes that he is livid. She doesn’t know who will receive the brunt of it, she, Sokka, or Zuko.
Maybe he is like her own father; angry at himself for dealing out a heat-of-the-moment punishment with a greater weight than he’d anticipated.
Hakoda stares at him, his brows furrowed in an expression mixed between puzzlement and disgust. Under it, Azula realizes that she hasn’t let go of Sokka’s hand. She scrunches her face and drops it as though she hadn’t been into his awful pick up lines and awkward compliments earlier that morning.
.oOo.
Katara is asleep.
Zuko doesn’t know how, but she is.
He likes to think that he is just that comforting. Even so, he doesn’t feel like that much of a bodyguard. He feels small and pathetic. She shivers against him and he realizes that she is dressed rather terribly for the weather. He pulls his coat off and drapes it over her.
It is his fault so he’ll take the worst of it all.
It is his fault so he will let them take him.
Maybe if he does, they will leave her alone. So at the sound of a dozen sets of feet, he steps out of his hiding place. He braces himself for an attack.
It comes, harder than he expected. It will bruise. But he wants to cry with relief, because he hadn’t expected the blow to come from a very pissed off Azula.
“I’m going to have to follow you to the…”
He throws his arms around her and she grumbles for him to let go.
“Where is my daughter?” The man’s tone lets Zuko know that he’s in for another good punch.
“She’s sleeping.” He points at the hemlock. “I gave her my coat because she didn’t have one.”
Hakoda’s face softens considerably. Still, he knows that he isn’t in the clear. Between the three of them, they’d hassled the tribe terribly. He supposes that he’d rather face the chief than whatever is attached to those ungodly whistles.
“Stick close.” Hakoda instructs after rousing Katara. “They aren’t as likely to attack a group, but they will try to lure someone away.”
Zuko has never been so comforted to be surrounded by so many people.
He doesn’t take his eyes off of Azula. Though he wishes that he didn’t see Sokka take her hand again. He truly hopes that the man is simply a wimp and that Azula’s hand is the nearest available. She doesn’t pull her hand away and that is a bad sign. He pinches the bridge of his nose, she has just met Sokka.
He chooses to dwell on the absurdity of it, it keeps his mind from darker places.
Katara falls in line with him and gives him something else to think about when she thanks him for the coat.
.oOo.
“We ought to check on Zhao, huh?” Azula asks. Though she has a striking feeling that the Scottsman had himself a peaceful night. The stick indians had no reason to bother with him, unless they simply wanted to agitate the man.
“Yeah, we probably should.” Sokka agrees.
“Whao, whao, whao!” Zuko exclaims, “the only we here is Azula and I.”
“That’s a shame, because I was hoping for a little adventure.” Katara quirks a brow.
“You mean last night wasn’t good enough for you?” Zuko asks.
“Not quite.” Katara replies.
“Hired.” Azula mutters.
“Azula,” Zuko hisses, “we already have Zhao.”
“Yes, soon we will have a whole paranormal investigation team. Just like the one father and mother were a part of.” Azula flashes a smug smile.
“Your dad isn’t going to…”
Sokka cuts him off, “he kicked me out remember?”
“He didn’t mean it.” Katara assures. “If he did you’d still be in the forest.”
“Yeah, well…” He trails off. “I think that it’s time to leave the reservation. Don’t you think?”
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LOT/CC fic: Somewhere on Your Road Tonight (Ch. 5)
Sara and Leonard made a life for themselves, together in 1958, after the Waverider left them, Ray and Kendra behind. But now they're back on the ship, Mick has been twisted into Chronos, Kendra is pregnant, and Savage is still out there. They'll deal--together. (Sequel to "Chances Are.")
Second half of “The Magnificent Eight” in this ‘verse. Thanks to @larielromeniel for the beta! Can also be read here at AO3 or here at FF.net.
Raymond is beaming from ear to ear with the victory his bluff and Leonard’s shot had pulled out. Jax is pretty much bouncing, and even Stein and Mick are grinning. But Leonard himself is a little more inclined to agree with Jonah Hex, whose gloomy outcome is just a little closer to his own native pessimism. (He prefers to think of it as realism.)
“For a bunch of time travelers, you don't seem to understand the future much,” Hex tells them, harsh voice scornful as they pause on the bridge. His gaze flickers, challenging, to Rip, who glances away. More there than meets the eye, it seems. Leonard leans against the wall, watching the captain for more tells as Hex goes on, “The day will come when you'll all leave... and Salvation will end up like Calvert.”
Rip flinches, badly. Leonard, watching, frowns.
“What's a Calvert?” Mick queries, looking around. Post-Chronos Mick is a lot more curious than the old one, Leonard’s noticed. He’s still not quite sure if that’s a good thing.
But RIp shoots them down. “A closed matter. A word, Mr. Hex?” he says, taking a step out of the room and turning away. “I believe you've all done enough for one day."
“Well, now I definitely want to know what a Calvert is.”
“Me, too,” Leonard mutters, moving closer to Mick, who eyes him, but apparently decides they’re still OK. “Gideon?” he says, nearly in unison with Stein, after Hex follows the captain out.
"Calvert was a town in Oklahoma during most of the 1850s and 1960s,” the AI says promptly.
"Was?”
“That is all you need to know for the moment.” The computerized voice is almost prim, Gideon at her most authoritative...or protective. Leonard and Mick share a glance.
“I think,” Leonard drawls, after a moment, “that we need to know more, Gideon. Spill.”
“Then you will have to take it up with Captain Hunter.” The tone is now flat.
“Good captain hiding things from us again?”
Gideon pauses. Leonard hears Mick, Jax and Stein talking in the background, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the nearest screen, the closest he figures he can come to looking the AI in the eye.
“Mr. Snart,” she says finally, “would you like me to tell the entire team about...some piece of your past? Say, the Schuyler sapphire job of 2004?”
Jax and Stein look at Leonard with some trepidation, but Mick chuckles a bit evilly, and Leonard allows himself a slight smile, even though the reference is a somewhat painful one.
“Gideon, is that a threat?” he drawls.
“No,” the AI returns. “It is an example. I will not...spill...about your past to simply anyone who asks. Neither will I do so about any other member of this team unless there is a very clear and compelling reason to do so.”
“Ah. There’s something a little more personal about this to ol’ Rip, huh?”
“As you say.”
It’s Stein (busted while stealing medicine, to Leonard’s amusement) and Raymond who finally get the truth of Calvert out of the captain and then share it with the team, but Leonard doesn’t hear about that until later. As the group disperses, he watches Mick wander off toward the galley, then follows, slowly, hands clasped behind his back, considering his words.
But when he arrives, sauntering into the room in time to watch Mick put away a huge bite of a truly impressive sandwich, he decides to just keep it simple, parking his hip against the doorway and folding his arms before speaking.
“You doin’ all right?”
Mick eyes him, chewing his mouthful of bread and cheese and meat. Then he shrugs.
“Yeah.” He considers the sandwich, then shrugs again. “Don’t I seem alright?”
He does, actually. But... “You were Chronos, barely a day ago. And then you weren’t.” Leonard takes another step into the room and waves a hand. “And yeah, Gideon’s still monitoring your brainwaves and will...spill...if anything goes haywire, but it’s still...”
His voice trails off. The situation is many things. Few of them simple.
Mick lets the silence stretch, taking another bite, then another.
“M’ fine,” he grunts, finally, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. (Leonard winces.) “Waitin’ for the other shoe to drop.”
Leonard moves closer, thinking about his own ponderings about the Time Masters and events. “How so?”
“Wit’ the Hunters.” Mick sits down the sandwich and regards him, leaning forward onto his elbows. “None of you are taking this seriously,” he says gruffly. “Not really, not even you, Snart. But I know. I mighta been the dumb one once, but...” He shakes his head at Leonard’s noise of denial. “No, really, you were the brains of the operation. And that was OK. I didn’t want to be.”
He picks up his sandwich again. “But I had to, as Chronos. And I’ve seen things, Snart. The Time Masters...they play the long game. Kinda like you. But no matter what the Brit thinks, they don’t have much of a code. Not when it comes to getting what they want, what they think is best. And they think they always know best.” Mick eyes him. “Also, kinda like you.”
Leonard ignores the shot. There’s something there, the thread of an idea, the trace of a pattern. “What do you...”
But Mick’s apparently had enough of being quite so forthcoming. He takes another massive bite of sandwich, then says around the edges: "Where’s Blondie? Thought she was your partner in crime these days.”
That’s meant as a hit too, Leonard thinks, but he chooses not to take it as one. Instead, he just shrugs, pulling up a chair, taking a seat when Mick doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s not like we’re joined at the hip.” He leans forward, lacing his fingers together on the counter, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And crime doesn’t have much to do with it.”
Mick snorts and leers a little. “So I hear.” He shrugs when Leonard eyes him. “What, it’s a secret? Then you shouldn’t go around making goo-goo eyes at each other.” Then he barks out another laugh, pointing at his old friend. “You should see the look on your face.”
“Goo-goo eyes?” Leonard asks in distaste, sitting back, then reaching for a napkin to wipe up an errant bit of mustard on the counter. “Really? I haven’t once in my life...goo-goo eyes?”
“Snart, trust me, it’s absolutely sickening.”
They don’t get much of a reprieve, however, before Raymond, giddy with the prospect of more Old West action, finds them. Hex had confirmed Stein’s intel on the Stillwater gang’s location, and it’s time to ride. (Raymond, Leonard decides, has far too much fun saying that in his best John Wayne intonation.)
He considers asking Sara to join them, but the inventor has relayed the information that she’s keeping the restless Kendra company in the medbay, and it seems wisest not to mess with anything that’s helping out the pregnant lady. It’s a decision that Mick doesn’t really agree with.
“We could've used Sara on this roundup,” he grumbles, guiding his horse along the narrow path they’re riding, so adroitly that Leonard has to wonder where (and when) he’d learned. Mick’s just as much of a city boy as he is—or, at least, he had been before the Time Masters took him.
For his own part, Leonard's pretty sure Hex has given him the equine version of training wheels, as the gray gelding he’s been paired with seems to ignore (perhaps wisely) any of his attempts to steer it and simply follows the others.
Hex looks around at him, frowning. “A lady? You crazy?”
Yes, Leonard thinks with a sigh as Mick snorts in laughter, it’s perhaps just as well that Sara hadn’t come along.
Of course, maybe if she had, things wouldn’t have gone sideways quite so badly. They go back to the ship with Stillwater…but also without Jax.
As Stein asserts back on the ship, it could be a simple matter: Trade Stillwater for Jax.
But it’s not. Of course, it’s not.
“If we release Stillwater,” Raymond says, as earnestly as Raymond says almost everything, “we're back to square one and the town is still in danger.”
“So is the kid,” Leonard growls back at him, pacing the bridge. "Raymond, you ever think with that vaunted brain you got?” He stops in front of the inventor. “Think about the time period. And it’s Jax.” He nods, turning abruptly away as the would-be sheriff’s eyes widen. “We got their leader. Who’s got an all-white outfit, far as I can tell.” He scowls at nothing in particular. “And maybe Hex ain’t a…a true believer in that uniform he wears, but lots of people still are.”
Stein takes a shaky breath. “Jefferson is, at the moment, in no overt distress,” he says quietly. “But...Mr. Snart is right. Some of the rest of us, we tend to forget...”
Raymond looks distressed, but he doesn’t back down. “And we'll figure out a way to get him back without releasing Stillwater,” he says firmly.
“I got a notion.”
Leonard flicks a glance at Hex as the other man saunters into the room. He hasn’t decided quite what he thinks of the bounty hunter, save that there’s all sorts of interesting vibes between him and Rip. There’s a pragmatism there he appreciates, but Hex is a creature of his time, including the Confederate uniform, and he’s not at all sure about that.
“Set up a quick draw,” the scarred man continues. “You win, get your guy back." He pauses. “You lose, you set Stillwater free.”
“And, by "lose," you mean..." Stein starts.
“Get shot and killed,” Leonard says shortly, folding his arms.
“Oh, great. Pistols at high noon."
Mick, perhaps predictably, is all for the idea. Stein is emphatically not. Hunter doesn’t seem able to offer another plan, and Leonard has to admit that he’s coming up blank as well.
But then it’s Raymond, honorable to a fault and full of his image of Old West nobility, who volunteers.
“No one else is stepping forward,” he says, so earnestly again. “Plus, I'm a decent shot... at least I was with an air rifle.”
Oh, enough.
Leonard sighs and straightens from his slouch against the chair.
“Like hell you will,” he says. “I will.”
He holds up a hand, pointing at the other man as Raymond starts to protest. “I’ve got a better shot than you. Literally. And…” Here, he pauses, hesitating at the sentiment his next words reveal. “…and I’m not about to become a father.”
Raymond can’t even argue with that, but he sees the inventor struggling to find a way.
He’s never wanted this part of being a hero—or a legend. But apparently, he’s found his line in the sand, right here. This kid, Raymond and Kendra’s, is going to have parents who give a shit about him, who will make sure he grows up to be…well. Something better than a crook and a rogue.
And who knows? Leonard smirks a little. He might even be able to win this shootout.
The whole thing touches off another quarrel between Hunter and Hex, however, one that ends in even more revelations about the whole Calvert matter—and the bounty hunter decking the captain, something Leonard’s always pleased to see.
“I deserved that,” Hunter mutters, blotting the blood at his lip. Leonard lifts an eyebrow and glances across the room at Mick, who smirks back at him.
“You deserve a lot worse.” Hex scowls down at him “You knew, and you still left?”
“Of course I knew. I was a Time Master. And therein lay the problem.” Hunter struggles to his feet, shaking his head. “Like Raymond, like Martin—like even Mr. Snart, apparently—I felt the pull of heroism, of this era's penchant for being rife with opportunities to make a difference."
Hunter sighs, even as Leonard tries to figure out how he feels about that “even” and that “apparently.” “That's one of the things that called to me, and that is why I had to leave,” he continues. “Because had I stayed... I could no longer have remained a Time Master.”
Then he nods, once, looking Hex right in the eye. “But I'm no longer a Time Master... which is why I'll face Stillwater."
“Wait!” Raymond protested, even as Leonard snaps, “I said I’d do it."
Hunter turns, running a hand through his hair. “Yes, and I know you make your own decisions, Mr. Snart, but I’d rather keep Ms. Lance from wanting to murder me, should you lose.” He gives Leonard a slight smile of his own. “And while you’re a demonstrably good shot—as evidenced by this whole mess—you’ve never participated in this particular brand of mayhem before.”
He turns away before Leonard can try to argue again. “Send word to Stillwater's posse. I believe high noon is in less than three hours.”
Sara wants to help her friend as much as possible. She really does. But after an afternoon full of cards and chatting and justifying all manner of treats from Gideon by virtue of “Kendra wants it,” she’s restless as hell—and more than a little curious about the relative radio silence from the others.
“Well,” she says with a sigh after they polish off a massive piece of chocolate cake, “this has been fun, but I think I should go see what sort of trouble the boys are getting into.” She stands with a spine-cracking stretch. “It’s been long enough that I'm sure there’s something.”
“I would be more surprised if there wasn’t.” Kendra rests her chin on her hand, wearing a wistful expression. “Gideon? Can I at least walk around the ship?”
“That would be fine, Ms. Saunders,” the AI replies promptly. “Your readings and the baby’s are quite healthy and very regular.” She pauses. “I would, however, recommend staying on the ship for this stop. Just in case. Despite any distractions.”
“And that’s not worrisome at all,” Sara mutters, reaching out to squeeze Kendra’s hand. “I’m going to go see what’s happening, maybe put on the whole get-up again and go see Salvation.”
“Have fun. Make sure Ray’s behaving. And Snart.” The other woman gets to her feet, gingerly, stretching as well. “Oh, that feels good. I need some exercise.”
"My guess? Ray’s probably behaving. Leonard probably isn’t. I like him that way.” But Sara pauses on her way out the door. “Kendra?”
“Hmm?”
She considers her words, then shrugs. “Whoever’s out there—Old West Kendra, Old West Carter—they're living their lives. You have to live yours. Right?”
Kendra regards her, then gives her a small smile, one that mingles gratitude and understanding. Sara, who’d never had many female friends back in her own time, is a little surprised to find how much it warms her. She thinks of Ginny and Rebecca then, and other unexpected gifts from the ‘50s.
“Right,” the other woman says quietly. “Well, for now, that life’s going to include a shower and a change of clothes. And...thank you, Sara.”
Leonard’s not in their room. Sara shrugs and dresses in her Old West clothing before heading back out. She’s just about to lift her voice and ask Gideon where the others are, though, when she turns a corner and runs right into her very own man in black, who lifts his hands to catch her.
“Hey!” Sara grins at him, then pauses, nothing the very complicated expression that follows his initial smile. “I’ve been keeping Kendra company for a while. What’s going on?”
She sees Leonard consider the question.
“Ray’s the sheriff,” he says finally. “I’ve been playing sniper-slash-deputy for him. Stein’s been stealing medicine to save some kid, Jeb Stillwater’s in the brig, his gang has Jax and our captain’s about to take part in a gunfight.”
“What?”
The scene at high noon on the streets of Salvation feels like something out of a movie, almost exciting if not for the fact that Rip’s life is on the line.
And while Sara’s still dealing with her feelings about Leonard nearly being the one out there in the street, she has to admit that losing the very person they’ve come on this mission to help probably isn’t the best game plan out there either. Mick has assured them all that he can fly the Waverider—but since Mick’s only a day or so away from years as a violent temporal bounty hunter, that’s not all that reassuring, either.
Sara stands with Stein and Mick, watching Rip and Ray as they wait for Leonard to herd Stillwater out of the town jail, where he’d been placed temporarily until his gang could show up with Jax. The youngest Legend looks annoyed but fine, waiting opposite the others, hands tied. Stein has confirmed his counterpart’s relative good health.
Stillwater looks just as ornery as before when he emerges from the jail, doing his best to ignore the fact that Leonard’s holding him at gunpoint, and the two men cross to the middle of the street, then turn to face Rip and Ray.
"I'll be drawing for Sheriff Palmer,” Rip tells them, voice raised. Leonard gives a fancier-than-strictly-necessary flip of his revolver, extending the hilt to Stillwater, who eyes him, but accepts it.
“How do me and my boys know you're going to keep your word?” the man says, checking the weapon.
“Sheriff Palmer's a straight shooter," Leonard tells him solemnly, a corner of his mouth ticking up as he turns his head to catch Sara’s eye. She bites back a completely inappropriate huff of laughter at the double entendre, but then it's time, it’s high noon, and everything hinges on just how much Rip recalls from his time in Calvert, before everything went to hell.
Turns out, quite a bit.
Leonard can’t help a wry tip of his head toward the captain as Stillwater, dead as a doornail, hits the dust of Salvation’s main street, but his next action is to cut Jax free, following the younger man toward the other Legends as Stein rushes up to meet him.
“Jefferson, are you all right?” the professor says, urgently, as if he couldn’t tell through their bond.
“Yeah.” The kid blinks at Hunter. “Did you just shoot somebody for me?”
“Yeah. You're welcome,” the captain returns, then turns and lifts an eyebrow at Leonard, who acknowledges the parallel with another tip of his head. Both sides of Firestorm owe their lives, or at least their freedom, to the art of the quick draw today, he thinks with amusement, turning as Sara steps past them, her eyes on the edge of town.
“I don't think we're done here yet,” she says, quietly, and the others turn to follow her gaze.
Townsfolk start running, parents grabbing their children and hustling them toward buildings and other forms of cover. Some take aim, and gunshots echo. The three hulking figures, however, ignore them, continuing to advance.
“They’ve found us,” Hunter breathes, his gun back in his hand. Mick steps forward, though, throwing his arms open wide.
“Ah, friends!” he roars, giving Leonard a brief moment of panic before Mick raises his gun and takes aim. “Welcome!”
It’s almost amusing, how quickly Rip’s fine words about protecting the timeline get discarded when the shit really goes down. Firestorm roars into the sky and Sara pulls out her bo, but while the captain had apparently managed to snag another of his fancy revolvers for Hex and the ATOM suit for Raymond, he'd neglected to grab Leonard’s cold gun or Mick’s heat gun. Leonard grimly distracts one of the Hunters by firing his other revolver, the bullets pinging off the armor, before Mick tackles the figure and gets in a few good licks.
Leonard takes a look around to see if any of the others are in need of assistance, but the fight’s over almost too fast. Sara straightens her hat, collapses her bo and winks at him, and Raymond rushes back to full size, grinning. Len shrugs and turns, just in time to see Mick take out the last Hunter standing.
“Fool,” the bounty hunter growls into his face, “the Time Masters have initiated Omega Protocols.” He laughs weakly. “The Pilgrim's coming for you, Chronos. Your deaths are just a matter of time."
“Yeah, yeah,” Mick mutters, letting the man drop. He shrugs, turning toward the others, pausing as he sees Leonard watching him. “Well, that was easy."
After making such a mess, it only makes sense that they help clean it up a little. The townsfolk are more than willing to embrace them, now, and while Leonard may roll his eyes about the pragmatic change of heart, well, he can understand it.
He’s just arrived back into town after helping Mick and Jax make sure the Stillwater gang really had abandoned its hideout, getting the gray horse stabled with its fellows and then sauntering slowly along the main street, taking it all in. It’s been interesting. He’s not sure he really cares to return, but it’s been...interesting.
“Mr. Snart.”
Leonard pauses, just a moment, then turns, regarding the tall figure that’s regarding him in return.
“Mr. Hex,” he returns after a pause, slipping into the drawl, hooking his fingers into his belt loops, that much closer to his gun. He’s still not entirely sure he trusts Hex. He’s guessing that might be mutual. “Didn’t even know you knew my name.”
The scarred man shrugs. “Been askin’ around.”
“That so?”
“It is.” Hex studies him. “I think you and I, we have a bit more in common than the others in your ragtag group of...saints and sinners."
Leonard lifts an eyebrow, and the bounty hunter continues with a shrug. “Pa that liked his drink, liked even more to use his fists on his wife and son.” He nods as Leonard frowns. “A little better understanding, shall we say, of the way the world works. Issues with...blood brothers. And…”
Hex turns his head, looks over toward the saloon, and Leonard follows his gaze. Sara’s standing there, speaking with great animation to Stein and a somewhat taken-aback woman and young boy. She's still in her western gear, but she’s holding her hat in her hands, and the late afternoon sun is shining on her golden hair. She’s beautiful, but it’s not just that, her spirit shines through, and he can’t see how every single eye in the town isn’t drawn right to her.
Leonard watches her another moment, then looks at Hex. The other man is also watching Sara, but in a way that suggests, to a careful observer, that he’s seeing something else, really. Someone. Someone in the past, not the present, no matter where he’s looking at the time.
After only another few seconds, though, the bounty hunter shakes his head, then looks back at Leonard, expression opaque again.
“Well,” he concludes. “That’s prob’ly best left to memory, for me, anyway.”
Leonard nods, deciding to leave it be, and frowns. “You gotta point?”
Hex seems to consider his words for a minute, then shrugs. “I’m just sayin’,” he says carefully. “Set your feet on that path, with these…heroes…you don’ know where it’s gonna lead. You OK with that? Best be, before you take any more of those steps.”
Leonard’s eyes narrow. He’s not sure of the man’s motives, but he’s never taken kindly to people questioning him. “I know what I’m doing.”
Hex shrugs again. “You did a fine thing, offering to take Sheriff Palmer’s place, but you’d be no less dead if you had. Despite all his noble words, that’s what being a hero usually gets you.”
“Maybe.” Leonard, personally, still thinks he could’ve won that shootout. “And I’m no hero.”
Hex doesn’t argue. “Well, then. You take care, Mr. Snart. And I do hope you’re wrong ‘bout that.”
As Leonard watches, the scarred man untethers his horse from a post nearby, then swings into the saddle. He nods to Leonard, then clicks his tongue to the gelding, swinging it around and heading out of town.
Rip comes out of the sheriff’s office down the street, just then, and Hex reins in, pausing. The two men exchange a few words, and Leonard slowly starts ambling toward them, curiosity getting the better of him.
"...perhaps we will see each other again, my friend,” Hunter says, his voice quiet—and not, Leonard thinks, very optimistic.
“Yeah. I reckon that'd be okay." And then Jonah Hex rides off, not quite into the sunset, but back into history, and the two men watch him go.
Leonard eyes Hunter a moment, but the other man ignores him. Like Hex himself earlier, his eyes seem to be looking at something that’s not really there. Calvert, maybe? Instead of the perhaps too aptly named Salvation?
“Interesting fella,” he comments eventually.
Hunter sighs. “Indeed,” he murmurs. And no matter how much Leonard might like to yank his chain here, he just can’t bring himself to do it. Truly, he’s getting soft.
“This town's seen a lot of interesting,” he says instead. “Suppose you got one of those doohickies that erases people's memories or something?”
“No.” But the question seems to have done its job. Hunter seems to shake himself awake, then gives Leonard a wry look. “But... skepticism and disbelief are a far more effective tool.”
“Ah.” It does make sense. “So, if anybody here talks, no one will believe them.”
“Would you, Mr. Snart?”
As is usual with their lives as of late, however, leaving one problem behind them simply means careening headlong into another. The team stands on the bridge, listening as Mick explains about Omega Protocols and the Pilgrim. The former bounty hunter seems just a little rattled by the development, but given how easy it’d been to take out the Hunters, Leonard’s unimpressed.
"Ooh, scary,” he drawls, leaning on the table next to Sara. “Pretty sure we can handle ourselves.”
She flicks an amused glance at him, but the captain’s not so blasé about it either.
“Indeed,” he comments, moving across the bridge, “which is why she won't be going after the present-day versions of you.”
“She's hunting our younger selves,” Mick cuts in gruffly. “And she won't stop until all of us have been...erased.”
That’s disconcerting, true. But they barely have time to digest the concept when Gideon’s on it, an array of digital information rolling down one of the ship’s viewscreens before the view flickers to the image of a black-clad woman next to a smaller ship that nonetheless looks like it’s the second cousin to the Waverider.
“Captain Hunter, I have located the Pilgrim’s ship across the timeline,” the AI announces. “She’s landed in Central City, 1985, and is on the move. I’m scanning archived footage from the time, looking for Dr. Stein, Mr. Snart or Mr. Rory.”
The team members move toward their seats, knowing that a jump is on the way no matter who the Pilgrim’s target is at this time. Mick simply plops down in the nearest one with a snort.
“They’re probably goin’ after me first, Gideon,” he says with a shrug. “They’ll figure I’m the most dangerous. ‘Cause of the whole Chronos thing.”
Something about that doesn’t make sense. Leonard frowns at the other man even as he drops in his own jump seat. “But...”
“I believe I have found the Pilgrim’s target.”
Leonard looks up at the screen, then...and straight into the past.
Sara hears his intake of breath and glances over. Leonard’s frozen, though, staring at the screen, looking as if he’s seen a ghost. She follows his gaze, studying the footage, grainy black-and-white film that looks like it might have come from a store security camera.
There’s a boy there, short and skinny, with a mop of unkept black curls, a battered backpack, and a dark sweater that’s far too big for him. He’s inspecting a row of groceries on the shelf in front of him, not snack foods but staples like pasta and sauce, and it’s all too clear to a practiced eye that theft is on his mind.
Then the boy glances around, and the camera gets, momentarily, a good shot of his face. Sara sucks in a breath too—because the bones of that face are familiar, and they’re not Mick’s.
“The Pilgrim isn’t going after you first, Mr. Rory,” Hunter says quietly, looking not unsympathetic as he settles into the captain’s chair. “Gideon, please set a course. We need to get there ASAP.”
Leonard closes his eyes as Mick also makes a noise of recognition. Then he shakes his head, opens his eyes and makes himself focus on the underfed, wary-looking boy on the screen.
“No,” he says quietly, “she’s going after me.”
Author's Note: I wasn't all that familiar with the comics canon Jonah Hex, so I did a little research. He has quite a bit in common with our Snart: abusive, alcoholic father (whom he tried to kill at one point), a blood brother with whom he had a very serious falling out, and a distinct sense of honor although he's pretty firmly an anti-hero.
And his love interest at one point was a woman named White...Fawn.
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19 for scrooge and webby please? :D
"I’m gonna take care of you, okay?" little Webbigail Vanderquack stood on her tip toes so she peeped over the edge of old, and currently injured, Scrooge McDuck's bed. "That's not necessary. I'll be perfectly fine on me own," Scrooge struggled to sit himself up. "Nonono! Nurse Webby is on the case!" the child put her hands on her hips. Scrooge cracked a small smile. "Lass, you shouldn't be here anyways. Go play with yeer dolls," Scrooge slowly got himself to the edge of his bed, leaning greatly on his cane, slowly and painfully getting himself up. "No! Granny said I can help! As long as I'm careful," Webby pleaded with him. "I see..." Scrooge sighed."Now lie down. Nurse Webby says so," Webby made the old duck sit back down and took away his cane. "Ey! I need that," Scrooge's shout turned into a fit of coughs. "You shouldn't be leaving bed Mr. McDuck. It says so in this book," the child lifted up a dusty old children's book on injuries. Scrooge didn't know such a book existed in his home, but it seemed like something Beakly would have gotten her adventurous granddaughter. "Alright, fine. I'll stay here," Scrooge harumphed. "Good," Webby climbed onto his bed and patted his head with her small hand. "With a leg injury such as yours, it says that somebody should constantly be getting you what you want or need. So what do you need Mr. McDuck?""Oh nothing at the moment Webbigail," Scrooge closed his eyes and tried to relax against his bed, but failed, hating the absolute numbness of his left leg in its cast. "Are you sure? It says to make sure that you're hydrated and to make sure to drink water whenever possible. It says that people stuck in bed tend to not drink water when they should," Webby opened to a page and showed him. Scrooge nodded slowly, not really looking at it. "I'm quite positive," Scrooge chuckled. Seeing Webbigail all worked up and concerned was well... Quite cute to be honest. It reminded him of... Her. Scrooge sighed. "Is something wrong sir?" Webby cocked her head. "Nothings wrong dearie, just tired," Scrooge smiled tiredly at her. "Oh! Then I should let you rest alone," Webby slid off of the bed and grabbed her book, which looked ginormous in her arms. "You don't need to go. I'm perfectly fine with you here," Scrooge didn't know why he said that. He did want to be alone but... Something else told him he didn't. "Really?" The little ducklings face lit up. "Of course," Scrooge scooted over slowly and carefully and patted a place for Webby to sit next to him. Webby beamed and jumped up on the bed again. "Yay! This is fun! I like it when you're hurt," Webby smiled at him. "Ah, me too," Scrooge half lied. He always hated being stuck in bed, but this was one of the few times where he actually had good company. It was nice. "That's good, I don't want this to end," she smiled more and opened her book. Scrooge took a good look at it while Webby flipped through the pages. It was obviously made for children, with its big letters and cartoonish drawings, plus the lack of graphics and real bad injuries, but at the same time it was very informative. "Who bought you this book?" Scrooge asked. Webby thought for a moment. "I didn't buy it. I found it lying around in one of the empty bedrooms so I thought I may as well read it," Webby shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. Scrooge nodded slowly. "When I found it, I said 'well if I want to be an adventurer I have to know how to be prepared' so I took it.""An adventurer?" Scrooge raised an eyebrow. "Oh, did I say that? I-I didn't mean anything I- uh..." she looked away from him. "I meant spy..."Scrooge furrowed his eyebrows and nodded slowly. She really is just like her. More than he originally thought... But maybe she'd be fine. Maybe she'll be different. Scrooge glanced at the girl, who was fiddling with a corner of a page. "You could be a spy, in time," Scrooge shrugged. "Really?" Webby looked upnat him. "Oh sure, you'd have the skill," he recalled Mrs. Beakly's own skills and chuckled to himself. Webby would be fine as a spy, taught by her grandmother. She'd know how to keep her safe and protected. She would know how not to loose her. "Yay! Thank you Mr. McDuck!" Webby hugged him as tight as she could, which caused a shock wave to run through his injured leg. "Gah-!" Scrooge yelped. "Ah! Sorry Mr. McDuck!" Webby scrambled off the bed and stood. "No no... Its fine Lass," Scrooge cringed and waited for the feeling to go away. "I-I'll get you some ice and leave you alone," Webby scrambled out of the room quickly. Scrooge facepalmed and groaned. "Here we go again Scrooge," he scolded himself, "Scarring them off, like ye always do."The old duck sat and waited for several minutes before the little duckling came back with an icepack and... Her grandmother. Oh joy..."Webby said you needed this," Beakly nodded at her granddaughter, who went up to Scrooge and gave it to him quickly before going back to her immediately. "Thank you Webby," He nodded at the girl. She gave a small nod in response. "Run along now, Mr. McDuck and I are going to have a little talk," Beakly nodded and Webby ducked out of the room. Beakly closed the door and approached her boss. "Leg feeling any better?" she raised an eyebrow."It was feeling just fine. Just a little jump ye know," Scrooge didn't look at her, preferring to look at the fireplace. "So... You told her she could be a spy?" Beakly got to the real conversation she wanted to have. Scrooge internally cringed. "Did I? Hm..." Scrooge tapped his fingers on his blanket. "Are you sure about that?" Beakly's tone was surprisingly concerned. "Bah, of course. She'll be learnin' from the best," Scrooge continued to avoid her gaze. "You think 'spy training' is different from 'adventurer training'?" Beakly walked closer to his bed. "Of course. I won't be doing it," Scrooge sat himself up. Beakly paused. "Of course," She nodded to herself. "Good day Mr. McDuck," Beakly walked back to the doors. Scrooge said nothing in response. He heard his maid sigh as she left through the door. Scrooge sighed too. He really did miss his old life of adventuring, and he knew she'd love it too... But he knew he'd never be able to let himself adventure ever again. Not since five years ago... But the girl needed something. Maybe being a warrior would be good for her, who knows. She'll be fine, they'll all be fine with the new lifestyle. They had to be, because that's all that was going to be for a very, very long time.
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[HONEY FF]
┌────── ⋆⋅♤⋅⋆ ──────┐
chapter twelve
STRUGGLE
└────── ⋆⋅♤⋅⋆ ──────┘
YUNO LAID IN BED along side her sister that refused to leave her side ever since she left the hospital. Not long ago, Yuno had officially told Uraraka everything. From her being a fairy, to the whole Bakugo situation of when they were younger. She was surprised that her friend took it all in well, her eyes never changed, she looked at her the same way she always would.
"You're still my best friend, fairy or not. I know that your life hasn't been as great as it seems. From being forced to be strong for your own good, your father dying, to almost getting killed. I'll stand by you no matter what, Yuno."
Uraraka's words made its way through her head once more. They continued to open up the gifts that were given to her, and later that day she was allowed to go home.
When Yuno was younger, her parents made her train to become strong. They were always afraid that one day while they were out fighting villains, their daughter would be at home, the risk of being in danger was at 100%. They always hesitated to leave, but they knew as their duty as Pro-Heroes that they had to protect their people, even if it mean having to leave their daughter unattended at home.
She was forced to learn how to protect herself, she was never able to be under her parents wing like other children had been able to. When her sister, Hinata, was born, Yuno was the one that had to protect not only herself but her sister as well after she came of age to be able to talk and walk.
Yuno was raised to be strong, mentally and physically. She was never abused or hurt in any way by her parents, and she was thankful for having such parents that loved her. She just wished that she could've had a more normal childhood than what she got. She had to cook for her sister and herself, she had to clean, help her sister with school, everything a parent should be doing but she understood her parent's duties. Yuno was happy that she was able to meet Bakugo and Uraraka, they made her understand what the word fun really meant.
"When does school start?" Hinata questions, looking up at her sister that had her eyes covered with her hand.
"I have to go back tomorrow. I'm kind of embarrassed of going back to school, knowing that everyone saw me looking so vulnerable." Yuno whispered as Hinata laid on her stomach, putting her head on her hands watching as her older sister let out a frustrated sigh.
"I can't believe I'm even talking to you right now. I'm so happy." Hinata whispered, knowing that not long ago her sister could've been dead at the hands of villains.
"I'm alive right now. That's all that matters." Yuno says as she pulled her younger sister into a tight hug. She felt her sister's tears meet the skin of her collar bone. Yuno bit down on her lower lip at the sound of her sister trying to hold back tears. Guilt swam in her stomach, hating the fact she made so many people worry about her.
"Oh, sweetie stop crying. I'll make us some food okay?" Yuno says as she holds onto her sister, placing a kiss to her forehead. Hinata nods, wiping away at the tears on her cheeks.
"How about some soba?"
-
-
"Mr. Aizawa." Yuno whispered as she stared up at her teacher that was equally as confused as herself.
"Not to be disrespectful, Mr. Aizawa. But shouldn't you be in the hospital recovering?" Yuno questions her teacher as they slowly walk alongside each other to class. The bandages that practically covered his whole body.
"I'm surprised you don't look the way I do." Mr. Aizawa says as Yuno raises her hand to scratch the back of her neck.
"I tend to recover quite quickly, plus the surgery and Recovery Girl's help I managed to survive. I have a scar on my stomach now though, it's not the prettiest but it shows how I managed to survive a villain attack." Yuno smiles, not knowing whether or not her teacher could see her clearly.
"Don't you usually come to school early?" Mr. Aizawa questioned as they walked up the stairs in sync.
"Ah yes. It's just that.. I'm a little embarrassed to see everyone after everything that happened, so I thought if I came just a tad bit late that I could avoid everyone." Yuno whispered as Bakugo raced through her mind. Ever since she woke up, she planned to not get close to him as much as she wanted to. She couldn't risk getting him hurt, even if it wasn't her fault. While Bakugo had planned to try and get closer to her, in order to protect her the best he could. They both planned to protect each other but in totally different ways.
"Is it okay if I walk in first? Just in case if anyone tries to ask questions you get there in time?" Yuno whispered while fiddling with her fingers.
"Yeah. Of course." Mr.Aizawa says as a smile made its way to her face.
"Thank you. I'll see you in class." Yuno says as she runs up the steps and over to the next set of stairs. She jogged over to her class.
"You've got this, Yuno." Yuno whispered to herself as her head hung back to stare up at the abnormally large door. A hesitant sigh left her lips as she held onto the door handle. The moment the door slid open the class went silent. Yuno walked in while trying to avoid everyone's eyes. She closed the door and could practically feel the guilt that everyone felt in the whole room hit her like a bus.
"Yuno.." A voice whispered out as her classmates followed her with their eyes. The silence of everyone practically ate her alive. She sat in her seat and set her head on her arms.
"Hey.." Kaminari said, about to reach a hand forward to put a hand on Yuno's shoulder when the door was already being slid open by another person.
"Morning."
"Mr. Aizawa, you're back too soon!" The students exclaimed. Bakugo turned and looked at Yuno who had lifted her head to look at her teacher that was at the entrance. She would always at least look at him once, but that day she hadn't even bothered sparing a glance at the ash blond. The feeling that he was getting was nothing but good.
"You're too much of a pro!"
"So you're all right, Mr. Aizawa?"
"My well-being doesn't matter. More importantly, the fight is not yet over." Mr. Aizawa said as his words made the students be at the edge of their seats.
"Fight?" Bakugo questioned, the voice that she loved being one of the things she didn't want to hear at all at that very moment.
"The U.A. sports festival is drawing near." The sports festival, one of the events she absolutely loved watching since she was little. One of the events she wished of going to since her younger days. Her parents went and she wished she could follow in their steps.
"That's a super normal school event!"
-
-
"Wait a minute."
"Is it okay to even have a sports festival so soon after everything that happened?" Suzuki questioned as everyone's turned around to look at the girl that had her seat in the back row.
"What if they attack us again or something..? Ojiro questioned as everyone turned back in their seats to face their heavily bandaged teacher.
"Apparently, they think of it as U.A. showing that our crisis management system is solid as a rock by holding the event. Security will also be strengthened to five times that of previous years. Above all, our sports festival is a huge chance. It's not an event to be cancelled because of a few villains. Our sports festival is one of Japan's biggest events. In the past, the Olympics were called a festival of sports, and the whole country was crazy about them. As you know, with reduction in scale and population, they're now a shell of their former glory. And now, for Japan, what has taken the place of those Olympics is the U.A. sports festival!" Mr. Aizawa explained as the students couldn't help but just get excited at the thought of being able to show off their Quirk's in front of hundreds of heroes.
"After we graduate, it's typical to join a pro agency as a sidekick." Kaminari says as Yuno turns her head to look at the boy who held a thumbs up.
"A lot of people also miss their chance to become independent after that and end up becoming eternal sidekicks." Yuno says as another voice that belonged to Jiro spoke up.
"Kaminari, I feel like you'd be one of them. Since you're dumb." Jiro said as a smile made its way to Yuno's face, trying to stop the giggle that wanted to escape her throat.
"Of course, joining a famous hero agency will get you more experience and popularity. Time is limited. If you expect to go pro, then the path to your future will open up at this event. One chance a year- a total of just three chances. No aspiring heroes can afford to miss this event. If you understand that, then don't slack off on your preparations!" Yuno already knew which agency she planned on going to, the Pro-Hero was famous herself. It was practically a shame if you didn't know her name. Everyone knew her and many people wanted to be able to go to her agency, and if she scouted them they felt extremely special.
That person was none other than, Mei Itō. The aunt of Yuno. Mei was in her late 20's. Well known amongst the Pro-Heroes, she was young, powerful, intelligent in battle, etc. She managed to create her own agency in her early twenties.
Yuno was lucky to have her as family, knowing that Mei would be be there for her no matter what. If she didn't manage to get other agencies, Mei would always take her under her wing.
"Yes, sir!"
"Home room is dismissed."
-
-
Before Bakugo could even get a chance to say a word to Yuno, she was already standing up and making her way over to Deku and Himura.
"Everyone's so into it." Deku says as Yuno rested her hands on the desk and pulled herself up to sit on it while her legs rocked back and forth.
"And you're not?" Himura questioned as he took a seat on the chair that belonged to the desk Yuno was sitting on. Suddenly Iida stood up, startling the pair that sat across from him.
"We have enrolled here to become heroes, so of course we would get fired up!" Iida exclaims as he began to do a stiff dance.
"Iida, you have a unique way of getting fired up. It's weird." Tsu says as Himura and Yuno couldn't help but try and stifle their giggles. Kaito Himura, a boy who's quirk could be helpful and dangerous at the same time.
Himura's quirk consisted of firearms. He could produce any type of firearm he wished, rifles, snipers, etc. He was also very intelligent in human biology in which he learned which points of the body wouldn't cause a lot of damage if he shot them there. He could produce anytime of firearm, even if it was fake. He could make rubber bullets, and he could even make confetti guns if he desired to. Himura's quirk could also be held by other people but that is with his consent only. His Quirk was dangerous in many ways possible, but it is also very helpful.
"Midoriya, you don't feel the same?" Iida questioned.
"Of course I do. But something's.." Deku began to trail off as the four heard their names being called by an all too familiar girl.
"Let's do our best at the sports festival." Uraraka said as the alarmed trio stared back at her in surprise.
"Uraraka, uhm you kinda, uhm." Himura began to say as he slipped out of his seat and moved away from the group as quick as possible.
"What's up, Ochaco?" Yuno questioned her best friend as Ashido popped up in between Deku and Iida.
"You don't look carefree at all," Ashido began to say as Yuno looked from the trio to her friend that obviously was having a hard time being calm. "Even though that's what your name means."
Suddenly, Uraraka lifted her fist into the air, a look that Yuno hadn't seen in a while appearing on her face.
"Everyone, I'm gonna do my best!" Uraraka exclaims as the the group lift their own fists into the air, following with an exclaim of 'Yeah'.
Uraraka turns to the group beside them, lifting her fist once more in the air at the startled boys.
"I'm gonna do my best!"
"Y-Yeah.."
"Everyone, I'm gonna do my best!"
Uraraka exclaimed once more as Yuno couldn't help but roll her eyes playfully at her friend.
-
-
"Uraraka." Deku questioned as the four stopped in their tracks.
"Yes?"
"Why did you decide to come to U.A. and become a pro hero?" Deku asked as Yuno hesitantly looked at Uraraka, getting ready to butt in if her friend got uncomfortable in any way.
"Huh? Um... because...."
-
-
"For money?! You want to become a hero for money?"
Deku questioned as Yuno rocked on her heels while staring at a nervous Uraraka.
"To boil it down simply, yes... Sorry it's such an unwholesome reason. You three have such admirable motivations, it's embarrassing..." Uraraka says as Yuno knew the reason behind her wanting to be a hero. Uraraka's parents and Yuno's became good friends after the two girls first met in school. After Yuno's parents had heard about their financial struggles they always offered to help them, even if it was in secret donations.
"Why? How is having a goal to support your live hood not admirable?" Iida says as he moves his arms in weird ways while being stiff.
"Right. But it's unexpected."
"My family owns a construction company, but we haven't gotten any work at all, so we're flat broke. This isn't really something to tell other people, though." Uraraka says as Yuno grips her shoulder tightly.
"You don't have to tell them..." Yuno whispered to Uraraka, knowing that the whole situation made her friend easily nervous. Suddenly, Uraraka turned to the two after hearing what they had said.
"Right? That's what I told Dad when I was little!" Uraraka exclaims. The story that Uraraka began to explain, Yuno knew it like the back of her hand. Her parents were nothing but kind and amazing people and she was glad she had the chance to meet them. "I'll definitely become a hero and make money and let my parents take it easy."
A moment of silence engulfed the four, when suddenly Iida raised his arms into the air and began to clap very loudly that it startled the trio.
"Bravo! Uraraka, bravo!"
"Bravo!"
Iida continued to exclaim as a small smile made its way to her face at the sight before her. Uraraka and Yuno had been friends since they were little. They never left each other's side. They never joined a big friend group or even a friend group in general, they believed that they only needed each other. But that day it changed, that day they realized that they could find new trustworthy friends named Midoriya and Iida.
Suddenly they heard a deep loud laugh erupt from behind them.
"Young Midoriya is here!" All Might exclaims as he points at Deku. The four had wide eyes, surprised to see the pro hero there.
"All Might? What's the matter?"
"Lunch! Wanna eat together?" All Might questioned as the lunch box he held looked smaller in his large hands.
"He's like a maiden!"
"How about it?"
Deku turned to look at his friends who smiled at him and sent him a nod.
"I'd love to."
-
-
"Oh, Todo!" Yuno exclaimed with a smile as the half half boy turned his head to look at the voice.
"I'll be right back." Yuno whispers to to Iida and Uraraka that looked at her in confusion. She moved past some of the students that gave her a dirty look for cutting in line.
"I never got to thank you for the gifts. The flowers were beautiful!" Yuno smiles as she nudges the boy with her shoulder.
"Huh?" Todoroki began to say but stopped mid way when he saw the lavender haired girl smiling at him. He stared at the girl for a moment in which she stopped smiling and nervously stared back at him. Bakugo stared from afar, glaring at the pair that simply stared at each other. A weird feeling free in the pit of his stomach as he chewed on his food.
"I- Todoroki?" Yuno questioned as the boy was brought back to his senses. His ears reddened as his eyes went wide.
"Well I should go back with Ochaco. Thanks again." Yuno smiles at once more at the boy before moving back in the line with Uraraka and Iida.
"I didn't get her flowers.. I got her a teddy bear.." Todoroki whispered to himself, shrugging it off.
"What was that about?"
"Oh. I just wanted to thank him." Yuno says as the trio continue to move forward, while the pair continued on with their conversation that peeked the interest of Todoroki that stood not too far from them while Yuno was lost in her thoughts.
-
-
Yuno sighed heavily, slipping on her shoes when she heard light footsteps coming down the stairs.
"Are you going somewhere?" Hinata questioned as she watched her sister stand up, wiping away at the invisible dirt that lingered on her clothes.
"Yeah." Yuno whispered as she grabbed her bag and went for the entrance of her home.
"Be safe. Can you bring me ice cream on your way back?" Hinata smiled at her sister who nodded at her softly, her little sister always managed to bring her calmness and happiness.
"Sure. I'll get going now."
-
-
Bakugo sat on the familiar bench while staring up at the sky that was ready to change places with the night sky soon. A sigh left his lips as he stared at the entrance when a familiar girl caught his eye.
"Yuno?" Bakugo whispered, thinking she was going to turn and walk to the park when she made a turn to walk where she really wanted to go to. His nose scrunched in confusion standing up from his place on the bench and began to secretly follow after the girl who had no idea he was just a couple feet behind her.
After another quick turns she saw a convenience store and decided to get a snow cone and flowers. Bakugo hid behind a wall, waiting for the girl to walk out. The moment she did he quickly ducked behind the wall and waited for her to continue walking.
Yuno bit down on snow cone she had gotten from the store while continuing her way to the place she wasn't ready to see just yet, but she had to be strong. The moment he saw a bouquet of flowers in a bag confused him even more.
The more they walked, less and less people would be seen. His eyebrows furrowed, looking from the girl to the sign.
"A cemetery?" Bakugo whispered as the girl threw away her trash and opened the front gate to walk inside. He waited for a couple a moments before deciding to follow her inside. She was easy to spot in the isolated place.
He hid behind large headstones when Yuno would turn around, the feeling of being followed never diminishing. The sun was close to being to sunset, but it was still high in the sky with beautiful colors swimming in the sky. Yuno suddenly stopped as Bakugo quickly hid behind a headstone that was only a couple feet away from her.
The headstone she stopped at was large with only a few couple of words.
++THERES MORE
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the swap
HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY TO @thesschesthair!!!!! Remember that weird Captain Charming idea I messaged you about a while ago? Well, it’s finally done...probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever put my name to, but you’re one of the craziest, most awesome people I know so you deserve all the awesome, weird, insane stuff out there. Hope it was a great day, love!
One of these days, they'd learn their lesson when it came to getting drunk in a town with magic. Or, more specifically, the things that can happen when decisions are made while drunk enough to not remember them in the morning.
At least, that’s what David had to assume had happened, given the pounding in his head. That part was easy to explain. The rest...well, it could only be magic.
Because how else could he explain the thick thatch of hair across his formerly bare chest?
(And a distinctly dark thatch of hair at that?)
It felt...well, kind of nice, actually. Coarse, yet kind of soft against his fingers, and spread evenly across his pecs before trailing a line down his abs, disappearing into the jeans he still had on. There was something oddly familiar about it, even though he’d never possessed more than a few hairs there before.
Another hand started dragging through it, settling over his heart and drawing nonsense patterns with her fingers. “David?” Snow asked groggily. “What’s this?”
“You know...I’m not completely sure.”
They both knew they'd had far too many drinks, but the chaos of life in Storybrooke hadn't afforded them a chance to have a guys’ night out in...well, ever.
The several beers at the Rabbit Hole was probably more than enough, but the night was still young when the last dwarf arrived at the bar and suddenly things inside seemed too stifling—or perhaps they were just leery of any potential interruptions from Grumpy. So they headed out into the balmy night towards the Jolly Roger, where they continued to swap stories over a shared bottle of rum from the ship’s stores.
It was one of those weird late-spring days where it was unusually hot—the kind that teased at what summer would be like before regressing to cooler temperatures, but for now was sweltering. The heat of the air combined with the warmth of the booze had the men shirk their jackets before even leaving the bar and now saw them gradually losing the buttons of their tops as they passed the rum back and forth.
Eventually, Killian stood to completely remove his shirt, tugging it from the waistband of his jeans and pulling it first off his braced arm and then shaking it free of the other, letting it fall to the deck as the ocean breeze cooled the flushed skin of his chest.
“Fuck!” David exclaimed from where he was seated against the railing, watching the show, as it were.
Killian jumped at the shout and focused on his friend-turned-father-in-law. “Mate? Wha’s wrong?”
David stumbled to standing, letting his own shirt fall open as he poked Killian in the sternum. “I've always wanted chest hair like that!”
Across town, Killian was slowly waking, a familiar ache in his brain and horrid taste on his tongue. He winced at the light coming through the curtains of their bedroom, where he lay on his stomach with his head buried in pillows. He’d at least managed to get out of his skinny jeans before passing out, but was laying on top of the covers in just his boxer briefs and trying with all his might to recall how he even got that far. He knew he and Dave had gone to the Rabbit Hole, and seemed to recall them eventually journeying to his ship, but was frankly surprised he hadn’t spent the night there.
Just what else had they gotten up to? And why did he feel different?
Movement on the bed next to him was soon followed by the press of a warm palm on his skin, sliding from his shoulder, following the dip of his lower back, and finally resting on his arse with a gentle squeeze. He flipped his head the other way to face Emma, who was giving him a sleepy smile.
“Have fun last night?” she asked, voice rough from slumber.
“I...think so,” he answered, his tone equally coarse but for a very different reason. “What I can recall, at least.”
She chuckled. “One of those, huh?”
“Seems so.”
“You know my dad can’t hold his liquor.”
“Then gods only know what shape he’s in, if it’s one at all.”
She giggled again, and he turned on his side to pull his love close. Her hand settled on his chest as he placed a kiss against her temple, and though he still couldn’t shake that weird feeling, he was suddenly more concerned with Emma stiffening in his arms.
He pulled back and saw the look of fear on her face. “Love, what is it?”
Her hand against his skin felt like a hot coal, so much warmer than usual, and he wondered if it was her magic. But she finally broke her gaze away from his pecs and looked up at him, confused.
“Killian...where’s your chest hair?”
“Are you quite certain you can handle it?” Killian asked, dead serious.
“It’s just chest hair, Jones.”
“And with great chest hair comes great responsibility!” He turned sincere. “Promise me you’ll take care of it?”
David placed his hand over the smooth skin above his heart. “I swear it.”
Killian nodded. “Alright. Let’s do this.”
They ambled through town as quietly as they could—which wasn’t very, considering their drunken state. But it wasn’t like anyone could really call the sheriff when the two men walking shirtless down the street were her deputies.
They were somewhat giddy. “It’s been centuries since I was a bare-chested boy; I can hardly remember what that felt like,” Killian effused.
“I’ve always been jealous of yours. Always. This is gonna be fun.”
Finally, they reached their destination. After fumbling with (and cursing at) the gate, they headed up across the front lawn and began to whisper-shout.
“Regina! Hey, REGINA!” Except David wasn’t exactly whispering.
Not a second later, a groggy, angry mayor had thrown open her second-floor bedroom window to glare at the men in her yard.
“What the hell are you imbeciles doing? We JUST got Robyn down to sleep. She’s teething, for crying out loud!”
Oh, David knew what that was like. “Sorry! Sorry! Just...we need you to do something.”
She huffed. “This better be good.”
Killian scratched behind an ear. “We were wondering if you, Your Majesty, could, ah…”
“Can you, uh...swap our chest hair?” David finished, and both men grinned up at her.
“Seriously?” She continued her angry stare at the men, but neither stopped innocently beaming up at her. “Ugh, fine.”
And with a wave of her hand, it was done.
Snow was far more perturbed by David’s new follicles than he was.
“You seriously have no idea?”
“I don’t remember anything past leaving the bar.”
“Can you try?”
He sighed and rubbed his eyes; he needed some coffee before he could really deal with this. “I am, but I’ve got nothing.”
Snow was busying herself around the room, getting dressed, tending to Neal—anything but look at him, it seemed. “Well, wash up; we’re meeting Emma and Hook for breakfast. Maybe he’ll know what happened.”
David did as asked, but took a bit more time in front of the mirror than usual. He had always wanted a bit more than the few pitiful hairs he’d always had in the middle there, and now he had an abundance. Maybe he wished on a star? Ran into a fairy? Who knew?
But he did take extra pleasure in leaving some of the buttons on his shirt undone. If Snow noticed, she didn’t comment.
“Did you go to the salon or something last night?”
“Why would I…”
“Most people get tattoos or piercings when drunk; not their chests waxed.”
Killian winced at the thought of removing his well-maintained fur by choice. “Swan, I’ve no idea; it feels just as strange to me as it does you.”
“Does it hurt?” He shook his head; it didn’t, but it felt odd all the same. He could hardly remember a time he’d been bare anywhere; ever since puberty, he’d let his chest hair grow in naturally and always had some form of beard. There was a small novelty in feeling smooth skin where he hadn’t in centuries, but the entire situation was just as perplexing to him as it was to her.
“Wherever it went, darling, I’m sure it will grow back in,” he assured her (and himself).
“Let’s hope so. Come on; we should head to Granny’s and make sure my dad is alive.”
He quickly slipped on his jeans and found a clean shirt from his closet. For a moment, he did observe what he looked like; there were some scars and freckles that had been long-hidden that were now exposed, and the definition of his muscles stood out a bit more. But ultimately, his appearance was jarring; unable to look at it further, he actually did all the buttons on his shirt for the first time in actual ages.
Snow was resolutely avoiding having David in her line of sight, and was busy feeding Neal in the booth next to him when Emma and Killian arrived. She waved a greeting to them while David sipped at his second cup of coffee, finally feeling normal again. In fact, he might have even sat a little straighter—he was feeling pretty confident, after all.
Emma slid into the booth first, followed by a haggard and oddly sheepish-looking Killian. They both mumbled out their good-mornings while Granny delivered their own mugs of coffee, which Killian sucked down in one gulp before leaning back against the seat and turning his attention to David. “Mate, do you remember…” he started, but then trailed off, and David could see his eyes travel south.
Casually, he replied. “No, I don’t remember what happened last night. But I think we had some fun.”
Emma had finished her coffee by now and joined in. “Damn, we were hoping you had, because, um…damn.” She’d noticed, too.
As the couple stared dumbfounded, Snow was the only one who seemed to pick up what was going on. “Killian, you’re awfully buttoned up today; do you feel alright?”
He tore his eyes from David to Snow, swallowing and oddly speechless. He glanced back and forth between everyone else at the table before finally sputtering, “You stole my chest hair!”
Granny nearly dropped her tray at the exclamation, but to the four people at the table, it was the only thing that made sense. Killian unbuttoned his shirt to its normal style to prove his bare-chestedness, then quickly covering it back up before eating. Emma did a quick check, and it was definitely magic that had switched things; but with their memories of the previous night still missing, there wasn’t much they could do about it.
“I’ll figure something out,” she promised as they left the diner, squeezing Killian’s hand in reassurance.
“Please do,” Snow said quietly as she passed by; David simply opted for a harder-than-usual slap on Killian’s shoulder, which was met with a chagrined glare.
To no one’s surprise, there weren’t many books on spells with chest hair swapping. Belle tried to help, though she burst out laughing at first, until she saw the hurt puppy look on Killian’s face and made him some tea. The two of them searched all the books in the library but came up with no answers. Though she promised him she’d look at home, too, Killian didn’t hold out much hope. (“And please don't tell your husband,” he begged; the situation was embarrassing enough without getting the Crocodile involved. Thankfully, she assured him she wouldn't.)
He bid her adieu and zipped his jacket all the way up to brace against the chill air that had returned, and made his way toward the station to meet Emma. But once he turned he turned the corner to head in, he was met with David coming the opposite direction, a smug grin on his face, jacket open and shirt generously undone, chest hair (his chest hair, dammit!) on full and proper display. Killian sighed.
“Hey there, Hook! How's it going? Any luck at the library?” David was far too chipper for Killian’s mood.
“Not as such, mate,” Killian answered unamusedly.
“Ah, well,” David replied, puffing his chest out as he pocketed his hands. “There has to be something out there.” It didn't sound like he was in much of a hurry to reverse whatever magic had brought this on, though. “Do you want to come inside and warm up? It was getting too hot for me in there, so I thought I'd take a walk.”
He hadn't realized just how insulating the extra hair was, especially in Maine’s bitter climate. So to see David so undressed while Killian shivered just twisted the knife of his hair loss even more.
He ignored the offer and plowed on. “Is Emma still in?”
“No; she went home a bit ago.”
“Then I guess I'm heading that way, too. Until later.” He nodded his head in a goodbye and turned to walk away, choosing not to answer David’s shout of “stay warm!” while trying to tug his jacket tighter around him.
It wasn't Dave’s teasing that was bothering him about the situation—though he obviously didn't enjoy it, and his old self might have lashed our physically at such mocking, friendly as it was. He was surprised to find he simply missed having his chest hair.
He didn't feel emasculated or anything; there was probably more vanity at stake than anything, really. He just felt like part of him was missing (though admittedly less so than when he'd lost other parts). But with so many centuries of having the same appearance, the drastic change was unsettling.
However, he was a grown man; it was likely his fault anyways, at least partially, so he could deal with it until they found a reversal.
There was some appeal in having fewer barriers between he and Emma while making love, but even she complained at the loss while trying to burrow into him later that night, seeking out the heat that was usually trapped within.
“I miss your chest hair,” she said in a small voice as she pulled another blanket over them. They had to figure this out soon.
David may have had fantasies of having a hair-covered chest his whole life, but dream and reality were far different. So far, reality was proving to be much, much better.
No wonder Hook always ran around with his shirts wide open.
It was a cool day, but he actually felt pretty warm and opted to forego the undershirt, even going so far as to leave the top few buttons of his plaid shirt undone.
When he went out on a couple calls, it almost seemed like people took him more seriously—which was saying something, considering he was already the prince. Grumpy was more hesitant to shout doom and gloom, no one fought parking tickets, and even Granny was quicker with his coffee order.
Damn his father’s hairless genes! Had he really been missing out on this all these years?
He did feel a little bad when he saw how out-of-sorts this was leaving his son-in-law—it had been ages since he'd seen Killian look so meek; probably not since the Author’s twisted universe, and maybe not even then.
But...he was just having so much fun! He knew that they'd need to set things right at some point, but he was really in no rush. Besides, Hook had had the hair for how many hundreds of years? He could share. (Sharing chest hair...it was a good thing David had long since given up on giving his reality much thought.)
He was hoping Snow would have warmed up to it a bit more by the time he got home. But he'd hardly walked in the door with carry out before she swapped the bag in his arms for Neal and went about setting food on the table. Obviously, he’d never say no to spending time with his son, who was babbling away happily, but it irked him that his wife was avoiding him.
While he was considering said avoidance, he felt a sharp tug on his chest. And another. And then one more that made him hiss in pain, which was quickly followed by an innocent little giggle. Neal was smiling up at him, tiny fingers tangled in chest hair. He pulled again and laughed even more at the yelp David released involuntarily; how did a baby have that strong a grip? And of course, the kid complained when he tried to stop him, but, hey, at least someone liked it.
Snow spent all of dinner focused on feeding Neal and not looking at David, which stung. She didn’t object when he wrapped his arms around her from behind as she cleaned dishes at the sink, but she still wouldn’t even look at him when they climbed into bed, going so far as to face the other way and keep her back to him. That was his last straw.
“Seriously, Snow?” he protested. “Why are you still avoiding me?”
“Because I don’t like chest hair, David!” she snapped back. Oh. Well, that would explain things. He thought she was just getting used to it; he didn’t realize she found it so repulsive. A pit formed in his stomach knowing they were so at odds.
“I can hear you pouting,” she continued with a sigh, but still unmoving. “I know you love it, but...David, it doesn’t even match your hair.”
And there it was. His own wife couldn’t stand the sight of him. He sighed heavily and ran his hands down the line of hair on his stomach, and then again for good measure, because it looked like he was going to need to return it to its rightful owner sooner rather than later.
Neither one could sleep, so as they both tended to do when they needed to think, they found each other near the docks. Killian was sitting on a bench looking out at the dark water, bundled in the peacoat Emma had bought him for when he finally had to concede to the harsh winter temperatures, when David walked up and sat down next to him.
They didn’t need to say anything; they knew why the other was there. The slump in their respective shoulders said it all.
Eventually, David spoke up. “I’m sorry for rubbing this in your face. I just got caught up in how it looked and felt and my own ridiculous dreams; I wasn’t really thinking about anyone else.”
“It’s alright; I’m sure I’m just as much at fault for the whole situation. I’ll eventually deal with it. It was just a drastic change and I haven’t been known to deal well with those.” Killian chuckled. “At least I know it’s been in good hands and you’ve enjoyed yourself.”
David laughed back. “It has been a nice boost of confidence. At least, until my wife told me she doesn’t like it. No offense,” he quickly added.
“None taken. But it’s true: with great chest hair comes great responsibility.”
With great chest hair comes great responsibility.
Both men paused at the line, and suddenly, a rush of memories from that night came back. They remembered what happened. At the same moment, they looked at each other and knew what to do. They didn’t waste a moment in springing to action.
After a stop at the 24-hour convenience store, they again found themselves in front of the mayor’s house. But this time, instead of shouting, they respectfully rang the doorbell.
That didn’t mean Regina was any less offended at their late call. “What is it now?” she complained when she answered the door in her robe.
“Well, first,” Killian started, then offered up the bottle of wine they’d brought. Regina quickly assessed it, nodded, and took it from him.
“But that’s not all, is it?” She knew a bribe-slash-apology when she saw one.
The men glanced at each other shyly before David spoke up. “Do you think you can reverse it?” he asked meekly, gesturing between their chests.
Regina gave them both a once-over, and then smirked. “I was wondering how long you would last.” Her eyes settled on David. “It doesn’t even match your hair.”
“Yeah, I know,” he grumbled.
And with another wave of her hand, everything was back where it belonged, and both guys let out a sigh of relief. Killian wasted no time in undoing the buttons of his jacket, happy to see his chest hair peeking out from the V of his t-shirt.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he effused. “If there’s anything we can do—”
“Just leave before you wake the baby and we’ll call it even.”
They nodded, thanked her (quietly) one last time, and then headed off in companionable silence.
Once they reached the loft, they gave a quick embrace good night before Killian headed home. David had to get one last comment in, though.
“Hey, do you think you can lend me your beard next time?”
Killian’s brow darkened, but David could still see a sparkle of amusement in the pirate’s eyes. “Never.”
Tagging some other peeps who might enjoy the weirdness: @kat2609 @nfbagelperson @gusenitsaa @lynyrdwrites @optomisticgirl @fergus80 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @its-like-a-story-of-love @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @fairytalesandtimetravel @disastergirl @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @stubble-sandwich @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose
#captain charming friday#captain charming ff#ouat crack#the crackiest crack#my ff#happy birthday#mandyyyyyyyyyyyyyy#chest hair
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In-Character Interview
😬- If you bit someone, would it hurt?
“Erm.”
He appears lost in thought momentarily, tonguing at his canines behind his lips.
“I do not believe so.”
🏨- Name a time you were badly injured. What happened and what caused it?
“I’ven’t. Never horrifically enough for a fun tale, at least.”
Auvoix lifts his arms slightly, inspecting himself over.
“Mayhaps I must be due for my share of scars, eh?”
He then looks to you, parting with a nervous chuckle.
🏆- Do you consider yourself competitive at all? What will you do to win a game/fight?
“T’happens that I used to be. Further back in my days. Though perhaps not in means of sport… neigh superiority over others, but more-so a futile scramble to prove myself…” His words trail --
“Though now…” Auvoix’s gaze wanders off, as if to think for a moment. A small tug of the corners of his mouth form.
“Though, now. I do not feel that way.” He nods confidently as he speaks.
His eyes dart quickly from between the floor, to you, and to the floor again. “I... Erm. Do not figure me wrong, I would be an awful liar if I was to say validation does nothing for me.”
“Though I no longer worry myself sick over a day of missed paperwork, to put it simply.”
🥘- Are you good at cooking? What is the best dish you have made. Alternatively, how bad are you at cooking? What’s the worst dish you’ve made?
Auvoix seems a bit taken aback by this question, twiddling with his hands in apparent embarrassment.
“Nn, I truly loathe to admit to it, though I’ve never quite had the opportunity to try my hand at the art of cooking. Back home, I had always been fortunate to have my meals prepared by experienced culinarians. It would be considered odd by all parties to try to involve myself in the kitchen-work.”
“I just preferred to stay out of the way. Mayhaps I could… Tell you which spices fair the best in which locations? Though… That doesn’t help well with the process... Does it?”
🌴- Do you like going on vacation? Or does your boss force you to take a break?
“‘Tis was never my.. Ahem. Former employers style, any holiday, occasion, or whatsoever was often spent behind a desk for us. Suppose me as a creature of habit, but mayhaps because of this I believe I’d much rather put myself to work, no matter the day - So long as I have moments in-between my duties to tend to my leisures.”
🐚- When treasure hunting, what do you look for? Stuff that sparkles and shines or dusty ancient relics?
Auvoix seems pleased with this question, relaxing back in his seat. With his eyes to the ceiling, he purses his lips as he places his words, and then meets your gaze with a grin.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, that is how the saying goes, is it not? It all lies within what you consider treasure.”
He begins fumbling with his pockets.
“Or - One man’s rubbish is another’s treasure? Whatever the idiom happens to be...”
He mumbles idly, light gil and other curiosities lightly jangling about as he patted himself down.
“I tend to enjoy objects of all sorts, as long as it is new to me. Heh.” He draws his hands from his pockets, cupping a small, pearly stone. His face is obvious with excitement as he awaits your reaction, “‘Ve you ever happened to lay your eyes upon a Couerl’s molar? I’ven’t either until today!”
“I- I didn’t retrieve it myself. Didn’t even have to polish it up, I’ve seen Elezen with dirtier teeth. Wonder what their secret is.”
He ugly-chuckles at his own joke.
👓- How good is your eyesight? Do you ever need glasses for anything?
He blinks hard, “’Tis.. Not the finest. Though I oft forget I require glasses until I am actually attempting to read something, ooor aim at something…”
👛- What are the contents of your purse/bag/pockets?
“…Glasses. Keys. Whistle. Three gil. A shoelace! No, four gil…”
Each item is sprawled out before you as he names them off, “Pen. More keys. Ouch! - Heh. Arrow head. Pocketwatch. Oh hey, I forgot about this strange stone I found –”
He’s still naming things off. Are those pockets endless?
👘- Describe your formal attire. What would you wear to a wedding, fancy dance/date/dinner, funeral, or similar formal events?
“Formal events? This..” He looks to his suspenders and button-up, “But with a tie, I suppose? That is often what I would wear to meetings…” He trails.
“- For weddings? A funeral?... Ah… mayhaps I would need more than just this.
I would not dare to be under-dressed for an event. It is not because I prefer the superfluous noble attire, It is because it is a terrible feeling to believe all eyes are on you for your attire choices alone. I attempt to fit in when needs be, there are stylistic equivalences to keeping your head down.”
Auvoix is quiet for a moment, and then mumbles under his breath.
“Ah, by the twelve, the stuffiness of those overcoats…”
🐩- What dog breed bests suits you?
“I see myself more as a coeurl, the type that allows their curiosity to kill them?”
🎀- Do you like cute things at all? What is the cutest thing you have or have met?
“Admittedly. I’m quite fond of Chocobo. Those gigantic saucer eyes are hard not to fall into. I’m exceptionally partial to my own, as well.”
He smiles warmly as he recalls his feathery companion.
🗝- What is looped around your key ring?
He looks to the pile of pocket-contents messily laid before him.
“…Keys.”
🛁- What do you do to treat yourself?
“My favorite vein of leisure would be the type that allows me to practice with my violin. Mayhaps, if I could imagine a relaxing day to myself - it would include a nice tea, or game of chess by my lonesome. A novel, a orchestrion - a warm fire…”
💉- Do you dislike shots and injections?
“Injections? As in.. Something that penetrates your skin?”
He gives off a dejected shiver.
“Fortunately, I’ve never been injected. I can assure you I’d dislike it regardless.”
🌅- Are there any scenic locations you would like to live out your retirement in?
“I do not wish to retire. Though if I somehow willed myself to, it would be somewhere many ways away from Ishgard.”
🍸- Do you need to relax right now?
“Relax? No. I’ve plenty of paperwork to finish up. Three composures I must practice, and an entire towering stack of Winter’s books to catalog once I return home. I’d rather not take a day off unless I surely must.”
🏰- If you owned a castle, what would you make it look like?
“Erm… Nice?”
⚽️- What games did you play with other kids when you were younger?
“I occasionally played chess with my tutors, and dabbled in Triple Triad as a child. Occasionally mother and I would play ‘I Spy’ while waiting for my father to make it for dinner, I guess. I was a terribly boring young one. I would consider it a lonesome childhood, though I did always prefer little to no company, so it was not entirely bad.”
His tone suddenly shifts, from speaking with dismissive recollection to suddenly shrinking into his shoulders, his posture falling pitifully as he collects his words. He sighs.
“That is, until I had to sit with those moments in-between my work. I would finish my daily tasks. And then... Then the.. the-the.. The purposeless, gnawing boredom would set in. Those moments in-between where you have the time to yourself to just… Unravel things within your own mind.
I believe I felt loneliness, then. Or perhaps... emptiness? But before I had long for it to set in, the next set of tasks would be put before me, and I would forget all about it. Ahem.
You know, the loneliness.
I would shut myself off and out, and everything was just… fine. I’d even convinced myself I preferred the solitude. Mayhaps I did. Prefer the solitude, that is. I’d made myself believe it, after all - that it wasn’t entirely bad. That it made my work more focused, more productive, more independent. It is terribly easy to lie to oneself, after all. I still do it to this day.
Years were spent learning to bury those corpses behind productivity. And, like all things one has killed, they definitely came forth to haunt me later on…
I just… Ahem.
Games. We were talking about games. I apologize...”
🍱- Are you hungry right now? Are you craving anything to eat?
“Not particularly at the moment. Why do you...? Oh! Unless.. You’re wanting to get something?”
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