#he did nothing to justify such flattery

[callsign-bunnie]

Ghost stalking soap part 2 sounds good 👍

This is part 2 to this! There will likely be a part 3!

--

Soap still hadn't received another text after the note. He'd kept this stuffed animal, and the rose was in a jar, even if Soap didn't really like receiving flowers.

He wasn't even sure why he cared. Ghost was his fucking stalker. He shouldn't care that he hadn't texted him or... wanted to talk to him. Ugh, Soap was pathetic. A moment of attention and Soap was hooked.

He was an addict for it. Finally, he caved. Why are you insistent he's bad for me?

So you do want to talk to me.

Eat shit. Soap cursed. He hesitated. Why a skull?

I don't know. I like them.

Weird. Soap sighed and laid on his back, watching the phone. He paused, jerking upright when a screenshot was sent to him. It was an arrest record of the guy he was trying to date. Sexual assault. How the fuck did you get that?

Do you believe me now?

Soap frowned. So you're not just some creepy weirdo. Alright fine. But why not just talk to me in person?

You won't like me in person. I said that.

Soap hesitated. Fuck. He was curious. Can I have a picture, at least?

Why?

Because you keep breaking into my dorm and it's the least you can fucking do. Soap huffed, irritated. Why was he even justifying this?

I can't deny you. I don't know why but I just can't say no to you.

Then a picture was sent. No face, which Soap had expected. But jesus fucking christ, Ghost was built like a brick house. A black hoodie and black jeans covered most of it, but just his silhouette was huge. How tall are you?

6'4. Why?

I'm 5'10.

I know.

You said you can't deny me. So, please stop stalking me and leave me alone, Mr Ghost. It was banter. Soap knew it wouldn't work.

I take it back. It appears I can say no to you.

Soap rolled his eyes but he was almost amused. However, he needed to sleep, so he put his phone to the side and went to bed.

-

What if I wanted to see you. In person that is.

Oh, Johnny... You really don't.

Soap sighed, riding the bus into the city. He really did. Even though Ghost was supposed to freak him out, he was curious. What do you even want from me?

I want to be near you.

You're not near me.

No response. Soap frowned at his phone before groaning and lightly thunking his head on the window.

-

You should keep your hair overgrown like that. It's better than the tight mohawk.

Soap flushed, unsure why he was even considering doing as Ghost said. Why did he care about the opinion of his stalker?? I'm gonna keep the sides shaved.

I would expect nothing less, Johnny.

Look, what about a phone call? So I can have a voice? Surely you want to hear mine... I'll say anything you want me to...

Again, no response. Soap cursed and threw his phone across his dorm, just turning back to his homework.

-

Soap jumped when he felt his phone buzzing. He'd been watching a random movie he didn't care about. His breath caught when he saw the caller ID state "Ghost" on it. He rushed to answer it, almost knocking the phone against his skull.

"Hello Johnny."

Soap felt himself just melt at the voice. It was deep and gruff and it sounded amazing. "Ghost?"

"Who else?"

"I dunno, I was thinking it was my other stalker. You know he and I are planning to meet up since someone won't-"

"Who?!" Soap shivered at the anger in Ghost's voice. It did horrid things to Soap's body and Soap had to suppress the feeling of need.

"You don't really get sarcasm, do you? There's no other stalker."

"Good." Possession, this time. Oh that was not helping.

"I like your voice." Soap didn't mean to say it. He shouldn't have. He should not be complimenting his stalker.

"You do?" Flattery. Soap melted. Ghost sounded kind of cute, actually. Almost unsure of himself. Ghost had to be insecure, he'd already figured that out, but he sounded almost... sad.

Soap closed his eyes and leaned back. "I really do."

Then Ghost hung up. Soap frowned and wondered if he'd done something wrong. He slammed his phone down and hit his head. "Stupid- Stupid."

--

Soap frowned at a box on his bed. A skull was drawn on it and he sighed, softly. You didn't put a bomb on my bed, did you?

Why would I do that? I like you alive.

Soap snorted. Why do you break into my dorm?

Open the box.

Soap rolled his eyes and got out his knife, cutting the tape on the box. He whatever it was out, gasping at how heavy it was. It looked like a giant crystal ball, but... there was some kind of odd fluid in it.

Soap frowned, twisting it around. The fluid was black, but there was something else in it, which swirled and made it look like there was a nebula swirling around in it. Oh, it was so fucking cool! He grinned and noticed a stand for it in the box.

Being super careful since it was clearly glass, he got the stand out and set it on his dresser, making sure it was displayed right next to the now dead rose and the little bear.

Where the fuck did you even find it??

You like it?

It's so fucking awesome! I love it!

His phone was buzzing again and Soap immediately answered. "I saw it in a hobby shop. It made me think of you."

"I love it so much. It's amazing..." Soap gently moved the ball, noticing the stand was designed so it could keep moving. It was stimulating.

"I'm glad, Johnny."

-

If I wanted you to fuck me, would you? Soap wanted to push his limits. See what Ghost would respond to. He was in class, so it wasn't like he had to worry about Ghost bursting in and fucking him.

Johnny, what the fuck??

Answer the question, Ghost.

No. Because that would require you seeing me.

Soap rolled his eyes. What if I wore a blindfold?

What if you took it off?

Then fucking tie me up, jesus christ.

Soap was not shocked at the lack of response, this time.

-

What about video sex? Again Soap was on the bus. Okay, maybe this wasn't pushing his boundaries. Maybe he was actually curious.

Why?

Because you're hot. Why the fuck else?

Soap didn't get another response until he was in the hobby store he'd planned to go to. He wanted to get something for Ghost.

You think I'm hot?

Dude, you're 6'4 and built like a truck. Yes, you are hot.

Soap grinned when he found it. He'd seen it the other day. It was a mask. A ski mask, more specifically, but it had a skull print on it. He bought it, unsurprised at the lack of response he'd gotten. Tonight, I'm leaving something for you on my desk. You can grab it when I go to class.

-

Okay, maybe I'll consider video sex.

Can I see the mask on you? Soap crossed his fingers. He grinned when he saw the picture send. As promised, bright blue eyes could be seen through the eye hole. Ghost had his hoodie on, the hood pulled up, so he didn't just look like some fucking weirdo in a mask.

Fuck, you really are hot. It was the truth. Even with the mask on, Soap could tell.

You think so?

Definitely.

This time, the response was what surprised him. When you get home, set up your laptop.

Soap grinned, excitement filling him.

He barely was able to wait until he got home. He got his laptop set up, as soon as he could, and then nothing happen.

He waited all night and then... he just went to bed, horribly disappointed.

-

You fucking stood me up, asshole.

I'm sorry, Johnny. I wanted to, I really did.

Soap rolled his eyes. He was really hurt by the fact that he'd waited for Ghost to call him and nothing had happened. Whatever.

Please don't stay mad at me.

Soap ignored his texts, and just went to class.

-

Alright, fine. I chickened out. I was going to call you but you make me so fucking nervous so I just chickened out.

Why didn't you at least text me? I was really excited and I got nothing. Soap would have understood anxiety. But Ghost hadn't even texted him or anything.

I was worried you'd be mad.

I was more mad at being stood up!

Johnny... I'm sorry...

Whatever.

-

Soap laid in bed, bored. He'd gotten sick of being upset at Ghost. Why me?

You're attractive.

You're lying.

I do find you attractive though.

Yeah, obviously, but that's not why.

I don't know. I saw you on the street, you were leaving one of your classes. It was like a click in my brain. I wanted you.

Not enough to deliver on your promise.

I said I was sorry.

Soap sighed and rolled onto his back. I forgive you.

Thank you.

-

I guess video sex would have been too fast. We haven't even had a date yet. Soap was returning some books to the library. Once again, he'd decided to try to force himself to read, and once again he'd failed.

Dates require being in person.

Not completely. Okay, what if instead of video sex, we just video chat.

No sex.

None, whatsoever. We just... talk.

I'll think about it.

Soap groaned and put his forehead on the shelf. Ghost please. You give me nothing.

Tomorrow.

--

Soap waited. He was fairly sure he'd be stood up again. But, then the video app Ghost had told him to use finally rang and he perked up. He hit answer, grinning.

Poor Ghost looked so awkward, sitting on his own bed and once again wearing all black. "Hello."

"Hi!" Soap grinned, waving. "You called this time!"

"I didn't want to disappoint you, twice." Ghost shrugged.

Soap relaxed. "I'm glad." Then it went silent for a bit. "Oh! I still have the little bear you got me." He reached over and grabbed it, showing.

Ghost seemed to perk up a little, though he kept neutral. "Good."

Soap nodded and put it back. "Do you like movies?"

"Some." Ghost nodded.

Soap cringed. Ghost didn't seem very chatty. "What kind?"

"Action, I guess."

"You guess?" Soap frowned, tilting his head.

"I don't know. I guess I don't like movies."

Soap sighed. "Ghost, come on... I just want to get to know you." He slumped his shoulders, able to tell Ghost was being cagey.

Ghost was silent for a bit, his eyes watching Soap through the camera. "I prefer to read." He sighed. "Horror, mostly. Though I like reading zombie stuff."

Soap perked up. Finally! Something. "Zombie stuff? That's pretty cool! Personally, I don't read. I just can't. But... I like to play zombie video games."

Ghost nodded a little. "I like the silence of reading."

"Damn, I don't know why you like me, then. I'm never silent." Soap laughed, amused. "Even when I'm laying in bed, I have to have noise."

"It's different."

"I see." Soap nodded and smiled at Ghost. "I'm glad you called me. I like your eyes."

Ghost hung up. Soap frowned, surprised, and considered calling Ghost back. But, no. He knew enough to know Ghost had done that on purpose. He groaned and just closed the laptop.

--

PT3?? Yes, definitely.

#Johnny Soap Mactavish #Simon Ghost Riley #Soap Cod #Ghost COD #Soapghost #Ghostsoap #Soap x Ghost #Ghost x Soap #Macriley #Call of Duty #Call Of Duty Modern Warfare 2 #stalker ghost

[raine-kai]

Novel Wen Ziduan Has Issues

As you might know if you have seen anything I have posted here or written lately or talked about in the past month or so, I like Third Prince, or Wen Ziduan, from Love Like the Galaxy quite a lot.

What you might not know is that even though I liked him before I read the book, based on the drama alone, I like him even more that I read the book.

Let me be clear: novel Ziduan is a disaster.

For one thing, Yuan Shanjian's tendency to neg Shaoshang at every possible opportunity? That was Ziduan in the book. YSJ is a lot less directly offensive in his behavior toward Shaoshang, which makes him a lot more likable in the book. They still argue a lot, but he doesn't go out of his way to try to make her feel bad about herself. Meanwhlie, Ziduan only goes through one scene where he outright starts negging Shaoshang in the drama—and to be fair, this is episode 49 and he was having a really bad day that day, after having had a terrible day the day before as well—and she tells him off pretty well for it. He has a reason to talk to her that day, but otherwise he seems to mostly ignore her, or roll with whatever else is going on in the scene. Ziduan in the drama comes off as a foil of sorts to Shaoshang. They both care deeply for Huo Buyi, but while Ziduan has power in theory, he can do nothing to help Huo Buyi and is losing his mind (he behaves more erratically, more angrily and snappishly in that episode than we ever see him before or after) after the revenge. Shaoshang might not have power, but she has the keys to exonerating Huo Buyi, and she is exceedingly quiet and calm as she makes her case—both to Ziduan for her right to personhood, and to the court for Huo Buyi. By the end of this scene, we see Shaoshang share a warning with Ziduan, who bows to her and promises to bring Zisheng back, and make him apologize to her.

This is a far cry from the behavior of novel Ziduan, who takes every possible opportunity to point out how inferior Shaoshang is, especially relative to Zisheng.

He does eventually come to terms with the fact that Shaoshang and Zisheng are going to be together, in his own way... But not before being absolutely delighted to betroth Shaoshang to Yuan Shanjian, only to be deeply upset when Zisheng returns and wants her back. There's a whole scene where he demands to know why nobody told him that he would want her back, and rants about how poor of a match Shaoshang is for Zisheng, who deserves the best...even though he is just as dumb as she is, he admits toward the end.

I cannot articulate enough how much novel Ziduan comes across like a comphet gay boy trying to justify why he's mad that his best friend is dating someone by making it the girl's fault. Somehow.

I ship OT3 in the world of the drama, but I don't see how that could work in the novel world unless ZIduan does one hell of a lot of soulsearching.

The other day, I found the novel extras, and there was one for Ziduan, and OH BOY, I did not think this shit could get even funnier.

First off, this man is a misogynistic mess from the moment we get into his head. He says there are two kinds of women: virtuous and unvirtuous. And then he proceeds to list all the women in his life as various shades of unvirtuous. Empress Xuan? Very unvirtuous. His mother, Consort Yue? Extremely unvirtuous. His aunts and sisters? Never heard of the word virtue in their lives—except Second Sister, she's ok. (I have to assume this assessment is pre-time skip, because post time-skip Second Princess had apparently become less ladylike or something.) Xiao Yuanyi is also ok. Cheng Shaoshang is just the absolute worst.

So he sort of...has to approve of their betrothal (again) because it's what will make Huo Buyi happy and as we know, Ziduan really just wants Huo Buyi to be happy. (Although in this universe it's buried underneath so much negative vibes directed at Shaoshang that it can be easy to forget that.)

Shaoshang comes to talk to him, and she uses flattery over his dedication to justice over family (a love language between all 3 of them, I swear) to undercut his usual pattern of berating her. It works, until she's about to leave.

And then this happens:

The prince was very moved, and his tone could not help softening: "I am not afraid of being criticized by others, but only hope that the people of the world will live and work in peace and contentment, free from natural disasters and man-made disasters, so I will live up to the trust of the ancestors."

Originally, he wanted to scold the girl, but at this moment, the crown prince could not swear much, so he simply waved his hand: "Forget it, you can go back, take a good rest, and serve Zisheng carefully after marriage. Sigh, Over the years, Zisheng has really suffered a lot, you, you should treat him better."

Shaoshang agreed sincerely, and hurried out of the door. When she reached the courtyard, the prince suddenly called her to stop. Shaoshang looked back in a daze, and saw the prince raised his right hand, and then her shoulder hurt slightly, and when she looked down, it turned out to be a small stone. She was tongue-tied, and looked at the prince in disbelief—he, he, he, he, he, he, he, he, he actually threw stones at herself! The majestic crown prince actually threw stones at her!

The prince's brows and eyes are firm and resolute, and the perennial solemnity is swept away, as if he is ten years younger and suddenly returned to his naughty and troubled boyhood. He laughed heartily: "Okay, let's settle the matter now, you can go back and happily prepare for marriage!"

Shaoshang stamped her feet angrily, turned her head and left.

HE THREW A ROCK AT HER.

HE THREW A ROCK AT HER AND WAS HAPPY ABOUT IT.

And then after this scene, Ziduan's immediately thinking to himself about how he has to double their wedding gifts and hope they have a daughter he can marry to a son of his own.

THE AMOUNT OF DISASTER GAY ENERGY HERE IS STAGGERING.

Oh, about his wife--he does have a concubine. A cousin of his, selected by his uncle. He agreed to marry her because his uncle said so, and then the moment he stopped and thought about it, he realized how unvirtuous his wife is. She actually wants him to LIKE her, the gall of her!

Anyway, this man is a complete trainwreck and I adore it.

Mostly because the drama version exists as essentially a fix-it.

Speaking of which, who was it who decided to take Ziduan's "you-stole-the-man-I-am-not-aware-I'm-in-love-with-and-I'm-mad-about-it" energy and dropped it onto Yuan Shanjian, of all people? He's actually supposed to like Shaoshang... That might be the strangest adaptation decision, imo 😂😂😂

#love like the galaxy #third prince #wen ziduan #disaster gay #is this another meta #idk #im supposed to be sleeping btw #yes I love this misguided idiot #i want to put him in therapy

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

I humbly request Jonie developing Stockholm syndrome and Malik's reaction to it pretty please 🙏

If there was one thing Malik appreciated, it was obedience, and Jonas could be very obedient.

He had to be if he wanted to stay in the good graces of his parents and their peers. Quiet and out of the way so he didn’t draw any of the desperately craved attention to himself. He might as well waste space rather than time, he father had told him, a nicer way of telling him to sit down and shut up if he was so insistent to sit in on board meetings. Great quality bonding time without a single word exchanged between them indeed. At least his mother talked to him during these times. Well, she talked about him more than she directed an actual conversation his way; anything to play up how successful they were as a family unit and what a prodigal delight her darling boy was. Was he ever given these praises in private? No, but it was nice to hear them anyways, regardless if they were just for show.

Unlike his parents, Malik never shied away from showering Jonas in affection. He couldn’t care less if there was an audience or not, not like how he put on a front of being a southern sweetheart in the public eye of his small town. The Belmont heir understood the importance of general perception, a similar practice he had been raised to uphold his entire life. Exaggerate the good and downplay the bad. A person could be their true self in the privacy of their own home and boy, did Malik let his real colors show every time he walked down those basement stairs.

But that was what struck Jonas the most: that Malik didn’t need to pretend to be sweet on him or express his appreciation for the minimal things he did. There was no one to judge how the older man treated his captive, and if there was they hardly ever lasted longer than three days. Not that he cared about their two cents, of course. Malik could be as cruel as he wanted, which he was more often than not, and yet…

“Thank you kindly, Jonie,” Malik said when he handed him the hammer as instructed.

“Your hair looks pretty today,” Malik hummed, twirling one of the longer curls and letting it bounce off his finger.

“Good boy,” Malik praised when Jonas came to his side without hesitation.

“Open your mouth, please, darlin’,” Malik cooed, happy to administer another pain killer in exchange for a kiss.

“Smart li’l thing, ain’t you?” Malik grinned when Jonas correctly pointed out his flawed measurements for a homemade breaking wheel.

“Well, ain’t that a cute smile you have,” Malik said during one of the quiet moments between them on the bloodied floor.

Off handed comments that made Jonas’s stomach twist in a way he couldn’t describe. It wasn’t the same kind of cramping he had grown used to from only being fed between a handful of days. It wasn’t any lingering ache to his abdomen from when he had taken a steel toed boot, or 2x4, or blade to the gut. It felt lighter, a more tickling feeling which made his heart race and his cheeks flush. Fear, but not quite. Not unwelcome. If Jonas were to admit he (in a strange, unnatural way) actually liked receiving compliments that Malik didn’t think twice about doling out, what would that say about him? There was no way he’d find himself actively seeking out simple praises from a sociopathic serial killer of all people, no matter how starved he was for positive reinforcement. If he was so desperate for an “atta boy”, he could get it from one of the house workers whenever he finally returned to the manor.

Except those were paid employees who knew better than to potentially jeopardize their jobs by upsetting an heir with low self esteem. Empty flattery to keep him placated, nothing else. Malik meant his words, though, or he wouldn’t have said them. Jonas didn’t have to ask to be told if he was smart or useful or functional enough to justify his existence. While the physical affection still made him recoil, it would be a lie to say the verbal regards weren’t devoured on the spot and leaving the poor boy begging for more.

“Lover,” Malik said behind him, startling Jonas from his flustered thoughts. “What are you doing?”

The younger man nearly dropped the roll of gauze he had been carefully rewinding. How does one explain the stupid idea of reorganizing a filing cabinet of haphazard supplies in the hopes their captor will give them a pat on the head and a gold star? Simple, they don’t say any of that, because that’s the most pathetic thing to ever cross Jonas’s mind.

“I, I was just…” He weakly gestured to the bottles of peroxide now neatly stacked on top of each other. “It’s been a while since you changed my finger bandage so, um…I didn’t want t-to bother you.”

Malik blinked at him.

He gulped, unable to meet his dark eyes. It’s not like it was a lie! Malik hadn’t been down in the basement in what he could only assume was days. The stump of his pinky finger was black with congealed blood, the raw flesh starting to weep an off color fluid that Jonas was not in the mood to deal with. He knew where the medical supplies were kept and it technically wasn’t an area that he was forbidden from fucking around in, so there was no reason he should be in trouble, right? Then again, Malik never needed a reason to punish him if the mood struck his fancy. But he wasn’t doing anything wrong, he was being good!

“The cabinet was messy…?” Jonas tried again weakly. “I just…I thought it would be easier if everything was, you know, neat.”

The killer tilted his head. “So, you organized it?”

Oh no. Oh no, he’d done something wrong. He had done something without permission, he had touched Malik’s personal items and messed up whatever system he already had to keep track of said things. He’d fucked up, just like he always did, always trying to take charge of situations he knew nothing about. As many times as he had embarrassed his father by speaking up during meetings when he could barely follow along, he wished he would have learned his lesson to mind his own damn business. Being berated for his shortcomings stung enough when it came from his own family, but Malik’s reprimands would take on a much more literal sense. Perhaps he would break all of his fingers in warning to never touch what doesn’t belong to him again. Maybe he’d impale hooks through his wrists and string him up for three days straight until the flesh ripped.

“Hm. Okay.”

…okay?

“Okay?” Jonas hesitated.

Malik shrugged, glancing at the previously messy bins and shelves that now had a better sense of order. “Sure, whatever keeps you occupied, darlin’. One less thing I ever have to worry about.”

So…Jonas did a good thing. He had made Malik’s life a smidgen more convenient, which in turn meant he wouldn’t have to worry about his eyeballs being sucked out with a vacuum hose for the time being. Yes, that’s right, that’s exactly why he was going out of his way to earn the other’s favor. It had nothing to do with twenty-four years of neglect or the inherent need to be recognized, it was all in the name of self preservation. The better he could keep Malik’s mood, the more brownie points he had in the bank, the less likely he’d have to worry about extreme punishments. In theory, anyway. Rarely did the other man have any rhyme or reason as to why he felt the need to jam needles into people’s fingertips.

That familiar tickling feeling fluttered in his stomach again, his heart leaping to his throat when Malik gave him a pat on the hip. Because he didn’t like those deadly hands touching him, naturally, especially so close to an erogenous area. The shiver up his spine was from fear, the buzzing sensation under his skin being from aggravated bruises. Just those reasons, only those reasons.

“Looks good. Now c’mon, I wanna show you something I got for you.”

Jonas scampered behind him like the obedient puppy he was trained to be.

#ask #anon #maj tag #maj writing #my writing #whump #whump community #whump stuff #whump ideas #whump scenario #whumpee #whumper #implied whump #Stockholm syndrome #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #yandere #male yandere #praise #pet whump #kind of #200 words my ass god #whump fic #whump tropes #whump prompts #whump writing #whumpblr #whump prompt #whump blog #maj drabble

[zizygy]

our hands trembling and precise

For @goatsandgangsters, Read it on AO3 Fandom: Shadow and Bone/Grishaverse WC: 3k Pairing: Kaz Brekker/Nikolai Lanstov, Kaz Brekker/Nikolai’s Demon Warnings: Canon Typical Violence Written for the Grishaverse Rarepair Exchange! Summary: When Kaz and Nikolai are interrupted while negotiating a job, Kaz gets to see a new side of Nikolai. @goatsandgangsters I hope you have fun with this! It was definitely challenging to write but I’m pretty happy with where it ended up. Both Kaz and Nikolai are insane and I hope I was able to do them a bit of justice. I can’t wait to see them exchange more clothes :;) With the Fold destroyed, travel between Kerch and Ravka became much easier to navigate, though as full of scammers and crime as any other too new (or in some cases too old) to be regulated passage and trade route. All that to say, when Crown Prince Nikolai Lantsov invited Kaz and his friends to his coronation, Kaz did bring his crows. He hated parties, and he very quickly decided that he much preferred working with Sturmhond, even though that got him beaten and tied to a chair, than this porcelain man who smiled too much and laughed too loud. Kaz had been around liars his entire life and he could tell a good liar from a natural. Lanstov was a good liar, but he wasn’t a natural. There was a stiffness in his smile, a light that never quite made it to his eyes as he laughed and gestured and danced with whoever it was he most needed to charm.

Especially the sun summoner. Sankta Alina. She didn’t seem taken by him, but that, at least, Kaz couldn’t fault Lanstov for. Alina was consumed by her losses, the boy, the Darkling. Kaz didn’t know or want to know what had gone on between them and luckily he didn’t need to find out for professional reasons because Inej was on top of that. Mostly for professional reasons, though she had collected quite a bit of gossip as well. He shook his head. He wasn’t here for court gossip. Ideally, he wouldn’t be here for the coronation either, this was the celebratory party before, and Kaz was here as a war friend. That was the story, anyway, Kaz was never invited anywhere as a friend.

He made his way toward the door because he was sure that, bad leg or not, if he hung out too close to where the couples twirled around each other, Lanstov would grab him and force him to dance. Instead, by hanging out near the entrance to the garden, it was more expedient for the crown prince to come to him and pull him outside under the guise of showing him the flowers or bragging about his turkeys or whatever excuse he’d make. It ended up being the view of the lake, which did not require any manhandling or leading around, which Kaz appreciated. Instead, Lanstov simply led the way through the manicured hedges and colorful flowers until they were on a little ledge overlooking the lake. Kaz didn’t find it particularly interesting or relaxing to look out over expanses of water, so instead he studied Nikolai. He kept shifting his weight, like he was preparing for a fight but he didn’t know what kind. And he kept picking at his hands, clad in gloves this time. They were cream silk, embroidered with blue at the wrists. Fancy enough that they justified their existence, at least to the extent that it would be rude to ask what they were hiding. Kaz, of course, had a guess.“I know imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Lanstov, but really you could have just told me you liked my coat,” he said dryly. “And deprive you of the chance to tease me? Why, Brekker, I’d never.” His smile was as self assured as ever, but Nikolai’s eyes kept flicking over Kaz’s shoulder. Odd, he’d expected the nerves to be about the scars they both knew hid under those gloves.

“Is there something behind me?” He asked mildly. He expected a joke, maybe even a flirtatious comment about nothing but a halo or something similarly ridiculous, but instead the crown prince’s green eyes hardened. “Not yet.”

“Ominous. I assume that has something to do with why you’ve pulled me away from my crew.”

“Unfortunately, yes. Have you heard of the kherguurd?” “In the same way that I’ve heard of Striga and Rusalka, sure.”

“Rusalka are very real, Brekker,” Nikolai said in a serious tone. Kaz couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. With the things he’d seen recently, he was leaning toward not. He sighed.

“Sure. But I’m not running a charity, Lanstov. If you’re sending my crew to hunt myths, we still expect to be paid, regardless of if we find anything.”

Nikolai smiled in a way that made Kaz feel he was being left out of an inside joke. “I assure you, you’ll be properly compensated for anything you do for me. But this job will need to stay between us.”

“I charge more for such secrecy.”

“Of course.”

A smile played on the crown prince’s lips that Kaz desperately wanted to slap off. Unfortunately, that would impact his paycheck. Probably. Maybe Lanstov was into that sort of thing. He contemplated that as Nikolai began to explain the actual job.

There was a lab that he’d located on a contested piece of land that was sometimes in Ravka, sometimes in Shu Han. He had a good idea of what was in this lab, but needed proof. That’s where Kaz’s crew came in. He was just getting ready to explain where exactly this lab was and what evidence he hoped the crew would collect, when his eyes widened and he trailed off. Kaz knew that expression well enough to shift his weight, ready to dodge a bullet or punch or… talons? Even though they had just been talking about the kherguud, it took Kaz’s brain a moment to calibrate to what was happening. A creature had swooped out of the sky and picked up his client. In a contraption that seemed to be halfway between shoes and metal talons.

He swore, but by the time he brought up his cane to whack the creature that could only be the kherguud, the thing and the crown prince were multiple feet off the ground. He could whack or electrocute Lanstov, but that wouldn’t do either of them any good. He hissed through his teeth, trying to come up with a plan, when Nikolai pulled yet another card from his sleeve.

Those cream colored silk gloves split down the middle, torn by large, black claws. Interesting.

That wasn’t the only surprise Lanstov had in store for him. Black veins spread down from his eyes and his skin took on a ghostly pallor. Most surprising though, were the large batlike wings that unfurled from Lanstov’s back. He looked more like something that would lurk under Ketterdam bridges than anything ever meant for a throne.

Kaz watched as the creature Nikolai had become clash with the other creature in the sky. Between the two of them, their wings blocked out the sun. Black blood splattered across the ground and Kaz wasn’t sure which of the two it came from. But when he heard the sound of tearing fabric, he knew that at least the myth on his side was competent.

Nikolai dug his claws into the kherguud’s canvas wings, then allowed himself to fall, much like a pirate using a knife to slide down and rip a sail. Unlike a pirate, when Lanstov reached the end of the canvas, his wings snapped out, keeping himself in the air as his opponent faltered.

But as it fell, it grabbed Nikolai, iron claws ripping through shadowy flesh, and used one of its feet, which seemed to function as well as a hand, to grip the demon’s throat. The demon’s mouth opened like it really was struggling to breathe, and it quickly abandoned its plan of “just claw its opponent open.”The demon banked, slamming them both into the side of the building. Then they both plummeted to the ground. Kaz jumped back so he wouldn’t be crushed by the brawling creatures, but it was clear which would emerge victorious. His demon was still fighting, and while he was sure Nikolai would regret it when he came back to himself, Kaz didn’t stop him as he fit his jaws around the kherguud’s neck and bit down. Together Nikolai - the demon he had become - and the kherguud slammed into the ground. Kaz jumped back so he wasn’t crushed by the two bodies, then he crept forward to see the damage. The kherguud, ultimately a creature that was made, couldn’t stand up to the demon. Its canvas wings were ripped, its throat torn open and its metal skeleton bent and warped. Kaz eyed the demon as it backed off the corpse.

It bore passing resemblance to Lanstov. The same high cheekbones, determined eyes and probably sharp tongue, though this one’s was split and black. Its talons had torn through its gloves and shoes too. It bared its fangs, dripping with red kherguud blood. That meant the demon was the one with black blood. Kaz grimaced. He could handle a horse well enough, but any other kind of animal… Inej was far better at that sort of thing. Or even Jesper. He eyed the creature. He was the one called in for demons.

“Down!” He ordered jabbing his finger at the ground like he was talking to a particularly annoying mutt.The creature stared at him like it was offended he’d dare. Kaz had gotten that look enough times in his life not to be impressed. “Down,” he said again, authority lacing his voice.

The creature, the soon to be king of Ravka, he thought with a bit of a thrill, slowly sat down.“All the way,” he warned.

Given permission, it fell to its side, lying down. Kaz slowly stepped closer, hand tight around the pommel of his cane in case he needed to defend himself. The demon watched him warily.

Its wing covered its entire side and he knew it was injured, black blood stained the courtyard like an accusation. He didn’t appreciate the implication. While he could have pulled out a gun and tried to shoot the kherguud, he was just as likely to hit Lanstov, and he’d have hardly had the time to aim before the fight was over anyway.

Had he scoped out the place beforehand and had Inej on standby… well that would be different, but that wasn’t the job. Truly, neither was this fight, Lanstov hadn’t given him the details of the job yet and he couldn’t now because he was a shadowy demon sprawled on the ground.

Kaz walked forward and the demon growled.

“Don’t make me muzzle you,” Kaz growled right back.It bared its bloody teeth and glared balefully at him but didn’t make any other moves. So the soon to be king’s bark was worse than his bite. Not surprising, given the financial ruin of his country, but interesting all the same.

Kaz stepped forward and, swallowing the bile rising in his throat, pressed a gloved hand to the creature’s flank. A shudder ran through the creature, but now it didn’t even growl.

“Good boy,” Kaz muttered. The shadows moved somewhat under his hand, odd against his fingers, but the flesh underneath was firm and solid. It felt more like patting a horse than touching someone’s hand or shoulder, so, keeping one gloved hand on the demon’s flank, he used his teeth to pull off his other glove.

Even still, he was surprised when he pressed his unclothed fingers against the creature and didn’t immediately feel revulsion. Its muscles were powerful, and shuddered under his hand as it panted. He trailed his fingers over the knitted shadows of its flesh. At least until they nearly fell into a hole in its side. The creature growled and turned its head, ready to bite, Kaz was sure. He whacked it on the nose.

“No.”

Nikolai, even with the fangs and black eyes and pallor, it was clearly the crown prince’s face, looked absolutely affronted.

Kaz looked at the black blood on his fingers. It twisted and pulled, like it wanted to come back from where it came from. Kaz had seen enough magic to know not to argue with it, at least when it wasn’t getting in his way. So he stepped forward and, with his still gloved hand, held the demon’s jaw open, fingers pressing down on the tendons to keep it from biting as he held up his blood covered hand.“If you don’t cooperate, I’ll do it again.”

A long black tongue snaked out of the creature’s mouth and flicked against his fingers. It took all of his self control not to grab that tongue out of the air. Instead, he allowed it to probe at his hand. Satisfied that he wouldn’t do any violence, the creature’s tongue wrapped around his fingers and licked up the blood.

Kaz watched it carefully as it used its tongue to pull his fingers into its mouth. Its sharp fangs glided against his skin but didn’t break it. If they did, he’d break them. His cane sat heavy in the hand keeping the creature’s jaws open.It didn’t try to bite though, it just scraped its tongue along his hand, licking up its blood.

Kaz pulled his hand back, thoroughly discomfited.

“Give me back Lanstov, I have business with him.”

The demon yawned, easily closing its mouth even as Kaz tried to keep it open and looked at him with a challenge in its eyes.

Or what? It seemed to say.

“Or I’ll do this.” Kaz shoved his cane into the demon’s chest and flicked the switch that caused arcs of electricity to leap from the metal crow’s head.

The demon screamed and snarled at him.

“All bark and no bite,” Kaz said, unmoved. “The crown prince, please.”

It snarled again, but as it did, it seemed to get smaller. Its teeth shrunk, the claws became hands again and soon there was Nikolai Lanstov, in torn gloves and boots, on his knees in front of Kaz.

Kaz leaned on his cane and allowed himself a moment to dwell on the dirtier scenarios his mind conjured up.Then he tapped his cane against the ground, giving himself a moment to recenter and Lanstov time to lick the blood off his teeth and spit. He sighed, very audibly, and pulled off his remaining glove. He bundled them together and held them out to Nikolai.

Lanstov looked at him like he was offering a venomous snake fangs first.“Well they won’t bite, Lanstov. You on the other hand…”

He smirked as a blush crawled across Nikolai’s face. “I didn’t bite you.”

Kaz said nothing. He simply raised an eyebrow as Nikolai’s blush grew even darker.

“How do you intend to rule with that bad of a poker face, Lanstov?”

“You’ll be surprised to find that it’s much easier to control your expression when you haven’t just experienced the last twenty minutes through the eyes and body of a demon.”

“I experience my entire life through the eyes of a demon,” Kaz said, shooting him a sharp grin. “And if you do find yourself tiring of this whole royalty farce, I could make room for a flying death monster on my crew.”

Nikolai pouted his lip, and Kaz was sure that look was intentional. “Is that all you think of me? Just my capacity to tear arial foes into bloody little strips? What about my silver tongue?”

“I could make use of that too.”

Maybe he can control his expression because it doesn’t change at all, except for a slight raising of his eyebrow. “I didn’t think that would be something you’re into.”

“In order to threaten a man’s kinks, you have to understand them. I’m aware of more than you’d imagine.”

Nikolai cracked a smile. “Aware and into are pretty different, Brekker. For instance I’m aware of this lovely technique they teach at Ketterdam University but - actually that’s a bad example.”

Kaz did not smile.

“Come on,” Nikolai wheedled. “Is that all I am to you? Another man’s kink?”

“Did you expect to be more?”

Nikolai tried to walk forward but Kaz matched each step with a step back. Absurdly, even as the crown prince tried to approach him, Kaz found his eyes drawn to his hands, large, but appearing slimmer due to Kaz’s black leather gloves. A strip of tanned skin shows between the gloves and the edge of his sleeve. They’re too small for those large hands. For one absurd moment, Kaz wonders what those hands would feel like around his waist. Then he comes back to reality by telling himself that he already knows, his gloves are made of soft leather and his shirt and jacket are thick enough that he wouldn’t feel much more than the pressure. He maintained the distance between them.

“I’ve got depth,” Nikolai said, giving Kaz a great excuse to stop looking at his hands. “Layers, even.”

“Don’t confuse layers for masks, tesarevich.”

“And my masks… are they just lies then?”

“They are when they conceal the same truth.”

Nikolai stepped forward and this time Kaz let the space between them shrink. “What truth is that?” he asked, voice dropped sinfully low. If Kaz were anyone else, he thinks Nikolai would try to kiss him. Or maybe Lanstov just like to make people think that. It was a powerful tool in the arsenal of a powerful man. And a game that two could play.

He closed the remaining distance between them and met Nikolai Lanstov’s eyes. “The truth that you are a sad little boy that just wants to acknowledged, and every mask is an attempt to please a bigger crowd.”

And that your intelligence, quick hands and quick wit are wasted weighed down by a debted and broken crown.

He thought that might break him, his hand had tightened around the head his cane in anticipation for the hurt that would flash across Nikolai’s face. He might even lose the job, though he doubted the man would ever let his feelings get in the way of something he considered a good deal.

Instead, he gave Kaz an absolutely lascivious smirk. “Actually,” he said, drawing out the word. “I’m a sad big boy.”

Kaz’s eyebrow inched up and his face stayed blank but he had to admit that did something to him. If he was capable of blushing, he might have. It was impressive. It made him want Nikolai on his team.

“Maaaaybe, if you ask nicely, one day I’ll show you.”

“Are you coming then?”

Kaz watched the man choose not to make a dirty joke. He wondered why. It’s not as if they’ve been professional up until this point.

That’s not quite true. This was how business was conducted where Kaz is from. Less so for a prince, even one who likes to play pretend.

“You said it yourself,” he grins, expression set firmly back in place, “I can’t be loved if I’m not the king.”

That’s not what he said at all, but he doesn’t bother trying to set the record straight. Rather, he rolled his eyes. “When you get tired of that, you know how to contact me. Don’t take too long, or I might find my own monster.”

“Good luck finding one as good as me.”

His mouth ticked up in the suggestion of a smile. “Mind your masks, Lanstov.”

“Mind your personality, Brekker,” he shot back.

They shared a long, charged looked. He knew exactly what words to say - what tone to use - to have Lanstov on his knees. It made heat bloom under Kaz’s skin. He wanted to test it, see how far a firm word would take him. How much farther a fist in that golden hair.

His bare hands tightened on his cane. Kaz turned on his heel and walked away.

Nikolai watched him go. Brekker never got the details of the front he wanted to hire them to check out. Though he had as much as agreed to the job. Nikolai supposed he’d have to find Inej.

Or ambush Kaz at the party. That would be a lot more fun.

#grishapairexchange #nikolai lanstov #kaz brekker #kazolai #grishaverse #sab #my writing

[elftwink]

no thoughts only taakitz superhero/villain coffeeshop au. taako’s power is shapeshifting but he has a cool gun from lup. kravitz’s power is Big Fuckin Scythe With Unspecified Abilities. also there was no time to get into it but fantasy starbucks isn’t a real starbucks it’s a borderline illegal unaffiliated bootleg starbucks that taako and lup own. like dumb starbucks was.

By all rights, it should have been a fairly routine night for the Reaper. Go out, stop some crimes, arrive just in time to prevent whatever scheme the Mongoose had cooked up this week, exchange some one liners, make some threats that essentially amounted to ‘same time next week?’, the works. A regular Tuesday as a superhero in Neverwinter.

But Kravitz is tired, and more than a little distracted, so he’s not doing so hot on the one liners, and the Mongoose’s attacks are a little closer than they would normally be. He doesn’t even have a good excuse, it’s not like he’s injured, or that he has anything pressing to think of.

It was just— this morning his barista (who he may or may not have been harbouring a small crush on) had mentioned offhand that he thought the Reaper was ‘probably hot under the stupid all-black getup’, and Kravitz didn’t really know what the protocol was for someone complimenting your alter-ego was.

“I think if you were gonna go for the strong silent type, you had to start doing it months ago. Now it’s just acting like an asshole. Are you mad at me?” the Mongoose cuts into his thoughts, firing off another few missiles from his stupid umbrella gun (Umbrastaff, he called it, although it was a gun and not a staff so Kravitz had no idea why he insisted on calling it that).

“We are literally fighting as we speak,” says Kravitz, playing up the cockney accent, spinning his scythe to deflect the missiles off the blade, sending them ricocheting around the room. He’d said something like ‘how can you tell’ to Taako— the barista (well, they’d been on a first name basis for a few weeks, so, Taako), and he’d said ‘I can just tell’ which was not at all helpful in getting Kravitz through the conversation without saying or doing something to give himself away.

He’d almost given Taako his number, but how was he going to justify that? Hey, it’s me under the all black getup. Do you want to go out sometime? As if.

“You can have fights without being fuckin’ rude,” says the Mongoose, firing off another few rounds, which Kravitz deflects again, advancing on him.

“You’re right, sorry. I’m a bit scattered. Not exactly my A game.” As if to prove his point, the Mongoose easily dodges his next couple swings with the scythe, not even bothering to leave his range.

“Clearly. I mean, normally you’re at least close enough that I can feel the breeze from your sword.”

“It’s not a sword, and you know that.” Kravitz brings down the scythe in the space where the Mongoose was only seconds before, having already backflipped out of the way and landed a few metres back. Show off. Not that Kravitz had room to complain about that. The Mongoose spins to face him again, at least this time seemingly aware of what a close call that was. He’s tense, and his hair, which Kravitz supposes has thus far been hidden underneath his costume, has come somewhat unravelled, black braid falling to the middle of his back.

It seems... familiar?

He doesn’t have time for that right now. Kravitz draws back the scythe, feeling the hum of energy under his fingers, swinging again, and—

“Wait! Time out!” the Mongoose puts up a hand and Kravitz, for who knows what reason, stops his scythe mid-swing. The familiarity sticks, so it’s not just a trick of the light. It takes him a second to place, but the hairstyle... it looks a lot like a certain barista he’d been spending all night thinking about.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. It’s because he has Taako on the brain, is all. Besides, he has other things to worry about besides seeing his crush in his enemy. Namely the fight currently happening with said enemy. “What? You can’t call a time out.”

“I just did,” says the Mongoose, fishing through his pockets and pulling out several bobby pins, sticking them in his mouth so he can use both hands to fix his hair. Kravitz blinks, still trying to shake off the sense of deja vu, but it won’t quit nagging him. “It’s a whole safety issue to leave long hair down.”

“It’s still in a braid,” retorts Kravitz.

“Somebody never took Foodsafe.” the Mongoose gives him a lopsided grin that Kravitz fucking knows he’s seen before, and suddenly it’s more than just passing familiarity, and how could he possibly have not noticed before, and— the Mongoose finishes putting up his hair, raising an eyebrow at Kravitz and his private crisis. “Alright. Ready—”

“You work at Fantasy Starbucks,” blurts Kravitz, without even thinking about it. The Mongoose stops dead in his tracks, and Kravitz can see his eyes widen even behind the mask. He splutters for a moment, and then seems to find his footing, already ready with a snarky remark.

“Yeah, well— your accent is fake.”

Shit. He’d forgotten. At the only time so far that having it would have been useful too. Still, he pushes it out of his mind; the Mongoose hadn’t denied it. And, well, he’s already solidly derailed this fight, so he might as well get some real confirmation out of it.

“...Taako? It is you, isn’t it?”

“Just who the fuck are y—” The Mongoose— Taako— levels the Umbrastaff at him, and then stops again. “...Kravitz?”

Well. Shit. Again. Kravitz doesn’t bother to affirm that; his silence is more than enough confirmation. One of them has to say or do something, but the seconds stretch on.

“You’re telling me I said all that shit to your face this morning?” says Taako.

“That’s what you’re worried about right now?”

“Uh, yeah—” Taako is backing up now, and they’ve fought enough times that Kravitz knows when the Mongoose is looking for an escape route; Kravitz’s feet still feel glued to the floor, even when Taako reaches the window, fingers already turning to talons around the Umbrastaff. Taako breaks the glass (because of course he does, even though the windows aren’t even fucking locked), breaking eye contact with Kravitz in order to swing his legs through the window before his form changes too much. “Look, this is like, a lot right now, and I— I’m getting the fuck out of here,” he says, and then drops. Whatever had been keeping Kravitz in place, slack jawed, ends as soon as Taako leaves his sight, and he’s moving before he has time to think about it.

“Wait—!” Kravitz runs for the window, but by the time he gets there, the bird clutching the Umbrastaff is nearly out of sight.

Well. That could have gone better.

***

Kravitz doesn’t go for his coffee the next day. Or the next day, either, although the day after that he’s sick of making his own coffee. And frankly, he misses chatting with Taako. Even if the guy was trying to kill him like once a week. He couldn’t just avoid this forever.

Still, the fact that Taako is working cash when he comes in makes him want to turn tail and run back home. He conjures up the memory of yesterday’s shitty coffee and pushes onward. The shop is mostly empty still, so there’s no line.

“The usual?” says Taako, like nothing abnormal has happened.

“Please,” says Kravitz, and then, before he can chicken out entirely, adds, “Uhm, do you have a few minutes?”

“My shift isn’t over until—”

“I’ll cover you,” comes Lup’s voice from the back room; she pokes her head out and gives Taako a look that is clearly significant, but that Kravitz can’t quite puzzle out. “Take five minutes after you’re done making his coffee.”

Taako scowls at her, and she smiles brightly before heading to the back again.

“Okay. I guess I have five minutes. Talk to you after I make your coffee.”

Kravitz nods, and goes to hover around the pickup counter, pretending to be interested in things on his phone. Taako makes his coffee in a ceramic mug, which at least means he doesn’t want Kravitz to get the fuck out as soon as possible, so that’s... something.

Taako slides the finished coffee across the counter, circling around to join Kravitz on the customer side as Kravitz grabs the mug.

“Lup!” he hollers, and then starts walking towards one of the corner booths without checking to see if his sister is headed to cash or if Kravitz is following. Kravitz does, though, sliding himself into the seat opposite Taako, hands wrapped tightly around the mug.

Taako speaks first. “To be honest, I kinda thought you would rat me out.”

“That would be shitty of me, to just sic authorities on your place of work without so much as a warning.”

“So is this the warning?”

“No,” says Kravitz, taking a sip of his coffee, “I... can’t really make coffee without burning it. And this is the only place for miles with tolerable muffins.”

Taako cracks a grin, like Kravitz knew he would. “Flattery will get you nowhere.” His smile falls, and he crosses his arms and leans back. “So. Reaper. Why didn’t you rat me out?”

Why indeed. Kravitz takes another sip of his coffee and thinks for a second, not even sure himself what his explanation will be once he starts talking.

“It didn’t seem... fair. You’re less of a villain and more of a pain in my ass—” Kravitz ignores Taako’s indignant noise and keeps talking, “—and while we always have cause to fight when on the clock, you’re not doing anything that I feel needs to leave the bounds of those... work hours, I guess.”

Taako is trying to pick him apart with his gaze; it’s something he’s been subjected to several times, although normally in costume, and in retrospect it’s difficult to imagine how he spent so long not noticing the Mongoose in Taako.

Whatever Taako is looking for, he must find it, because he relaxes a bit, and shoots him a lazy grin. “Plus, Mongoose related insurance just got rolling and it would be fuckin’ rude to take me out of commission before anyone got to use theirs.”

Kravitz laughs. “Sure.” He’s silent for a second, before adding, “You aren’t planning on revealing my secret identity, are you? Awfully rude of you to double cross me like that.”

“Wha— You didn’t even give me a chance to respond! Maybe I wasn’t!”

“Were you?”

“I was,” admits Taako, not even pretending to look sheepish. Kravitz raises his eyebrows, and Taako shrugs. “Oh, like you didn’t think about revealing my secret identity? And could you imagine the hype if I unmasked the Reaper? I was tempted.” He sighs. “But I figured then you’d have no reason to keep my identity a secret. No way am I risking a backfire like that.”

It sounds callous, but Kravitz has been talking to Taako almost daily for months; at this point, he can pretty reliably pick up on when Taako isn’t being entirely truthful about something.

“Hmm. Then I suppose it’d be in my best interest not to tell you that I wouldn’t reveal your identity even if you revealed mine?”

Taako narrows his eyes. “Why not?”

Kravitz makes a face. “It’s just in poor taste. I just think we all go through all the trouble to hide who we are and use these powers for good— or whatever it is you do— that it’s always going to be such a low blow to reveal who we are. There might be times where it’s necessary, but petty revenge is not one of them.”

Taako’s expression hasn’t changed; if anything, he’s narrowed his eyes more. “God, you are like— fuckin’ irritatingly nice. Fine. I wasn’t going to reveal your identity. That would be fuckin’ annoying to deal with. Plus I’m having fun.”

“Fun?”

“Oh don’t— don’t fucking lie to me. I know you’re having fun out there too. With your stupid accent and one liners and shit.”

“Alright, alright,” says Kravitz, rolling his eyes. “But I’m not supposed to be having fun, so keep it quiet.”

“See, that’s why I market myself as a villain. No dumb rules.” He puts an elbow on the table and leans on his hand. “Why do you have a fake accent anyway?”

Heat rises to Kravitz’s face, and he’s hoping he looks less embarrassed than he feels. “It’s my— I do it so people don’t recognize my voice.”

Taako laughs. “Well, it doesn’t really do that if you immediately stop using it when you realize you might know someone.”

“I was caught off guard!” defends Kravitz. “It’s not every day you find out your nemesis is your barista.”

“Nemesis, huh?” Taako grins. “Didn’t realize it was that serious to you. You know I have other heroes to fight.”

Kravitz rolls his eyes again. “I don’t see how you have the time, considering how often you’re causing trouble for me.”

Taako laughs, and it’s so contagious and the whole conversation is so surreal Kravitz can’t help but laugh too, before they both lapse into a comfortable, if drawn out, silence.

“So, uh,” says Taako eventually, “what now?”

“Well,” says Kravitz, “I want to keep coming in for coffee in the mornings. And I assume the Mongoose will continue with... whatever chaos it is you currently have planned.”

“It’s not chaos,” insists Taako, “I have plans. But yeah. And I assume the Reaper is gonna show up and throw a wrench in those plans?”

“Yes, probably. So we’ll just be enemies by night...” Kravitz trails off, not entirely sure how to refer to their by day relationship. Friends? Potential love interests? Acquaintances? There’s a few seconds of awkward silence before Kravitz gives up entirely.

Taako pulls and pen and a napkin out of his pocket, jotting something down and pushing it towards Kravitz.

“Here’s, uh, here’s my number. If you give me a heads up five minutes before you get here, we can have your coffee ready by the time you walk in. If you’re nice to me out there.”

“I don’t take bribes,” says Kravitz, grabbing the napkin and pulling out his phone to type in the number.

“That wasn’t a bribe, it was a threat. You don’t even wanna know what I’ll do to your coffee if you fuck me up.���

Kravitz doesn’t bother to point out that neither of them have ever caused any extreme bodily harm to one another and instead says, “So you’re asking me to go easy on you? I thought you were having fun.” He sends Taako a ‘hey it’s kravitz’ text before he has time to second guess himself.

“Could you stop poking holes in my threats? You’re harshing my fuckin’ vibe, Krav.” He sounds irritated, but Kravitz can see the smile tugging at his lips as he texts Kravitz a couple of skull emojis. “I should get back to work before my sister kicks my ass,” he says, standing back up. “I’ll see you tonight, nemesis.” Then he turns on his heels and heads back to the counter, saying something to Lup as he walks by. Kravitz watches him disappear into the back room.

Tonight.

Kravitz had better make sure he had hung his cloak up to dry.

#this is like. 2k words of unpolished nonsense that desperately needs an edit BUT i had a lot of fun with it #i dont know how the powers work or where they are or why they're fighting or who theyre affiliated with ok just roll w/ #*roll w/me on this one. just go with it #taako's name was selected by virtue of being the only thing on his wiki page that sounded even remotely like a good supervillain name #taakitz #taz balance #mine

[agentrouka-blog]

Cersei said that love is a poison but a sweet poison. Arianne thinking about Darkstar said that he was a poison but a sweet poison. Ironically both were deceived by Targ looking guys Aurane Waters and Darkstar.

Incidentally, love was not involved in either case. Deception was. Attraction and carelessness.

Poison, thought Arianne. Yes. Pretty poison, though. That was how he'd fooled her. Gerold Dayne was hard and cruel, but so fair to look upon that the princess had not believed half the tales she'd heard of him. Pretty boys had ever been her weakness, particularly the ones who were dark and dangerous as well. That was before, when I was just a girl, she told herself. I am a woman now, my father's daughter. I have learned that lesson. (TWOW, Arianne II)

Sweet poisons are a term GRRM likes to use in reference to manipulation hidden under the guise of affection or flattery. It occurs quite frequently.

Cersei is the one who connects the term to love. In conversation with Sansa.

"Everyone wants to be loved."

"I see flowering hasn't made you any brighter," said Cersei. "Sansa, permit me to share a bit of womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same." (ACOK, Sansa IV)

Who has ever been killed by love? No one. Fear, anger, greed, hunger for power, cold unfeeling lack of compassion, selfish opportunism, yes to all. But love?

It fits into the same dark mentor theme as what Lord Commander Mormont or Maester Aemon serve Jon.

"They say the king loved to hunt. The things we love destroy us every time, lad. Remember that. My son loved that young wife of his. Vain woman. If not for her, he would never have thought to sell those poachers." (AGOT, Jon VII)

Yet it wasn't hunting that killed Robert. It was Cersei, because she hated him and because she knew he would murder her children and execute her. It was not Lynesse that made Jorah turn slaver, it was his own vanity and lack of integrity.

"So they will not love," the old man answered, "for love is the bane of honor, the death of duty."

That did not sound right to Jon, yet he said nothing. The maester was a hundred years old, and a high officer of the Night's Watch; it was not his place to contradict him. (AGOT, Jon VIII)

It doesn't sound right because it's wrong.

Cersei is wrong, too. It's not love that kills.

The man looked over at the woman. "The things I do for love," he said with loathing. He gave Bran a shove. (AGOT, Bran II)

It's not love. It's the desire to have it all. To break every rule without consequence. To circumvent reality at the expense of others.

Lyanna had only smiled. "Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature." (AGOT, Eddard IX)

It's not love that kills. It's the things you do in its name, the things you try to justify by invoking love. The lies that can be spun around love and the desire for it.

The sweet poisons are only ever lies. They cover up a person's true nature. Love reveals it.

#rouka queue #love #poison #sweetness #secrets and lies #manipulation #dark mentor

[incoherentbabblings]

87 + 95 timsteph fluff please

FLUFF.

Thank you for being so patient whilst I worked on this one!

Birthday Ask Game

87. “You’re so adorable.” + 95. “Come cuddle.”

Tim was wrapped up on the sofa, nothing more than a bleary face peering out from a thick duvet. Stephanie moved around him, herself wearing a woollen hat, gloves, scarf, and one of Tim’s thick sweatshirts. The heating was broken, and it wouldn’t be until the evening that an engineer could get the apartment to fix what had snapped. Tim had tried, muttering that he was more than capable, only to realise he did not have the parts necessary to do the job. Stephanie had snorted, and asked that they let the professional do their job.

Tim was glaring at the six empty mugs on the coffee table. He couldn’t justify making a fourth hot drink, his insides and bladder could not take it.

His girlfriend collapsed in the armchair nearby, throwing balls of wool to the floor, and, to Tim’s surprise, began to knit.

He watched her make a slipknot, cast on thread, then set to work. She did so in the quiet, only the humming of the refrigerator behind them filling the silence. She had a small smile on her face as she worked, and occasionally looked over to a notepad on the table, scribbled notes with maths and measurements and fractions laid out. Her fingers moved quickly, though every now and then she sighed, and methodically unpicked what must have been about half an hour’s worth of work. Tim tried to focus on his own book but found watching her much more relaxing.

“What are you making?” he asked. He deliberately kept his voice low, unwilling to disrupt the feeling of peace. Her smile widened, pearly teeth showing.

“Guess.”

He peered at the shape she had created thus far. A circle, like a hole for a neck. The wool she was using was grey, but there was also some red and white in there too.

“Sweater?” he guessed. She made an affirmative noise and held it up so he could better see. Tim sighed. “You’re so clever.”

She giggled. “And you’re a flirt.”

“Not flattery, believe me. I couldn’t do that.”

She rolled her eyes, as if Tim were the golden standard for cleverness. “You could if you were taught,” she argued back. “I taught myself. So could you. I could show you, if you wanted sometime too.”

Tim grumbled, saddened that she didn’t take the compliment. He began to retreat further into his cocoon of warmth, when Stephanie spoke again, her smile having turned into a playful smirk. “There’s a curse you know. On couples who knit sweaters.”

“What? Seriously?”

Stephanie’s smirk became impossibly mischievous. “Yahuh. The sweater curse. Anyone who makes a sweater for their significant other will have their relationship end after it has been completed and received. Sometimes even before.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “Who’s the sweater for, Steph?”

“Who do you think dumbo?” she had the nerve to laugh.

An awkward pause, then, “Is this a roundabout way of telling me you want to break up?”

Violet eyes rolled so dramatically Tim could have sworn Stephanie saw the back of her own skull. “That depends on you, really.”

“Me?” he asked, giddy in an anxious and confused sort of way.

“There’s no such thing as a curse,” she explained, endlessly looping and knitting and knotting. “The couples break up because the recipient doesn’t understand how many hours goes into something like this, and is they aren’t suitably grateful. They never asked for it in the first place; maybe the design is really cringe; it’s putting unnecessary pressure on the recipient to be grateful for a gift they never wanted. Maybe the knitter is trying to desperately save a failing relationship through a big act of love. The sweater… the knitting… it’s just the final straw. A lack of communication and a whole lot of wasted yarn.”

Tim stared at Stephanie’s expression, trying to see if anything of what she spoke of was valid within their own relationship. He’d thought things were going well, broken boiler aside. She was only smiling, cheeks red from the cold and a blush that made her look very inviting.

“So why…” he enquired.

“Because curses aren’t real,” she stated simply. “And I think I know what you like. And this winter is gonna be a rough one. And you can never have too many sweaters. And you’ve liked everything else I’ve made you before. Your wallet?”

“Still impressed by your leather craftsmanship there.”

She nodded approvingly. “And I made you one of you shirts for work.”

“Mmhmm.”

There was a whole lot of bragging power in that. A smug slightly waspish sort of sentiment that was used against the most judgemental of work colleagues.

My girlfriend made me this shirt. What has your partner done for you recently? Brought home some flowers? Oh, how quaint.

“So, this is just something else I want to do for you. Makes me feel productive, if nothing else. See the pattern? Be sure you like it.”

She reached across for her notes – which Tim only then saw was a grid rather than lined paper – and flipped to the correct page, holding up in front of her face for Tim to inspect.

He immediately grinned. “I like it.”

Her tanned face appeared from behind the coloured pattern, craning her neck. “Yeah?”

“No curse here,” he stated.

She set the pages down. “No. Just a lot of love. And the need to keep my fingers warm.”

“You’re so adorable.”

Whistling a sharp sound, Stephanie returned to her work. “Well, that’s not patronising.”

“Come cuddle.”

The duvet wiggled invitingly, Tim’s smug face teasingly smiling at her. Narrowing her eyes, she continued to knit.

“No, no. You want to bring the curse down after all? Gotta keep working.”

“Wanna snuggle,” he muttered, clambering to his feet.

“No, Tim.” The white cloud moved over to where she was, and she squealed, laughing and squirming. “Tim!”

He practically fell on top of her, clambering in her lap and wrapping her up inside their bedsheets. It smelled like him and was very warm. They fumbled around for a bit, straddling and trying to get the pointy needles out from the cocoon and away from Tim’s stomach. He got what wanted though, Stephanie wrapped her arms around his middle, and pressed her face into his chest.

“You’re only getting away with this,” she complained, ignoring his smug face, “’cause you don’t know how our plumbing works. If our radiators were working you’d be getting nothing.”

He kissed the crown of her head over and over, nuzzling in tight.

“Sure, sure. Still, thank you. For cuddles and sweater both.”

He felt her cheeks warm, even through his thick hoodie.

“…You’re welcome.”

#dc #timsteph #my fic tag #tim drake #stephanie brown

[marnz]

what was the starting point/inspiration for stay close to me? also I'm so curious about the Esen pov fix-it, what was the general plot?

Ahhh thank you for these great questions, because stay close to me actually arose out of me unable to figure out how to make the Esen pov fix it (a longing that's killing me) work. I find Esen so hard to write because he is such an asshole lmao, and I also find mirroring SPC's prose super difficult because our prose styles are opposites.

The Esen Fix It was basically me trying to fix the almost kiss. It starts off after the almost kiss and basically is about Esen realizing he's been a huge dick and trying to be better/less offensive so he can be with Ouyang while also trying to figure out how it's physically possible to be with Ouyang...but I was concerned it was very OOC. Esen never apologizes in the book, even when he knows he's very wrong, and the way I had Esen justify his own behavior to himself felt weak. I have almost 7k of this fic but due to my concerns about characterization I abandoned it. It's unfortunate, the dramatic irony was delicious. I would love to figure out how to finish it :( Later I started what would become stay close to me from Esen's pov but ran into the same problems.

For stay close to me's inspiration, 1) I love horses 2) I think what makes Ouyang such a complex character is not just the gender stuff but also his identity as a disabled person, and I wanted to explore his relationship with his body 3) I think the opening scene in stay close to me is the part of the novel where Ouyang would be most compelled to turn back or deviate from the path he must walk, and the perfect opportunity for Esen to realize Ouyang is actually not happy. 4) when I was rereading I was struck by Esen's dialogue...almost every time he talks to Ouyang he's hinting at having feelings for Ouyang, it's insane. I can't decide if Ouyang subconsciously knows this and is not acknowledging it because of his duty to his family or if he seriously missed Esen's blatant flirting attempts. Like the first time we meet Esen he's literally staring at Ouyang and playing with his hair. Give me a break! The text supports both theories, unfortunately.

But not all is lost, as I am cribbing my fav elements from this fix it and adding them to my ouyang pov fix it, which has turned into a monster :(

I've added a snippet of the Esen pov fix it below the read more for funsies.

That night it rained. The cold crept in through the window paper and Esen, thinking of Ouyang, ordered a fire lit, and then had to strip off some of his layers. The fire hissed and recoiled when Ouyang entered his quarters, as it always did. Ouyang had never commented on it so Esen never had either, but now Ouyang looked at the fire and then at Esen.

“I was cold,” Esen said. He was sweating.

Ouyang, who wore his usual surfeit of layers, said nothing. A servant brought airag; Esen dismissed him and all other servants, as was custom for any military briefings. Ouyang settled in and gave his report on the replacement cavalry, their integration, and how the army was utilizing the extra funds. Esen, playing absently with his jade hair beads, let Ouyang’s low, raspy voice wash over him. It all felt normal, absurdly normal. Yet everything had changed.

“My thanks, General. I’m not surprised training the replacement forces is going well despite Altan’s absence. I knew you would not fail me.”

Ouyang gave a thin smile. “Shao has chosen Zhao Man for Altan’s replacement.”

“Not Jurgaghan?” Esen asked, wrinkling his nose. His third wife would be displeased.

“As his father is not the father of the Empress, no. Shao likes Zhao Man.”

“I don’t care about Shao,” Esen said impatiently. Truthfully he didn’t like Shao, who always seemed contemptuous no matter who he spoke to. But he trusted Ouyang to have good reason for promoting Shao to Senior Commander. “Do you not like Jurgaghan?”

Ouyang’s look was sardonic. “I do not know him well.”

Yes; Ouyang had always avoided Esen’s wives for some reason. “He is a strong fighter. His archery is good; he rides well.”

“Would he be related to you if he did not?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“There is nowhere else I want to be,” Ouyang said quietly.

A tender ache spread through Esen’s chest. It felt like it was pressing up against his lungs and heart, overwhelming them. He felt, as he often did, a longing to keep Ouyang close, but now he wanted Ouyang physically close. It wasn’t enough for Ouyang to sit next to him. He wanted Ouyang in his arms. He wanted them skin to skin. Whenever he had felt such an unmannish sentiment before he had buried it or, if it were particularly strong, imagined what Chaghan would say if such a thing got back to him. But now his longing for Ouyang was so powerful that it was as unending as the steppes.

Ouyang was watching Esen’s face closely. He was very still, his hand clenched around his cup of airag. It was exactly like the night when Esen had horribly insulted him, except this time Ouyang had sought him out. Esen felt the pull of fate again, a pull that seemed determined to bring them into contact. What sort of contact, he could not say. For a moment, him being impaled by Ouyang’s sword or undone by the slow press of Ouyang’s mouth seemed to be equally possible. But Esen knew Ouyang would never hurt him.

“Ouyang,” Esen murmured. Again came the thought that Ouyang was beautiful, but it was a proud and remote beauty, a beauty that was forbidding. And so Esen dared not reach for him.

A shadow passed across Ouyang’s face. He bowed his head and let go of the cup. “My Prince?”

“Do not call me that. Please.”

Ouyang’s throat bobbed. “Why not?”

“I have asked you a thousand times not to.”

“And I have told you a thousand times that I must. Nothing has changed.”

“Everything has changed,” said Esen.

Ouyang did look up at that. He held himself with the high, wavering tension that preceded a lightning strike. It was dread. The pain of knowing how badly he had failed Ouyang over and over again made Esen speak slowly.

“I can never apologize enough for your family’s death--”

“I do not wish to speak of it.”

“Then at least let me apologize for being an unrepentant ass. Please.” There seemed no other apology he could make that was not insipid.

Here came that close gaze again. “Apology accepted,” Ouyang said at length.

Esen looked down at the table, at his abandoned cup, and chose his words carefully. “For a long time all I cared about was making my father proud.” Again, that tension. Perhaps Ouyang was right to worry; Esen did run a risk of offending him with his next statement. “I made certain sacrifices to that end. It is the job of a son to do so.”

“Yes,” Ouyang’s voice was almost soundless.

“But my father is dead.”

“Your duty to him remains.”

“Of course it does, but I don’t--” Flustered, Esen forced himself to stop and think. How like a woman he felt, unable to be forthright. “The ways I must make him proud have shifted since I became Prince of Henan. Given that, given that--everything has changed--I am not willing to continue making this sacrifice. It would be unbearable to do so.”

Ouyang hardly seemed to be breathing. When Esen finally gathered the courage to look at him, Ouyang was staring at him with such intensity that Esen felt himself flush.

“Esen,” Ouyang whispered.

The deep pleasure of hearing Ouyang say his name made Esen temporarily shut his eyes. He knew immediately they could never go back. But words seemed particularly treacherous, so instead of speaking he held out a hand to Ouyang.

#answered #fey-dancer #she who became the sun #ouyang/esen #my fic #long post #thank you for this ask it was delightful #i am over caffeinated and stressed about deadlines (terrible combination) so i was very happy to think about SWBTS on my lunch break #i DID read a scientific paper on the health effects of castration for stay close to me and it was. grim. #i did a lot of research! both on anatomy and the yuan dynasty! this will all help me out for INTWFY. #stay close to me #sorry for any typos #edit this is so long i am SO sorry

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

Let All the People Praise Thee

a Prayer by Charles Spurgeon

Our Father, when we read Thy description of human nature we are sure it is true, for Thou has seen man ever since his fall and Thou hast been grieved at heart concerning him. Moreover, Thou hast such a love towards him that Thou didst not judge him harshly and every word that Thou hast spoken must be according to truth. Thou hast measured and computed the iniquity of man, for Thou hast laid it on the Well-Beloved and we know Thou hast not laid upon Him more than is meet.

O God, we are distressed, we are bowed down greatly when we see what is the condition to which we and all our race have fallen. “Where is boasting then?” And yet we grieve to say that we do boast, and have boasted, and that our fellow-men are great at boasting, whereas they ought rather to lay their hands upon their mouths before Thee.

It has become a wonder to us that Thou shouldst look upon man at all. The most hateful object in creation must be a man, because he slew Thy Son, because he has multiplied rebellions against a just and holy law. And yet truly there is no sight that gives Thee more pleasure than man, for Jesus was a man and the brightness of His glory covers all our shame, and the pureness and perfectness of His obedience shines like the sun in the midst of the thick darkness. For His sake, Thou art well pleased and Thou dost dwell with us.

Lord, we once thought that those descriptions of our heart were somewhat strained, but we think not so now, for verily we perceive that had it not been for restraint which held us like fetters we, in our unregenerate state, were capable of anything, for even now when we are regenerate, the old sin that abideth in us is capable of reaching to a high degree of infamy and did not the new life restrain the old death, we know not what we might yet become.

We thought once we were humble, but we soon found that our pride will feed on any current flattery that is laid at our door. We thought we were believers, but sometimes we are so doubting, so unbelieving, so vexed with skepticism that we should not certainly choose to follow that is Thy work in us. By nature, we are such liars that we think Thee a liar too. The surest token of our untruthfulness, that we think that Thou canst be untrue.

Oh, this base heart of ours! Hath it not enough tinder in it to set on fire the course of nature? If a spark does but fall into it, any one of our members left to itself would dishonor Christ, deny the Lord that bought us, and turn back into perdition.

We are altogether ashamed. Truly in us is fulfilled Thine own Word, “Thou shalt be a shame and never open thy mouth anymore.” For Thy love to us hath silenced us, that great love hath hidden boasting from us. Thy great love, wherewith Thou lovedst us, even when we were dead in trespasses and sins. Thy great love wherewith Thou hast loved us still, despite our ill manners, our wanderings, our shortcomings, and our excesses.

Oh, the matchless love of God! Truly if there be any glory it must be all the Lord’s. If there be any virtue, it is the result of grace. If there be anything whatsoever that lifts us above the devil himself, it is the work of the divine Spirit, to whom be glory!

And now at the remembrance of all this, and being in Thy presence, we do yet rejoice that covered is our unrighteousness, from condemnation we are free, and we are the favored of the Lord. Thou hast given us, O Lord, to taste of that love which is not merely laid up for us, but we have enjoyed it and do enjoy it still.

Our heart knows the Father’s love, for we have received the spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, “Abba Father.” And we joy and rejoice in the redemption of our spirits and we expect the redemption of our bodies, when at the coming of the Lord they too shall be raised incorruptible and we shall be changed.

O Jesus, Thou wilt bring Thy Israel out of Egypt and not a hoof shall be left behind. No, not a bone, nor a piece of Thine elect shall be left in the hands of the adversary. We shall come out clean, delivered by Him who doeth nothing by halves, but who on the cross said, “It is finished.” Who much more will say it on His throne. Glory be unto Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, who hath lifted us up from our ruin and condemnation, and made us new creatures and justified us, and guaranteed us eternal life, which eternal life shall be manifested at the coming of the Lord. All glory be unto His ever blessed name forever and ever!

And now, Lord, during the few days that remain to us here below, be it all our business to cry, “Behold the Lamb!” Oh! teach these hearts to be always conscious of Thy love and then these lips, that they may set out as best they can by Thy divine help, the matchless story of the cross. Oh! do give us to win many to Jesus. Let us not be barren, but may we have to cry that we are the beloved of the Lord and our offspring with us. May we have many spiritual offspring that shall go with us to the throne, that we may say before Him, “I and the children that Thou hast given me.”

Lord, bless the work of the Church and all its branches and let Thy kingdom come into the hearts of multitudes by its means. Remember all churches that are really at work for Jesus and all private individuals, workers alone, workers by themselves. Let the Lord’s own name be made known by tens of thousands. Give the Word and great may be the multitude of them that publish it. Let all this, our beloved country, know Christ and come to His feet. Let the dark places of this huge city be enlightened with the sweet name of Jesus. And then let the heathen know Thee and the uttermost parts of the earth hear of Thee.

Oh! from the tree declare Thou Thy salvation and from the throne let it be published in proclamations of a king. “Let the people praise Thee, O God; yea, let all the people praise Thee.”

Our heart seems as if it had not anything else to ask for when it reaches to this, yet would we go back a moment and say, Lord, forgive us our sins. Lord, sanctify our persons. Lord, guide us in difficulty. Lord, supply our needs. The Lord teach us. The Lord perfect us. The Lord comfort us. The Lord make us meet for the appearing of His Son from heaven!

And now we come back to a theme that still seems to engross our desires. Oh! that Christ might come. Oh! that His word might be made known to the uttermost ends of the earth! Lord, they die, they perish, they pass away by multitudes! Every time the sun rises and sets, they pass away! Make no tarrying, we beseech Thee. Give wings to the feet of Thy messengers and fire to their mouths that they may proclaim the Word with Pentecostal swiftness and might. Oh! that Thy kingdom might come and Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven, for Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.

#prayer #Let All the People Praise Thee #Charles H. Spurgeon

[a-crimson-lion]

That new analysis is great, and I haven't even read that chapter! Personally, while I still dislike Bakugo, the things I'm hearing about 284 actually sound good to me--I feel like not only are his stans being annoying about it though, but those who dislike him *might* be being a little hard on him? Not YOU, of course Crimson, you did a great job keeping your analysis balanced, but I've been seeing people still hoping he dies and that doesn't feel right to me (1/2)

(2/2) Like it's not perfect, but he's getting there, y'know? If it's true, and he really is starting to see that he was an ass, I'm willing to finally give him a chance. I agree though that he also has to finally acknowledge the impact this had on Deku.

The State of the Fandom: Katsuki Bakugo

‘Kay, gotta keep this short so I don’t write another 4K essay out of nowhere. (Foreshadowing)

So first off, if you have no idea what @cjcroen1393 is talking about, check out the analysis here.

Second off, if you still haven’t read Chapter 284, check out the official VIZ translation here. New chapters are only free for the first three weeks after their debut, so make like an Ochako and get them savings!

Alright, now back to the subject at hand...

First off, while I appreciate the flattery, if I’m being completely honest, I’m still sort of skeptical because we just got Chapter 284, y’know? I wanna hold my breath, but I’ve already been through Bakugo’s Start Line, the Final Exams, and the Remedial Course Arc, three concrete moments that should have showcased Katsuki’s development and either came with conflicting results or were later debunked (Katsuki sticking to his original bull-headed strategy, Katsuki only working with Izuku as a last resort after stating he’d rather lose earlier, Katsuki saying not to look down on others and then looking down on the rest of UA due to a problem he inadvertently contributed to). But yeah, I’ll stick around and see what happens.

Honestly, I feel like 284 has a lot of opinions focused around Katsuki when you’re looking at him specifically. And no, I’m not talking about a direct AntiBaku vs BakuStan thing, that’s not what this is about. I can’t speak for all AntiBakus, obviously, but from the discourse I’ve seen, we’re all currently split into one of three categories:

Cautiously optimistic, willing to see how things play out.

Perpetually exhausted, nothing Katsuki says or does will make him worthy of atonement or redemption.

Kill him with fire, burn him at the steak, he’s worn out his usefulness.

I’m stuck between the first two categories, and the only reason I’m not in the third category (aside from Katsuki’s basic human right to live) is this:

A dead person can’t change. A dead person can’t suffer. Take that as you will.

And that’s not even discussing how the entire fandom is looking at things. Again, from what I’ve seen, the opinions split into three or four categories:

Look how far he’s come! (←The majority of fandom.)

Look how far he has to go… (←I am here. And maybe some AntiBakus.)

He AlWaYs CaReD!1! (←Cease your existence.)

I want to believe, but the narrative has taught me otherwise. (←The majority of AntiBakus.)

[‘Kay, this is where I’m cutting it off. Click “Read More” if you’re still awake.]

I’ve already said my piece on why the “HAC” take fills me with righteous fury, but let me see if I can explain it better with an analogy:

Let’s pretend for the moment that you’re a gold miner. Obviously, you’re looking for gold.

Your boss has you sent down into the mines to head into one of the more… frustrating caverns. Figuring you have nothing better to do, you get to work.

As you get into picking away at the rock in the search for gold, it takes you hours. And eventually, you stop striking bits and pieces and find a solid chunk of gold ore.

Now, your response can vary based on which of the categories you’re in.

If you’re in the “He’s come so far” camp, you are very excited to find this piece of gold.

If you’re with me in the “He’s still got a ways to go” camp, you remember that this chunk of gold ore doesn’t meet the quota. You still gotta dig.

And if you’re in the “HAC” camp, it’s essentially the same as walking back to the cavern entrance, digging down, and finding the quota of all the gold you need.

Sure, it seems like a good deal for most people, but you just wasted a long time getting to one good chunk when you could have dug down from the start. So what was the point of digging your own tunnel to begin with? That’s several hours, or even days of your life, you’re never getting back, because the cavern decided to be cheeky.

(Also, if you were in the "I don't wanna get my hopes up" camp, you've been digging through a pyrite vein and are skeptical.)

I hope that makes sense.

If it doesn’t, essentially the “HAC” line of thought feels cheap because it makes it seem like Katsuki was being needlessly extra from the start. If he always cared, why does he have to suicide bait? (Yeah I know y’all hear that too much but that doesn’t change the fact that it happened.) If he always cared, why does he have to even risk almost killing Izuku in the Battle Trial? If he always cared, why does he almost consider losing in the Final Exams? It just opens up a lot of holes.

I’m not gonna tell you to not be a fan of Katsuki or to not like him, because that isn’t realistic. Hell, if I shouldn’t have to justify why I don’t like him, you guys certainly don’t have to justify the opposite. But there has to be a sort of awareness that comes with either territory.

Because whether you like it or not, Katsuki HATED Izuku from Ch. 1 to getting kidnapped.

He saw Izuku as an OBSTACLE from Deku vs Kacchan 2 all the way to the OFA meeting in Ch. 257.

...and right now, Katsuki is finally, FINALLY recognizing Izuku as a person. A person who is in real f***ing danger and can’t bear the weight of the world on his shoulders. The extent remains to be seen, but what Hori has set up so far is really promising.

But that’s the thing: we’re still in the setup phase. I talked about this before in my last post, but right now we’re only in the third phase of Katsuki’s attitude. The “What The F*** Is Your Existence” phase lasted 116 chapters. The “I Can’t Let You Get Ahead Of Me” phase lasted 141 chapters. And the current phase, the “Why Don’t You Care About Yourself” phase, has only been going on for 27 or so chapters. And Katsuki only recently acknowledged that he bullied Izuku in a flashback somewhere in that time frame.

And the thing is, this doesn’t absolve Katsuki of anything. I still firmly believe Katsuki was being legitimate when he was talking about hunting down Tomura and using Izuku as bait, because that competitive side of him is DYING, not DEAD. And Katsuki still has yet to address the issue in his relationship with Izuku beyond internal and external monologues to people who are decidedly not Izuku, though there’s a high chance of that changing in Chapter 285. And the thing is, all Katsuki recognized is that Izuku’s inherent selflessness made him uneasy, and that was the main reason he bullied him. He still has yet to realize that he is a direct contributor to Izuku’s selflessness being warped into hardcore martyrdom. In his acts of beating Izuku, he lessened his self-worth and thus, made him believe his life was worth giving up. We still got stepping stones to cross, and while Katsuki’s making progress, he’s not across the creek yet.

...and while I’ve personally given up all hope of viewing Katsuki’s redemption in a satisfying light, I am hoping that Hori gets it right for the rest of you.

Thanks for reading.

-Crimson Lion (22 September 2020)

#bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #ask #meta #character discussion #fandom discussion #since i did bring it up... #anti bakugo #anti bakugou #i'm trying to avoid being overly hostile or anything please don't crucify me #katsuki bakugo #katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugo katsuki #okay I think that's everything #fingers crossed this goes well... #oh wait! #Word Count: 1238 #...could be worse.

[masked-buffoon]

Chapter 9: Scheming anew (Part 4)

Warnings: mentions of traumatic events

Author notes: It was a chapter with few parts, but they are longer. I hope none of the detectives are out of character... That’s my biggest fear for the rest of the story. Please, enjoy that last part and see you in the next chapter...!

I opened my eyes onto a white ceiling — the same as last time. Good thing, I was still alive. This plan of mine had been rather risky and the shock with the ground alone had been enough to make me lose consciousness despite my ability. Well, even so, everything had occurred as we had predicted with Dazai. I sat up, rubbing my head. Although falling from the third floor had surely broken many of my bones, I felt no pain coming from my body. The healing ability, once again, had taken care of all of my wounds and bruises. Overall, I felt good.

"I did not expect to see you ever again." A feminine voice spoke, followed by a sound of high heels hitting the floor "But I suppose we both know this is no coincidence?"

"Did Kunikida tell you?" I grinned.

A very stylish woman appeared before me. Her hair, cut short, was held by a beautiful and shiny hairpin in the shape of a butterfly, and the scarlet red of her shoes added to her trendy look.

"Dazai did. Kunikida was too shocked to even understand how the both of you tricked him. It was a bold bet on your life." She frowned, rather darkly.

"My life... I should have lost it long ago, already..." I shrugged "I knew you had a healing ability and that I would be brought there. I had nothing to fear."

"You..." She grabbed my chin, rather roughly, to plant her eyes into mine "Don't you ever look down on your life anymore. The next time you gamble with it, I will make sure you never want to get hurt ever again."

"Do you think there can be a next time...?" I tilted my head, removing her hand gently.

"Well, what did you do that for?" She put a hand on her hips "My name is Yosano Akiko. What about you?"

"You have a pretty name, Yosano-sensei." I smiled "I am Ogawa Yōko. Also, I wanted to thank you for last time, too. You did a lot... I'm not sure how to repay you..."

"If you want to bear your name, learn to be brighter." She advised, sitting on the bed "I'm only doing my job as a doctor."

"Still, thank you, Yosano-sensei." I slightly bowed my head.

"You're welcome, then...! Now, Dazai told me you are an ability user? What kind of ability?" She sounded curious.

"It's nothing much..." I said, embarrassed "I can hear people's thoughts and, further, their hidden desires... But I can't control it. Sometimes, I wished I was not born with it..."

"Foolish." She poked my forehead "It is a wonderful ability which allows you to understand people and empathise with them. If you were not born with it, you would not be the person you are today."

"Wouldn't it be better...?" I looked down.

"I'm not sure what secrets you are hiding, but since you are Dazai's acquaintance, you must have some unclear and foggy past that both of you share. I don't know what you did, but isn't there something you care about, nowadays?" She asked.

"... There is..." I admitted "I would never regret meeting Dazai, but... I wonder if he wouldn't have been better off without me. Well, that's stupid to think that too, since he is the one who asked me to come with him, but I can't help doubting, sometimes..."

"We all doubt. I doubt too. Everyone has his own issues, but we must learn to deal with them. Come to me whenever you need advice, or even when you simply want a talk between women. I'd be glad to listen." She smiled, standing up "If you feel good, how about introducing you to the detectives? This little scheme of yours was actually to be integrated, was it not?"

"Dazai already spilled everything out anyway..." I giggled "I will get changed first, then I'll follow you, Yosano-sensei."

"I put your clothes on the nightstand. Do tell me if you need help." She walked to give me some intimacy.

As soon as I had buttoned my jacket, I told her I was ready to go out of the infirmary. Yosano-sensei escorted me out, and I discovered the offices of the Armed Detective Agency. They seemed to be located at the last floor of a small building, and the morning sun rays crossed the glass windows just so the room would appear light, although there was no actually turned on electrical lamp. There were several plants in the room, surrounding modern desks, where computers could be seen, and what appeared to be very comfortable leather couches. Hidden behind a stained glass folding screen, a small lounge for a purpose of welcoming clients had been created. The place looked quiet, peaceful and incredibly... Normal. There was no luxurious Persian carpet on the floor, no expensive mahogany desk nor any couch made with Italian leather.

"Do you like it?" Yosano-sensei noticed my eyes widening in awe.

"Very much...!" I nodded "The atmosphere is not oppressive, and it's so light..."

"I've been told you come from the underworld? It must be quite different, indeed..."

"Don't say it out loud..." I requested "I feel bad that my background is so obvious, whereas Dazai tried his best to hide it..."

"Well, it's only been hinted that you both come from the same place. Know that we won't ever force you to tell us anything. And also, Kunikida is too dense to even make the link between you and Dazai's own background anyway~" She laughed "Ah, speak of the devil~"

"You're awake." The spectacled man did not look pleased by my appearance.

"Yes, thank you for bringing me here." I bowed politely, although it had been my doing since the beginning.

"Don't play innocent with me...!" He scolded "You did it on purpose...! What do you want from the Armed Detective Agency that requires you to be hurt to be there...?!"

"Kunikida-kun, I've already explained you~" Dazai came to help me "Good morning, Ogawa~ I'm glad to see you safe and sound~"

He winked at me and resumed pestering his colleague. Why, he had trusted me enough to follow my strategy after all... We both had predicted I would make it alive.

"I see you didn't have a good start with Kunikida..." Yosano-sensei hummed "That's going to be hard..."

"Does it mean, if I don't have his approval, I cannot even try to request joining the Agency...?" I frowned, a tad worried.

I did not want to go back to the world underground anymore... Not now that I had successfully stepped toward the light. I would break if I were told to disappear, again...

"Obviously not." Another person stepped toward us "My opinion is much more important than his, after all~"

The man was wearing brown poncho, pants and hat, which reminded the outfit of a detective. His eyes were closed, slightly hidden behind dark bangs of hair teasing the bridge of his nose.

"Is that so...?" I questioned him, hopeful.

"I'm the best detective in the world~ If not for me, how would the Agency make profit~?" He chuckled, much arrogantly.

I realised.

"Are you Ranpo-san...? I've heard about you from Kunikida...! I'm very pleased to meet you, my name is Ogawa Yōko." I smiled at him, bowing.

"Flattery will bring you nowhere...~" His voice trailed off, but I could clearly notice how proud he was that I spoke highly of him.

But then, another memory overlapped onto the one of his name, and I remembered I had seen those clothes somewhere else... This hat, this poncho... Where...? In the streets...? Impossible, I barely walked in broad daylight. He was a detective, was he not...? Then on a case... Perhaps had I passed near a crime scene...? It was more likely improbable too, for being a former member of the Port Mafia I knew better than leaving proof of my deeds. Unless...

"My apologies..." My voice became so small I barely heard myself "I... I have to... I have to go to the bathroom..."

"I'll show you there..." Yosano-sensei raised an eyebrow, guiding me across the room.

Once I was locked in a toilet, I fell onto the ground, feeling my chest throb painfully. The only place where I could have seen him and, coincidentally, the only place where I would never expect to see him, was the Western Restaurant. That one restaurant in front of which a bus, full with the orphans Odasaku had adopted, had exploded on that ominous rainy day. Those memories were far from being pleasant, but they were not what I feared most. No, what I was afraid of was him remembering me. I had ran after Odasaku, that day, and had gone past him on the bridge; if he was such a good detective, he would definitely remember. Yosano-sensei has assured no detective would ever question my origins, but what if... What if he clumsily made a comment...? It would ruin everything, my hopes would scatter like a mere glass thrown to the ground and the ladder I had climbed to have access to the enlightened world would collapse, and me with it. I could not afford such a situation, but what could I do...? The Agency was the only place that would accept me without too much investigation and questioning, after all...

"Ogawa...? Are you in here?" I heard Dazai calling me.

However, my muscles seemed paralysed and I could not move my vocal chords to answer him.

"Ogawa —"

"Can I?" Someone interrupted him.

I had heard him a moment ago; Ranpo-san's voice. What did he want? He did remember, finally...? I heard him leaning onto the toilet door.

"You don't need to answer me." He told me "I only want you to be aware of the fact I will not say a thing about this day. Yosano-sensei must have told you, but I will repeat her words; we will not ask a thing, and we won't care about what you did or what happened. It is not because we know more about you than about Dazai that you will be tossed away. That's all I wanted to say, Ogawa, so could you come out, now? Nothing will happen there."

I was used to being interrogated. I was used to justify everything I did through written and verbal reports. Ever since I had entered the Port Mafia, I could not do anything without reporting it afterwards, and this man, this detective atop of that, assured me I could have my own secrets and keep quiet about the points I did not want to mention. Being allowed to have privacy and freedom; could there be any more precious gift for a human being? Because I was determined to be a proper human being.

I timidly opened the door to come out. Ranpo-san was still there, apparently waiting for me. I bowed.

"Thank you for your kindness, Ranpo-san..." I said sincerely "I... I distrusted you despite what Yosano-sensei explained to me, I would like you to forgive me, please..."

"There is no need for such formalities." He stated "By the way... Did this person...?"

"He died..." I looked down.

"Even though I had warned him..." He sighed "Well..."

"There is nothing you could have done... This person had lost all will to live and only wished to reach the children in the afterworld..." I reassured him, even if these words were mainly directed to me.

"Let's stop bringing up unpleasant memories." He suggested "And let's go back. Your friend is more worried than what he wants to show us."

"He's always like this..." I laughed lightly, following him.

"I know~"

The moment I stepped back into the office, Dazai hurried toward me and stood right before me.

"Are you alright...?" He sounded concerned "Was it your nausea again...?"

"I'm fine..." I shook my head "I'll tell you about it later."

"Good." He nodded "The day just begun; do you want to stay there? Or do you need to rest? If so, I can —"

"Dazai." I interrupted him, placing a hand onto his arm "Calm down..."

I gave him a meaningful look and he inhaled before wearing his playful smile again. I could not let him drop this mask in front of other people; he was not ready to appear defenceless and it would affect him deeply if others were to see this weak side of him. For now, before he made any more progress with human beings, I would protect him the best I could.

"Please, tell me you want to rest~" He grinned "So I can ditch work today~"

"Is my schedule a joke to you...?!" Kunikida protested "We have a mountain of work, and we are short on detectives...!"

"Hoh, I have an idea then~! If it's good for you, what about starting your first day here, Ogawa~?" He suggested.

"Eh...? Today...?" I looked at him "But... Don't I need to be approved...?"

"I will recommend her." Ranpo-san stated "You're still a newbie here, Dazai, and Kunikida doesn't seem enchanted by the idea. But I agree to her joining us. I want her to be a part of the Agency too."

"Thank you, Ranpo-san..." His words touched me.

His behaviour reminded me slightly of Chūya's after Dazai had left the Mafia. He had desperately tried to fight to get me in his team... And Dazai, despite the fact I had been called disposable, had promoted me and had kept me by his side... Except for the two of them, Ranpo-san was the first to stand up for me.

"Wait..." The blond man readjusted his glasses "She's... She's going to join the Agency...?"

"Why do you think she threw herself from the third floor?" Yosano-sensei puffed out her cheeks, hands on her hips "So she could have a pretext to come back here, obviously...!"

"Wait... You... Actually..."

Despite everyone’s explanations, he still did not understand… This man really was too dense. Or naive.

"I can't wait for us to be colleagues." I smiled innocently.

#bsd #bsd oc #bsd fanfic #bsd dazai #bsd imagines #bsd kunikida #bsd yosano #bsd ranpo #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs oc #dazai osamu #kunikida doppo #ranpo #yosano akiko

[shih-coulda-had-it]

8 and 60 any bnha ship

8 (Hospital AU) & 60 (Poorly Timed Confession) | any bnha ship [Shizenji]

//

A/n: inaccuracies are possible, but not with the tug-of-war over surgeons!Nana and Chiyo’s favorite OR RN: Sorahiko. I’ve been told that surgeons will privately confer with charge nurses to rearrange the roster according to preference.

//

The whole affair could have been avoided if Sorahiko simply did not work at U.A. General Hospital.

Shuuzenji Chiyo, Chief Surgeon in residence, would not be furiously pining after her fellow doctor if Torino Sorahiko did not exist.

“That’s unfair,” said Sorahiko, OR registered nurse. He was seated across from Chiyo in a corner booth of the cafeteria. The contents of his plastic tray resembled hers, except he had produced his own plastic-wrapped taiyaki from seemingly nowhere.

“It’s not unfair. Any time I think I’ve got an opening to ask her out for a date, you’re in the background silently judging me!”

“Because you suck,” he responded eloquently. “At pick-up lines, specifically. We all worship you at the operating table, Shuuzenji-hakase.”

“I have more game in my pinky finger than you do in your entire body,” Chiyo shot back.

“Then why haven’t you asked her out yet?”

“Ugh!” Chiyo popped open the lid of her bento and retrieved her chopsticks from their paper wrapping. She did not have a good answer for Sorahiko, who politely did not gloat over his victory. This was the real trial, she thought glumly. Because while she and Sorahiko were bosom break-buddies, Sorahiko and Shimura Nana were childhood best friends.

One would think that with Sorahiko as a mutual friend, Chiyo wouldn’t be having a communication issue.

“If you asked me,” said Sorahiko modestly.

“I haven’t.”

Silence fell between them, save for the crackle of Sorahiko opening his beloved treat and the soft murmured conversations of other people in the cafeteria. Chiyo gritted her teeth. She would not be the first to give in; the potential result of Sorahiko’s smug face at her tacit concession was too aggravating to bear.

She poked at her bento’s serving of cold chicken breast, caught a glimpse of the pallid vegetables beneath, and resigned herself to a terrible lunch.

“See,” Sorahiko said, “this is the first problem.”

“Is this your patronizing voice?”

He ignored her acerbic tone, if only because Chiyo hadn’t explicitly told him to shut up and change the subject. “You’re not letting yourself cool off. You need to take a step back and re-evaluate the situation, and then try and ask Shimura out on a date.”

“If I take a step back,” Chiyo complained, “then she’ll never respect me as a fellow surgeon who can go toe-to-toe! She already towers over me! I need my monumental stubborn streak to be unquestionably present!”

“Trust me, it’s undeniable,” he muttered.

Chiyo decided she had to let that comment slide, because Sorahiko was the unfortunate victim of a tug-of-war between her and Shimura. It started months ago, when Shimura was first hired by U.A. General and reunited in the workforce with her best friend. Chiyo hadn’t known anything about it, other than ‘new surgeon, likely capable,’ and wouldn’t have cared if it wasn’t for the sudden absence of Sorahiko from her operating room.

Sorahiko was a good intra-op nurse; he lent a certain focused calm to any surgery, and could always be trusted to provide a helping hand without panicking.

Chiyo hadn’t liked the fact that some uppity new hire had snatched Sorahiko from her hours, so she got him back. Without doing Shimura the polite courtesy of a head’s up. Chiyo had justified this rude action to Nezu, the Dean of Medicine, as: Shimura did it first.

They had yanked Sorahiko back and forth between their teams for a straight week before Chiyo finally got her first glimpse of Shimura.

Blatantly! Talking! To the charge nurse about rotating Sorahiko’s hours yet again!

She bitterly resented Shimura for all of three seconds, because by the fourth second, Chiyo had intruded on her personal space and been overwhelmed by the woman’s sheer presence. Shimura had said, with a toothy smile, “Ah, Shuuzenji-senpai. I was just asking Futaba-san about switching Torino-san’s placement for the next week. You don’t mind, do you?”

Inwardly, Chiyo had screeched about losing Sorahiko from Mr. Morimoto’s heart surgery.

Inwardly, Chiyo’s breath had caught in her lungs, her heart had stuttered, and the very unprofessional thought about wanting to be pinned down and ravished by her fellow surgeon crossed her mind.

That’s my favorite nurse, you can’t just yank him out of rotation and shuffle him where you will, Chiyo wanted to say.

“For a surgeon like you?” she said instead. “By all means.”

It was an unintended slight. A double-edged compliment. One that hinged on vague implications of flattery and insult.

It didn’t help that Chiyo had to tip her chin back to stare Shimura in the eye; it didn’t help that Chiyo had visibly registered Shimura’s generously-endowed figure before yanking her eyes up and up and up--

Of course, rather than accept this graciously, Shimura’s smile had widened into a triumphant grin. As Chief Surgeon, Chiyo couldn’t accept that, so the tug-of-war continued. Futaba became accustomed to being accosted to adjust Torino’s hours, and Sorahiko tried pretending nothing was happening. Occasionally, Chiyo saw Shimura chatting with Sorahiko and laughing, and Chiyo had to pretend she wasn’t a gremlin.

All this to say, now Sorahiko was attempting to give Chiyo dating advice, as though Chiyo hadn’t been trawling the sea for fish since she graduated medical school.

“Just say you like her to her face,” said Sorahiko.

“Where’s the art in that?” she demanded.

“Because,” he opined, “you two are in some serious miscommunication troubles, and it’s in the hospital’s best interests that you aren’t feuding anymore.”

“It’s not a feud.”

“The other nurses think you two are fighting to date me, you know.”

“Would you be open to a threesome?” Chiyo gave Sorahiko a critical once-over, just to cement her views of her favorite nurse. He was tall, like Shimura, and he was crabby and crotchety when he wasn’t forced to be professional, like Chiyo. She didn’t feel any intense desire. Just a certain fondness, cultivated over the inevitable losses in the OR and their shared gallows humor.

Sorahiko considered her right back. Then he said, “No, I think we’d be a nightmare for HR to deal with.”

“HR,” Chiyo grieved. As Chief Surgeon, Chiyo had to maintain certain boundaries between herself and her colleagues. Dating your technical underlings was highly discouraged, and Chiyo’s stance was that she had to be untouchable in order to maintain respect.

There was a reason the other nurses were in awe of Sorahiko.

“Maybe you should leave it alone,” he suggested. “It being, trying to date her.”

“Sorahiko, genuinely, I will beat you over the head with my lunch if you cockblock me,” said Chiyo. “You’ve seen your best friend, right? I have been keeping my nails clipped short ever since I entered medical school, but now I’m this close to asking her if she owns a strap.”

“Don’t,” said Sorahiko, pained by receiving too much information.

“What? What? Are you losing all your respect for me?”

“Keep using me as an outlet for your failed flirtations, and I really will,” he threatened.

“Maybe I should send you back to Shimura’s team, with a note that says, ‘Do you like me? Check yes or yes.’ You can be the peace offering. Is it pimping you out if you manage to sweet-talk her into having lunch with us?”

“Pimp me out?”

“You’re very high-value,” Chiyo reassured him. “You’re worth a cease-fire.”

“I should be the one filing a complaint to HR,” Sorahiko muttered to his bento. “No compensation is worth bearing witness to this.”

#bnha #shizenji #shuuzenji chiyo #recovery girl #torino sorahiko #gran torino #shimura nana #shih.txt #asks #anon #I didn’t quite incorporate 60 as well as I should have #but I was agonizing over how to write this overall #call that a 6/10 on execution

[ccatskies]

sciflash | chemistry class

rasa’s request

★━━━━━━━━

"Chemistry is the study of matter and energy and the interactions between them. This is also the definition for physics, by the way. Chemistry and physics are specializations of physical science."

There goes that voice. Flash resisted the urge to let a groan slip out and annoy the teacher who had just commenced the said class. He knew Chemistry, but today was awfully boring. No matter how much he despised a few subjects, it just wasn't his thing to barge in like a despicable roach and get on a teacher's nerves.

That would be his complimentary rascal of friend's field of expertise.

His eyes darted towards one of the tables in the third row, snorting as he suppressed a laugh. There's the adorable rascal.

Dash was, as usual, being a brat about things and getting her hand slapped from time to time by Shimmer, who had mentally declared that life was quite meaningless at this point, especially if you had to deal with Rainbow touching random potions for entertainment to bust everyone's asses six feet into the sky and out of the Chemistry Lab.

"Chemistry tends to focus on the properties of substances and the interactions between different types of matter, particularly reactions that involve electrons - ah, wait a second." Mr. Cranky interpolated, holding up a finger prior to walking off to the teacher who had been waiting for him at the door to deliver a message on the urgent change of routines.

Sentry suppressed a yawn, shyly glancing at his partner from the corner of his eye. In an instant, blood rushed up to his cheeks, coating it with adorable pink tints scattered across them like a pretty bunch of full bloomed roses. He brought his hands closer to his chest and leaned back on the chair, while the latter stood straight, fiddling with the bottle of a potion and going through her notes once again.

Sparkle's hair was in a messy bun, tied up with a rubber band while a big gold star laid on top of it. Few strands of her indigo hair gave her side profile astounding visuals for him just stare at. Her rosy cheeks had a special warmth, radiating a glow over her honey bronze skin. Her white laboratory coat only added onto her daunting look, as she maneuvered her finger tip through the pages of the Chemistry book.

She looked to the side once again, her alluring side profile snatching his view once again.

Fuck, he mused, one hand flying up to his face, as he cupped his right cheek to feel the warmth that generated from the abrupt blood rush.

Sure, it wasn't his first time looking at her, and definitely not the last.

More importantly, he wasn't sure how she did that to him like it was simply nothing, whereas it took him ages to have her blush in front of him. Of course, he knew she might've been hiding those blushes which burst out like balloons only when he took special measures but when it came down to him, she didn't need to even life a finger.

"Hey."

She was honestly so breathtaking - did no one tell her that?

"Huh, Flash?"

Breathtaking was an understatement too, he figured. She was just drop dead gorgeous, as if she was a beauty hailing from the heavens above - and Flash definitely didn't exaggerate that. He's seen Shimmer casually flirt with her, while Sparkle would laugh and playfully slap her shoulder.

Sunset's teeny tiny crush on the adorable bookworm justified the class Twi fell under. She's dated Timber, prior to ending the relationship on a good note. And all they had to say about his best friend was that she was so worth it.

"Flash!"

He broke out of the trance, blinking twice as he found his stinging eyes water, before squeezing them shut, a small drop traveling down his lashes, "h-huh. . .?"

"Your eyes!" Sparkle gasped, drawing herself closer to the teen boy, resting one of her warm hands on the surface of the table and the other on his left shoulder. She subconsciously brought herself to examine those pretty cornflowers, bearings her face towards his. Her breath fanned over the tip of his red nose, as she tilted her head, worry evident in her tone, "do they sting?"

"Wha-" he opened his eyes at the sound of her honey voice, a little taken aback as he registered the proximity, "ohh, fuuck."

She only made it worse for him, furrowing her brows at his words, as she dragged her lower lip under the edge of her teeth, "what? Does it sting too bad? You're tearing up, so - "

"N-not that!" He sputtered, biting his lip as soon as he stared up at her violet globes, "umm, I. . ."

"You what?"

"Your eyes." He immediately blurted, his cheeks betraying him once again, as he gazed into the most beautiful pair of eyes ever, astounded by the way they carried themselves. He swore that he could see the entire galaxy and at least a thousand constellations imprinted on those small captivating sultry orbs, reflecting back on his like the sun's rays.

She suppressed a giggle, breaking into a small smile, before she brought up her index up to his visage, cutely booping his nose, "my eyes? Ooh, are you flirting with me?"

His cheeks flushed into the shade of red - almost as red as the color of a scarlet Dahlia. Damn it, Century! Not now!

"Uh, no?"

Twilight snickered, not taking his response seriously, "is this the time to make jokes? I thought that's our thing only when classes are off."

"Wow," he scoffed, warm air purging through his nose, as he tilted his head to the side opposite to hers, "I'm mad that you don't take hints."

She raised a brow in amusement, letting a lighthearted laugh break through her system, "hint? What hint?"

"That I'm genuinely trying to compliment you for a reason."

She leaned back and flopped down onto the sit next to him, propping an elbow on the armrest as she cupped her cheek, "oh really?"

"You're pretty, am I not allowed to say that?" Flash rolled his eyes, groaning in exasperation, "fuck that, you're beautiful."

That had her blush. No matter how experienced she was at hiding those, she could not get do so for long.

Twilight smiled and bit her lip, vanquishing her urge to press him further but rather have him blurt out things (so that she could put them to use the next time she felt like embarrassing him). He had immediately caught onto the look on her face, growing a little shy at the indication.

"Why are you giving me that look?" Sentry huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, "am I not allowed to call my best friend pretty?"

"U-uh. . ." she laughed a little nervously, her thin silver glasses sliding down a little down the bridge of her nose, as she concealed her cheeks from his view with her hands over them, "noooo."

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, curving into an attractive grin as he reached out his arm to pull down her hands from her face, leaning in closer to catch a sight of her turn to be red, "awww, did I finally get you?"

She caught both of his wrists as they neared her, looking down on her lap, as she felt the burning sensation course through her. The boy only smiled, his insanely attractive dimples glowing from the corners of his wide smile, as he trailed his bigger hands down, smoothly intertwining his fingers with that of the Teacher's Pet.

She looked up at him holding back a few giggles, as she snorted, her honey cheeks tinted pink like cotton candy, "are you playing with me, Flash Century?"

His smile instantly dropped as he scoffed in disbelief, "did you really just say that, Twinkle Sprinkle?"

"Twinkle Sprinkle?" Twi's jaw hung low, as she maintained her posture, still having her fingers locked with his tan ones. Her face was a mess right now, red with embarrassment as well as flattery, showcasing the cute freckles splattered across the area surrounding her nose. "Oof, you're gonna get it. That's the childish nickname you gave years back. I thought we settled that you won't use it anymore!"

"I - " he laughs silently, as she frees her hands from him, standing back up and maneuvering her hands through several potions, desperately wanting to free herself from the situation.

Flash stood right next to her, his seraphic smile as heartwarming as ever, as he whispered next to her ear, warm breath hitting her skin like a steam and making her freeze on the spot, "cute little Twinkle Sprinkle."

She turned to face him, but was rather met with his chest - curse her shortness. She blushed profusely once again, prior to staring up at him, as she scoffed, "you're certainly hitting on me."

He moistened his lower lip, the same warmth radiating from his presence, as one hand slipped down to her waist, "of course, you pretty little thing."

"You are pretty," she immediately snapped back nonchalantly, her face as straight forward and genuine as ever.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The boy bit his lip, the shyness slipping out again. It took him a while to get her flustered but how the hell did she do it within a second?

Was this the Sparkle effect?

That made him feel magical and helpless? That made his heart beat like the thunderous sound of drums?

"You're staring again, Flash," Twi coughed, masking her flustered front, and replacing it with a terrible poker face.

"I again do that for hours actually." He removed his hand from her waist, dragging his lower lip under his teeth, as he shyly looked down on the table.

"Wow," She playfully punched his chest, letting out a laugh which rang through his ears like a serene and paradisiacal euphony, "you're. . . unbelievable, Sentry."

She pursed her lips into a thin line, prior to gazing at his features with a goofy grin, "unbelievably gorgeous, that is."

"Stop," he bit his lip, letting out a sigh in disbelief, "how can you just do that?"

"Do what?"

"Fluster me easily."

"I do that?"

"Yes."

She scrunched up her nose, smiling adorably, "well, then. Guess I found my new hobby!"

"What? No."

"Definitely."

"You're not - "

"You're the cutest."

"I - "

"Softest - "

"A little marshmallow. That's what I think of when I look at you. A sweet and cute little marshmallow." She snickered, "I can poke and kiss your squishy cheeks all day - "

"H-huh?" He had the cutest face on - with utter disbelief was etched on his features, while the pink blush never seemed to go away. If Flash could recall all of his shit talk with the tiny bookworm, he would swore that she never played the flirty card. It was either getting flustered or masking it.

Did he hear that right? From Twilight?

Twilight stepped back, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. She held back a boisterous laugh from breaking out and destroying her system as soon as she spotted her so-called friend's lips quiver, with the biggest flustered look on his face, screaming what just happened?

"Guess I won this time, Habibi."

━━━━━━━━━★

#sciflash #sci twi #flash sentry #drabble #writing #nivia writes #rasa take my love

[living-in-the-state-of-dreaming]

Can I have a jealous Yandere Deku with a very oblivious reader and Deku can barely control himself anymore?

Okay so I may have gone a little bit overboard with this ^///^;; but since this request has been sitting in my inbox for far too long I wanted to make up for the delay, plus there’s the fact that I still have not done anything for reaching 200 followers yet. I’m e x t r e m e l y sorry for the delay this however x_x but I hope you enjoy it. ^~^ Thank you for requesting.

Trigger warnings: Drug use, dark thoughts, mind break and a whole lot of angst.

What becomes of the broken-hearted.

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He knew it was wrong, so very, very, very wrong.

So many times he’d told himself that he shouldn’t think or feel such things towards y/n and each time the shameful thoughts, ones no hero should ever think up, came to his mind he would instantly push them aside, letting them rot at the very back of his mind, only to give y/n a reassuring smile when she, being the pure and kind soul that he had come to know her as; noticed and asked if he was alright.

“ Y-yeah I’m fine y/n, please don’t worry about me. “

It would be the answer that he would hear himself give every single time when in reality he wasn’t alright and that kind smile that he had come to love almost stung as he knew it was only out of concern for a friend. How he wished that there was love and affection, even if it was just the smallest amount, behind that smile. The thought of it being there was always something that would make his heart pound and race in his chest, even if it was only a fraction of the caliber of love that he felt towards y/n

Y/n and the rest of class-1A did not know this, as it was something that he wanted to keep to himself, but lately, amidst the notes and drawings of hero related content that filled the pages, there was something else that he had taken to writing down in his notebook. Perhaps it was a little obsessive of him, no it definitely was, he knew that, but information on y/n sat at the back of the notebook, separated from the intel of hero and given its own little space. The information ranged from a variety of things, from y/n’s hobbies, her quirk, her strengths, her weaknesses and her personality, each time he would discover something new about y/n he would write it down with the rest of the information when he was alone. Midoriya didn’t know when he had begun to do this, but the reason for doing so felt...Oddly justified in a sense, as the reason why he had started writing down these little notes and key points on y/n, was the thought that if he learned everything he could about her, then he had a higher chance of winning y/n’s heart.

He had never been the best when it came to confessing his feelings for someone- much less a beautiful girl that he considered to be extremely out of his league;  swooning someone with charming words of flattery was likely something more suited to someone else; for people who could easily walk up to a girl with confidence; charm a girl and make them blush while their hearts pounded; whereas he would likely only blush and stumble over his words if he even attempted to do the same thing. However, after working up enough courage to do so he had gone with the option of dropping subtle hints, from, albeit shyly, giving compliments on y/n’s hair, telling y/n how well the clothes she was wearing suited her, to simply refuting y/n any time she talked herself down due to insecurities. This also included inviting her to get ice cream, as it was summer and he knew that y/n’d likely be boiling from the heat, something that did not help the intensive training that would often occur during his and y/n’s free time if it didn’t happen during class.

However, where at first he had barely been able to contain his excitement at the thought of going for ice cream with y/n as thoughts spun around in his head, it had ended much differently from how he had wanted it to go due to how oblivious she turned out to be with things like this and instead y/n had only blinked and gave a big smile as she continued to enjoy the outing, while he wanted nothing more than to slap himself silly right there and there. He wasn’t surprised that the so-called ‘ date ‘ that he had been so excited for had turned out be something that had only been an outing between ‘ friends ‘ and as both he and y/n made their way back to the dorms, Deku could feel his heart deflate more and more with every step that he took, but as disappointment stung and tore at his heart, a frustration settled within him as well; one that came out of his inability and failure of being unable to tell y/n what he was really thinking- what he really wanted. It was something that should have been so simple but here he was stumbling at every turn and continuously running into obstacles; as if the word felt like kicking him in the chest once more for good measure.

He wanted to tell you her so badly, tell her how he truly felt, almost as badly as he wanted to win her beautiful heart but... Like most things- most dreams- there was always an obstacle as one more kick was launched at his chest in the form of this new piece of information that he had learned from Kirishima and his other friends.

Something that left him feeling completely shattered as his heart was left in broken pieces within his chest.

Y/n had a crush on Ka-chan.

Midoriya could feel nothing but numbness at hearing this, and after a brief moment, he quickly realized that he was in shock, the same kind of numbing shock that he had felt when the doctor had said that he would never develop a Quirk of his own. Shortly after he had gotten back to the dorms he had gone straight to his room while giving the reason that he wasn’t feeling very well from something that he’d eaten earlier and because of that he was turning in early. When Iida had mentioned that he could give him something to help remedy it, Izuku had been grateful that he was trying to help but he really just wanted to be alone right now and so, he had politely insisted that he’d be better after getting some rest with a reassuring smile.

The notebook lay open on his lap while his fingers held the pen, taking pen to paper he began to write down what he’d learned, but he could barely write down the words Y/N has a crush on Ka before the pen fell from his hand, landing on the floor with a brief and barely audible sound before it rolled a short distance away from his feet and stopped when it was directly in the middle of the beige carpeted floor. The usually spacious dorm room that he had come to call his home suddenly seemed tiny and the silence that settled sounded nearly deafening as he simply sat there on his bed; notebook still open on his lap, pen still in the middle of the floor; the bangs of his green hair shadowing his leaf green hues; only to widen slightly as his body gave an involuntary flinch at the sound of something suddenly cutting the silence in half if but for a second. His eyes slowly shift to where he had heard the noise, only to narrow in puzzlement at noticing the small wet spot that was now on the page, smudging the ink that made up the beginning of the sentence that he had just written down.

Was he-? Oh- Maybe that’s why his chest felt so tight and why he could feel something wet making their way down his cheeks. Tears had come to be something that he knew quite well after all, due to the hardships that he and the others had to endure, but this...There were no words to describe just how much it hurt and as he realized that he was crying; only more continued to fall as the ones that had welled up in his eyes shortly followed after; as a small sad smile came to his lips, regardless of how he felt too weak to make it genuine or happy.

“ Of course...Of course, she likes Ka-chan...He’s amazing. They both are...Why would someone as amazing as her fall for someone like me..? “

His voice came out weak as the sorrow in his eyes and expression seeped into every word as they left his lips. More tears continued to fall, each one falling on the page but he didn’t care as he raised his free hand up to clutch his chest; as if it would somehow help with the agony that he could feel at that moment and moments after the tears began to fall at a faster pace, Midoriya’s head drooped as the weak smile fell from his expression, the only sounds being his quiet sobs and the sound of tears falling onto the page of the book. However the same could not be said for the screaming that his emotions were doing inside of him as frustration, despair and heartache all blurred together, one that gave space for the resentment that he’d always felt for Kachan. Yes he’d always thought that Kachan was amazing, but he’d also resented him in a way and he’d hated him for how he treated him in school for having dreams of being a hero while being ‘ A quirkless loser ‘ but for him to have been able to win Y/N’s affections so easily while he had been struggling to just confess and show her how he truly felt was something that only added to that resentment as the hatred he’d felt back then sparked again and the anger joined the flurry of emotions inside of him as his gritted and narrowed his eyes, before scowling down to the written and now blurry Ka.

It wasn’t fair...Ever since they were kids Kachan had always been the one with everything, an awesome quirk, friends; a place that he could fit in; whereas he was thrown away, tossed to the side and picked on simply for not being like the others. Kachan- No- Katsuki Bakugo was a bully who was horrible to people, even to his friends- So why did he deserve an angel like Y/N? He was the one who was nice to her, he was the one who had told her specifically that if she ever needed anything that he would be right there for her; even if it was just a shoulder. He was the one that worshiped the very ground she walked on; who hung on every word like they were drops of gold; he was the one that was clearly the better of the two compared to that bully Katsuki Bakugo so why?! Katsuki Bakugo had always had everything! So why was he the one who got Y/N’s affection!??

Did he even know?? Of course, he didn’t- Midoriya knew that the most important thing that mattered to Bakugo was becoming the world's greatest hero, being number one, even surpassing All Might; in fact, he’d made it very clear time and time again that he would crush anyone who got in his way to do so, being number one was all that mattered to him; so, of course, he wouldn’t know that the sweetest and most beautiful person in the world had fallen for him.

Bitter jealousy, resentment, and anger towards the blonde swirled around Midoriya like an all-consuming Typhon and for just a moment, he found himself wishing that he hadn’t held back at the start, even if it was just a little, that night when he and Kachan had fought before giving the fight his all, but then, an idea came to his mind as realization made his sorrowful eyes light up with an idea. Since she liked Kachan, that just meant that he had to surpass Katsuki Bakugo and given as he had already set his mind to do just that long before he’d learned this shattering detail about his angel, it only fueled him with more motivation.

Instantly his thoughts began to work inside of his head like clockwork as ideas and ways to win Y/N’s heart and affection away from Bakugo whirled around in his head. Was it a petty thing to do? Yes, it was, but...At that moment the heartache was gasoline to the thoughts that were welling up inside of his head, and the smoke was so heady he found himself not caring whether it was, or not. He wanted his angel to return his feelings and he’d do it whatever way he had to if it meant protecting her from Kachan who he knew would likely only leave her kind and beautiful heart shattered into a thousand pieces, a feeling that he now knew quite well.

Eyes puffy from the tears that he had spent what must’ve been a few hours shedding, he stands up from his bed after placing the book aside and walks over to the pen that was still on the floor; before bending down and picking it up, standing up straight again and walking back over to his bed and sitting back down. Without looking at the page where he’d written that damnable beginning of a sentence, he tore it from the notebook and scrunched the paper into a ball before tossing it into the nearby bin.

Turning over to a new page, the pen met paper once again as his hand and mind worked in tandem, his eyes were faintly narrowed in concentration and focus as the pen feverishly ran across the page; while quiet once again settled inside of the room, the only sound this time being the movements of the pen as he wrote.

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That morning as he walked into class, he could feel determination coursing through him like electricity through an electrical switch, so much so that he couldn’t help think if this is what Denki’s quirk felt like. He knew it would likely have the others questioning it, but he only shrugged it off. He had one thing on his mind and that was the plan that he had stayed up all night to write and think up; unfortunately, this meant that he felt a little tired from the lack of sleep, but he knew it would be worth it if all went well and as the end of class came he couldn’t have been more relieved. Nervous yes, in fact very nervous but he’d been thinking about it so much that he’d barely be able to focus on anything, which unfortunately earned him a scolding from Mr. Aizawa, whom he apologized to immediately after... Still, he only continued to smile as he made his way down the halls and as optics of leaf green fell on Y/N he could feel his heart stop for just a moment in his chest; before starting once again in the same pounding rhythm that it always would whenever he was around Y/N. Or...Even when he just thought about Y/N.

For a second he found himself stopping as his footsteps came to a halt, leaving him standing there in the middle of the hall before he shook off the nervousness that had begun to settle inside of him and jogged over to her retreating form, easily catching up to her walking pace.

“ Hey Y/N, I’m sorry if this is sudden but are you free right now? “

He knew she was, but he asked anyway, all the while feeling heat rise to his cheeks at being this close to her, the beautiful smile that came to her expression only making his heart skip another beat as she responded with a brief shake of her head.

“ No, not particularly. Why? Did you want to go somewhere? “

Even when he felt his heart flutter once again at how welcoming Y/n was to the idea, he forced himself to stay cool, but at the same time, he couldn’t help the shy smile that came to him as he gave a nod. Reaching into his bag, his gaze drifted to the side for just a brief moment as his hand fished around only to bring out two tickets to the movies, the same one that he knew she’d been wanting to see for an entire month due to her mentioning it in class, even if it at times wasn’t directed at him. The way y/n’s eyes lit up with excitement, shock and joy-filled him with an unmistakable sense of joy at knowing that he had been the cause; whenever y/n got excited was always something that he’d found adorable as whenever she would it was like little fireworks were going off in her eyes as her lips would form into this near childishly innocent smile.

“ I was actually wondering if you wanted to go see this with me. “

As no words came from Y/N the beginnings of panic set into Midoriya.

Oh no. Had he been too shy with the invitation he hadn’t just ruined it had- Just before his thoughts can continue he couldn’t help but stare for just a moment as a lovely shade of pink- was that rose…?- came to y/n’s cheeks, the blush setting his heart ablaze with a hope that he knew would be visible in his eyes as she nodded, the smile still on her expression.

“ I’d love to. “

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He couldn’t believe it. In fact, he still couldn’t from when they arrived at the movie theater, to when they sat down in their seats. It felt so surreal but it also felt romantic, he hadn’t been on a date before but how they had sat down at the very back of the theater, almost as if they were separated from everyone else felt intimate in a way and as he just sat there, eyes looking to the screen, he could barely help the smile that was currently on his lips.

This...This was so...Perfect, being this close to Y/N.

The movie was the furthest from Izuku’s mind as his gaze continued to glance at Y/N every so often and for a moment, his eyes went to her hand as it rested on the armrest of the seat, it was so close to his own that he could almost touch it and at that moment he wanted to; he wanted to take her hand in his and interlock their fingers together or just place his over her own gently and intimately as he’d once seen in a movie, he knew it was likely most considered very cheesy to think of but it was still something that his thoughts were screaming at him to do. Thinking about this for a moment longer, the same thought that he’d had last night repeats in his head once more.

I will win the Y/N’s heart. No matter what.

Gently placing his hand over her own, his gaze fixed on the movie screen before he peeks a glance at Y/N at noticing her eyes on him from the corner of his eye, feeling her eyes on him and as he made out that same rosy pink blush that had earlier come to her cheeks in the dim lighting that was only offered by the movie screen as her expression was nothing short of surprise, he couldn’t help but smile at her in response. How Y/N never moved her hand away from his own only made his heart swell in his chest, he was happy...Beyond happy actually, the events of last night couldn’t be further from his mind. That was...Until the night ended and the words had left Y/N’s lips.

“ I-I’m...Deku I’m so sorry but...I like someone else. “

Happiness was a cruel and heartless mistress at times... He supposed he should’ve expected as much as he’d given the confession with the confidence that he’d felt; even if his cheeks were still dark red from blush, as his head was slightly bowed. Hearing the rumor from Kirishima and the others had felt like a knife had been plunged deep into his heart, but hearing them straight from those lovely lips of Y/N’s own mouth? He could feel his heart once again cracking all over again, just as it had last night.

“Y-You...What..? “

The guilt, remorse, and sympathy that he could hear in y/n’s voice only worsened the blow as eye/colored hues were lowered, successfully avoiding his gaze but just before she could utter out that those two words once more, the words escaped Izuku before he could make an effort to hold them back and at that moment, as he felt something else begin to crack inside of him...He felt no desire to.

“ It’s Kachan isn’t it. “

As shock came over Y/N’s face Izuku knew that she was perfectly justified to make that expression with how he’d spoken the question but instead of apologizing, his bore into her own expectantly as he waited for her to answer. In the brief silence that settled, destroying any sense of peace or romance that could’ve been there beforehand, Izuku found himself hoping that she’d refute his statement, that she’d say that she didn’t like Kachan and instead liked him but some dreams don’t last long and it was only made that much clearer to him as the beginning of her response left her lips

“ How-? “

“ I heard Kirishima and the others mention it. “

Not wanting to hear the question his response came quick. He didn’t want to hear it...He didn’t want to hear how her heart was still pining for Kachan...The mere thought was enough to make him want to scream, it made him sick as the first embers of hatred that had stirred to life from the ashes of the faint glow that had been there at middle school; began to gradually turn into a roaring flame and one that was only getting stronger the moment this moment played out; and the same pain in his chest that he’d felt last night came back to him once more

“ He doesn’t deserve an Angel like you. Y/N, can’t you see? He only cares about becoming number one, y-you don’t matter at all to him! He’ll only leave your heart in pieces. “

The passion and plea that twinged his eyes seeped into every syllable as he spoke, and although he felt guilt and remorse for the pain that flashed over y/n’s expression his lips parted again, but the smile that came to her expression caused him to freeze and all he could, was stare back into y/n’s eyes, eyes that held so much acceptance and sadness...

“ I know..But that’s okay, I don’t mind, I want him to achieve that goal. Even if he doesn’t feel the same way that I do for him, I don’t mind. I just want him to be happy. “

She didn’t mind…? He didn’t understand...Y/n was willing to let herself be left in the dust if it meant Kachan’s happiness? Of course, Izuku understood that, as he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would do the exact same thing for Y/N but now was not one of those times, not when it came to her heart possibly being left in tatters because of Katsuki Bakugo, he couldn’t allow that to happen! Yet...She wouldn’t listen, every word that was coming out of her mouth only clarified just how much she loved Kachan and each syllable gave another slice to his heart; as the tightness only increased and hot tears began to well in his eyes. His lips formed in a shaky line as his eyes narrowed in pain.

“ Why? W-Why can’t you just let me love you..? I-I care about you. N-No I love you...I love you so much..I’d do anything for you, anything you ask and I’d do it without question so why? “ his hand balled up into a fist as he bit into his bottom lip as if to distract himself from the tears he knew were mere seconds away from falling, but it was no use and as his head drooped the tears ran down his cheeks as his voice escaped in a pained cry.

“ Why does it have to be Kachan?!! I’d do anything for you! I’m the one that’s been there for you the most! So why can’t you just love me instead?!! “ each syllable was just as hysteric and pained as the tears streaming down his cheeks, the silence on y’n's end only provoking only more tears.

Why…? Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn’t the plan he’d made just work out but...He supposed...That was just how things were...Right? At this thought, something in him clicks...Yeah...Yeah, it was...Maybe he should’ve just resorted to that method all along... Regardless of how it wasn’t very ‘ Hero ‘ like.

That something that he could feel cracking moments before snaps, and as it does, the numbness that he felt at that moment didn’t allow him to care...It was new...This strange feeling of detachment, but as y/n’s voice spoke out in concern it only sounded like pretty music a requiem of concern that was likely only provoked by his sudden silence.

“ D-Deku? A-Are you okay? “

Lifting his gaze to y/n’s, he only smiled

“ I’m fine Angel. I’m sorry if I startled you by raising my voice so much. “

Skepticism passed through y/n’s eyes before it changed to relief, but Deku’s smile never fades as it only remained on his expression, he could still see the guilt and remorse in her eyes as she stepped closer to him with hesitant steps that reminded him of a hesitant kitten rather than the angel he knew she was, and as she gently and softly wrapped her arms around him in a hug; a spark of happiness flashed through him, but the numbness remained even as one of his hands slipped in and out of his pockets before returning the embrace.

“ Deku- “

Any words that y/n had been about to say died in the wake of the quiet gasp that left her lips, as the needle of the syringe; the same one that he’d taken from the nurse's office was now buried in the side of her y/n’s neck. Keeping it there just long enough for the sleep-inducing drug that was inside of the syringe to be emptied into her body, before gently removing the needle and placing the syringe back inside of his pocket. His embrace around her was loving, gentle and protective yet firm as he supported her own wait with his own as the drug quickly began to take over; the ability to talk fading fast due to drowsiness as the only sounds that she could give at that moment were meek whimpers and short sentences, subsequently reducing y/n’s voice to a meek, sleepy whisper.

“ D-De...Ku..W-What…? “

Even in her hazy state, the fear that he could hear in y/n’s voice was not hard to miss as his hand softly rubbed slow circles on her back in soothing motions; his other gently running over y/n’s soft tresses as he whispered in her ear.

“ Shh, it’s okay Angel. You’re going to be okay. I’m sorry I had to do this...I didn’t want to do this... But it was the only way I could protect you. I love you, Angel...You’ll see that...Eventually. Just sleep for now. I promise I’ll be right here. “

Lifting y/n into his arms as her trembling form went limp due to unconsciousness, Deku’s gaze remained on y/n’s sleeping face, the smile still on his lips as the pure, passionate love that he felt towards Y/N; one that would be seen through every compliment and every smile that he would give her was now joined by something else, an obsession that twisted the once pure emotions into something frightening and twisted.

Yes, he knew it was wrong, but heroes protected people and the people they cared about, and in this case, he was protecting his Angel from those who sought to hurt her beautiful heart...Even if he knew that he didn’t deserve y/n’s heart or her himself. His eyes scan around the area for a brief moment, checking again to see if no one was around before looking back down to his now sleeping Angel. Lowering his lips to her forehead and placing a soft kiss, only to whisper, in a hushed but gentle voice, a gentleness that contradicted the frightening madness that had taken root after something had snapped inside of him.

“ Sleep well, My Angel. “

#Yandere!Deku x Reader #Yandere!Izuku Midoriya x Reader

[kiruuuuu]

I had the pleasure of talking this through with you, @cerosin​, and the end result is.... definitely unhealthier than your initial request, but I hope you’ll like it anyway :) I also certainly took my time with this, thank you for waiting and thank you for the request 🖤🖤 (Kapkan/Glaz, Rating E, angst fluff + smut, ~4.6k words)

.

He can tell when it gets bad again.

Obviously, there are the spontaneous bursts, attacks he can neither predict nor prevent and therefore has to react on the spot, but those have receded: the people around them have learnt how to avoid triggering anything, and Glaz has learnt how to remove Kapkan from these situations efficiently. No, this isn’t about sudden, blind panic, not about shortness of breath or wild eyes. This is about the prickling right below Glaz’ skin; like a constant stream it erodes the sense of safety that’s built up over weeks or, if they’re lucky, months. Erodes the complacency like it’s dust settling in bit by bit, undisturbed and growing. Glaz has stopped minding boring. Because boring implied a routine, and calmness, and freedom from -

From the alternative.

From what’s happening right now.

If anyone asked, he’d reply that he feels safe no matter what. That he’s in control, and even if he’s not, that he knows how to regain it; after all, he senses it coming as it accumulates slowly, yet not so slow he doesn’t notice. He’s safe, even if he wakes up to a sharp jab in the side or a hand around his throat, because he can deal with it. He’s safe, even if temper flares hotly at him like an open flame, because he knows it might lick him, leave a stinging burn, but it will never consume him.

He justifies himself to this non-existent asker, someone on the outside, a concerned citizen. He does this a lot, conducts conversations like he’s Plato writing a dialogue between his teacher, Socrates, and someone unimportant, someone only necessary to play dumb and prompt the next wall of text. Glaz goes into great detail until this imaginary person is convinced. He wonders what this says about him.

So yes. He’s as confident as ever, though he takes the warning signs seriously. He listens to the tone rising in volume with each passing day, powerless to stop it but capable of manipulating it.

.

“You’ve already asked me twice what I want for breakfast so stop fucking talking about it”, snaps the love of his life, a man who leaves him breathless in so many ways each and every day.

Glaz doesn’t mention how Kapkan has failed to give a straight answer so far, and instead defuses the tension with a bratty: “Guess I’ll just feed the leftovers to the neighbour’s dog then.”

He can basically hear Kapkan perking up at this, even if his back is turned. If possible, his lover would eat meat for literally every meal, and heated up for breakfast, he’s even more unable to say no. “You know I’d eat it out of her bowl if necessary”, he grumbles, the fire having died down as quickly as it reared up. Glaz has gotten extremely good at appeasing him over the years.

“I’ll take that as a yes then”, he summarises and tosses the scraps in question into the microwave. Self neglect is one of the largest red flags Kapkan wears on his back whenever it gets bad, and it’s the one Glaz will combat head on. It’s the one he’s allowed to mention as it doesn’t scream you’re abnormal, you’re ill, you’ve got issues – instead, he can disguise it as stress, something easily forgettable, low priority. As such, it’s easiest to deal with as he can remedy it immediately: suggest taking a bath together, which is something Kapkan never refuses, or he offers to cook, pretends he’s not feeling well and needs company so Kapkan joins him in bed early. Once there, his lover falls asleep quickly, but left to his own devices, he’d stay up till morning.

No, he doesn’t need to babysit him, Glaz informs his imaginary interviewer politely yet firmly. Kapkan can and does take care of himself. But if he can facilitate it, why shouldn’t he? He receives more than enough in return. Kapkan would die for him in a heartbeat, he knows this because it almost happened before, he’d do whatever Glaz demands of him, he’s a reliable presence in Glaz’ life, loving, supportive, strong. Their infatuation is mutual and not diminished by demons which are not Kapkan’s fault.

It’s difficult to predict how this episode will go. Some cumulate in a fight, be it verbal or physical, others peak unnoticeably and then ebb until Glaz nearly forgets about the whole thing, can’t imagine a universe where they aren’t the world’s most perfect couple. People often don’t appreciate their health until they fall ill. Glaz has learnt to fiercely appreciate the days on which every smile is teased out gently instead of requiring heavy machinery to surface.

.

They met in Spetsnaz, a perceived eternity ago, and by all rights should’ve separated unscathed instead of their lives intermingling the way they did in the end. Glaz’ hand to hand was rubbish and Kapkan consistently disappointed in him, leaving them both frustrated with each other, yet not to the point of memorability. Kapkan should’ve remained that morose instructor with the hard set to his mouth, and Glaz his largely incompetent yet well-meaning student of which he’s probably had plenty. Nothing about him was remarkable – nothing about either of them, really –, until some people fell ill and some others got married, and suddenly Glaz was accompanying his fellow Spetsnaz on an extended hunting trip. As if Glaz had been fifteenth in line for the throne and fate removed all fourteen in between, and now he was at his coronation, not entirely sure how he got here.

It wasn’t the two of them alone, of course, a few acquaintances and curious souls went with them, but overall not enough people to comfortably hide one’s personality for an entire month. This is when Glaz noticed that Kapkan, when talking about his passion, was easy to look at. The glint in his otherwise piercing pale eyes was contagious and Glaz inquired a lot more about hunting in general and Kapkan’s experience specifically than he’d originally intended.

Usually, Glaz falls easily, almost at the drop of a hat. Someone smiles at him wrong, someone does him an unexpected favour, and he’s gone. Lost. If this happens, it’s fleeting. But when it takes him a while to even realise he’s staring and hovering, it means it’s serious.

They require five years to get together.

During that time, they keep invading each other’s life almost by chance, end up assigned to the same place or on the same mission, and the grin he receives when they meet once more is a genuine one. Glaz longs for more and ever more: a laugh, then a touch, time spent alone, time spent alone that’s timeless and neverending in their minds. Every new bit which he almost wishes into existence he treasures and keeps it close to his heart so it warms him during the time between their meetings. This is how he thinks of his days now – either real, actual events, or merely waiting. When Kapkan isn’t there, reality loses its focus.

He doesn’t remember the words leading up the kiss and it’s something he regrets to this day. Vaguely, he recalls words too brazen and brash for his otherwise quiet, timid character, though they probably were nothing but innocent to others. But Kapkan – Kapkan understood, Kapkan who’s known him for years and can tell it’s unusual for him, and he let it happen. Despite nothing coming back, Glaz wasn’t under the impression of his flattery to bounce off the hard exterior, rather he noticed it penetrating the roughness, finding holes in its defence. Kapkan soaked it up. He refused to dance but admired Glaz’ efforts nonetheless. And so they kissed.

Kissed in full gear, the relief of an uneventful mission flooding their systems, perched in the snow next to each other and lost in conversation instead of paying attention to something their colleagues had under control anyway. A routine extraction, no support needed, and Kapkan pulled down the cloth hiding his lower face when Glaz offered him some warm coffee, and then their lips are touching, their breath visible in the icy air and Glaz’ shoulder killing him over this odd angle.

Despite going home alone that day, he got no second of sleep. His heart wouldn’t calm down, and neither his thoughts. I’m the happiest man alive, he thought, clear as day and not a doubt in his mind.

.

“Strip.”

It does have its good sides. Two, as far as Glaz is concerned: Kapkan sticks to him like Velcro to wool, knowing nobody else can keep him in check the way his lover does. The worse it gets, the more excuses pop up to stay at home, to go out alone, to take Glaz along. He doesn’t mind switching topics and reading body language like a hawk if he can hold Kapkan’s hand in return, witness his dry wit and remarkable patience.

The second positive side effect is linked to the first. Being around each other constantly leads to certain things.

Glaz takes his time because he knows Kapkan likes it this way. He follows their established routine and discards his sweater first without revealing any skin on his torso. The motion exposes his arms, which he flexes subtly – he doesn’t need to cast a glance at his lover to know his eyes have strayed from his face. His t-shirt is next, showing off his chest and the ridges of his abs through controlled breathing and contracting his muscles at the right moment.

It’s slow, this ritual of theirs, deliberate, hides nothing. Glaz feels more and more naked in more ways than one, as if he’s laying his soul bare together with his body. Undressing is too profane a word, can’t come close to denoting what’s happening between them. He bathes in Kapkan’s attention, normally is indifferent about his own body but now takes pride as he’s being desired – a conscious action for its own sake. Kapkan wants him. It’s a state of being rather than a base need.

He isn’t unaffected. The more fabric lines the floor, the warmer the air gets: Glaz is sweating in the cool bedroom, cheeks reddened and his excitement visible, even more so once he’s fully nude. He breathes hard and dares not meet Kapkan’s gaze. This isn’t about him, after all, this is about obeying and allowing Kapkan to let off steam and an exercise in control. This is how Kapkan convinces himself he’s in control. He needs to be, desperately. And challenging him on this is the last thing Glaz wants.

“Lie down.”

The command is sharp yet leaves Glaz’ skin unmarred: he’s used to this, even looks forward to it when he begins noticing the change in Kapkan’s behaviour. Complying is natural, the sheet a cold relief under his heated body. He expected to be ordered to suck him, which is the most common request he receives in moments like these – he likes drawing it out but Kapkan usually can’t wait to be inside him, so he rarely gets to blow him under normal circumstances. Right now, when it’s about showing off the power he holds over Glaz, Kapkan doesn’t mind dragging it out. Quite the opposite.

“Hold these.”

A twitch between Glaz’ legs, he can’t tell from which body part (or maybe both?), because he knows what these words mean. He doesn’t have the peace of mind for this, he’ll fail and it’ll all be over, he already knows this. Not once has he passed this challenge, not once was he able to see it through to the end, resulting in a heavy throb in his crotch for the rest of the night until he could take care of himself without Kapkan knowing. It’s the sweetest torture, but torture it is nonetheless. He’s sure he’ll disappoint his lover.

Regardless, he lifts his hands until he can put his fingers together, letting Kapkan place objects between each pair of fingertips. Tonight, they’re bullets, threatening to slip out and fall onto his belly immediately. Whether or not he’ll be satisfied today relies entirely on his ability to hold them, restrain himself from sudden movements, concentrate until it’s over. If even only one drops, Kapkan will stop.

His tongue is hot, scorching hot, and velvety smooth, and Glaz’ eyelashes are fluttering. He stares at the bare ceiling, praying to an unknown deity for strength and presence of mind, and then he’s enveloped whole. His body shakes with his stuttering in- and exhales, but he keeps the ammunition where it is. For now.

This is what it must feel like when he services Kapkan. Hardly more than teasing, only just enough to keep his pleasure climbing and climbing, however minuscule the progress. Glaz cherishes every centimetre he slips further into the wet heat and curses it simultaneously. His mouth is struggling to produce sound as it doesn’t seem to know what’s appropriate; no moans escape him, his gasps are aborted and all that leaves his throat is a pained gargling, almost unwilling because he wants this so bad, wants to enjoy it yet has to stop himself from losing to the overwhelming pleasure.

Only when Kapkan sits up does Glaz realise how tense he is, that every muscle in his body was painfully taut. Bit by bit, he relaxes consciously, fighting back the memory of how it felt to be touched, licked, loved like this in order to focus. One of the metal objects has shifted, so he corrects it. Just in time before a hand closes around him.

The callouses on their own do nothing for him, but paired with perfect technique and the knowledge of all his sensitive spots, it’s nearly too much. Glaz moves into the motion, lifts his hips in the hopes of a speedier resolution, cursing inwardly when the rhythm slows to a crawl in response. Kapkan isn’t making this easy for him, that’s the whole point. The ministrations cease again for a moment, Glaz’ thighs are lifted, his legs bent, and this time, when he feels a tongue exploring him, it’s further down.

He squeezes his eyelids shut. This is too much. He can’t bear it. His toes twitch with pangs of discomfort, but when the hand returns, the mixture tilts into nothing but pure bliss. With every lick, his hands jolt, and he’s somehow still holding on to the bullets, without knowing how but not caring, not when he’s being opened through nothing but Kapkan’s mouth. He can feel his breath ghosting over his skin.

When he can’t take it anymore, he seeks other outlets. He digs his heels into the mattress, throws his head left and right, moans and whimpers and keens at the digits probing deep while a slick muscle tugs on his rim and a tight grip brings him closer and closer. He’s shivering as if it was below zero, and still his fingers don’t budge. The centre of his universe are these five gleaming items, and fanning out from there is deep elation emerging from inside him. Moving isn’t against the rules, so he writhes and rises and falls, strains upwards and downwards and rides towards his climax with chattering teeth. He can’t lose himself or everything will be in vain. But he wants to, oh does he want to.

His orgasm shatters him. His back curves as soon as the first wave hits him, and there he remains, right on the zenith, the sensations hardly fluctuating – instead it’s a steady stream of impossible pleasure and relief flooding him and his rigid form. He’s so tightly coiled that he presses out the bullets from between his fingertips, the warmed metal falling to his stomach and mixing with the long stripes painted onto his own skin, but he couldn’t care less. It’s monumental and leaves him shuddering for a minute afterwards, still revelling in the intensity of the moment.

Sinking back into the pillows, it’s as if a spell has been lifted. Kapkan regards him with a mixture of pride and smugness, warming Glaz’ heart: gone is the no-nonsense stare, the hard set to his mouth, the roughness in his touch. They smile at each other, a soft palm trailing over Glaz’ hips and thighs, and all he wants is to sleep curled up against this man whom he knows so well.

“Turn around”, says Kapkan. And though there’s a gentle hint in his voice, it’s obvious he won’t accept a no.

He doesn’t ask whether it’s alright for Glaz, because he’d let him know if it wasn’t. They’re both aware Glaz would speak up, meaning his compliance directly implies permission. This unspoken rule makes a lot of things easier.

No preparation needed, Kapkan has worked him open with his mouth and fingers already, so he slides right into the sensitive and overstimulated hole. Up to the hilt. Glaz’ whine is lost in the pillows.

“You’re beautiful”, Kapkan whispers and Glaz feels it in his throat, balls his hands into fists and clenches them around the sheets because he won’t be shown any more patience this evening.

Despite the discomfort, he likes this, too, the rawness of it and the glimpse he gets of undisguised emotions. In between sharp snaps and hard thrusts, Kapkan compliments him, each of his words melting Glaz below him, and the kisses now and then mask the loud noises. He doesn’t dare reciprocate, keeps his vocalisations garbled and takes it without moving, drinking in the growls and not commenting on the teeth burying into his skin. They’ll leave marks, he knows this.

This is what Kapkan’s composed attitude from before hid, this is what he really feels. Glaz would never deprive him of this, no matter how uncomfortable it is, because it’s one of the purest displays of Kapkan’s love. He can’t get enough of Glaz, doesn’t seem to know what to do with all this affection he harbours, so now and then it spills over. It’s reassuring. Their feelings for each other are this strong.

While Kapkan showers, Glaz gathers the bullets and lines them up on the bedside table. Reflecting the soft light from outside, they shimmer like golden stars.

Glaz is aware they might use them to end someone’s life.

.

This time, the climax announces itself. Like a freight train, it makes itself known from quite a distance away, whereas Glaz is chained to the tracks; he’s got a date and even a time when he’ll be able to stare into the conductor’s eyes. He realises with horror that he’ll have to ride this one out, no way around it: Kapkan is scheduled for the exercise and found out before Glaz did, eliminating the possibility of approaching Harry about it. His defence would’ve been weak yet honest – in the moment, Kapkan will act and react exactly like his intensive training ingrained in him, no doubt about it. It’s the after which causes Glaz considerable anguish. But re-assigning him would draw his attention and then Glaz would bear the brunt of it personally and not by association.

Kapkan has been getting worse for a while now, his light, restless sleep a good indicator for rising agitation, and as soon as he hears about the exercise, he knows. No way around this either: he knows. Stubborn as he is, he’ll walk right into it expecting a different outcome, will deny any parallels locked in his mind between watching his colleagues go down, not knowing where the shots were coming from, expecting to be next, and experiencing much of the same in a controlled setting. I know it’s not real, he says, and then a different voice must pop up in his mind later: But this was. Remember? Let me remind you.

Glaz is fully aware of what will happen and Kapkan too, and still inaction is his best option. He distracts him with little sessions of having Kapkan describe a mutual acquaintance or friend while drawing exactly what he says and then prompting outraged chuckles when he presents the final result. He cooks every day, either breakfast or dinner, and Kapkan lets him. This is what worries Glaz the most, because he’s sure Kapkan can tell he’s walking on eggshells around him, and instead of calling him out on it, he accepts it quietly. Seems to appreciate the kid gloves. He’s never done this before, and it’s terrifying.

Two days before the scheduled catastrophe, Glaz finds himself in the kitchen, staring at the open cutlery drawer and catching himself wondering where he should stow it all. It takes him a long while to realise he’s crying, and even longer to understand why – Kapkan is in good hands tonight, out with people Glaz knows he can trust, and he’s had a relaxing evening involving a long bath, a good film, and delicious leftovers. He should be feeling better than he did all week, yet it’s achieved the opposite effect: all the pent-up tension is flowing out of him in salty droplets now that he doesn’t need to be painfully aware of his surroundings at all times. His joints are aching and he’s shivering; stress has caught up with him as well as all the thinking he postponed to less rainy days.

He thinks about how eerily calm Kapkan has been. How much he has postponed as well.

Slamming the drawer shut, he heads straight to bed and ignores the icy tendrils curling around his limbs, even though they only recede once Kapkan has joined him hours later.

.

The next morning, his outburst and physical discomfort become crystal clear, though the newfound explanation does nothing to quell Glaz’ dread. He’s ill.

Neither the first time nor the last he’s dragged himself into work despite a fever, though most of his co-workers care enough to point out his paleness. Staring back from the mirror is an ashen-faced shadow of a man drenched in sweat, and though it’s probably only the flu, the implications are far-reaching. Depending on whether he gets better today or not, he won’t be able to work tomorrow. Or accompany Kapkan. Cushion his fall.

At the end of the day, it seems an impossibility – concentrating on anything requires much more brain capacity than he has to spare, and keeping himself hydrated and fed is a task so monumental he can’t possibly shoulder it twice. Barely does he notice Kapkan shoving him into the shower to wash off the uncomfortable clamminess left on his skin, and the next time he’s lucid, he’s in bed with a jug of water on the nightstand. He must’ve been forced to take some medicine as the aching isn’t as bad anymore, he no longer feels like shedding his own skin and the pounding in his head has subsided. Like this, he can hardly depend on himself.

The air is fluffy snow on his skin, impeding his movements and causing his teeth to clack together as he fights his way to the living room, intent on spending every minute he can in Kapkan’s presence to soothe them both. All he gains, however, is an angry snarl and a manhandling the way he came – his lover isn’t having any of it. Still. He remains by Glaz’ side and he probably has his own pitiful whining to thank for it. Throughout the rest of the evening and the night, whenever he wakes up, there’s a solid presence behind his back. And even if Kapkan barely sleeps himself, he stays right where he is.

.

Waking up to an empty bed is a blow Glaz could do without. He feels better – marginally –, but what sends him into a full blown panic is the realisation that it’s out of his hands now. However Kapkan reacts today, he won’t be present to absorb the shock, and he can’t figure out the best course of action when he’s ignorant of what happened. Calling someone else to inquire in detail seems messy as it’d get them talking, meaning all he can do is wait.

So he waits.

Waits like someone on death row, barely touches the food Kapkan placed next to the refilled jug and skims the books next to the food listlessly. And waits. Waits for the inevitable jingling of keys, steps which might be soft or loud or disorientated, maybe the calling of his name. Several hours, he waits for it and when it happens, he’s still not ready.

“How do you feel?”, is Kapkan’s only question as he helps Glaz up, wraps him in a spare blanket and changes the soaked sheets.

He takes an eternity to answer. “Better”, he says through the headache and the shivering.

A stern glance. “You’ve always been a horrible liar.” And that’s that.

They spend the evening next to each other once more, Kapkan devouring his dinner while awkwardly perched on the mattress and reading something on his phone, and Glaz still waits. It’ll happen. It can happen any moment now, he knows this, knows the exercise took place as he got a text about it, and so he waits.

He recovers over the weekend and returns to work on Monday. They went for a few walks which left him weak but sharper-minded due to the fresh air, but as much as he scrutinises the mild-mannered man by his side, he finds no indicators of a lurking rage, simmering deep below. He knows it’s there. He knows it will surface in some way, maybe not directed at the environment but inwards.

Kapkan showers without a reminder. He brings Glaz meals and drops a comment about Glaz’ schedule being so messed up he doesn’t even know when to eat anymore. He tries to draw a squirrel for half an hour and only stops because Glaz is dizzy from laughing so much.

Gradually, he stops waiting. Healthy again, he knows he can deal with it whenever it comes, and so he focuses on the present.

And it never happens.

.

About four months later, Kapkan snaps at a grocery clerk for something insignificant. He leaves Glaz drooling, panting, shuddering and wholly satisfied that night after two hours of rigorous teasing. The next day, he jumps a foot in the air over someone dropping their phone.

A few people ask Glaz whether Kapkan is alright. He just smiles and assures them that yes, he’s doing fine. No, he doesn’t need any support. Yes, he’s got it all under control.

This time, he doesn’t need to justify himself to anyone made up.

That evening, he develops a fierce headache. It turns into a migraine so bad he can barely walk, so he whispers to Kapkan that he’s going to bed early and no, he doesn’t need to join him, he’ll be alright, he doesn’t need anything, and still he’s encased in strong arms not five minutes later and forced to swallow a pill which he instead hides under the mattress. He suggests some ice cream might help, and a shoulder massage, and miraculously, he feels much better the next morning.

When he enters the kitchen, Kapkan is whistling to himself, horribly out of tune and unconcerned who might hear him. He only whistles on good days.

“Better?”, he greets Glaz with a tone implying it’s Glaz’ own responsibility to remain healthy, but pulls him to his chest regardless, carding a hand through his hair gently. He’s soft. When Glaz nuzzles him with his nose, he lets out a low chuckle which reverberates in Glaz’ own torso. He’s never felt this safe.

“Yes”, he mumbles against warm skin. “Much better.”

#rainbow six siege #kapkan #glaz #kapkan/glaz #fanfic #oneshot #this flowed out of my fingertips so thank you so much for the request! #also sorry for taking forever #I hope this works with what you imagine in any case

[anartic-monkeys]

[fanfic] opiate this hazy head of mine (chapter 1 of 2)

Summary: The brick walls of his dorm rooms, the white tiles of the baths, the drapes in his childhood bedroom, they all know her name. Initially it had been in anger, in frustration, in denial even as he pumped himself into completion to images of her. Eventually the name was whispered in resignation, in concealed adoration, and in an agonized declaration of a love that would never be returned.

TRIGGER WARNING: Character is diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (MDD). If you are triggered by mentions of suicidal thoughts, depressive episodes, panic attacks, or even medication, please skip this story or proceed with caution.

Title is directly lifted from the lyrics of Medicine - The 1975

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23413189

FFN Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13537767/1/opiate-this-hazy-head-of-mine

CHAPTER 1

la douleur exquise: the heart-wrenching pain of wanting the affection of someone unattainable 

 August 4, 2002

He knows for certain that she’ll be leaving soon.

The timepiece on his wrist tells him it’s well past one in the morning, but he keeps his eyes open and trained on the woman lying next to him. Hermione Granger’s face is peaceful in sleep, the lines that usually mar the space between her eyebrows hidden from sight. He wants to touch her, her cheeks and the exposed skin of her shoulders, but he’s terrified of waking her up.

He knows that once those eyes open, she’ll realize what a colossal mistake it had been to sleep with him, then she’ll be gone from his life.

Forever.

So he stays still, tries to keep his breathing as even as possible so as not to rouse her. Just minutes ago he had been drowning in a sea of her—her eyes, her warm heat wrapped around him, her hands everywhere, her lips leaving marks that are not his to keep. Now he’s lost, the constellation of freckles dancing across the skin of her nose and cheeks drawing him in deeper into what would be very dangerous territory.

He has never been this close, despite the many cruel efforts on his parts to be physically near her.

The taunting.

The dirty looks.

The insults thrown at her face, right at her face, allowing him just a moment to be that close to her face.

Tomorrow she’ll be gone, but for now he allows himself to live in the reverie that she is his.

 He wakes and feels his chest constrict in panic, his breath catching in his lungs and his limbs freezing up. In the back of his mind, he imagines that this is how it would feel for her to wake up the morning of their N.E.W.T.s, realizing that she had fallen asleep in lieu of studying. The space beside him is empty, only the ruffled sheets and some stray strands of hair on the pillow serving as evidence that Hermione had spent the night with him. He had meant to watch her to the very last minute, savour the very last moment before she’d leave, and he had fallen asleep instead and wasted precious time. He doesn’t even try to get up, choosing instead to close his eyes and will the sharp pain in his chest to fade into a dull throbbing. He doesn’t know how much time passes but he finally moves his head to face the other way, discovering a kink in his neck.

“Draco, are you awake?”

His eyes snap open at the voice and he imagines that his body visibly stiffens.

“Do you mind if I use your kitchen to make breakfast?”

He rises slowly, leaning on his elbows, and finds her sitting on the wide windowsill. He swallows at the sight of her wearing his shirt, a book propped open on her exposed legs. For a moment, he entertains the idea of sleep-induced hallucinations, wracking his brain for an explanation for the anomaly that is Hermione Granger.

He opens his mouth to ask her a dozen questions, each one an attempt to explain why in Salazar’s balls she's still here in the poor death eater’s lair, but his mind blessedly decides to kick in before his mouth can do any damage.

She had said his name. His given name.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he says instead, swinging both legs off the bed and turning away from her for a moment to search for his pants. Only half-naked, he takes note of the time and beckons for her to follow him into the kitchen.

She doesn’t move from her spot (he has no idea how many hours she’s been sitting there but he knows for certain that it couldn’t have been long enough for it to justify him referring to it as her spot) and the minutes tick by with the two of them merely staring at each other. She would never hear it from him, but he would much rather stare at her than cook breakfast. A few heartbeats pass and then she’s pushing off the ledge, raising her eyebrows at him and he answers the unvoiced question with a roll of his eyes. “I can cook.”

“Here, I’ll give you your shirt back," she replies, ignoring his declaration.

He shakes his head, not even trying to hide the appreciate way his eyes roam over her body. He doesn’t know why she decided to put his shirt on, it doesn’t seem like something she would do, but he wants to keep her in his clothes for as long as possible.

Maybe then her scent would be permanently engraved into the fabric.

 She says she wants pancakes and Draco pretends he’s not thankful that she chose something he actually knows to make. He doesn’t burn anything, even when he feels her eyes boring holes into the back of his head, but he barely stops himself from going overboard with the blueberries.

Little triumphs.

He’s plating up a high stack for her, ignoring the curious stare she’s been maintaining ever since he poured her a cup of tea. He wants to run away from the scrutiny and jumps on the opportunity once he hears a light tapping sound coming from the window. His owl delivers him letters that he leaves in a drawer for later and a copy of the paper that he brings back to Hermione, wordlessly handing it over to her just to get her to stop studying him.

“Do you have powdered milk?”

“No. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just,” she pauses, glancing up from behind the face of an elderly wizard being tried for tax evasion. “I usually put some powdered milk on my pancakes, but these are fine. You’re surprisingly good at this.” She makes a show of taking a rather large bite that has him hiding a smile behind his tea.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Granger,” he says, not without irony. She catches on his meaning and then they’re sharing a smile, an inside joke that only the two of them know, and Draco wonders at what exact moment did the universe tilt the wrong way and allowed him to have this with her.

To have her.

“This is odd,” she finally says, looking at him in a way that tells him its not his culinary skills she finds bizarre. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she means them, that she means it’s odd that she had slept with him and him with her and that he had made her pancakes with far too many blueberries and she had just shared a smile with him that made the darkest parts of his mind recede for a moment—

“Don’t overthink it, I can hear the cogs in your brain turning all the way here,” he responds, hoping against all odds that he sounds as nonchalant as he wants to be about it. He knows for a fact that if he wants to keep her from finding out the mess that is his thoughts around her, he best start putting up the occlumency walls he had so carelessly torn down last night.

He tells himself he will, in a minute, when she finishes her pancakes and she’s had enough tea. He’ll put up the walls when she stops looking as if she doesn’t hate him, doesn’t hate that she had fallen into bed with him, doesn’t hate that he’s standing shirtless in front of her because she’s wearing his shirt.

He tells himself he couldn’t have expected her to stay any longer. She has work, she tells him, and he doesn’t tell her that of course you’re working on a Sunday. He watches her tiptoe her way back to his room and he watches her emerge once again dressed in her own clothes, her healer robes tucked in the crook of her arm. He tells himself he isn’t disappointed when she only kisses his cheeks, tells himself he doesn’t feel his fingers warm when she tells him that she had a good time, that she’ll see him around soon.

He tells himself it’s not the hope that she would come over again that has him purchasing the tin of powdered milk from the muggle pharmacy. It sits in one of the cupboards, right next to the tea that she had picked out.

  February 11, 2000

Draco grits his teeth, mentally listing off a number of hexes that he could fire at the beady-eyed wizard sitting in front of him.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, struggling to keep the drawl in place. To the untrained ear, they would hear an almost bored quality to the question. To anyone who pays attention, they would hear the unnatural lilt that his voices takes on right at the beginning.

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy, we need to perform legilimency on all ex-Death Eaters wishing to apply for a job at the ministry,” he eyes Draco, one hand coming to scratch at his whitened beard. “Of course, everyone knows you’re a skilled Occlumens, which is why we’ve prepared a special potion that will ensure you do not… keep things from our knowledge.”

Draco feels a muscle twitch somewhere on his jaw. “And why exactly would such a thing be necessary in the first place, if I may ask?”

The veil covering the cruel sneer falls away and the man in front of him openly shows him just what he thinks of Draco. “Mr. Malfoy, you can’t honestly expect the ministry to let you work here without the reassurance that you do not have any ill plans tucked away that mind of yours. Think of it as a way of earning your future employer’s trust. That is, if we do end up hiring you.”

Draco has no response, choosing instead to steeple his fingers against each other and stare back at the other wizard. When the silence stretches on, with no attempts from Draco to end it, the other man speaks up in a tone brokering no argument, “This is an absolute requirement. If you do not wish to go through with it then I will be bidding you farewell.”

“When?” he asks, feeling the last dredges of his pride slipping away from his grasp.

 A healer performs the spell. When it’s over and he feels like his mind has been repeatedly stabbed by a blunt knife, he turns away from the judging eyes staring right at him. There’s a flurry of papers and the sound of a book rapidly being flipped through. The healer furiously scribbles on his chart while Draco awaits the verdict.

“Mr. Malfoy, you’ve been diagnosed with major depressive disorder. Here’s a prescription for anti-depressant pills that you are to take if I’m to clear you for work at the ministry.”

He turns back to the healer with a deliberate slowness, as if reducing the speed of his movements could aid his brain in keeping his mouth from falling wide open. “I beg your pardon?” he finds himself asking for a second time that day.

“Mr. Malfoy, you have suicidal tendencies—”

“Harry Potter has suicidal tendencies, did you also diagnose him with depression?”

“We value patient confidentiality, Mr. Malfoy, I assure you. You won’t be hearing about Mr. Potter’s medical business as he won’t be hearing about yours,” the healer states this with a pointed look, no doubt alluding to the fear she saw in Draco’s head about his thoughts becoming of public access. Draco takes little relief in this.

“I also know for a fact that when you say suicidal tendencies, you’re referring to the things he did during the war,” the healer continues. “Unfortunately, that was a case of reckless heroism, not a sign of depression.”

Draco raises his eyebrow at this, finding that the comment made him like his healer infinitesimally better than before. “I’m not depressed.”

“Would you like me to read to you all the signs I just picked apart from your mind? Aside from constantly thinking about your own death, you have severe insomnia, you have very little interest in doing things you like, you have virtually no appetite to speak of, you’re conflicted between the belief that your mother would be better off without you and the guilt of leaving her now that your father is gone—”

“Enough.”

The healer pauses, adjusting the spectacles that had started to slip down her nose. “As you know, depression is not something you need to be ashamed of. You’d be surprised how many of the British wizarding folk have been diagnosed with various mental health issues following the war.” 

For the second time that day, he chooses to answer with cold silence. The healer meets his gaze and wordlessly hands over a small sheet of paper. Draco takes it and his eyes drop to read the messy scrawl. His eyebrows draw together at the unfamiliar words staring back at him. “This is muggle medicine.”

“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

The question catches him off-guard and he looks up, realizing his mistake a second too late. The potion hasn’t fully worn off and he is unable to build up his occlumency walls in time to counter the healer’s legilimency.

Scared.

Don’t know how to buy these.

Don’t know where to go to get these.

Not depressed.

Can’t be depressed.

“Stop,” he finally grits out, turning away from the healer and finally breaking the spell. He wants to scream, wants to get up and run away from the room, job at the ministry be damned. He almost does the latter when he hears her ripping out a small piece of parchment.

“This is the address of a pharmacy I frequent. You may think of it as a muggle apothecary of sorts. Just hand your prescription over and make sure you have muggle money on you.”

Draco takes it, hating the trembling of his fingers as he fights the urge to crush both pieces of paper in his fists.

“Come back with the filled prescription and I’ll give you your medical clearance. Goodbye, Mr. Malfoy.”

 He likes to think he makes a graceful exit, but he knows that he all but stumbles out the room and into the lit hallway. The walls, white and suddenly so oppressive, seem to close in on him as he feels his breathing grow laboured. A panic attack, his mother had described it on the one occasion he had been weak enough to show her that he wasn’t as put-together as he would like everyone to believe. She had scoffed at him, her aristocratic face wet with tears, and had pulled his head to rest on her shoulder.

Now he thinks the healer would have listed off sporadic episodes of panic attacks if he hadn’t interrupted her.

His legs miraculously carry him towards the floo networks and he struggles to fight off the last vestiges of the potion remaining in his system, already working on constructing the ever-trusted wall around his mind. His throat has gone dry, all moisture seemingly travelling to his now-clammy hands, and his vision starts to blur when he’s only steps away from the floo that would get him away from this wretched place—

“Malfoy?”

Fuck.

If someone were to slice his ears off, damage the sensory organ enough that he would only be able to hear anything if one were to use a sonorous charm and shout directly into the mangled hole on the side of his head, he would still be able to recognize that voice. The last time he had heard her, last time he had seen her, was during his trial shortly after the culmination of the Second Wizarding War. He had been more surprised to see her than when he’d seen Potter, more surprised to hear her testify for him than when it had been Potter doing the same thing.

His hands had been bound before him, but his heart had soared at the sight of her then. He had been so certain that he would never see her again, not when he had been on his way to be locked in Azkaban. He had barely paid attention to the words she was saying, his focus trained on the sound of her voice, the fire in her eyes. Not once during her speech did she glance at him and he had only been given the chance to look into her eyes when she had been about to exit the room.

He had sworn that day that he would never forget that image, would hold on to it through the horrors of Azkaban. When he’d been told that the Wizengamot had decided to put him under ten years of heavy probation instead of 10 years in Azkaban, he had let himself foolishly hope that he’d be able to see her again under different circumstances.

Nearly two years later and he finally gets his wish, but the circumstances are only marginally better than before. He attempts to take a steadying breath and only succeeds in affirming that he still can’t breathe quite properly. The last of the bricks fall into place and he turns to face her. A lesser witch would see nothing amiss, only an ex-death eater making a hasty escape from St. Mungo’s, but she’s no lesser witch.

Hermione Granger takes one look at him and the suspicion in her eyes is replaced by that of concern and he fucking hates it. He pretends to appraise her, feigns the slightest bit of shock at her healer robes, only enough that she would think he had failed at trying to hide his surprise at the knowledge that she works here.

Of course he knows she works here; he had almost worked himself up into an early panic attack worrying that she would be assigned his healer.

“Granger.” He notes that there’s only the slightest bit of a tremor to his voice and he imagines his godfather would have been proud. Still, he keeps his hands behind him where she won’t be able to see how badly they’re shaking.

“Malfoy, are you—” she cuts herself off, eyes narrowing at him. “Are you okay?”

He manages a smirk and a slight inclination of his head. “Never better. Goodbye, Granger.”

“What?” is the indignant cry. He’s already stepping into the floo and tossing down a handful of the powder when she calls to him. “Malfoy, wait—” 

He doesn’t think about the possible repercussions of fleeing from a healer, of fleeing from Granger of all people, the only thought running through his head as he’s engulfed by the flames is how he needs to get away from her and her worried eyes.

He doesn’t deserve her concern.

  August 8, 2002

He startles awake, hanging suspended between grappling for consciousness and holding on to the last images of sun-kissed skin against his tongue. He blinks away the fog clouding his mind and searches for the source of his sudden waking, feeling a throbbing behind his eyebrow that somehow falls into beat with the knocking outside his door—

He’s on his feet and rushing out of the bedroom, wand at the ready. The frontal lobe of his brain catches up to his adrenal glands just as he reaches the front door. He reasons with himself—the  wards wouldn’t have allowed just anyone within 20 yards of the door, and since the knocking isn’t a figment of his imagination, he can only imagine that it’s someone from the ministry on the other side of the door. With a wandless flick of his wand, the door opens.

Draco hadn’t known who exactly to expect, but he had not expected to see her. Her hand is raised mid-knock, her hair is flattened down by the knit cap keeping her ears warm, and her eyes are wide and bloodshot as they stare back at him in shock.

He barely has time to open his mouth and call her name before her face contorts and she starts crying, right there by the doorway. Something in his chest constricts at the sight and he almost rubs at it to soothe the sudden painful throbbing radiating right above his left breast.

In the back of his mind, he suspects that it might be his heart aching at the sight of her tears.

“Can I come in?” she asks, uselessly wiping at tears that are only followed by others. She all but collapses into his arms when he moves to pull her into the flat.

He tries to lead her over to sit on the settee but she shakes her head at him, hands clinging to the collar of his shirt and effectively wrinkling the fabric. He blames the epinephrine still coursing through his blood vessels when he finds himself leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. He freezes, lips still pressed to her skin, waiting for her to shove him away for daring to do something so intimate to her of all people.

Hermione releases her hold on his collar, her hands travelling upward to cradle his face. She tugs him down until their lips meet in a soft kiss, Draco all too cautious to deepen it and risk scaring her away.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” she asks against his mouth, breath washing over his face and leaving behind a distinct scent of chamomile and peppermint. He wonders if he’s being manipulated, wonders if he should allow himself to be manipulated by soft lips and cold hands.

Why?

“Please.”

“Okay.”

Hermione transfigures her clothes into something more sleep-appropriate and Draco slips away to prepare her a cup of tea. When he returns, she’s already settled in the middle of the bed, hands fidgeting with the edges of the quilt. She spots the cup he’s holding and reaches out to take it from him.

“Thank you, Draco,” she says, turning to him as he moves to sit net to her. “For all of this.”

He frowns down at his own hands, the adrenaline from before already well out of his system by the time he’d finish preparing her tea. Chamomile, the same thing she had chosen the last time she was there, with one heaping cup of honey and enough milk to turn the drink an ugly shade of Dutch white. She doesn’t comment on how he’s already committed to memory the way she takes her tea and he doesn’t ask her the barrage of questions assaulting his brain.

When the tears start flowing down her cheeks in a silent current, he takes the hand that’s not holding on to the delicate china in both of his. He feels foolish, offering her comfort when the whole wizarding world knows he’s the last person qualified to do as such, but she doesn’t pull away from his touch and the trembling of her lips still just enough for her to keep sipping her tea. Draco spots her wand lying on top of his bedside table and his grip on her hand tightens, the sight making him wonder when exactly he started to earn that level of trust from her.

He watches her lower the empty cup and start to pull away from him, moving to put the cup beside her wand. He vanishes the china with a wandless and non-verbal flick of his hand and allows himself to revel in the impressed look she gives him.

“Sleep, Granger,” he tells her. He moves to lie down, giving her enough space to decide the distance that would exist between them, telling himself that whatever she chose he would keep it that way all through the night. He watches her chew on her lip for a moment then promptly slide down to lie with her sides pressed against his. A few moments pass and then they simultaneously move, him raising his arm to circle her shoulders and her moving to place her head right above his erratically beating heart.

The silence stretches out long enough that he suspects she’s fallen asleep, her breathing even and her heart finally calm in its thumping. His own eyes start to drift close when he hears her soft voice whisper against his skin.

“Goodnight, Draco.”

 He wakes up to lips pressed against his neck and he thinks this is how he dies, a bite to his jugular that will drain him of his pure and ancient blood. When Hermione does move to bite him, he finds himself moaning in pleasure instead of pain, his hands shooting out to cradle her head and keep her mouth firmly in place. She soothes the bite with a languid drag of her tongue.

“I thought you just wanted to sleep?” he asks, voice thick with sleep and dick already half hard in his trousers. “Granger.”

“Draco,” she responds, her own voice just the right amount of rough. Her hands move down to work on the buttons of his shirt and he finally gathers enough sense to still her movements.

“Granger,” he grounds out, firmer this time. “We can’t. We shouldn’t. Not when you’ve been crying all night.” He wants to add not when you’re vulnerable but thinks better of it, suspecting it would only grant him a hex or two.

“I’m sorry,” she says, extracting her body from his hold and completely turning away from him. She hunches forward on her sides, curling into a position that makes her look so small and makes Draco’s eyebrows draw together into a frown of genuine confusion.

“Why do I feel as if you’re under the impression that I don’t want you?” he asks, tugging on her shoulder to make her lie on her back and face him again.

“Because I am,” she responds right away. The next part comes a few seconds later, in a much quieter voice. “Because you don’t.”

The occlumency walls fall apart and he grabs her hand and places it right where he wants it, rubs himself using her palm for a few wicked seconds before stilling them both. “You’re as much of a fool as I am.”

Hermione resumes stroking him through his trousers, her eyes alight and her mouth parted. She pushes him down to lie on his back and moves to straddle him, her hand still on his cock while the other works on completing the mission of removing his shirt. She helps him out of the garment and runs warm hands down his chilled torso, leaning down to once again attack his neck with her lips.

His hands map out an exploration of their own, gripping her hips through soft cotton shorts and seeking out the skin hidden underneath her jumper. His hands reach up until the tips of his fingers tease the edges of her bra, feeling up the lace and groaning when he feels her hand leave his crotch.

She pulls back and whips off the jumper, watching his steadily darkening expression. Hermione reaches back and unclasps the final piece of clothing holding her back from being equally half-nude as he is and he watches with rapt attention. The bra falls away, tossed to lie forgotten somewhere on the floor, but his eyes never stray from the sight of her full breasts just inches away from his face. He swallows and her eyes follows the motion, smiling down at him and grabbing his hands to pull them to her chest.

The first time he had seen her tits, he had ended up worshipping them for the better part of an hour, not neglecting to tell her she had the most beautiful breasts he had ever laid his eyes on. He had been granted a sharp laugh for his eloquence, a laugh that quickly evolved into a drawn-out moan when he had wrapped his lips around one nipple and used the nail on his index finger to tease the other.

Now he holds both of her breasts in his hands, testing out their weight much like the last time, caressing the underside with his palms and watching the skin breakout in goosepimples. She leans back to rest her hands on his thighs, pushing her chest out to him and letting out breathy little moans that fill the room. Her hips start a steady grinding motion, the heat of her clothed arse rubbing against his cock enough to drive him half delirious with need.

He rolls her nipples between his fingers, alternating between slow rubbing and fast swiping. He leans forward, sitting up, and catches one hardened nub in his mouth. The answering moan eggs him on to suck harder, switching between breasts with an almost desperate edge to his movements. This close, her scent invades his senses and overwhelms the part of his brain that usually has him questioning every move, every thought, every word coming out of his mouth.

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he tells her, lips pressed against a reddened nipple. She responds by further pushing her chest into his face and he is happy to oblige, continuing his ministrations on her breasts. He feels her hands fumbling to pull down his trousers and he lifts his hips high enough to assist her.

“It’s been days but I can still feel you inside me.”

Her words make him groan and he bites down on one nipple, just a light graze of his teeth. He helps her out of her shorts and her underwear, leaning back down to his original lying position with his hands firmly on her hips. “Think you can ride me, Granger?”

She takes his cock into her hand and the shock from the difference in body temperature has him biting down on his lip. She smiles at him, teasing her entrance with the tip of his length. “Not if you keep calling me that.”

“Hermione, fuck, Hermione,” he gasps, the syllables of her name rolling from his tongue with practiced ease. The brick walls of his dorm rooms, the white tiles of the baths, the drapes in his childhood bedroom, they all know her name. Initially it had been in anger, in frustration, in denial even as he pumped himself into completion to images of her. Eventually the name was whispered in resignation, in concealed adoration, and in an agonized declaration of a love that would never be returned.

He watches her sink down on him, her heat engulfing him and obliterating any coherent thought he was previously capable of making. His muscles burn from the effort it takes him to not move, to keep still and let her do everything in her own pace. He thinks his grip on her hips may leave bruises in the morning, but he allows himself the selfish thought, forgives himself when he doesn’t loosen his hold on her.

She stops when he’s fully inside her, their skin flushed against each other, chests rising and falling in tandem. Hermione leans down and kisses him, her face overheated and her lips slow and wet against his. He lets her take charge of the kiss, following her lead, matching her peck for peck, tongue for tongue. When she pulls back, he catches a glimpse of the scar on her arm and he’s immediately overwhelmed with the familiar feeling of guilt. He swallows, hoping to physically push back the thought.

“Take what you want from me, Hermione. Take what you need.”

For a moment she looks like she’s about to cry, but she swoops down and kisses him with ardour, catching his bottom lip in between her teeth and giving a painful bite that she quickly soothes with a swipe of her tongue. She doesn’t break the kiss when she starts moving, moaning against his lips with every thrust.

He kisses the side of her mouth, making his way down to the spot beneath her ear that had her screaming his name last time. She whimpers when his lips touch the sensitive skin, her hips picking up speed. Her mouth attaches itself to the back of his neck and he feels her sucking, biting, leaving marks that he won’t hide with a concealment charm. The forward-backward canting of her hips transforms into a circular motion and he knows she’s close. Aside from the constant assault of his mouth on her neck and his hands groping her breasts, he keeps still, feeling her walls clamp down on him and her teeth press down on his neck almost hard enough to break the skin.

She lifts her head, kissing him while riding the waves of her first orgasm for the night. Her body collapses on him and he pulls out of her, still painfully hard, and moves her to lie down on the bed. Even in the dim light of the room he sees the flush of her skin, the light sheen of sweat on her chest and on her legs. He kisses her face, pushes away the curls stuck to her forehead, kisses the arch of her brow, both of her cheeks, the tip of her nose and the dip of her upper lip, and kisses his way down her body.

She shudders when he takes his time kissing her shoulders, biting and sucking and selfishly leaving marks that she’ll have to hide with a concealment charm. Her hands shoot out to tangle in his hair when he reaches her breasts, torn between pulling him away from the over-sensitive flesh or pushing him to keep sucking on the spot just centimetres from her right nipple. He promises to worship her tits later, when he’s inside of her again, and begins to move further down her body.

As he draws closer to her centre, her scent grows stronger. He kisses her inner thighs, careful not to touch the swollen folds of her cunt. Hermione has grown progressively louder as he grew progressively bolder in his exploration, his tongue dipping into her wet hole. They moan in unison and he thinks he may get drunk on her taste. He fucks her with his tongue, letting her grow accustomed to the feeling, waiting for her to come down from the high and demand for more.

When the last of the tremors from her orgasm fade away, his lips find her clit and he sucks the sensitive nub into his mouth. Her hold on his hair borders on painful, her hips bucking up into his face. He pushes her down with his hands, keeping her in place as he uses the flat of his tongue to massage her clit.

He alternates between swiping and circling the kernel with his tongue, using two fingers to fuck her hole. He feels her walls tighten around the appendages and he withdraws them, determined to make her cum using just his mouth. He sucks on her clit, pulling her impossibly closer to him and allowing her to mindlessly fuck his face. When she comes for the second time he barely hears his name pouring from her lips, her thighs clamping down on his head and effectively blocking out the world.

He doesn’t give her time to ride out her orgasm, pushing into her in one swift thrust. He makes good on his promise, kissing her to let her taste herself on him then moving down to worship her breasts once more. Draco only half recognizes the things she’s saying, a mix of familiar swears words and his name and then things his orgasm-deprived mind just can’t seem to put together.

“Your cunt feels amazing,” he replies when she tells him how good he feels inside her. “You feel so goddamn good, Hermione.”

“Harder, Draco, please,” she mewls, fingers clawing down his back and leaving even more marks for him to keep. “Please, please, I’m going to come again.”

She comes a third time, not nearly as intense as the first and the second one, but enough to pull him spiralling into his own orgasm. He spills himself inside of her, the euphoria of his release settling deep into his bones. In those blinding seconds he forgets that they’re former enemies, that they were only tentative acquaintances before this whole fling started, forgets that he doesn’t understand her motivations and forgets to question his own.

He doesn’t pull out of her, remembering how she had asked him to stay inside of her the last time, and he’s rewarded with a smile and a tender kiss. He moves them so she’s half-lying on top of him, the sheets shielding their naked bodies from the cold. He’s internally debating with himself on whether he should go back to sleep when she makes the decision for him.

“Sleep, let’s give it another go when we wake up.”

 “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

He only nods, moving to gather his clothes from the floor. He finds his trousers first and slips them on, facing away from her.

“Not yet,” she amends, as if she had somehow known her response had hurt him. “In the morning, I will.”

He doesn’t point out that it already is morning. They had woken up multiple times during the night and had satisfied each other countless times. The first time he had been the one to wake up, pulling her warm body into his arms, kissing her shoulder as an overwhelming feeling of gratitude took over his heart at the sight of her still curled up beside him. She had taken it as him initiating and things had quickly escalated from there. That had been followed by more sleep and even more sex, and now the sky is tinged with a warm orange and he can’t bring himself to feel regret at the prospect of being sleep-deprived at work. 

He looks down at her and catches her watching him, his shirt from last night hanging open on her shoulders. He wants to know if this is her own cruel way of revenge—false hope, a taste of what could have been and what may be but will inevitably never happen. He wants to know why he’s been allowed to feel as much as he has only for it to be violently taken away from him in the end.

“Come back,” she says, delicate hand patting the empty spot beside her on the bed. “It’s far too early to get ready for work, isn’t it?”

“I’ll make you breakfast later. Get some more sleep.”

He retrieves a fresh shirt and leaves her alone in the bedroom, not turning around to give her a chance to seduce him back into his own bed. He waits by the door for a few seconds, listening for any tell-tale signs that she’ll follow him out, and breathes a sigh of relief when his ears are met with silence. The papers he had been reading before turning in for the night lay abandoned on the coffee table, the sight of them prompting images of Hermione stumbling upon them and asking him questions he can’t and won’t answer, even for her. 

His legs carry him to the sitting room and he hastily shoves the papers into the drawer, eyeing the half-empty bottle of pills staring back up at him. He grabs it, pops one pill into his mouth and swallows it dry, then tosses it back in to join the papers. The drawer is locked with a flick of his wand and he starts to breathe easier.

There are many things he doesn’t know about whatever it is going on between them, but one thing he is certain of is that she must never find out about his depression. The thought that she had only slept with him four days ago out of pity had plagued his mind during the interim between then and now. It had taken him every logical cell in his body to convince himself that the impossibility of her finding out about his illness came second only to the impossibility of her sleeping with anyone out of pity for their mental predicament.

He had spent hours every day thinking about what had happened between them, thinking about how and why it happened, how he wanted it to happen again. He wouldn’t go as far as deluding himself into thinking that he was anywhere near done thinking about it, and her showing up in his flat and then fucking him senseless for hours certainly did not offer any help.

What he didn’t have any problem accepting was that there wouldn’t have been a repeat after the first time. Another thing he had been certain of—that Granger would never set foot in his flat again, that it had been a one-time thing. Then last night happened, and now she’s in his bedroom, possibly sleeping, and he’s in his kitchen preparing the ingredients for pancakes.

He’s finally going to put that tin of powdered milk to use.

 Draco suspects that it’s the smell of food that has her emerging from the bedroom, his shirt buttoned up around her form and her hair resembling a nest of some large bird species. He’s torn between the desire to fix her hair for her (with his hands, not using magic) and the desire to see if it would be possible to mess it up even further. He slides her a plate of pancakes and pulls the tin from the cupboard, presenting it to her.

“Is that… did you get me powdered milk?”

His brain tells him to lie, to downplay the gesture, make up a story about seeing it during one of his grocery runs and purchasing it out of curiosity. He knows she would stop believing him the moment he tries to pretend he does his own grocery.

“Yes.”

She stares at him, mouth hanging slightly ajar, and he braces himself for the questions to come. “I have so many questions about that, but I must admit I’m more hungry than curious.”

It’s his turn to gape at her. The many years between them has given him the privilege of knowing enough about her to know that she must be burning to ask him, to clarify, to make sense of whatever it is that isn’t making sense to her brilliant brain. He watches as she pops the lid open and spoons out a generous amount of the milk, pouring it all over her pancakes. The sound she makes when her lips close around the first bite is devilish and he feels his face heat up.

“Here, try some,” she says when she catches him still staring at her. She catches him by surprise when she leans forward to feed him off her own fork. “Go on, it won’t bite you back if you bite it first.”

The milk is too sweet and it dries out the edges of the pancake. He tries to hide his grimace by drinking from his tea but she catches it and openly laughs at his reaction.

“Bit weird, is it?” she asks him, still eating the ruined cakes. “My parents made me these, but they had forgotten that we’d already run out of syrup. They were arguing about it, so I just grabbed a tin of milk and poured it all over my pancakes so they would stop fighting about the bloody syrup.”

He finds that he’s at a loss for words. He’d heard about what happened to Hermione’s parents, what she’d been forced to do to keep them safe from Death Eaters, from people like him. The sweetness from the milk turns sour in his mouth and he feels his hands begin to tremble. Once again he’s left wondering why she would ever associate herself with him, why she would ever trust herself to be vulnerable in his presence, why she would look at him and talk to him like he isn’t scum on the bottom of her shoe.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. The words are inadequate, useless, but he continues to speak. “I’m sorry about your parents. I’m sorry you had to do that. I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear this from, but I’m so sorry about everything that happened to you during the war. I’m sorry about everything I did to you, every nasty word I told you before the war. I’m sorry, Granger, I’m sorry I stood by and did nothing but watch when my demented aunt did that to you—”

“Draco, shh.” He hadn’t even realized his voice had risen and had taken on a hysterical tone before she was suddenly standing before him, his face in her hands. “It’s okay, Draco, I forgive you. I’ve forgiven you. We were children. I don’t blame you.”

“Well you should,” he says, stepping back from her reassuring touch. “I was your bully, I was a Death Eater, I let those people into Hogwarts and let them torture and kill children. I called you that word, that fucking word, for years.”

She looks like she’s ready to argue but he doesn’t let her, speaking over her attempts to placate him and tell him he’s not a monster. “I let her do this to you,” he says, grabbing her arm and pointing at the word engraved there. The letters are still an angry shade of red against her skin, framed by other tiny scars that have already faded. “You lost your family trying to hide them from us, from me. Many people hate me, Granger, but none of them should hate me more than you.”

She looks like she’s on the verge of tears and he doesn’t know which one of them is shaking harder. He thinks she might slap him, maybe wake up from whatever delusion she had the he could be someone she should be sleeping with. Whatever they had, surely she’s going to end it now that he’s talked some sense into her.

“Are you sorry?”

The words are spoken so quietly that he half believes them to be a figment of his imagination. He stares down at her, into the fire of her eyes and the set of her shoulders. Forget a slap, he thinks she might punch him.

“More than anything,” he replies.

“Then I forgive you,” she tells him, moving to wrap her arms around his waist. With her head pressed against his chest, her voice comes out muffled when she adds, “And don’t you dare presume to tell me that I shouldn’t forgive you. That’s for me to decide.”

He doesn’t doubt her words, doesn’t doubt for a second that her Gryffindor heart has forgiven him. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if she’d forgiven him before he asked for her forgiveness; it’s simply her character to be the forgiving one, to be the person to look for the good in people even when they’ve been swallowed whole by the bad.  He allows himself a moment to embrace her to him, pull her body even closer to his and kiss the top of her wild hair.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t meet her gaze. “Eat your pancakes, Granger.”

 She’s redressed in her old clothes and about to floo in to work. He wonders if she’s not worried about people commenting that she’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday sans the knit cap but decides to keep his mouth shut on the matter. There’s a myriad of questions in his head that he’d much rather voice but, just like the last time, he chooses to savour the last moments. He doesn’t know when he’ll see her again, but he knows last night had only been another moment of weakness on her part. She had been emotional over something and for some twisted reason he had been the one she sought comfort from.

It’s never going to happen again, he knows. A one-time fluke that just so happened to be repeated a second time, but he wouldn’t dare raise his hopes up for a third. The world simply does not work that way.

She looks like she wants to say something, her brow furrowed and her bottom lip caught in between her teeth. She looks up to meet his eyes and they just stare at each other for a few moments, her working something out in her brain and Draco just waiting for whatever it is she’s going to say.

“I never got to tell you,” she finally says.

“Tell me what?”

“I never got to tell you what happened, I said I would in the morning,” Hermione explains. There’s a hint of a smile playing at her lips but she looks nervous and he immediately regrets asking in the first place.

“It’s okay, Granger, I won’t pry into your personal business,” he says, feigning boredom. He sees a flash of trepidation in her eyes and wonders if he could fuck things up any further than he already has.

After a few terse moments, she seems to come to a decision and clenches her fists at her sides. “Would you like to talk about it over dinner?” she asks, her chin raised and her eyes staring directly into his.

He feels his mask slipping through his fingers, the surprise showing in his face and fuelling her confidence. His mind is reeling with about a dozen thoughts per second. She looks less scared and more determined, and she looks beautiful like this. She looks beautiful brandishing her Gryffindor courage. She looks beautiful in old clothes and with her hair smelling like his shampoo. She looks beautiful standing in front of his floo, standing inside his flat, she looks beautiful wearing his clothes—but she’s not his and why is she asking him out to dinner?

“Why?”

“To eat and converse, obviously,” she replies, her cheeks coloring. He thinks she looks beautiful like that too, flustered and annoyed at him. “Do you not want to, then?”

Draco decides then and there to stop trying to pretend that he would ever understand the inner workings of Hermione Granger’s head. He knows very little about her—she’s the most brilliant witch of her age, she eats her pancakes with powdered milk and takes her tea with one heaping cup of honey topped with an obscene amount of milk, and she uses about half a dozen drying charms on hair. She’s the poster girl for all Gryffindors, she’s a reluctant war heroine, she’s a healer and she probably overworks herself to near death. She’s the only girl he’s ever been in love with and she can never be his but there she is, asking him out to dinner.

“I would like to have dinner with you. When and where shall this take place?”

She giggles at his words and he decides that when she leaves his life for good (in the very near future, he knows) he would endeavour to keep the sound of her laughter playing in his head.

“Would tomorrow work for you? I have the day off,” she says, still smiling up at him. “I’ll bring takeout here.”

He realises that it’s only to be expected that they would have dinner at his place, not outside, not where people can see them and judge her for her choice in company. Whatever they are, it could never become public information, which is why he nods his head even though he doesn’t have the slightest idea as to what takeout is.

Her smile grows bigger and she also nods. She seems to hesitate for half a second before pushing on her tiptoes and kissing the corner of his mouth. The contact only lasts for a few blissful moments but it’s enough to leave him the slightest bit breathless.

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, Draco.”

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