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swampthingking · 1 month

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can’t study for my test because i’m having brain rot about neil accidentally getting super drunk and stumbling up to aaron like “andrew???” and aaron is like “wrong one” and neil is like “andrew.” and aaron is like “???? are you stupid” and neil goes to look for andrew but he stumbles into the table, and aaron has to catch him or he will get trampled for fucks sake, and neil just collapses into him in a drunk cuddly heap. and aaron is like “neil. you need to stand up” and neil is like “i am” and aaron is like “that’s because i’m holding you up” and they get neil to stand but neil kinda just flops into aaron’s arms again. and neil is like “i don’t hate you, i don’t, but it’s okay if you hate me” and aaron is like “ugh, ew are you really an emotional drunk???” and neil, to aaron’s horror, looks at him with tears in his eyes because you know when you’re too drunk and you kind of just get a little scared and you need help???? ya. and aaron is like … ok. and kinda holds neil until andrew comes back from the bar with more drinks. and he sees neil basically asleep on aaron’s shoulder, and aaron looking uncomfortable but accepting, so he kinda raises an eyebrow, an okay? and aaron nods and is just patting neil on his back

and tomorrow they’ll wake up and neil will toddle downstairs with his hand against his temple and aaron will have advil ready for him, and he’ll say “you’re annoying and you don’t know when to shut your mouth or mind your own business, but i don’t hate you” and the thank you for helping repair my relationship with my brother and thank you for testifying and thank you for staying goes unsaid but yeah

and that’s how aaron and neil became kind of friends

edit: vomited out a one shot for y’all (this will prob become a 5+1)

Aaron swirled his drink a few times, listening to the ice clacking against the glass.

Eden’s was packed tonight, courtesy of it being the end of the school year. College students and the regular patrons flocked to the bar, the dance floor, and all of the tables, leaving Aaron to reserve a high-top table, and his legs to dangle from the stool.

“Drew?”

Aaron ignored him in favor of the twinkling sound the ice makes in his glass. He’d already taken shots, danced, had another drink, danced again, and now Aaron’s body was heavy with alcohol and exhaustion.

“Drew,” Neil said again.

Aaron looked around their table and didn’t see Andrew. He remembered Andrew getting up and walking to the bar with their empty tray. Aaron found him a few seconds later, hands in his pockets at the bar. That and Neil, staring up at him, looking uneasy.

Before Aaron could tell Neil to get out of his face, Neil was speaking.

“Are you’nt having fun?” Neil frowned, blinking sleepy, hooded eyes at him. He leaned closer to study Aaron’s face.

“What are you doing?” Aaron grumbled, pushing Neil’s face away.

Aaron hadn’t even pushed him hard, he more removed Neil from his space rather than pushed him, but Neil wobbled like his world had tilted out of orbit. Aaron realized, quickly, that Neil was going to fall backwards. He grabbed two fistfuls of Neil’s shirt and pulled him forwards. Neil’s head lulled on his shoulders with the force, his chin hitting his chest then righting itself.

Aaron’s stomach lurched, sick with the thought that someone had put something in one of Neil’s drinks, as he would for anyone, but thankfully he’s never been put in that situation. Neil’s eyes were hooded, his face flushed. Aaron snapped once at Neil’s ear, and Neil recoiled immediately.

“Does your head hurt or anything?” Aaron asked. Neil shook his head, frowning.

“Are you dizzy? Follow my finger.” Aaron pushes Neil back so he can see his face, keeping one hand on Neil’s shoulder to hold him up. Neil follows Aaron’s finger as it moves back and forth, albeit a little labored, but not as if he’d been roofied. Aaron declares that Neil’s reaction times and responses are fine, but he still pulls the front of his shirt up and checks his belt, the button of his pants.

“What—?” Neil slapped a hand on his abdomen, stopping his shirt from being lifted any higher. Aaron didn’t need to see anything but his pants, but it was reassuring that Neil still had inhibitions.

His clothes were fine. His belt was still done, zipper up. No one had tried anything. Aaron relaxed.

“Sorry,” Aaron said. “Sorry, I just needed to…”

While racking his mind back to why Neil is this drunk, Aaron remembered Neil taking shots with Aaron, Nicky, and Kevin. Four shots. He’d seen Neil sip on another drink like the idiot had the tolerance for alcohol that the rest of them had.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Aaron said and released Neil. Neil attempted to step back, his hands raised in surrender.

“No?” Neil asked warily. Even drunk as fuck, he still respected boundaries. Andrew’s boundaries specifically, as it still hadn’t registered that he wasn’t talking to the right twin.

“I’m not Andrew,” Aaron said.

“Where’s Andrew?” Neil asked, turning his head pathetically in search. Aaron only had a good view of Andrew because they were seated at a high-top. Over the throng of taller people coupled with strobing lights, Neil’s view was obstructed.

“At the bar,” Aaron nodded in that direction.

Neil turned towards the bar. Well, he attempted to. He pivoted, lost his balance, and toppled into the table. He tried to right himself and started to fall to the other side. Aaron caught Neil before he could bust his shit and get trampled.

“Jesus Christ, Josten,” Aaron spat, righting Neil with hands on his biceps. Neil slapped a hand on the table and leaned his weight on it. The table quaked under such abuse, but held.

Neil turned slowly, grappling against the table as if he was standing in one of those spinning fair rides. In his excursion to simply spin 180°, his hand slipped off the edge of the table as he faced Aaron once again. He reached for the table, missed, reached for it again, missed, said, “Motherfucker,” under his breath, and finally gripped onto the edge. His eyes locked on Aaron’s again, and Neil’s useless hand landed on Aaron’s shoulder.

“Andrew,” Neil said. Aaron didn’t know if it was more a request or if it was just not registering.

“Wrong,” Aaron said, tense under Neil’s hand, but he didn’t push him off. He’d rather hold Neil up than peel him off the floor. “Aaron.”

“‘m very drunk,” Neil said, looking up pleadingly at Aaron as if he had a magical cure to shitfacedness, and all Neil had to do for it was look a little scared. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Aaron asked.

“I’m drunk.”

Aaron snorted. “That’s kind of the point when you’re at a bar.”

“But,” Neil said, taking a labored breath, “I’m…too drunk.”

This was beginning to feel exceedingly similar to speaking to a child. Aaron was annoyed, but not completely heartless, unlike the narrative of Aaron Neil had likely concocted. “It’s okay, Neil,” Aaron said. “You should sit down.”

Neil promptly sat as if there was a chair under him, but there was not. Aaron, still holding Neil vertical, got pulled out of his chair with the momentum. To avoid toppling to the ground—which did not get mopped as often as it should—Aaron planted his feet on the floor and hauled Neil up by his armpits.

“Help,” Neil murmured. His arms dropped to his sides as he yielded his dead weight to Aaron.

“Stand up,” Aaron grunted, readjusting to wrap an arm around Neil’s back. One of Neil’s arms flopped over Aaron’s shoulder.

“I am,” Neil complained.

“No, you are not.”

“I am.”

“Neil,” Aaron said through clenched teeth, “I am holding you up. You need to lock your knees.”

“Oh,” Neil said. He looked at his feet as if he needed to check they were on the ground.

To be fair, Neil did lock his knees, but he also leaned all of his upper body on Aaron, arms still hanging limply at his sides. He tucked his head into Aaron’s neck with, what seemed, every intention to make a home there for the night.

“Neil,” Aaron said, frozen against the hair tickling his cheek. “God dammit.”

“And…ron,” Neil spoke against his shoulder.

“Yes,” Aaron said sarcastically. “That’s me.”

“Can I j’stay here?” Neil slurred.

From what Aaron had seen of Neil’s dynamic with his brother, he knew Neil would get off if he said no. He could place Neil into a stool or pull up a chair with a back so he wouldn’t fall out and concuss himself. He could shove Neil off and make him fend for himself. He could pawn him off to Andrew.

At the moment, those other options seemed like far too much work.

That, or maybe it was the med student in him, the intrinsic urge to heal and help and nurture that smarted at the thought of pushing Neil off.

Aaron didn’t push him off when Neil readjusted and tucked an arm into his chest, the other gripping Aaron for stability. He didn’t when Neil asked again, a quiet, “Aaron.”

“Okay,” Aaron conceded. He rubbed a hand up and down Neil’s back placatingly, but also because Neil seemed like he needed it. And he came to Aaron for it. Well, he came to Andrew and got Aaron. But he didn’t push Aaron off, and Aaron hasn’t done the same.

And they just…stood like that. For what seemed like a long time, but it probably was only a few minutes before Neil spoke again.

“Aaron,” Neil said.

Aaron hummed in response.

“I don’ hate you.”

“What?” Aaron asked. “What the fuck are you talking about, Neil?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“What?” Aaron said again.

“I don’wanna fight.” Neil lets out a colossal breath.

“We haven’t fought in a long time,” Aaron says, his idea of agreement. Acceptance.

Neil was quiet, because it was true. Neil seemed content to lay in Aaron’s arms, and Aaron didn’t have another stool next to him. He sure as shit wasn’t giving his up for Neil, but Neil was genuinely so unsteady on his feet that Aaron couldn’t let him go.

He trembled a bit, and Aaron was almost amused that after everything Neil had been through, being a little too drunk is what finally did it for him.

But Aaron had felt that way before. Inebriated and scared in a crowded room of strangers. Neil, however, has people he knows. How can Aaron be upset at Neil for wanting the comfort that he also craved? How can he be upset that Neil feels safe enough with Andrew to ask for help? That his brother finally feels safe with someone too?

“Aaron,” Neil said.

“What,” Aaron said.

“It’s okay if you hate me.”

“Oh God,” Aaron groaned, “Ew. Are you really an emotional drunk?”

Neil pulled back and, to Aaron’s horror, there were actual tears in his eyes. His lip trembled as he bit it, holding the tears in. Aaron hated how much of himself he was seeing in Neil tonight. The harrowing fact that maybe they are quite similar.

“Oh God,” Aaron said again, mortified. He grabbed the back of Neil’s head and shoved it back into his shoulder, effectively hiding Neil’s teary face.

He cast a desperate look to Andrew, who was finally on his way back to the table. He patted Neil on the shoulder, like one would burp a baby when they have no idea how to do so.

“Andrew.”

Andrew didn’t need prompting to look. His eyes were trained on Neil and Aaron from the moment he turned around. By the nonchalance of his movements and his lack of alarm, Aaron guessed he had been watching their interaction.

Andrew set the tray down on the table and cast a significant look between them, settling on Neil’s intoxicated form keeled over on Aaron’s shoulder.

Andrew raises one eyebrow, a silent question, an okay?

Aaron finds himself nodding, and unsure why. All he knows right now, a few drinks in, is that he doesn’t hate this. And he doesn’t hate that Neil doesn’t hate him.

The smell of coffee set Neil’s feet moving like a Pavlovian response. He was half awake already with a pounding headache, like his eyeballs were beating his closed lids to death.

Neil toddles down the stairs with his eyes closed, a hand pressed hard to his temple, stabilizing his brain.

Aaron was standing at the counter already, facing the sputtering coffee pot. His arms were crossed, hair ruffled from sleep. At the sound of footsteps behind him, he turned.

The memories from last night played past Neil’s mind like a sped-up movie. He grimaced in embarrassment, and felt a little sick at how drunk he was. How stupid he was, to drink that much. He should have known his tolerance isn’t matched with the rest of them. He could have gotten hurt, could have said something—

Fuck.

“Fuck,” Neil said, covering his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Aaron said. He turned back to the coffee, though his posture was rigid.

Neil grabbed a glass of water. He noticed Aaron watching from the corner of his eye, but Neil chose to ignore him, figuring that’s best. He sat on the counter with his water, sipping it slowly while he and Aaron waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

The silence was thick, but they were both too stubborn to leave the kitchen. Usually, they preferred to wait and pretend the other wasn’t there.

That’s what Neil thought, at least. After a painful few minutes, Aaron huffed and grabbed the bottle of Advil from the drawer next to the sink. He shook two pills out and sat them next to Neil.

Neil stared at them until Aaron cast a pointed look at the pills, then physically gestured to them with raised brows. Neil took them while Aaron watched.

The coffee pot beeped. Aaron made a split second decision, grabbing two mugs and pouring coffee into them. He slid Neil’s across the counter. It sloshed over the side, but Aaron wasn’t capable of caring at the moment. His mind was busy, and he knew Neil had noticed his lack of eye contact; the analytical fuck.

“Look,” Aaron said. He did not look at Neil to say it. “You’re annoying, and you never know when to shut your mouth or mind your business. Most of the time, I’m convinced you have a death wish, and a lot of the time I find myself resenting you. You complicated our lives, put us all in danger, didn’t give a shit.”

Neil’s chest hurt. He didn’t know if it was anger or guilt. Aaron started talking again before he could figure it out.

“But I don’t hate you. I can’t, really. I can’t even fault you for the shitty things you did, because it all worked out.” Aaron glanced quickly at Neil, looked away. His cheeks were red.

The thank you for helping repair my relationship with my brother and thank you for testifying and thank you for being good to Andrew went unsaid, but Aaron hoped Neil wasn’t obtuse enough to force him to say it out loud.

Neil must have understood, because he nodded. Aaron figured that was as close to a reconciliation they were going to have, so he leaned against the counter and pretended everything was normal.

For the first time, they drank their coffee in silence without animosity orchestrating it.

Neil’s mug was half empty when Andrew joined them. He paused in the doorway, squinty eyed and mussed, looking between the two. Neil on the counter, Aaron leaning against it. Their silence, but lack of tension.

“This is weird,” Andrew finally said, his voice gravely from sleep.

“Yeah,” Neil and Aaron said simultaneously.

Neil glanced over his mug at Aaron, the corner of his mouth twitching. Aaron regarded it, but looked away, because something like contentment had made its way onto Andrew’s face.

Aaron smiled at that instead.

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lazylittledragon · 10 months

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happy gay month :3

#stranger things #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #pride #sponsored by my endless brainrot #also if you know where the text is from without googling we can get married right now #fun fact! would not recommend drinking 2 mojitos while trying to draw #because you will hate it right up until it's done #edit: i. just realised eddie's shirt is basically the same as the one i made last year and wear all the time whOOPS

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turtleblogatlast · 18 days

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Every day I’m haunted by the fact the boys happily swim in sewer water

Even if it’s filtered somehow there’s no way it’s not still nasty 😭 Bet they can defeat any of their villains just by accidentally giving them diseases I swear

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #bless their hearts but they’re nasty #it’s funny because like #each and every one of them has moments #where they’re a typical disgusting teenage boy #and then the next they have STANDARDS #can’t blame Leo for being so determined to go to a spa #even if he nearly licked his own foot that’s prob cleaner than anything else the boys have been up to in years 💀#thank you shelldon for all your hard work cleaning after then 🙏#they’re all gross teenage boys!!!#even Donnie he is NO exception here #bro was DRINKING A BEVERAGE while wading through sewer water he is just as gross as his bros #bro also talks with his mouth full he is no more refined than his equally gross bros fr and I love it #but yeah no way that water isn’t disgusting even filtering it would still leave grime on the walls of the sewer for yearsss #pros of them moving into an abandoned subway system is fixing their sense of smell enough to not be as gross #100% that’s part of why they didn’t mind being so filthy pre shelldon #because I mean they were literally raised in the sewers and they’re teenage boys like that’s a double whammy #THEY ALSO DONT WEAR SHOES #the few times any of them do the shoes are discarded before heading home 💀#I love them tho they are endearing anyhow #April’s immune system must be godlike just being around them fr #honestly no joke Mikey’s probably the cleanest of them all #just by virtue of being a chef #Leo I see as a mixture since he no doubt loves to pamper himself so he’s clean like #a percentage of time before he goes out and ruins his own hard work #Donnie is similar in that he’s just VERY SELECTIVE about what he thinks is too gross #Raph may be more on the stinky end but it’s not his fault he has his stinks and eats things of dubious origin(esp since his bros ate poison)#Donnie and Leo really have the gall to be sick about Raph eating the origami salami but they have no room to talk #all their villains are prob like please stay away from us we have salmonella now

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toxooz · 5 months

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workin man (orc)

#ollie #he carries the same lethargic boredom as that one black jaguar drinking video that i ofc cannot find bc the internet is shit and useless lo #anyway wanna touch on ollies ''''''''''''real job'''''''''''' as a metal worker more To Cope #he has a special board he uses just to get to work with thicker sandpaper layer probably #me 🤝 ollie working and being sweaty all the time then being too tired to do what we actually enjoy and going into a depression spiral #oc #original character #my art #monster oc #monster #monster boy #half orc #tiefling #demon #demon oc #half demon #muscle #muscular #orc

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kapellputs · 13 days

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The empty doesn’t let Cas rest

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The empty replays cas’ best memories, taking from him the meaning they once held, Dean isn’t quite Dean anymore

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starry-bi-sky · 3 months

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fast food is the best course of action after causing a scene. ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀɴʏᴀʟ ᴀʟ ɢʜᴜʟ ᴀᴜ

(First Post Here and Second Post Here

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Danny finds Sam easily.

She's right where she said she was over the phone: standing outside on a balcony, in Gotham, at Father's many charity functions.

("Would you still be willing to fly over to Gotham, Danny?" She asks, her voice ringing clear through the speakers. Danny is already climbing out his window before she even finishes her sentence. He was just about to settle down for the night, his ghosts would know better by now than to disturb him at this time. The Box Ghost not included.)

("Of course." He says, sounding more confident than he feels. Sam was one of his best— closest friends, he would do anything she or Tucker asked. Even if it means stepping foot into his Father's city. He drops down silently, and walks through the house's ghost shield. "Would you like me to bring you anything?")

(Sam sighs through the phone, relief leaking through. "One of the veggie burgers from Nasty Burgers would be great, with their new ecto-fries. Extra salt. I'm sick of all this rich people food.")

(A small smile pulls across Danny's face, tilting at the corner as his living form falls away to his ghost self. "Alright," he says, and kicks himself off the ground, "I'll be there in a few minutes.")

("Thanks, Danny.")

He had the bag of food with him, stored in a container he had to run back to the house to get that would prevent the food from cooling during his flight over. Clutching it in hand, he floats down behind Sam and sheds his invisibility.

Being visible and being invisible always felt different, but in a way Danny can never describe, no matter how many times he tries to think about it. It's like a gut-feeling, a sixth sense, he always knows when he's visible and when he is not.

His ghost form burns away like steel wool being lit, and Danny drops the last foot to the ground silently. In his other hand lies his thermos, but filled with plain ectoplasm — lazarus water. "I have your food."

(He brought the thermos for himself — his side was still healing from his last fight with Technus. The ghost impaled him with a broken pipe, and Danny returned the favor by wedging his sword into his chest. Technus had been quite offended by him ruining his favorite coat.)

Sam jumps a foot into the air, and her hand slams across her mouth to muffle the shriek she lets out as she whirls around. "Danny!" She hisses, her voice rising in pitch, and her eyes narrow at him into a glare. "Freaking-- Tucker's right, we seriously need to put a bell on you."

"You have been saying that for years," Danny grins, sharp-toothed and jack-knifed, and passes the container over to her. "And yet I've yet to see any kind of bell." He was going to start getting disappointed at this rate.

As Sam takes the container, Danny hops up onto the railing and looks around. He hadn't seen any of Father's other children lurking around the building before he revealed himself, but that doesn't mean they aren't there. He wasn't going to fool himself into thinking that their stealth skills were poor.

He wasn't that arrogant.

...Anymore.

"Oh you will." Sam threatens, unzipping the container and grabbing the takeout bag. "I'll get you a collar and everything, we can start calling you Catwoman." When she pulls out her fries, Danny snaps forward and steals one from the box, ignoring her indignant yell as he pops it into his mouth.

"I spent my own money on these fries, Sam." He sniffs, leaning away from her with a stifled huff of laughter as she swats at him. "So they are technically my fries. And also, Catwoman would be a poor thief if she wore a bell."

Sam grumbles at him, and takes a bite out of a handful of fries. "I'll venmo you money." She says past a mouthful of food, Danny would have been disgusted in the past, when he was still new. But he's gotten used to this... normality. So he makes no reaction to it. "How does three hundred bucks sound?"

Danny immediately frowns.

"Did you have a fight with your parents?" He asks, eyes glancing to the doors. Doors that are covered heavily by curtains and blurred heavily, decadent music passing through in muffled sounds. He shifts himself away from the light. "You only spend that much money when they've pissed you off."

Sam's chewing stops, and her annoyed expression falters into one Danny knows well -- hurt, furrowed brows, a small frown, disappointment -- and she turns her head away from him. She swallows. "Yeah." she says, quiet.

Oh.

Danny knows that tone too.

Guilt settles like a rock in his chest. He leans forward, "Was it about me again?" He wasn't blind to the disdain Sam's parents had for him, far from it. This wasn't the first time Sam had gotten into a fight with them over her friendship with him and Tucker. But especially him. He unsettled people, even after years of observing his age-mates and trying to mimic their behavior, and anyone who knew him in middle school knew it was an act.

Sam's silence gives him all the confirmation he needs, and the guilt heavies itself with the weight of the sky. Danny's never much cared about others' opinions of him -- he is (was?) an Al Ghul, they never heed to mind what the weight of a simpleton's thoughts.

But.. he cares a little a lot when it hurts his friends like this. He presses his lips together into a thin line, and forces the words out through his teeth. It sounds robotic. Al Ghul's do not apologize. "I... am sorry." But this one does. It doesn’t come easy.

Sam sighs through her nose, and turns to roll her eyes at him. "Don't apologize on their behalf when you won't even apologize for your own; their assholes." She says, and goes reaching for more fries.

It's a sign, a signal. A silent word for the conversation to move on, to change. A distraction. Danny grasps it with both hands, and makes an offended noise in the back of his throat. And like he has learned, puts a hand to his chest like a scandalized American southern lady. "I apologize! I apologize plenty."

She snorts. "Only when you think it matters." And pokes him in the ribs sharply with her fry. He withholds a wince and snatches it out of her hands. "You're about as unapologetic as they come, Danny J. Fenton. I've seen you look more sincere when you're trying to drive your sword between Vlad's ribs."

"Stabbing Masters is a very important task for me, Sam." Danny says in only partially faux-seriousness. Masters has yet to realize that Danny had no interest in becoming his son, but he had to (reluctantly) admire his persistence. "Of course I will apply myself to it as best as I can."

He grins triumphantly when Sam laughs, and she reaches over to shove him square in the chest. He barks out a laugh of his own as he grips onto the balcony railing and catches himself at an angle.

"Quit with your method actor talk," Sam retorts, grinning sharply while Danny twists himself back up elegantly. "I know you can talk like a normal person, I've literally seen you do it."

Danny sniffs, and snatches more fries from the carton as revenge. "I'm not entirely sure what you mean, Miss Sam." He says, grin-twisting when Sam rolls her eyes. "My speech has always been this way. This 'normal' you speak of, I do not know it."

She waves her hand dismissively at him. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. But if you keep talking like that, I'm pushing you off the balcony."

"Such violence, Sam."

He gets a laugh again, full of disbelief without any of the annoyance. "I'm gonna be the one that stabs you, oh my god. Pot meet kettle." She looks at him again, smiling.

Danny smiles back, and with a flick of his wrist pulls out a kunai from his sleeve. It was one of the few weapons Mother was able to pass on to him whenever she made her scarce visits. He cherishes it well, along with anything else she was capable of giving him.

He holds the handle out to her, and watches her face shift from disbelief to shock, then back to disbelief. "Then you're gonna need a weapon to do that."

"Of course you have a pointy object on you." She mutters, and takes the kunai and puts it in her purse. Danny makes a pleased hum, it resonates low in his core, and drops his hand. "When do you not have a pointy object on you?"

As if to make her point, Danny's hands twist near his side, and he holds his palms up to her, revealing the shobo he had also hidden on him. He gives her a shit-eating grin. "Never." He lowers his hand, and pockets the small weapon once again.

Sam huffs, "Of course," she repeats, "thanks. I was gonna bring a knife but..."

Danny finishes the sentence for her, kicking his feet idly and knowingly. "The security at the door?" He'd seen them on his flight over the building. It wouldn't do much in the face of the Rogues, but at least they were good at keeping appearances and keeping out the smaller threats.

He rolls his eyes and turns his head away, looking up to the ugly, smog-covered skies. There was no bat signal in the air, and while that was a good thing, Danny almost wished there was. He wanted to see it. "I saw, and I would’ve called Father foolish if he hadn’t hired help. He attracts trouble almost as badly as I do."

"Maybe it's hereditary," Sam jokes, laughing under her breath. With her fries finished, she started on her veggie burger. "At least your dad isn't a vigilante like you are."

Danny smiles wryly. It felt nice to be able to talk more freely about this. That he didn't have to hide the fact that his father was Bruce Wayne, now that Sam knew it from her own accord. Maybe he could have conversations like these more often. Even if it was limited to Bruce Wayne only.

(Even if it felt a little terrifying to know that his father was so close by, close enough that Danny could reach out and touch him. To speak to him. But how would he explain that? And with an audience?)

(He’s wanted to see him since he was a kid, and he still does. It clings onto him like a cough that doesn’t go away after the cold already has, and while it has faded over the years, it clings. His mother’s words still ring in his ears however; it’s not safe. It’s not safe.)

(And isn’t that why he faked his death in the first place? So that his little brother would be safe? Why he gave up the heirship, his home, his Mother, Damian, and his chance to meet his Father? Going to see Father, even now, would be throwing that all away. He has to stay away.)

(Why is Damian with Father if staying with Father was unsafe?)

He just needed to tell Tucker. Danny wouldn’t keep him out of the loop, he was just as much as his friend as Sam was. His eyes draw towards the door, where the golden glow of lights was still pouring through, where music was playing loudly. "Yeah, fortunately."

They fall into a comfortable silence after that, and Danny finally cracks open his thermos. The pipe Technus impaled him with was covered in a goo that Danny didn’t recognize, but whatever it was, his injury was taking its time healing. The ectoplasm was speeding it up.

He isn’t sure what the difference between the ectoplasm that Drs. Fenton collected and Grandfather’s Lazarus pools is, but there’s a difference. He swirls the thermos slowly, watching as the ectoplasm inside twists into a small whirlpool sluggishly.

When left alone, it thickens into a consistency similar to egg whites, or perhaps a thick smoothie, but reverts back into a water-like substance when moved and swirled. It was strange; unexplainable. He can understand, to an extent, why the Drs. Fenton are so obsessed with studying it and the dimension it comes from.

Sam watches him idly as he brings the thermos to his lips and drinks from it. The effect is instantaneous, a sense of relief washing over Danny as if someone had put a soothing balm onto an injury. It buzzes down to his fingertips, and when he lowers the thermos, he licks his lips and watches the tips of his fingers burn green like frostbite.

“Your hair turned white again.” Sam comments, her hand reaching out and touching the hair on the nape of his neck. While it’s not the first time Sam’s touched his hair, it still makes him tense up with her hand so close to his throat. Instinct. dan

He ignores the urge to bat her hand away, humming thoughtfully. “I’ve noticed it does that.” He says, pulling down his bangs to see if they’ve also turned white. No, still black. He lets go. “Let me guess; my eyes are green too?” He lifts the thermos again and peers into the chrome casing.

Sam nods, “Yep, but it’s only the, uh.” She makes a circle around her eyes with her finger. “The iris part. Everything else is fine.”

Danny can see that. The faint reflection on the chrome casts back an intense green. He takes another sip. It chills the back of his teeth, and he can feel his canines warp and sharpen. He runs his tongue over them, and swallows.

Sam is still watching him, her fingers drumming against the balcony railing. “What’s it taste like?”

“Carbonated.” He says dryly, before taking a large swig. He couldn’t name a specific flavor if he tried, it changed every time he took a sip. The only thing that stayed consistent was that it tasted carbonated. And slightly sweet. When he pulls the thermos away, Danny twists his body towards her and offers it out, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Want to try?”

Her reaction is immediate. Sam’s nose scrunches up and her mouth twists into a smile, and she makes a huffing-laugh sound. “No, thank you.” She pushes it away lightly with her fingers, “I don’t know how to explain to my parents why my hair is white.”

Right. Danny pulls the thermos away and puts it down beside him, straining his eyes to see if the rest of his hair has changed colors. Even just his first sip would take half an hour to fade back to its normal black, and he was a halfa. He had no idea how long it’d take to fade on Sam, who was human.

There’s movement from the corner of his eye, and Danny snaps his head towards the source. There’s a figure, small, a boy, trying to hide behind one of the curtains at the door. His form just barely peeking out from the angle Danny was sitting at. He wouldn’t have seen him if the boy hadn’t moved.

His fingers curl tightly into the railing, and he breathes in sharp. Sam’s smile crumbles away and she turns to see what he’s looking at. “I should go.” He says, and reaches for his thermos. “There’s someone spying on us. Don’t say anything, just look at me.”

Sam’s expression warps, twists. Her eyes widen, her jaw starts to drop before fixing itself into place, and her shoulders curl up and tense. She forces it all to smooth over, and she leans casually against the railing. There’s a tick in her jaw. “I see.” Her voice comes through teeth. “Do you think they saw you?”

“I am not sure.” Danny says. He keeps an eye on the figure as he twists himself over and grabs the Nasty Burger bag and the container. He tries not to look like he’s rushing. He is. How long has that boy been there? How much did he see? Did he hear anything?

“Father, fortunately, has privacy films on the glass. Nobody should have seen me unless they’re specifically trying to peep through the door.” He says. The boy seems to realize that Danny was starting to leave. And, his heart beginning to sink, instead of leaving, moves to grab the door handle instead.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

Danny’s breath catches in his throat, he’s hoping that isn’t who he think it is. But how else would he have not noticed an eavesdropper on their conversation unless it was someone who was capable of bypassing those skills? He told himself that he wouldn’t fool himself into thinking that his siblings’ had poor stealth. He got distracted.

Five years, five years. He refuses to let that go down the drain. He zips up the container and throws his legs over the other side of the railing, his back facing the door. He hears the doorknob click, and without a word to Sam, slips off down the side and down to the ground below.

Just in time. The once muffled music now sounds blaring as the door presumably is thrown open and the pull of invisibility washes over him like a second skin. He doesn't stay to see who it is.

#dpxdc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dpdc #dpxdc crossover #danyal al ghul au #older brother danny #first danny pov of the au! whoo!#danny's hair turns white if he drinks ectoplasm brrrrr and his eyes turn green. good for him #this sat in my drafts for the last few days until i finally finished it during class #it was a math class and i already knew the material so tis fiiiine. now i just need to finish my CFAU post rewrite :)#ectoplasm tastes like that time i went to go get pepsi from the soda machine and it was all out of the pepsi flavoring so instead i got a #cup full of carbonated liquid. it was disgusting. ectoplasm kinda tastes like that. sometimes.#danny smiles in this more than i thought he would but yk it fits. he IS more smiley around his friends and family.#ectoplasm is a weird non-newtonion fluid and danny is fascinated. its got the consistency of egg whites one minute and then water the next #its a water slime and then suddenly its as brittle as annealed glass. it heats up and rots like milk or it heats up and boils like water #it congeals. it thickens. it boils. it solidifies. it does whatever it wants. it gels and melts into a tar-like substance #how long has damian been standing there? good question. :) i almost had him open the door and make eye contact with damian before falling #backwards. i also almost had it be *bruce* and damian opening the door bc bruce found out that damian pulled a knife on sam and was gonna #have him come apologize. that would be a fun scene. prolonged eye contact prolonged eye contact prolonged eye contact #imagery brrrr. had fun playing with how danny's ghost form works. if anyone has seen a video of steel wool burning thats how i imagine #danny's ghost transformation to be like.#also ayyy balancing danny's dialogue be like “how fancy should he sound and how Normal Teenager Should He Sound”#when sam gets home she catches tucker up to speed about everything including the convos with the waynes she had and they both form the #'“Fuck Them Waynes” squad. Sam has jumped to the entirely wrong conclusion about danny's separation from his family but in her defense.#it is a pretty sound conclusion to jump to considering the lack of context she has from danny's prior home life. which is almost none at al #so to her it looks like danny got abandoned by bruce wayne

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ohitslen · 10 months

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They are doing the thing

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astal-art · 1 year

Video

This is so fucking funny there are so many things about this oh my god

#wilson Yelling at house while also getting him a glass of water to drink #him raising his voice just to be annoying when house gets close #the annoyed rambling the whole time #The fact that he #for no reason AT ALL! Took a handful of spoons and violently threw them in the sink #just to make noise to annoy house even more #the diss at the end #and the very real analysis a min later not pictured #’YOURE BETTER OFF WITH WATER 😐😐😐’#the fucking spoons bro he’s so fucking funny #house #house md #hilson #james wilson

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 5 months

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the green in your eyes (makes me feel warm inside) ; megumi fushiguro

synopsis; in the comfort of a familiar bookstore, you find a boy. a pretty boy, who’s always reading, who doesn’t speak unless he has to. you’d like to get to know him — and maybe you will.

word count; 4.6k

contents; megumi fushiguro/reader, gn!reader, fluffy!!, lots of pining from afar, bookstore au, no curses au, reader is an overworked student bc uni is beating my ass, gumi is kind of awkward but hes cute <3, gojo mentioned twice (stay safe), can u tell im excited for christmas … :'3

a/n; bookstore employee gumi who hates every single customer except for you is so real to me

(@riaki its here …🙇‍♂️)

he’s there again.

with a decisive step forward, you drag the door open, and the flutter of a bell resounds throughout the bookstore. a precious little jingle, alerting him of your presence.

the boy at the counter gives you a glance. his navy eyes settle on your bundled up figure, and a flicker of familiarity blooms in the scope of his iris, a kind of recognition. something that makes your heart feel like a clumped up little ball of snow.

(oh. it’s you.

you can almost hear the silent words fall past his lips.)

it only lasts for a second, barely even that, your gazes overlapping — then he’s back to reading.

today, you recognize the book in his hands. the hardcover looks just a tiny bit worn, but still well taken care of. well-loved. and it’s a pretty rendition; a butterfly just above the title, snakes crawling on either side, vines stretching out across the scope of the image. there’s a kind of mystique to it. pretty.

wuthering heights, you read off the cover.

a little odd, in hindsight. you’ve only ever seen him read nonfiction. maybe he decided to broaden his horizons?

after a brief moment’s contemplation, your feet begin to move. taking another small step forward, inching closer, while the door falls shut behind you. blocking out the snowfall and colourful lights illuminating the street.

mitten-clad hands go to brush stray snowflakes off your shoulders, as you shift from foot to foot, halfheartedly attempting to warm up your numbed toes. wallowing in the atmosphere of the cozy little bookstore; breathing in the smell of peppermint, the hint of freshly brewed coffee. from the boy, you assume — he’s got his usual mug on standby, a cute little black dog etched into the ceramic. steam rises from it, floating up into the air, and a fragrance of espresso wafts throughout the store.

low christmas music plays from the speakers, barely audible. pleasing to your sensitive ears and tired mind. it’s the usual mix of well-loved songs, for the most part, but then some you haven’t heard before. you can only assume he picked them out himself; pretty instrumentals, or low, gravelly voices, adding to that particular atmosphere simmering around you. nostalgic, a little melancholic.

the boy behind the counter looks angelic.

he always does, when he’s reading — and he usually is. gentle, in the way he turns the pages, awfully delicate, keeping them still between his thumb and forefinger. lips pursed, brows just a tiny bit furrowed. concentrated, immersed. dark eyes trailing over the tiny letters, scanning the ink of the paper, twisting the syllables inside his mind. almost tasting them on his tongue, with the way he wets his lips. they look a little chapped.

for some reason, the sight seems to render you sort of speechless. frozen. like he’s a pretty bluebird seated on your windowsill, chirping softly in the wake of morning, and you’re afraid of scaring him away.

— his eyes meet yours, and you visibly stiffen.

it’s smooth, the motion of his hands. how swiftly he flicks the book shut, placing it face down on the counter with a twitch of his lithe fingers. not before slipping a pretty bookmark in between the pages, lilac-coloured, with flowers embroidered into the silky texture. you wonder if he made it himself.

his voice spills out into the air, a little raspy. deep, but velvety, sending shivers down your spine. he clears his throat, and you watch his adam’s apple bob. ”do you need anything?”

a second passes.

it catches you off guard, the mellow sound of his voice. when you’re so unaccustomed to hearing it. excluding the brief words you’ve exchanged paying for your novels, you’ve only heard it a select few times — mostly from afar, not-so-sneakily listening in on his conversations with the pink haired boy and pretty girl who sometimes come in and never look at any of the books.

(there’s the tall guy with the not-so-seasonal sunglasses, too. but when he enters the store, all you pick up on are usually grumbles and threatening hand gestures.)

but now, that low, low voice is directed at you.

it can’t be good for your physical health. or mental, for that matter. you’re not sure you remember to properly breathe, and you’re almost certain hearts aren’t supposed to flail the way yours is right now.

when the boy behind the counter tilts his head, just by a hair, you’re finally snapped out of your little trance. stumbling for something to say, stuttering out a response, your hands grip at the insides of your pockets.

”well, um — i’m looking for a book.”

a moment passes. the song coming from the speakers changes into an instrumental, kind of jazzy. it’s nice.

”… a specific book,” you elaborate, under your breath. gnawing at your bottom lip, feeling a bit of heat on your ears. clearing your throat, as you step forward, tearing your mittens off with your teeth.

searching for a certain image, your numbed fingertips begin to tap at the cold screen of your phone. the warm air of the bookstore envelops your chilled knuckles, and a shiver runs through them.

the boy watches, silently, as you get closer.

you don’t notice him glancing at your reddened hands, and when you look up to see a glimmer of something displeased in his eyes, you only assume it’s because you’re taking too long. speeding up slightly, you hear a low click of his tongue. his back straightens.

when he gets up from his chair, you notice that he's tall. you don’t think you’ve ever seen him do anything but sit behind the counter with a book in hand, either reading his own or scanning a customer’s.

and, upon closer inspection — he’s maybe just a little bit too pretty for words. smooth, pale skin, a sharp jaw and defined cheekbones, dark eyes that hide a subtle kind of softness. pierced ears, a glimmer of silver on his earlobes, same as the rings on his bony fingers. his nails are painted black, a little chipped. and he’s wearing a big, bright green christmas sweater; one you really can’t imagine him picking out on his own, if his previous all-black turtlenecks and gray sweaters are anything to go by.

while you fumble with the phone in your grasp, the pads of his fingers go to silently tap at the edge of the counter. a rhythmic motion; forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, over and over again.

it’s a little bit distracting. when he moves his hand a certain way, his big sweater sleeve rides up just a tiny bit, showing off the blue veins of his inner wrist. you think you catch a glimpse of a mole or two on his pale skin, and you swallow down a gulp, feeling a little like a victorian man seeing a girl’s ankle.

and then finally, you locate the image in question. swiftly showing him the cover of the book you were assigned to read. he squints a little, blinking drowsily, a flutter of his pretty eyelashes that has your heart skipping a beat.

you clear your throat.

”i’m supposed to read it before christmas break, but i couldn’t find it at our library…” you tilt your head, a little sheepish. ”do you have it here?”

he stares at the screen for just a second more. then he’s angling his head to the left, finger pointing towards a corner of the store. ”it should be over there,” he hums. monotone.

a tentative smile forms on your lips. you thank him, and his eyes find yours.

all he does is shake his head, softly, brushing you off — a silent don’t worry about it. maybe a tad gruff, but you sense an acute gentleness to it. something tender, kind of. or maybe you’d just like to believe the kindness you sense in his eyes is real, more than just a delusion.

but you don’t have time to dwell on it. the boy behind the counter goes back to reading, cradling the spine with his pretty hands. when he tries to grab the handle of his mug, one of the rings on his fingers knock against the ceramic, and he clicks his tongue in annoyance.

you go to hunt down your own book, still thinking about his voice, how it trickled like honey from out his lips.

the bookstore is entirely empty, tonight. no loud noises drilling into your groggy brain, no people to chatter amongst themselves and disrupt the illusion of peace you gain when you spend time here. a tiny respite, from your studies, from the stress and fatigue that you’ve come to associate with winter. hunting for christmas gifts, finishing late assignments, trudging through the snow. pretending that you have it all together.

but here, none of that matters.

a sense of calm washes over you, as your eyes trail over the books by the science fiction section, and a soft sigh tumbles from your throat. gradually, your hands begin to warm up, and you look out the window.

outside, the world is blanketed by a veil of snow and frost, pure whites and murky grays as far as the eye can see. falling down to earth, smothering everything in a bitter chill. a cold, cold embrace. but when looking at it like this, from inside a cozy bookstore, with a pretty boy by the counter…

it's a breathtaking sight.

little snowflakes descending, dancing in the wind. desaturating your world. if you close your eyes and focus, you think you can almost feel the wind nip at your fingertips, almost taste the fragrance of dried tea leaves and caramel fudge from the tiny shop across the street. almost bask in the green and red of the decorative lights in the skeletal trees, illuminating the city, buzzing with artificial warmth.

(your heart feels light.)

it doesn’t take long for you to find the book you need. keeping it safe and warm between your arm and torso, you walk back to the counter, gaze still lingering on the windowpane. the little snowflakes fluttering about, the glimpses you catch of passerby and their knit scarves in the darkness of the winter evening.

the boy behind the counter is as efficient as ever. he takes the book, fingertips resting exactly where yours just were, and scans it in a matter of seconds. you pay, and he puts it in a plastic bag, handing it to you — all while his copy of wuthering heights sits on the counter, pointedly, as if beckoning you to mention it.

before you can think to stop yourself, you’ve parted your lips.

”is it good?” you ask. finger pointing at his book.

the boy blinks. eyelashes fluttering. once, then twice. he seems a little caught off guard, but still speaks within a split second. almost like he doesn’t even think about the answer. ”yeah.”

a hum buzzes in your throat. you shift a little, from foot to foot, plastic bag in hand. ”i’ve been meaning to read it,” you say, desperate to prolong the conversation, ”but i haven't had much time lately.”

a chuckle slips from your lips. it comes out sounding just a little exhausted.

(he glances at the dark bags beneath your eyes, but you don’t notice.)

”i think i might buy it in time for christmas break, though…” you lift your gaze to meet his own. showing the briefest glimpse of a smile, polite.

he doesn’t return it. lips pursed, silent, gazing at you with slightly lidded eyes. a navy blue, little splotches of a murky green blooming in the corners of his iris. they only appear when you’re this close. soothing, somehow. they’re pretty.

he isn’t saying anything, not a single word, and some part of your heart clogs up like a clump of wet snow. subconsciously, you trap your bottom lip between your teeth, digging into the soft flesh before letting go. cowering a little under his intense gaze.

did you annoy him?

(he probably doesn’t want to talk to you. maybe he thinks you’re hitting on him, or something. are you hitting on him? that doesn’t matter. he must be stressed — it’s holiday season, after all. the last thing he needs is some annoying customer taking up his precious reading time.

gosh, what were you even thinking?)

you’re just about to excuse yourself, mentally berating yourself for forcibly striking up a conversation with an obvious introvert —

when the sound of something sliding against wooden material catches your attention.

you blink.

the boy behind the counter does a little cough. under his breath, clearing his throat. he wets his lips, in what you immediately recognize as nervosity — absentmindedly fidgeting with the rings on his fingers.

”here.”

when you look down, a certain book is placed on the edge of the counter, right in front of you. wuthering heights.

another blink. you look down at the hardcover, and then back up at him, but he’s not meeting your gaze. if you look closely, you think you see a slight flush to his neck, red like a candy cane.

”you can borrow it,” he says. a pause. then he continues, clearing his throat again, a hint of hesitance in his raspy voice. ”… if you want to, i mean.”

”… ah.” is all you can answer. barely a word, more of a weak little hum. an absent tremble of your voice.

outside the comfort and warmth of the bookstore, the wind whistles, digging its claws into the city. tiny whirlwinds of snowflakes dance from street to street, fluttering about joyously. you vaguely pick up on the song from the speakers changing, into a poppy christmas-themed kpop song.

a moment passes.

your muddled mind finally reacts. on instinct, sending little instructions to your frozen limbs. to your heart, face down on the floor, completely useless.

”oh — no, there’s no need!” you blurt out, putting your hands up hastily. waving him off. ”it’s fine, i can just buy my own copy!”

but the boy only clicks his tongue, with that signature furrow of his brows. ”you’re a student,” he states, just a little gruff. but then there’s that kindness. ”you shouldn’t waste your money.”

you’re just about to protest, when he continues. ”besides,” he sighs. ”i’ve already read it. you can just bring it back whenever you’re done.”

and again, your instinctual desire is to protest. unsure of what to say, somehow exasperated by his trust. that’s what it is, isn’t it? trust. trusting a stranger, a customer he’s barely even spoken to, not to just take his book and then never return. trusting you to be a decent person. a good person.

isn’t that naive?

something sprouts like a snowdrop in a ridge between your ribs, though, and you know that it’s happiness of some kind. you’re glad, that he has something even vaguely similar to trust in you.

glad that he’s acknowledging you, in a way. your presence, the sneaky glances shared between you. the comfortable feeling that sleeps inside your veins when it's just you and him, silently passing each other by, in a quiet bookstore that feels a little like heaven on earth. a safe haven, of sorts, with no incompetent professors, tight deadlines or numb fingers.

it’s just him, and cozy christmas music, and a pitter patter rhythm of your heartbeat that sounds a little like jingle bells to your muddled mind.

a lump forms in the back of your throat. you gulp it back down, and part your lips. an unsure question spills into the open air.

”are… you really sure?”

”yeah.” he doesn’t even skip a beat. fingers tapping at the edge of the counter, over and over again. another slow moment passes. ”we can… talk. about it.” he coughs into his closed fist. ”once you've read it.”

with a soft furrow of his brows, he averts his gaze. his voice comes out sounding soft, albeit a little rough around the edges. ”if you want,” he adds.

you’re so distracted by the flutter of his long eyelashes that you barely even feel your lips stretch into a smile. your hearts skips around happily within the confines of your ribcage, and you’re worried that you might look a little too excited — but how could you ever hide your joy, when he’s acting so dangerously, uncharacteristically cute?

”yeah!” you blurt, teeth peeking out when you flash him a bright smile. and finally, he meets your gaze. pretty eyes fixed entirely on you.

at your evident enthusiasm, his shoulders seem to relax. the rapid tapping of his fingers ceases, and he opts to simply bite down on his lip — attempting to obscure his own smile. but you see it, anyway; a tiny, tiny smile. the softest little curl of his lips. you’re entirely mesmerized, all the same.

a hand goes to rub at the back of his neck, and he does that cute little cough again, and you wonder if the warmth sprouting in your chest will be enough to protect you from the snowfall on your way back home.

angelic; that’s the impression he always seems to leave you with. you wonder if he has any idea just how pretty he is. if he has the slightest clue. you wonder if you’ll ever be able to tell him, yourself.

you wonder if you’ll get to know him, someday. if you’ll ever get to know the pretty, quiet boy behind the counter of your go-to bookstore, who radiates a softness so palpable you wish you could stay there until spring blooms beyond the windows and melts the frosted glass.

with tentative hands, a little shaky — not from the cold, but the anxious and excited tingle of your bloodstream — you reach for the book on the counter. taking it into your arms, cradling it gently, like it’s so fragile the pages could scatter away if you aren’t careful. with a steady hand on its spine, you begin to flip through the pages, until three little words on the first blank page catch your attention.

without thinking, you repeat the little scribbled down sentence under your breath. hoping for something. more lulls of his voice, maybe, mumbling to yourself but hoping he’ll hear.

”happy birthday, tsumiki…”

the boy stiffens.

a silent beat. then he clears his throat. ”my sister,” he explains, and you hum.

so he has a sister. a tiny fragment of his existence, now known to you, a little piece of trivia. you want to collect them, want to put them all in your pockets and carry them around, like little precious bells.

”megumi,” he blurts out, sudden, and you look up from the book to meet his gaze. ”my name,” he elaborates. and then a pause. ”i work here.”

…

in a matter of seconds, his face reddens. ears and neck slathered over with that sweet cherry hue, blooming across his pale skin. a soft giggle slips from your lips, before you can think to bite it back, and that red hue exacerbates.

”mm,” you hum, an amused smile on your face. eyes crinkling as you look at him, book safe and secure in your arms. ”i've seen you.”

megumi looks a bit like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. squirming slightly, shifting from foot to foot, tugging a little at the sleeve of his sweater. looking into your eyes, and then back at the counter.

it’s sweet. it makes you feel closer to him, somehow. like you aren’t the only nervous one here. like you aren’t the only person in this city who’s a little bit of a mess.

(it makes the sludge piling up inside your brain feel just a little more bearable.)

”… thank you.” you smile. ”i’ll take good care of it. and i’ll bring it right back when i finish it.”

a low hum. megumi brings a hand up to fix his bangs, nimble fingers running through dark locks. absentminded — a nervous habit, maybe? ”don’t worry about it,” is all he says.

again, that sweet dichotomy; a hint of something gruff, hiding an unmistakable softness. a little like snow. cold to the touch, enough to make you want to stay away, but then it melts on the skin of your palm. turns soft and warm beneath your touch.

unable to fully hide the smile still lingering on your lips, you allow yourself one final inhale — letting that scent of peppermint and espresso invade your mind, soothing every frazzled nerve inside your brain. then you put wuthering heights in your bag, protected and snug, and get ready to leave.

it’s still snowing. if anything, it seems to have gotten worse, enough that all you see when you glance towards the frosted windows are little clumps of snowflakes. obscuring everything else.

just when you’re about to speak, say a little goodbye, a voice spills out into the air.

”… the snow’s supposed to get worse. apparently.”

his navy eyes carry a gentle hue, as they look into yours. maybe a little worried, like a protective mother wolf towards her cub. you blink, and megumi sees it as his cue to continue.

”you can stay until it gets better.”

a brief pause. his signature cough reaches your ears, and it’s enough to have you smiling, even before he adds a tiny if you feel like it. nonchalant, or at least you think that’s what he’s going for. he mostly just sounds like an awfully caring person trying awfully hard to appear uncaring.

and again, a little smile slips itself into the curl of your lips. all giddy and nervous, a little flustered. but happy. now you won’t have to walk through the relentless snowfall outside, feel the wind chew at your reddened cheekbones. now you can spend just a bit more time with him, bask in those quiet, drawn out moments of pure peace, browsing through books while he sits and reads behind the counter.

”thanks,” you breathe. adjusting your knitted scarf. ”i think i'll look at the books a little more, then.”

megumi’s eyes soften. relieved, you think. hope. it’s a subtle shift, but still enough to notice, enough to see. little splotches of a mossy green sinking into that sea of ink blue.

you think he must feel a little embarrassed, though. like he’s gotten too close to broaching the line he’s set up between the two of you. because he quickly fixes his gaze entirely on a book in his hands, a new one — was it just waiting beneath the counter?

you don't think much of it, but you note that he's back to his usual nonfiction. something on astronomy, you think.

and with one final glance at his tousled hair, you begin to stroll through the store. languidly, walking to whatever spine captures your attention. savouring the tiny words on the back of the books, wallowing in the peppermint and espresso that wafts through the air, only growing heavier while you’re busy admiring the white opaque frosting of the windows’ glass.

at some point, the low whirring of a coffee machine buzzes from afar, and when you turn to the counter megumi isn’t there.

a little later, when he comes back, he’ll be carrying two mugs — matching dogs etched into the ceramic, one black and one white. he’ll put one of them on the edge of the counter, closest to you, and then meet your eyes. give a vague nod towards it, but nothing else. you’ll notice the red tint to his ears, though.

and when you do, a warmth will blossom in your chest, enough to chase away the phantom ache of the winter chill soon to envelop you.

when the little bell of the bookstore jingles its jolly tune, and the door shuts itself as you cross the threshold to leave, megumi lets out a barely audible sigh.

he thinks his heart may be beating just a smidge faster than usual, a little out of rhythm. palms against the counter, he allows his eyes to flutter shut — trying not to acknowledge the heat he feels on his face when he finally begins to process your interaction.

he smooths a hand over his face, skin just a little sweaty. chewing at his bottom lip with two sharp teeth.

god.

really, it was no more than a stupid twist of luck. that you happened to come in just when he started reading it, that you noticed and didn’t question him on any of the contents. that you believed him when he said he’d already finished it.

and, sure, maybe he was secretly really hoping you’d come in. really hoping you’d notice it, that it’d be enough to make you strike up a conversation with him, something, anything.

he happened to see you eyeing it once, that’s all. twice, and then thrice, each on different occasions. tsumiki’s old collection came in handy, rotting on the dusty shelves of her room — although he has no memory of her ever reading it.

(he remembers some, though. remembers her reading a few of them to him, on nights he couldn’t sleep. remembers the soft lull of her voice, how the whole world seemed blanketed by a wool of safety.

he wonders if he’ll ever get to hear it again.)

megumi’s heart feels warm. despite everything.

even though he didn’t even get past the first half of wuthering heights, and has no idea what the hell he’s going to be able to talk to you about. even though he thinks heathcliff is a dick and catherine is a brat, and wishes they could save everyone else the trouble and just talk to a psychiatrist.

even with the cold baring its fangs outside, and the cup of espresso sitting right in front of him, still untouched, made with the store’s shitty coffee machine. even in the ugly sweater gojo forced him into. even though he doesn’t even really know you, not even at all, and still somehow feels certain that you’ll come back with tsumiki’s book in tow.

trust.

megumi thinks it’s a little weird, how just that single overlapping of your gazes when you first stepped in seemed to solidify such an abstract notion. he’s always had a sense of it, though — a sense of goodness. an ability to seek them out, those good people, bubbly and cheerful and so tragically hard not to love.

no matter where he goes, he ends up finding them. like tiny sunflower seeds persisting beneath the winter snow. blooming when spring comes around, in a burst of golden vermillion.

resting his jaw on the heel of his palm, megumi allows himself to wallow in the solitude of the bookstore. tired eyes soaking up the words on the pages he flips through, slowly, utterly at ease. drinking his shitty coffee, trying to ignore the itchy feeling of the sweater on his skin, unable to forget the memory of your stupidly pretty smile.

so pretty he thinks it might just keep him warm, all throughout winter, until you return once more. bringing with you the glimmer of snowflakes on soft skin, and a pleasant fragrance of tea leaves from the cozy shop across the street.

a single sunflower, persisting even through the cold.

megumi smiles. a tiny curl of his chapped lips, while he flips the pages of his book. content in the knowledge that this won’t be the last time he speaks to you.

(now he just needs to read up on some good papers on wuthering heights.)

#im just thinking abt ….. bookstore gumi who goes out of his way to only work the quiet lazy shifts . and all he does is drink coffee n read #so its like his selfcare time and he hates customers n gets annoyed when they come in PHDJD…. acting like he owns the store #but then u come in !! :< n ur presence is just so gentle and soothing . n the more he sees you the prettier u get in his eyes.#so he tries to silently impress u </3 reading ur fave books even if he doesnt like them <//3 cutie #just to be clear if a bookstore employee randomly offers u a cup of coffee Do Not drink it . even if hes hot. stay safe ✌️#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #megumi x reader #megumi x you #megumi fluff #megumi fushiguro #megumi x y/n #megumi fushiguro x reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x gender neutral reader

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