like something akin to you throw like a girl or something

heaven is a place on earth (m)

pairing: shin hoseok | reader
genre: crossroads demon au / fluff, slight crack, smut
word count: 10,669
description: “Hey there sweetheart, you called? How may I help you today?” Calling upon a crossroads demon might’ve been the best decision you’ve ever made in life. At least until it involves pizza.
author’s note: this was too tempting to write… thank @jungnoir​ for convincing me to do it.

Originally posted by bunnywonho

Waiting for the pizza to arrive wanes on your patience, and much to your immense displeasure, you can’t help but pout on the floor, hoping that the damn pizza will arrive soon. Not that you would ever complain about Changkyun, but you were certainly considering it from the amount of time he’s been taking to arrive to your place. It isn’t even like he should get lost he’s actually been to your place to deliver pizzas more times than you’d ever admit.

But before you can dial the number to the pizza place just to ask about the status of your pizza, there’s a knock and doorbell at your door which you excitedly rise for and rush toward the door.

Unfortunately, the sight behind it is not Changkyun with your beloved pizza, but a silver and blue-haired demon that you can’t help but glower at despite the confusion you have at seeing him donning a red and white cap with the pizza logo on it or the fact that he’s holding a box of pizza in his hand.

“Wonho, what the hell? Where’s my pizza? If you do not quit your shit, I swear I will find a way to cut your tail off. I don’t even care if you don’t have one either. Grow one or some shit.” You growl the moment he appears in your doorway.

With that goddamn smirk curving on his lips, he replies, “Try it, sweetheart. I like it kinky.”

He’s a demon from your own personal hell, and this is literally speaking.

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Play With Me (M)

word count: 3.7k (i really tried to limit myself)

genre: smut; idol-verse + established relationship

pairing: reader/jooheon

summary: built up tensions from not seeing your idol boyfriend, jooheon, lead you two to have quite the steamy session on the couch. good thing jooheon has nice thighs and dirty mouth.

requested by: anon #1 who who asked for the reader to have a thigh kink & anon #2 who just wanted some good ‘ol joohoney smut; thank you for requesting! ♡


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fake dating!zimbits ft. alicia & the gang

CW: coming out (more or less voluntary), pining, meddling friends, nosy mothers

Jack rushed into the kitchen with wild eyes and uncombed hair. It was Saturday, which Bitty knew was the only day of the week he allowed himself to sleep in. Jack hadn’t even changed out of his pajamas, and he was adorably rumpled as he slammed his palms down on the counter and stared at Bitty.

“My mother is coming into town next week,” he hissed, glaring like Bitty himself were responsible.

“Okay?” Bitty turned the heat off of the stove where he’d been cooking up a mountain of eggs. It was absurd how many eggs a handful of college athletes could eat in one setting. “Your mama seems like a lovely lady. Do we need to clean the Haus? Put Shitty in suspenders so he won’t magically lose his pants while she’s here?”

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What I Wasn’t Meant to Hear | Damian Wayne x Reader

Description/Request: #20 from the Prompt Things You Said list; Things you said that I wasn’t meant to hear” with Damian!

Words: 1000-ish

Notes: Damian and the reader are 16/17 years old in this. You may decide!

Masterlist | Inbox

Taglist: @followeroonieclassic

“It seems you are as idiotic as I originally imagined if you are suggesting I would ever like such an insufferable girl.” Damian hisses, crossing his arms over the chest of his uniform.

Cursing your own tears, you tore off your cape and your mask, slamming them into your case with the rest of your costume and leaving it at the mannequin’s feet in a crumpled heap of purple and black. Dick watched you stomp up the steps of the Batcave, the muffled echoes of your soft sobs making his shoulders slouch with sympathy and regret. If only Dick had never brought it up, then you wouldn’t be crying right now. This was the cause of Damian’s comment when Dick inquired if he liked you, meaning that you’d been listening on their conversation as he had guessed.

He was going to wish you a good night before you rode home, but you slammed the clock’s entrance to the Batcave before he could call out to you.

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One-Time Thing

Yoongi - Roommate AU
Word Count: 4090ish
It’s okay to fuck your roommate if it’s only a one-time thing.

A/N: There is honestly no excuse. But come on, no strings attached with Min Yoongi.

Min Yoongi was really more of an acquaintance than a friend, all things considered. You knew his name and the fact that he was taking classes at the college, but not much else aside from his rapping. Rather hard not to know about the rapping, what with him being your roommate and all.

Oh, and his abhorrent sleeping habits. For the love of god, could this kid maybe not sleep in until 2 in the afternoon and still be cranky if you accidentally woke him up? Or at the very least, was it too much to ask that he shut down his computer and stop messing around with his music sometime before 6am?

At least he was good-looking. Like, really good-looking. The few glimpses you had of him when he emerged for food and left for class were enough to confirm that he was swoon-worthy. If you were into the whole sleepy eyes/arrogant smirk/I-don’t-give-a-shit thing. Which you definitely weren’t. For the most part. Kinda.

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Matchbox // Archie Andrews

Summary: Being close friends with Archie does come with a jealous blonde girl vying for the title as his girlfriend even if you aren’t aware she likes him. Things start to change in the most natural ways for friends to fall each other, beginning with spiral as a kid. Things heat up with you and Archie in ways your parents only saw coming.

Characters: Archie Andrews x Reader, Betty Cooper, Veronica Lodge, Cheryl Blossom, Jughead Jones (mentioned), Reggie Mantle (mentioned)

Words: 2145

Disclaimer: I do not own Riverdale or the characters involved. Nor do I own any gifs, images, jokes or lyrics that may appear.

Warnings: Swearing, angst and a lot of fluff.

Requested: Yes. Anonymous

Author: Caitsy

A/N: Get yourself a man who kisses you with a mask on.


Prompt List


Originally posted by dobhennig

The poke in your side easily told you that Archie was leaning against the neighbouring locker with a sweet smile and a new musician in the entertainment world. You were right when the redhead laughed when you poked him back in his abs.

“What do you want dork?” You giggled pinning a new photo onto the door of the locker.

“Is this from that carnival last week?” Archie asked pushing your locker to where he had been resting, “Oh I love it!”

“I’m surprised your jacket even went with the aesthetic of the photo.” You teased before he released his loud laugh again.

“I’ll have you now that when four o’clock hit that jacket was on your shoulders.”

“Oh shut up hotshot.” You retorted closing the locker. The first day of school had been a success with Archie calling you as his biology partner for the year,

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07. girls your age. | shs

Originally posted by hyungwvn

warnings; dirty talk, very slight verbal humiliation, mentions of voyeurism, mentions of cheating, clothed sex, unsafe sex, they drink but they’re not drunk, fem!reader, wonho has a big ego, slight angst towards the end, based on girls your age by transviolet

word count; 2541

a/n; pls read the warnings! i just love wonho. my mans. i also lov minhyuk this is fiction. this is gross always use condoms

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Highway (Part 5)

Originally posted by veronikaphoenix

Summary: There’s a charming man that enters the diner like he owns the place, like he owns the town. And when he’s calling you babydoll, with a devilish smirk on his face and a twinkle of silver in his baby blues, you know you won’t be able to stop yourself from falling for the infamous Bucky Barnes.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Wordcount: 1,854

Part 1  / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5


He wasn’t used to this

No one liked talking to Bucky Barnes, no one talked to Barnes willingly.

So every word you spoke stuck to him like crazy glue, every smile you smiled inspired one of his own, every second you spent with him felt like an experience that he didn’t want to let go. There was something about you that he didn’t want to let go, and he supposed it was the fact that you didn’t treat him like he was dirt on the bottom of your shoe or the fact that you actually looked at him when he looked at you.

You didn’t avoid his gaze out of nervousness like other people did. 

He often wondered if you could tell that he was nervous.

And you often wondered if he could tell that you were nervous. 

Because ever since this piece of art walked into your mediocre life, even if you’d only met him enough times to count on one hand, you were flustered around him. You were nervous when he took you to the arcade after Wanda abandoned you with him and when he’d asked for your number to keep track of ya, ya know, in case someone decides to steal y’away from me and you were nervous when he dropped you off at your door that night.

Even when Bucky wasn’t around, you were stupidly flustered.

You should’ve known that giving your number to Bucky would’ve created some kinda havoc.

Sure, it was the kinda havoc that made you smile like an idiot before texting back after a very specific amount of time so he wouldn’t know you were waiting for his reply, but it was havoc nonetheless. And it was addicting.

No, Bucky Barnes was addicting.

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you steal the air out of my lungs (you make me feel it)

[supercorp; uni au: kara is a barista & lena is exhausted with her honors thesis & also with the cute girl at the coffee shop who doesn’t seem to understand flirting. at all.]


you steal the air out of my lungs (you make me feel it)

you’re 100% sure kara is in when you get to your favorite cafe at 7 am and there’s already carly rae jepson blasting, which, under normal circumstances would be even more exhausting than your life already is this early in the morning but then.

kara smiles this megawatt thing at you when you walk up to the counter, way too bright for this early, but you smile back anyway. it’s a nice cafe, open and airy and in an old loft, with a nice patio with urban garden planters and decent, onsite pastries; they even collaborate with a small bookstore, so the walls are lined with camille paglia and roxanne gay. this should be a clue to kara, you think, as should like most people in the cafe, but it’s an unofficial queer hangout, basically. which isn’t exactly why you frequent it—it’s close to your apartment and their hours are outrageous—but it doesn’t hurt, exactly. kara smiles at you like she’s the sunrise herself, in a big sweater, pushes her glasses up.

‘good morning, lena!’

‘hi, kara,’ you say.

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Injured || Peter Parker x Reader [[request]]

[[request prompt: We see a lot of Spiderman coming to S/O for help when injured. What if the S/O is friends with Peter but rivals when being a hero to SM, so, when she’s injured, she goes to him (not intentionally; he wakes up at the sound of a thud and groans)👌]]

time to work on more requests


my ask box is open so if you have any requests, go ahead and send them to me (I would link you readers but I’m on mobile so (/ω\) )

tags: {anonymous}

warnings: none

*please don’t plagiarize or repost this story.


A part of you was grateful that Spider-Man wasn’t here to witness your ‘jumping off a building and missing the target’ mishap- yet another part of you admitted to really needing his help right now.

Living a double life as a superhero was really hard.

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Encore (1/5)

He doesn’t even feel the impact. There’s a shriek of metal-on-metal, a scream, a car suddenly jumping the curb in front of him.

Then there’s only darkness.


The sky is still blue.

Ichigo blinks, and wonders why that surprises him. Surely, a blue sky exists everywhere, even—

Even here.

Which is not where he had been before.

It’s somewhere different.

Carefully, Ichigo sits up and takes in the sight of a familiar field, with trees in the distance. He’s been here once, right after the first trip to Soul Society, when Inoue had come to tell him that Rukia was missing, and he had known where to look. The house that’s just as odd as he remembers still stands in the distance—and, squatting a few feet from him in the grass, is a familiar face that he hasn’t seen since that day.

Shiba Kukaku stares at him for a long moment, an unreadable expression on her face. Ichigo stares back, wondering why the fireworks expert—who he remembers as being loud, violent, and having a strong enough left hook to put Yammy to shame—looks almost… unsettled. He doesn’t say anything, though, keeping his peace as she surveys him. For some reason, he’s tired, more than he’s ever been, and can’t help but suspect that being in Soul Society like this—when he had been in his human form, without using a Senkaimon, and knowing without a doubt that the car accident had killed him—is the cause.

And then Kukaku sighs and straightens, rising to her feet and offering him a hand up. “From the lack of company I take it this isn’t another one of Yoruichi’s harebrained schemes. Did something happen?”

Ichigo hesitates for a moment before accepting the proffered hand. “I…died.” It feels odd to say it out loud, but he knows it’s true. Unlike what the majority of the Gotei 13 seems to think, he isn’t stupid. He can certainly be reckless sometimes, when someone he cares about is in danger, but he isn’t dumb. Drawing connections is simple enough. The only surprise is that now, here, he feels the stirrings of power around him that he’s missed for so long, and the comforting weight of Zangetsu on his back. Dying, it seems, had been enough to return his powers. Even the Hollow is back, simmering in his mind just below the surface. And for the life—or death—of him, Ichigo can’t bring himself to find it anything but comforting.

Kukaku sighs again, pulling him to his feet, and nods. “I thought it was something like that.” Then she pauses again and scrutinizes his face for a moment, something in her expression turning wistful. “You…really do look like him.”

Ichigo blinks at that, not understanding, and shoots her a look. He had noticed a similar reaction in others, particularly Ukitake and Byakuya, when he faced them, but he’s never pressed them for an answer. But Kukaku notices, and gives him a small, weary smile. “My older brother, Kaien. The one the Kuchiki girl killed.”

There’s no malice in her voice, no bitterness, and Ichigo wonders at how strong she is to push all of that aside. He had never managed it, and even now, he blames himself for his mother’s death.

Maybe someday, he thinks a touch ironically, he can be as strong as her.

“Is there a relation?” he asks after a second, half dryly and half curiously. His father’s death at Aizen’s hand meant that the old man had never had gotten around to explaining his connection to Soul Society, so for all Ichigo knows, Kukaku could be his aunt. He just barely holds back a shudder. As if there aren’t enough violent women around him already.

Seeming to guess his thoughts, Kukaku grins at him, squeezing his hand just a little tighter than she needs to. “Heh. That scares you, little boy? Shouldn’t, though. We Shibas are a good bunch—mostly. And widespread! Or we used to be.” She turns, not letting go of his hand, and drags him back towards her crazy house. “You might be a cousin, for all I know. Never did keep a good enough track of the branch families, while they existed. Oh, well.” Throwing open the door, she yanks him down the stairs, calling, “Oi, Ganju! We’ve got a guest!”

Her brother leans around a door, and his eyes widened at the sight of Ichigo there, dressed not in shinigami robes, but a simple autumn-brown yukata, Zangetsu across his back. He takes one step forward, looking confused. “Kurosaki? What are you…?” Then he pauses, frowns, and opens his mouth again—

—Only to be cut off by his sister’s foot slamming into his face.

Despite himself, Ichigo winces. Yeah, he can see the family resemblance there, if she and his father are related.

“Move it, dumbass!” Kukaku bellows, hauling Ichigo past the sprawled form of her sibling and into the room he’d just left. “He’s a guest, and he just died! He needs comforting! Now get your ass to the kitchen and make some food! I’m hungry!” With that, she slides the shoji door shut, tosses Ichigo in front of the table, and drops on the other side to face him. Planting her left arm on the table, she glares at him and demands, “Well? What happened? If you’re gonna cry, do it now, while I’m feeling charitable!”

Pushing himself upright, Ichigo casts her a half-wary, half-bemused look, and then settles himself correctly. “Cry? What the h—why would I cry?”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You just died.”

He raises one in return, wondering what it is she wants him to say. “I know. I’m not an idiot. But it’s not like everything ended, right? I’m here. My family’s already here, too. And…”

And what? He suddenly can’t think of anything. Isn’t he supposed to be fighting someone? Rescuing someone? Doing something? But instead of a driving urge to move, he feels relaxed. Peaceful. At ease, even, without the fate of Soul Society and the world of the living riding on his back, without the grief that’s been tearing at him for over two years now. And, as much as he loves combat, and fighting, he doesn’t want to go back to that pressure. Even with his powers back, he doesn’t want to immediately plunge back into conflict. And somehow, he can guess that conflict is what would occur, if he walked up to the gates of the Seireitei and informed them that he was no longer a resident of the living world.

He has to bite back a groan, because it’s just occurring to him that it had not been the insane, power-obsessed, would-be god who had taken him out. It had been a car. Renji is going to laugh his ass off.

Yet another reason not to immediately present himself in Seireitei.

Kukaku, with a perceptiveness that belies her usual loud personality, seems to guess what he’s thinking again. She leans over and flicks him on the forehead, then brings her fist down hard on the top of his head. While he tries to clear the ringing from his ears, she snorts and comments, “You know, there’s nothing holding you back now, boy. You’re dead. That means no more responsibilities. Sure, you have the power to be a shinigami, and you want to protect people—”

Ichigo doesn’t question how, again, she knows exactly what he’s thinking. It’s more than likely he’ll regret knowing, should he ask.

“—but you don’t have to march right up the Gotei 13 and let them take you in. You’re different than you were before the war; they probably wouldn’t even know what to do with you. So why don’t you stay here for a bit? Ground yourself, think about your options? I’ll even help you get that pig-sticker down to a normal sealed-size.” She nods towards Zangetsu, which is settled awkwardly across Ichigo’s shoulders and nearly digging into the bamboo floor. “You don’t have to be yourself, either, if you don’t want to. There are enough bastard sons floating around, and you look enough like a Shiba that I can claim you as a cousin and adopt you into the family. Might make for a nice change of pace, huh?”

Ichigo looks at her in surprise for a second, then shifts his gaze past her left shoulder as he considers. Go to Seireitei, and back to being a hero of a war he had never wanted to fight? Or stay here amidst the peaceful insanity that is the Shiba house, as a Shiba himself, and take his time learning something, not for the sake of saving the world, but for himself?

It isn’t much of a choice, really.

“Thank you,” he tells Kukaku with a quick bow. “I’d be honored.”

And Kukaku smiles, satisfied, and bellows at Ganju to hurry up with the food.

Ichigo quickly comes to the realization that training with Kukaku is akin to throwing oneself headfirst at a jet engine and hoping to come out on the other side with the ability to fly.

Not that it isn’t effective—within the first two weeks of lessons, he’s able to suppress and contain his reiatsu enough to seal Zangetsu into a normal shikai state (though it fails if he loses his temper), and to hide a few feet from a shinigami patrol without being detected (so long as he’s careful and almost completely focused on hiding his power, which is inconvenient, as it leaves him struggling in a real fight).

It is even, at times, enjoyable. Ichigo has always been the older brother in his family, and Kukaku is like the older sister he’s never had, gruffly affectionate, tauntingly supportive, and with a core—somewhere deep, deep, deep inside—of kindness and caring that’s unlike anything he’s experienced before. She pushes him hard, harder than even Urahara or old man Zangetsu, but for no other reason than because she can do it and he can survive it. There’s no world to save, no friend to rescue, and Ichigo can focus solely on becoming strong for himself, instead of someone else.

Ganju, too, quickly becomes like family—although Ichigo is certain he’s more the idiot cousin kept locked in the attic than anyone really close. They spar together when Kukaku is busy with whatever it is she really does (another thing Ichigo is certain he’ll regret knowing), and as he had when Ichigo was struggling with the spirit orb on his first trip to the Seireitei, the boar-rider often steps in to help Ichigo with some of the finer points of control and reiatsu manipulation. Ganju even helps him master the beginning steps towards kido, much more quickly than Kukaku had expected.

For the first time in a very long while, Ichigo is learning, and training, and advancing just because he can, and he can’t remember being so content at any time since his mother’s death. He pushes aside everything that he had been before—all the anger, all the surliness, all thoughts of weakness and strength and power and death—and Shiba Kei becomes the newly accepted youngest son of the Shiba Clan. And it’s a change that he welcomes, shedding his old being like a set of worn clothes, and donning a new personal to go with his new life. Kei—the name chosen by Kukaku, who had wistfully remarked that it was what Kaien had been planning to name his son, and left Ichigo with the distinct feeling that he had been played—is polite, and respectful, and likes to play jokes. He smiles and laughs, and does not worry about worlds or gods or anything but surviving his sister’s training.

And Ichigo is, for the first time in years, really, truly happy.

It’s seven months to the day since he first came to live with them when Kukaku storms through the doorway of the dojo, interrupting Ichigo and Ganju’s sparring session. They both turn to look at her—

—Only to be smacked in the head with the bottle and scrub brush, respectively, that she hurls at them.

This is hardly the first time that kind of thing has happened. Indeed, it’s almost a daily occurrence, so Ichigo grabs the bottled before it can hit the floor and Ganju peels the brush off his face, and they only grumble a little bit as they glare at her with all the wounded male pride they can muster.

Kukaku just smirks at them—and, specifically, at Ichigo. “There ya go, carrot-top! One dousing with that and your hair will look all-natural again! You’ll fit right in with the rest of us!”

Ichigo transfers his glare from her to the bottle of black hair dye he holds, and then scowls at her even more deeply.

“What the hell! Why the hell would I want to dye my hair?”

The woman looks supremely unimpressed. “‘Cause you’re going to enroll in the Spiritual Arts Academy. I’ve got nothing left to teach you, since you’ve got all the basics down, and the teachers at the school can help you go further than I ever could. I’m not a shinigami, halfwit! And with your hair dyed, you’ll look just like Kaien. No one will doubt you’re a Shiba. I’ll get the paperwork out of the way, and you’ll be free to go through the Academy just like every other shinigami admitted to the Gotei 13. No special favors, no war hero, just you.” She grins. “So get dyeing.”

It would take a much stronger—or less sane—man to argue with Shiba Kukaku. So, with the obligatory grumbling and cursing, Ichigo gets dyeing, and realizes about halfway through that the whole idea doesn’t really sound so bad.

“You’ve got your sword?”

“Yes, nee-san.”

“And your uniforms?”

“Yes, nee-san.”

“And your kido books?”

“Yes, nee-san.”

“And enough yukatas? I can always bring you more if—”

Yes, nee-san.”

The one armed woman smacks the dark-haired boy who stands with her in the head. “Shut up, brat! If this is what I get for worrying, I’ll make sure not to in the future!”

Several of the families standing with them before the Academy gates stifle snorts. Ichigo narrows his eyes at the vicious female monster posing as his sister and rubs the back of his much-abused head. She’s been “worrying,” as she calls it—though, in truth, it’s far closer to nagging—ever since they left the house that morning. Ichigo still isn’t certain why he couldn’t just go alone—after all, he isn’t a kid, and he’s already passed the entrance exam with ease. But Kukaku had said that family seeing him off was expected, especially since he was coming from a noble house—even if it is fallen, which she never seems to give a damn about.

Seeing the near-scowl that crosses his face, Kukaku leans in with frightening good cheer, her grin one hair shy of terrifying. “Come on, Kei-chan, smile! You’ll do the Shiba Clan proud, won’t you? Hmm? Kei-chan?”

Under the circumstances, Ichigo feels that it is quite acceptable to stage a tactical retreat. Taking several steps away from the madwoman to whom he’s claiming blood ties—and oh, how he’s starting to wish that he had just enrolled as a nameless spirit from Rukongai—he moves safely out of reach. That had been Kukaku’s way of subtly reminding him not to scowl in order to keep from being recognized, which is something they’ve been working on for weeks now—mostly her leaping on him whenever he lets his expression slip into something Ichigo would have worn, instead of what Kei would wear, and stretching his cheeks or doing some equally demeaning and emasculating thing until he can force a neutral expression.

He’s become nearly as good at neutral as Byakuya, he suspects—though with Kukaku’s form of motivation, he expects that anyone would.

“Damn it, you crazy woman! Don’t call me that!” he snaps, though he does rearrange his face into something that doesn’t resemble a glower quite so much.

Kukaku just grins at him, as she often does. “Oh, the little one’s all grown up, eh? Well, Kei, I hope you’re ready to leave the nest and all that. Got any last words before I push you out and let you fly?”

“More like push me out and drop a stone around my neck,” Ichigo mutters, but straightens his shoulders and offers her a brief, challenging smile. “Why bother? You’ll be back in a year to see me graduate anyway, and I’ll come visit once in a while, to make sure you haven’t drowned Ganju in the bath.”

She waves her hand at that, wrinkling her nose. “Hell no! It’d be too smelly.” Then her expression softens, and she reaches out and drags Ichigo into a gruff, one-armed hug. “Take care, otouto,” she murmurs in his ear. “Even if you aren’t a Shiba, you’re still my little brother. Make us proud, got that?” Releasing him, she takes a step back, then waves and turns away. “And make sure you come back home once in a while! You’re already a twig, and cafeteria food won’t help! We’ll have to stuff you every chance we get, so you don’t blow away in the wind!”

Ichigo rolls his eyes at her retreating back, but it’s fond. Kukaku may just be posing as his sibling, but in reality, she’s his sister in every way that matters. And now he has three sisters to look out for, even if the newest one would kick his ass for thinking that she needs “looking after.”

It feels good, feels right to don the shinigami black once more, after a year and some-odd weeks in a student’s white and blue. Ichigo spends a long moment staring into the mirror in his dormitory room, wondering at the changes. He’s gotten used to seeing black hair in place of orange, a calm expression where a scowl used to be, but sometimes it still jars him to remember that he’s not Kurosaki Ichigo anymore, not in the ways that count. He’s Shiba Kei, branch member adopted into the main Shiba family by virtue of Kukaku’s kindness to an orphaned bastard child.

Ichigo never used to lie, even to himself. Now the lies have become his entire life, quite literally.

He slings Zangetsu across his back, a normal long sword rather than a huge cleaver—if nothing else, this whole charade has taught him the control he never managed while he was alive—because old habits die hard, and he’s more comfortable with the blade there than in the more normal position at his side. Enough shinigami wear their zanpakuto the same way that it shouldn’t raise too many eyebrows, even in a formal situation like this.

Which, of course, brings his thoughts right back to what he’s been trying to avoid thinking about. This is going to be a circus, regardless of the assurances he’s gotten from his instructors and—

“You like you’re about face your execution, Kei. Lighten up, or the audience might get the wrong impression.”

Kuchiki Eiji, part-time therapist and full-time Jiminy Cricket. Of course.

Ichigo bites back the sharp comment he wants to make and instead growls, “I don’t understand why they have to have the captains choose their recruits right then in front of a damned crowd. It’s—”

“An acknowledgement of the skills and capabilities of the new graduates to have captains present their bids for service before the graduation audience, even before the entrance test for the Gotei 13 proper. Also for the most part a complete formality, because such decisions are generally made between the captain and the recruit well ahead of time, and only the very lowest-ranking students—which you are not, Mr. Prodigy—leave it up to chance. Now calm down before I start getting nervous by proxy, okay?” The young noble rolls over on his futon to give Ichigo a long, assessing stare that reminds Ichigo just who his cousin is, Eiji’s usual demeanor aside.

Nevertheless, Ichigo—never one to be cowed, and certainly not after living with Shiba Kukaku for more than two years—grouches softly, “Why? It’s not like you’re going to be doing anything except sitting there.”

Eiji gives him a cheeky grin. “Yeah, because I’m smart and graduating normally, next winter, with a large class. You’re the supernaturally talented and powerful idiot who had to go and beat even your older brother’s record. Of course people are going to be interested, Kei. What did you think would happen?”

Not this, Ichigo wants to say, but he keeps it to himself and carefully pulls his black hair back into a tail. He’s kept it long, if only to keep his instructors from having a heart attack when he walks into their classes looking exactly like Shiba Kaien.

Clever fingers steal the ribbon before he can attempt to tie it up, and Eiji mutters, “Oh, give it here, you’re hopeless.”

After a year and change of dealing with Eiji’s hovering, Ichigo knows this fight is already a lost cause, so he surrenders gracefully and lets Eiji fiddle. As he does, the young noble asks carefully, “You accepted Byakuya-sama’s offer, didn’t you? Lieutenant of the Sixth?”

Ah, yes. That crowning moment of stupidity. Ichigo fights back a grimace and makes a sound that’s vaguely affirmative. Byakuya is probably the only person in the Gotei 13 who knows both who Ichigo is and who he was. Kukaku and Ganju know, by virtue of finding him when he first arrived after his death and then providing him with a cover story, but the Sixth’s captain guessed.

And if Byakuya, who never actually knew Ichigo all that well except as an opponent, was able to see through his façade as Shiba Kei with a glance, Ichigo doesn’t even want to contemplate what will happen with people like Rukia, Renji, and his damned father.

A hand closing over his shoulder brings his attention back to the boy behind him, and Ichigo glances up to meet his gaze in the mirror. Eiji’s eyes are a green-grey, rather than Byakuya’s steel-grey, but there’s a resolve and a certainty in them that makes their relation all the more obvious.

“Kei?” Eiji asks, and it’s soft, but there’s a world’s worth of meaning in that single word.

It’s a single, lonely syllable, a name that Ichigo was never born to wear, but a name he’s chosen nevertheless. To Ichigo, it’s a symbol of the choice he made in that green field with Kukaku standing over him. He’d turned his back on the past, left it behind in favor of an unknown future without the taint of grief and failure that had dragged Kurosaki Ichigo down for so long before his death. Shiba Kei was born in that moment, even though he remained nameless for several months afterwards. It’s with Kei’s soul, Kei’s eyes that Ichigo looks at himself in the pane of silvered glass.

It’s Shiba Kei who meets Eiji’s gaze and, with a resolve forged from grief and pain and loss, tempered with the happiness of this new life as a new man, it’s Shiba Kei who says “Yes. I accepted.”

And really, that’s all there is to say.

Renji was a lieutenant for a long time, and he knows that each of the eleven other sub-commanders has their own style of fighting. Kira holds back and lets the enemy hang themselves. Matsumoto pouts and flounces and then goes in for the kill while her opponent is distracted. Hisagi bides his time, using psychological attacks just as much as his ruthless physical ones. Yachiru, Omeada, Sasakibe, Nanao—they’ve all got their own way of fighting and winning.

But with all of them, every single one, he’s at least seen their shikai. Even Hisagi, who hates to use his, still brings it out sometimes in practice or in battle. Only the newest lieutenant, one Shiba Kei, who so easily took Renji’s former position in the Sixth, has never even drawn his damned sword.

It’s taken this long for Renji to even get the man to agree to a spar, and that was by sheer chance alone—Renji managed to corner Shiba while Captain Kuchiki was within hearing distance, and Byakuya had encouraged his new lieutenant to try his hand against his old one. Renji had felt fairly secure in his ability to wipe the training ground with Shiba’s face, given that Shiba was a green graduate and only a lieutenant, whereas Renji was the new captain of the Ninth.

Technically, it’s his own fault for forgetting that Shiba Kei managed to graduate the Academy in a year and five weeks, breaking his older brother’s record in the process. And granted, Shiba went from Academy student straight to lieutenant without a single step in between, handpicked by Kuchiki Byakuya himself for his abilities. Still, Renji had expected to face an inexperienced boy without many actual combat skills and an excess of book learning.

What he’s gotten is something quite different.

The arena is filled with choking red smoke, thick and obscuring, and although the day’s brisk breeze is already dispersing it, it’s enough to throw Renji off. He’s the type to dive right in to a fight, to strike the first blow and keep on hitting before his opponent can do more than block, but with this, he’s been effectively stymied. It’s incredibly difficult to hit what he can’t see, and he’s not good enough at kido to disperse the smoke without entirely diverting his attention from his opponent.

Then the soft scuff of a footstep, nearly inaudible, comes from behind him, and a low, calm voice intones, “Carriage of thunder. Bridge of a spinning wheel. With light, divide into six. Bakudo 61: Rikujōkōrō.”

Long experience in dueling Rukia, who’s absolutely infatuated with kido in all its forms, is the only thing that lets Renji avoid the bolts of golden light. He whirls to the other side of the ring, as fast as he’s capable of moving, and sends Zabimaru streaking towards the source of the spell. It’s instinct to expect the clash of metal on metal, because that’s how fights generally go with kido-focused opponents—opening kido, physical attack, hand to hand combat until someone gains an edge.

Instead, that same calm voice commands, “Bakudo 39: Enkosen.” There’s an arc of bright reiatsu from the midst of the fading smoke, and Zabimaru rebounds with a clang.

Renji’s beginning to understand just why Shiba went from graduate right to lieutenant. Calling up a kido is mental as much as it’s physical; that’s one of the reasons preforming it without an incantation takes more strength and skill. The chant gives time for the mind to build up the necessary reiatsu, to prepare. It makes consecutive kido attacks far harder, as the user has to mentally switch tracks and start all over again.

To be able to fire off two kido in the upper range, even if they are of the same type, one after another—and one without an incantation—means that Shiba Kei has a rather frightening grasp of the subject.

A sudden breeze sweeps away the last of the smoke even as Shiba’s barrier fades. He’s still entirely at ease, his expression in the same politely attentive lines that it has been since Renji met him, and he hasn’t so much as reached for the zanpakuto strapped across his back yet. Renji grits his teeth and sets his feet. He’s a captain now; no way in hell is he going to let a rookie lieutenant—his replacement rookie lieutenant—beat him.

A flicker of shunpo, too fast to track, and Shiba is gone. But Renji’s fought Kurosaki Ichigo in his bankai, knows what to expect when an opponent’s faster, and spins halfway to catch a sandaled foot against Zabimaru’s flat side. Shiba uses the zanpakuto like a springboard, even as Renji tries to knock him off balance, and tumbles neatly over in the air to land in a crouch. He’s up again in a second, foot lashing out, and Renji can see the barest hint of the basic academy hoho forms within each movement, but Shiba has streamlined them, tweaked them, turned them into something far closer to Shihoin Yoruichi’s deadly style. They’re not at quite that level yet, but there’s potential.

Shiba has potential, in just about everything Renji’s seen him do so far, and it really fucking grates. Shiba’s the perfect lieutenant, quiet and calm and forever composed, staying two steps behind his captain at all times, paperwork done and squads seen to and tea prepared, and it makes Renji feel like the brash, coarse Rukongai brat he’s tried so hard to leave behind.

Damn it, Renji snarls to himself, just barely blocking a kick to the knee because Shiba’s just too damned fast for him to hit. Like fighting freaking Ichigo all over again.

Except that Ichigo is gone, dead and lost somewhere in the vastness of Soul Society, very likely without any of his memories, and the last spar Renji had with him before the war ended was the last spar anyone ever had with him. And now some noble brat comes swaggering in, just as fast as Seireitei’s vanished hero, better at kido and entirely subservient where Ichigo never was, and Renji can’t figure out whether he’s more outraged for himself and his former position or for his lost friend.

He grits his teeth, turns as Shiba lands again, and lets Zabimaru strike. The force behind it is very close to deadly, hardly something to be used in a friendly spar, but Shiba dodges it nevertheless. He ducks the second strike, leaps over the third, and then darts is as Zabimaru withdraws, taking advantage of the opening it affords.

But Renji learned long ago not to leave himself open in such a stupid way, and if Kurosaki Ichigo couldn’t manage to hit him like this, there’s no possibility of a green recruit managing it. Renji whirls around, Zabimaru flying again, and catches Shiba right across the chest in what would be a killing blow, were this not a practice match. Shiba cries out as he goes down, tumbling through the dust and then smoothly back to his feet, skidding slightly as he comes to a full stop. He stays half-crouched for a moment, breathing hard, and then pushes himself upright once more.

“Match, I believe,” he says, entirely unruffled by the loss. Yet another glaring difference from Kurosaki Ichigo. “Thank you, Captain Abarai.” With a quick bow, he steps away, then turns and strides back to his waiting captain. Byakuya walks away without waiting for Shiba to catch up, and the lieutenant falls into step behind him. They disappear into the winding streets, silent as ghosts, and leave Renji in the middle of the training ground.

There’s a long moment of thoughtful silence from the peanut gallery, and then Kira offers, “He’s good, for a new recruit.”

Renji gives a non-committal grunt in answer.

“Of course,” Hisagi chips in, entirely too amused, “you knew that before you challenged him. All of Seireitei knew that before you challenged him. We saw his record. What was this really about?”

“Hmm.” Kira hums softly, propping his chin up on his fist where he’s seated on top of the wall. “Shiba Kei does look remarkably like—”

“Shiba Kaien, the first to steal Rukia’s heart?”

“I was going to say Kurosaki Ichigo, the one to save her life, but I think they both fit here.”


“It must be.”

“Of course.”

Renji glares at the two men. “I hate you both,” he mutters petulantly, sliding Zabimaru away, and pretends he can’t hear it when Kira and Shuuhei both chuckle.

It took a very, very long time—and a great many practice sessions with Kukaku—before Kurosaki Ichigo was able to fight as Shiba Kei, and not like Ichigo pretending to be a different person. They’re exact opposites on the battlefield, or at least as opposite as Ichigo can make them. Rather than rushing in headlong, sword drawn and massive spiritual power brought to bear, Kei hangs back and uses kido, focuses on conserving strength wherever possible, and tries his best not to engage directly. Few people outside of his swordsmanship classes have ever even seen him draw his sword. And if they did, “Kurotsuki” would be far different from the Zangetsu they recall Ichigo wielding.

Ichigo leans his zanpakuto against the corner of his desk, tracing lightly over the white-wrapped hilt that’s all that remains to link this sealed state with the massive cleaver it can become. Zangetsu accepts the nickname well enough, even chose it himself, but it’s not his name. Nevertheless, for Ichigo’s sake, he’s willing to pretend. When Ichigo calls on him for shikai, he’s able to choke off enough of his massive reiatsu to leave Zangetsu a long, slim, black nodachi, similar to its bankai form. Even that Ichigo uses sparingly. It’s one of the reasons he’s forced himself to study kido tirelessly, memorizing spells and chants and theories.

Shiba Kei fights at a distance, or not at all.

There’s a stack of personnel reviews that Renji’s challenge dragged him away from, and they still need to be looked over, initialed, stamped, and sent on to Byakuya if they’re either outstanding or reporting a problem. Ichigo looks at them and strangles a sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. Sometimes, he really wonders why he didn’t stay some nameless Rukongai spirit for the rest of his afterlife. There sure as hell wouldn’t have been as much paperwork.

Then Byakuya steps through the door from the main building into Ichigo’s office, sliding the door shut behind him. Ichigo glances up, ready to offer a quick smile as his captain strides past into his own office, but instead, Byakuya pauses beside him.

“Your spar was…enlightening, Lieutenant Shiba,” he offers after a moment, coolly, but still more than he’s usually inclined to give up. “It is far different than what you were before.”

Ichigo gives in and really does sigh, raking a hand through the shoulder-length black hair, just a touch longer than Byakuya’s, that he hasn’t quite gotten around to putting back in a ponytail after his tumble through the dirt. “Yeah,” he says, a little wryly. “That’s the whole point of fighting that way.”

Byakuya accepts that with a faint incline of his head, grey eyes thoughtful. “You have become well-versed in kido. I had believed you had no talent for it.”

That’s the problem with being thought of as a rash, hotheaded idiot, Ichigo reflects, and that’s wry too. He knows himself, knows how he was even before Shiba Kei came into the picture, but he also knows that a lot of time people blew his character flaws way out of proportion, just because he acted oddly and had weird hair. “No one ever taught me before,” is all he says, though. “Rukia had to focus on the most basic stuff, like what a Hollow was, and then Urahara-san and Yoruichi-san both had specific things they were training me in. Learning under Kukaku and then going to the Academy was probably the best thing for me.”

There’s a long pause, careful and considering, and then Byakuya murmurs, “You have raw talent. It has always been so. Now…perhaps it can be refined.”

Without another word, he sweeps into his office and closes the door, signaling that he doesn’t wish to be disturbed. But Ichigo is frozen in shock, far too startled to do anything, because that…

That was a compliment, and not even a backhanded one, from Kuchiki Byakuya, the one captain Ichigo always thought would despise him unconditionally.

What If? (Pt.2)

Title: What If? (Pt.2)
Summary: You indulge yourself in a harmless passion, following a train of thought, but when Mikey catches a glimpse it may not be so harmless after all.
Author: Velcr0Kitty
Characters: Mikey x Reader
Word Count: 1488
Warnings: Angst, fluff, body image… issues? I guess?
Author’s Notes: WELCOME BACK MOTHERFUCKERS I AM CAFFEINATED :) I was gonna post this as one big fic (I had hit like 3000 words) but I decided to split this up. It keeps growing :D (I took liberty and tagged a bunch of you people)

It was three agonizing days until you saw Mikey again. According to Raph he spent most of his time in the training room, relentlessly pushing himself to several limits. When one of the others could force him out for a little while he spent all of his time in his and Raph’s room “mopin’ over that weird book.”

Splinter had approached the others expressing his concerns and, until Leo mentioned your breakdown, he had nothing.

“My child?” Splinter slowly entered your room where you were laying, sketching away. You jump and try to hide your sketchbook, throwing it behind you. He quirks an eyebrow and extends his hand, motioning for you to hand him whatever it was. It was the first time since the fight you’d even touched a pencil and it seemed that all you could draw was Mikey. So, like a little kid in trouble, you hand it over. As recognition and something akin to pride swarm his features you shrink further into yourself expecting to be reprimanded. Instead he gives you a small smile and hands it back.

“Well done. That’s a very fine piece of art.” He pauses, giving you time to start explaining on your own. You sit with your eyes closed, hoping he’ll just go away. He simply stares at you, patiently, and sits. After a few tense, silent moments, you break.

“I’msosorrySplinter, I didn’t mean any harm! I draw. I was gonna go to art school then my- and then- and I just drew Mikey, Ididn’tmeantohurthim I’m sorry!” You blurt in one breath and start crying, again. Splinter had grabbed you mid-sentence and just held you. You sobbed and cried and rambled until you could breathe again. The whole time the rat who had become a father to you patted your back and waited for you to calm down.

When you had quieted and stopped shaking Splinter lied your head on his lap, combed through your hair and slowly spoke.

“Child, you must tell me what has happened. I was worried about Michelangelo, but now I fear for you too. You must explain, if you can,” and so you did. You explained everything. Your past, how bad off you were when they found you, your crush on Mikey, that night, your idea, the drawing, all leading up to three days ago. You had to stop a few times at the more painful moments and had cried silently the whole time. Once you had finished Splinter sat silently. He drank in your words, rolling them around in his head and slowly formed a response. He does this often when spoken to so you give him time and just enjoy the comfort he provides.

“Given the circumstance, you should go to him.” As he speaks, you slowly sit up and match his gaze. “This isn’t something that can be fixed outwardly, but from the inside I believe it can heal.”



Mikey loved the feel of adrenaline coursing through him after training. It put a pep in his step until it wore off and his muscles started to ache. He figured, while he was still hype, that he’d go bug his favorite sweetheart. As he wandered towards your room he enjoyed the serenity of the lair. He could hear his brothers loudly speaking then quietly disbanding, each wandering off to their separate corners. He hears Raph’s music turn up, he hears the familiar beep of Donnie’s lab door, he hears the shower, probably Leo. His hands drift to his pockets and his mind drifts to his girl - uh, well not his girl but… god, he wanted her to be. He always knew there was something about Y/N but… lately? He couldn’t help but think of you.

He was surprised to see that you weren’t in your room, so he took the time to, well, indulge himself. He looked around your room at just how you it was. The furniture, the colors, lighting, nerd stuff littering every surface, fuck even the smell. The 19 year old’s chest tightened as he took in that smell and enjoyed the little energetic rush that spiraled from his chest, down his arms and settling low. His stomach turned over and he closed his eyes, starting to daydream. Out of a dreamy fog an image of burying his face into your hair as he held you tightly swarms him. He could almost feel your small arms trying to wrap around him and failing, but still tightening nonetheless, as well as you nuzzling into his neck. The ghostly press of a kiss or two sends another shot through his body and this one snaps him out of his dizzying day dream.

He jumps and sobers up, remembering you could walk in at anytime, and continues snooping. With his arms latched behind his back he wanders around the room. His eyes fall to something on your bed. It was a some loose papers, a couple pencils, and, near the headboard, a few peculiar books. Confusion seizes him while curiosity drives him to take a peek. He glances at the door frame, pausing to consider the morality in this situation. The little devil on his shoulder has been screeching since he saw the papers and the little angel has been rambling more than Donnie. Mikey shakes his head and turns back to the papers picking up a pile of about four. His brows furrow. His jaw drops.

The paper between his fingers showed a drawing of him and his brothers side by side. Perfectly. A low whistle escapes him. Angelcakes did this?

“It’s like a photo,” he whispers breathlessly. A gargantuan smile splits his face as he excitedly flips page after page. His brothers, Splinter meditating, him laying around, Raph and Donnie sparring. He ran out of his pile and practically dove for the others. Some of the drawings were higher quality, some merely sketches. It didn’t matter, he devoured them all with fervor. Pride swelled in him and bubbles over into small bouts of giggles. He barks a sharp laugh and covers his mouth when he finds a damn near perfect capture of Raph’s bitch-face. He grabs one of the actual sketchbooks and leans against the steel beam that comes down in the middle of your room, flipping it open.


You quietly approach the increasingly scarey curtain of beads separating you and Mikey. Splinters last words before you left the room ring in your ears.

“Of course, young one. Anything can be healed if you tend to it correctly. At the very least, you can mend the damage and lessen the blow.” You lightly chant this to yourself as you approach the archway to the shared room. Mend the damage, lessen the blow. Mend the damage… You’re met with a very grumpy Raph within the first few steps. He’s laying on the top bunk, your entrance catches his attention. The red tails of his mask flail a little as he looks at you, then snaps to Mikey for a moment (who is moping quietly in the corner, sitting on his drum kit’s stool leaning against the wall) and back again. He mouths ‘You dealing with this?’. You gave a curt, nervous nod.

“Oh, thaNK FUCK,” he groans, a little too loudly. Mikey swerves around, startled by the sudden outburst, locks eyes with you and confusion turns into a scowl. Raph slides off his bunk and moves past you, giving you two hearty good-luck-shoulder-pats on his way out. You reach out towards Raph a little as he wanders away silently yelling at him to not leave you alone. You begin to slightly tremble for the second time that day. Turning back, you find Mikey has turned around once more.

Alright. Fine. I guess it’s all on me.


Mikey had made it through 2 of your old sketchbooks before he got to a newer one (he figured they were old cause he hasn’t worn that in at least a year) and picked up on a, um, theme so-to-speak. This book was near full, the only one on the bed that was closed, and was chock full of drawings of him. Of course his family was in there but it was totally rare if he wasn’t also in the drawing. To be honest, he was too stunned that none of them even knew about this amazing talent of yours to freak out about how much of him there was.

So far his favorite was one of him casually standing, facing away from the viewer, arms crossed, relatively serious. His first thought was, of course, ‘wow,’ but then it was ‘is my ass really that nice?’ It was then he saw a cute little cartoon you in the corner with sunglasses on staring at his ass, biting her lip and making a really funny face. That one he promised himself he was gonna make a copy of whether you knew about it or not.


Tags: @another-tmnt-writer @girl-next-door-writes @llturner7 @sarazzprime @jam-jar2  @i-know-i-am-weird-thank-you

Maggie’ POV Running into Emily

No one makes her giggle.

Not anymore, anyway.

But Alex Danvers?

A league of her own.

So she finds herself practically squeaking in the middle of the street, because Alex is just… Alex is everything.

And here she is, slinking her hand through Maggie’s arm, calling them that couple, and it’s perfect, and Maggie says as much, because it is perfect, because Alex is perfect, but then her stomach drops, and nothing, nothing, nothing is perfect anymore.

“Emily?” she calls, because she can’t help it, because it was years ago, but it was for five years years ago, and because god, god, god, she knew they were lesbians in rain boots and carrying yoga mats but she didn’t realize they signed up to be on an episode of The flipping L Word.

“Maggie,” is all she says, and she remembers that look, she remembers that voice, like it was yesterday, like everything was yesterday.


“Uh – “ Emily starts, and Maggie starts at the same time.

“Are – are you, um, back in town?” Because she’d only left because of Maggie.

Only left because of those stupid, drunken nights, those stupid, fucked up mistakes.

Those stupid, reckless blunders – because Emily was starting to talk about getting married, because Emily was starting to talk about Maggie being the one, and no, no, no, that couldn’t happen because no, no, no, it couldn’t be real, it was too good to be true, how could it ever be true, she’s just a fucked up kid from nowhere Nebraska with more scar tissue than skin – that ruined everything, everything, everything.

Just like she always does.

“Yeah. Yeah, just for the week. I’m staying at the Baldwin.”

Of fucking course she’s staying at the Baldwin.

The Baldwin, where Maggie had taken those women, during that awful week, that stupid week, that self-destructive, hey-baby-my-girlfriend’s-out-of-town week, to crash, to drink, to fuck away the terror of being loved, because she’d only leave in the end anyway, because everyone did.

Might as well speed it along.

Or at least get some release out of it.

Of course she’s staying at the fucking Baldwin.

“Oh. Okay.” She forces a smile and she closes her mouth and she stares, because she doesn’t deserve to be happy, and Emily was right, she was right, and she was right to take that little dig, that little reminder that you cheated, that you’re a terrible person, that you could never be happy because you don’t know what happiness actually feels like, because I was always at arms length all these years, wasn’t I, you don’t deserve to be happy because hell, Maggie, you don’t even want to be.

“Hi! I’m Alex.”

Alex’s voice makes her jump slightly, and the pit in her stomach grows. Something she didn’t know was possible.

“Oh, I’m sorry. This is my – my girlfriend, Alex.”

Her voice softens when she says her name, because her name is her only anchor right now.

Her name is her only anchor.


But it shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be because god, god, god, she doesn’t deserve it.

And she certainly doesn’t deserve Emily seeing the way Maggie’s found herself another white girl with kind of red hair, the way she knows they look perfect together. Emily doesn’t deserve that.

And Maggie doesn’t deserve an anchor.

“I’m Emily, nice to meet you.”

Maggie knows that tone, even after all these years; that tone, that face. The rushedness of her words, the curtness, but the politeness.

Knows she’s in pain.

And god, she thought she couldn’t hate herself more than she already did, but she can still stir that up in Emily, and god, what if one day she does that to Alex?


Not to Alex.

It was years ago. She was a kid. She was… she has no excuse.

But not to Alex.

“We used to date,” she tosses up her hand, because what else is there to say, and from Alex’s “oh” and little hand clap, she knows Alex already knew, knows Alex already detected, but hearing it out loud is probably giving her a pit in her stomach something akin to what’s roiling in Maggie’s.

Another thing to hate herself for.

“It’s been – “ Maggie starts.

“A lotta years.”

Three years, about eight months, give or take a couple of weeks.


Emily’s eyes rake her body and she remembers the sex they had – the wild, unrestrained, loud, rough sex, in the Baldwin, because Emily wanted her to fuck her one last time, wanted her to fuck her like she’d fucked those other girls, where she’d fucked those other girls – and she knows, she knows, that Emily’s thinking about it, too.

Knows because of the way her voice drops like it always had when she was thinking about sex when she says, “We should catch up sometime.”

Maggie almost splutters, but manages not to. “Sure, yeah. That would – that would be good. Sometime.”

The ground. Alex. Her anchor.

Doesn’t deserve an anchor.

The ground again.

Back to Emily’s face. Emily’s face that had been tear-stained and angry the last time she’d seen it, when she’d begged for forgiveness, knowing she didn’t deserve it, not knowing if she really even wanted it.

“I should go. Let you guys get up to whatever you’ve got going on, but it was really good to see you.”

“You too,” Maggie answers, a little too quickly. A little too quickly because god, this hurts.

“Uh, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, yeah.”

She turns to Alex – oh, Alex, Alex, still playing with her hands, because she doesn’t know what else to do with them when they’re not around Maggie’s body, when they’re not holding a gun – and she starts walking away, because she needs scotch. Preferably sooner than later.

But Alex stops her. “What about tonight?”


“What, she wants to catch up, we don’t have any plans.”

Maggie’s stomach sinks again, and her heart starts racing, and now she thinks she needs a Klonopin instead of a scotch.

“No, I can’t, come on, it’s cold – “

“Hey, do you see how cool I’m being about that?” She can’t help but smile, because this nerd. This nerd.

She doesn’t deserve this nerd.

“I mean, come on.”

She doesn’t think. She just does.

“Emily. Do you wanna have dinner with us tonight?”

A long pause, during which Maggie wants to disappear into the wet concrete.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. I have the same email, just… let me know where.”

Maggie nearly throws up at the mention of the same email – the same email that they’d sent countless letters from, countless dirty pictures, countless everything – but she knows she deserves it.

She couldn’t be more grateful when Alex answers for her.

“We will.”


Alex puts her arm around her as they turn again. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

It was, it was, it was.

But Alex had said “we.” We. Us. Alex and Maggie.

She isn’t going anywhere.

And Maggie isn’t going to fuck this up.

Not again.

Even if she doesn’t deserve the woman kissing her cheek as they walk, asking what kind of food Emily likes, and where she thinks they should go tonight.

Even if she doesn’t deserve her at all.


Clexa Mafia AU - Second Meeting

It had been a week since the incident or more specifically, its been a week since Lexa saw her. The startled blue eyes managed to burn their way into Lexa’s head. She has tried everything to stop thinking about the blonde woman. She’s tried everything to rid her memory of the cerulean eyes that managed to capture her entire being within the span of minutes. She spends most of, if not all of her time dealing with work related issues. Making product, pushing product, dealing with trade disputes, and settling issues between different families. Her current stressor was the Azgeda family. Nia, the head of the crime family from the northern most states, was constantly dealing in territory that did not belong to her and killing the gonas belonging to those regions. It was starting to become a real problem with some of the surrounding families — understandably so — which meant it was even bigger problem for Lexa. When you’re Heda, you command all the other families within the coalition and are often left dealing with more complex issues than any lower level gona would. However, when a certain issue ceases to be taken care of Heda will ultimately be the one left taking care of it once and for all.

That’s how Lexa found herself making her way to one of Trikru’s many safe houses in the city of Polis. The family had many different facilities for various occasions. They had designated areas for meetings between families, areas for business dealings that were more on the legal side of things, and they had spaces dedicated to things that were not to be spoken about outside of said space. Where she was headed currently wasn’t technically a house but rather a large warehouse often used for…messier meetings. When Anya had called and told Lexa to come to the warehouse, she was relieved. Carrying out the duties of Heda, combined with her never ending thoughts about a certain blonde has left her with no time to relax. Hopefully, taking care of whatever was in that building will allow her to blow off some steam.

Walking though the back entrance of the large, gray building Lexa greets her sister. They grip one another’s arms in a traditional Trikru handshake before Anya leads her back to the problem at hand. It was a rather formal greeting but this is business — family business but, business nonetheless. The siblings travel down the nearest hallway, the florescent lighting and concrete floors give off a kind of sterile essence. The sound of their shoes echoes throughout as they move swiftly towards their point of interest. There are no pictures lining the walls; nothing of sentimental value hangs in the safe house. No personal attachments, that was how they were raised. Attachments get people killed. Love is weakness. Hodness laik kwelnes.

When they round the corner Lexa knows precisely why she was called to deal with this problem. There, sat in some old, rusty, metal chair with his hands and wrists secured to it was Finn Collins. To say they had history would be quite the understatement. Finn has reputation for making bad business deals and even worse decisions. He’d been a thorn in the family’s side for some time now so Lexa was looking forward to taking care of this once and for all. It always astounded her that people would attempt to scam her and/or her family. To cross the Trikru was the equivalent of signing your own death certificate and plunging the final nail into your coffin. The family has never tried to hide their business dealings or disguise their motives but, if people refuse to acknowledge the power of Trikru, the power of Heda, they would soon learn how truly powerful she was just like Finn about to. Jus drein jus daun.

Lexa takes slow, steady steps toward him, watching as his eyes grow in size at the sight of her — at the sight of Heda. Beside him is a table lined with knives, picks, hammers, and pliers. One specifically catches her eye. A knife with a thick, wooden handle that looked like it was handcrafted judging by the intricate designs adorning it. She picks up the knife before sitting down on an offered chair that was purposefully located right in front of the fearful man. Lexa inspects the beautiful craftsmanship of the weapon. Turning it methodically in her hand as she gets accustomed to its weight. She asses the man in front of her as she runs her long fingers along the blade of the knife. His hair is greasy and it hangs loosely in his face, camouflaging a fresh wound to his temple that no doubt was her sister’s doing.

“Would you like to explain to me what exactly you’ve done to warrant my attention?” She asks while staring daggers into the man across from her. He swallows hard and squirms under her glare.

Heda, please! It’s not what you think-”

“You know what I think? I think that you like to play the tables too much and you like to spend nights with women that you can’t afford and now, it’s coming back to bite you.” Cutting him off, she moves to place the knife back on the table. She runs her dark eyes over all the options laid before her, all the ways she could hurt him, break him. Her fingers ghost over several items before settling on a small pair of pliers that appear to have something akin to dried blood on it. She returns to her previous spot, in front of him, before continuing.

“Do you know how a loan works? See, when you borrow money from the bank or in this case, me, and you have an allotted amount of time to pay back any money borrowed plus interest. Anya, have you received any sort of repayment?” She asks, turning to glance back at her sister who had her arms crossed in a menacing stance. Anya takes a step toward the seated pair. Keeping her face neutral as to not reveal anything to either party, she answers the question that was posed to her.

“I can’t say I have. Have you?” Lexa shakes her head, taking one of Finn’s hands in hers. She uses the pliers to firmly grip onto the nail of his index finger. He tries to resist but the iron grip she has on him has made it impossible to withstand her hold on him.

“Where is my money, Finn?” She asks while maintaining both her grip on his fingernail and her harsh stare. He panics and stutters; only able to release a jumbled string of what sounded like pleas to not do whatever is she intends to. Ignoring him and paying no mind to his pleading she viscously pulls the pliers, ripping out his fingernail. Blood begins to pour out of his index finger as his screams echo off the walls of the empty building. Lexa loosens her grip on the pliers, allowing the bloodied nail to fall to the ground before taking hold the nail on his middle finger.

“Do you know what collateral is? Collateral: Anything of value pledged to a lender until a loan is repaid. It can be seized if the loan is not paid. Do you have anything worth the amount of money you borrowed because if not, you’re going to be losing a lot more than fingernails.” Finn knew that the threat was very serious and very real. He tried to block out the pain he was feeling from his mangled hand as he scrambled to think of something, anything that was worth some money. He felt the beginnings of her pulling his nail when it came to him.

“Wait! Wait! Please, I-i got a girl and she has this place downtown. Its pretty shitty, I mean it doesn’t even have name but, you can use it. To wash your money; you can jack up the renovation and purchasing costs and recoup it after its been cleaned, right?” He looks frantically from the woman in front of him to the other terrifying woman standing behind her sister in solidarity.

Lexa takes a moment to ponder what he’s offered. It’s not a bad idea and she knows the easiest way to launder money is through construction costs. She slowly starts to loosen her grip on the pliers causing the man to sigh in relief, giving him the impression that he has managed to keep the rest of his nails before using her all her strength to rip it. All traces of relief vanish from the slimy man as he screams bloody murder and squirms about in the chair. Blood oozes out of his damaged fingers as though it might never stop bleeding. Lexa quickly tosses the pliers on the table moves stand. She speaks rapidly in Trigedsleng to Anya telling her to wrap his hand up, they have a store to visit.

It had been a week since she saw a man die. It had been a week since she saw the person responsible for it. The forest green eyes find their way into her dreams every night. When her eyes roll back in her sleep she can’t help but see the man splattered onto the concrete etched into her skull. It baffled her how eyes that beautiful could belong to someone so cold, to a murderer. She had spent hours, days thinking about it. Her only reprieve being the shop and whatever drawing or arrangement she was working on at the moment. Right now she was working on an arrangement; trying to figure what exactly was missing from it. It seemed as though the only thing she could do to distract herself from the thoughts swirling in her head was to throw herself into work. At least that would be productive as opposed to thinking about what had transpired a week ago. Drumming up business and getting out of debt is what the young florist needs to focus on especially now that she has her first customer of the…well, ever.

The sound of the bell above the door ringing was a much welcomed interruption. It signified a customer, a chance to make this work and get her shop up and running. Clarke put aside her arrangement and gave herself a once-over, making sure she looked put together in an attempt to impress whoever it is that just walked into her store. Planting the biggest smile she can muster on her face, she greets the new patron whilst rounding the counter she was sat behind.

“Hi, welcome to…well, there’s no name yet but, welcome anyway” she tried to hide her embarrassment at the acknowledgment of her business lacking such an integral part. Glancing up to inspect the customer she saw it was a woman most likely of asian decent with the sharpest cheekbones she’d ever seen. So sharp they could probably cut someone. Her hair was a dark blonde; it created an interesting contrast between her skin tone and the dark, charcoal color of her tailored suit. The woman smiled back at the florist. A kind of smile reminiscent of a Cheshire Cat. Attractive —beautiful even but, dangerous nonetheless.

“No name? Thats something we’ll have to fix, isn’t it Finn?” She asks, turning to the side to reveal a very guilty looking Finn Collins. He kept his head tilted down, chin resting against his chest so he wouldn’t have to make eye contact with the young store owner. Did Clarke Griffin know Finn Collins? About a month or so ago they had shared a night together when she had first moved to the city. Her parents had recently died and she had uprooted her whole life to chase a seemingly impossible dream. She was lonely and drunk and when she had met him at the bar he seemed nice enough — mainly because he kept buying her drinks. It wasn’t a very memorable night by any means but, its hard to forget a guy when he comes by your store every other day to try and ask you out. So yes, Clarke knew Finn but, what she didn’t know was what he was doing here and why he looked worse for wear and why this woman thought she had any say in her business.

“Finn? What-what are you doing here? What is she talking about?” Clarke probed while taking a defensive stance; arms crossed and legs shoulder length apart. Anya couldn’t help the devious smile that stretched across her face at the prospect of spilling the news to the blonde. The older woman begins to take possessive steps around the store; eyes trailing over the rows and rows of plants lining the store. Several pieces of artwork that hung on the wall behind the checkout counter caught the woman’s eye.

“You have some nice pieces in here. Too bad they’ll have to go. What do you think Finn? I mean this is your girl’s store after all.” Clarke’s eyes widen at hearing that. She is by no means Finn Collin’s girl and almost makes her want to puke at the thought of it. Everything was becoming too overwhelming for the florist. She had to get to the bottom of this before she had a panic attack.

“What are you talking about? I am not his girl and you have no right to just waltz in here like you own the place!” Anya was surprised the woman was brave enough to speak to her like that but, it still distract her from the reason they were here.

“Well, technically I do own this place. See, your boyfriend sold you out to save his own skin. He took money from my family and hasn’t paid his dues so he told us we could have this place. Isn’t that right, Finn?” Grabbing the man by the scruff of his neck and pulling him forward and forcing him to look at the woman he’d crossed in an act of cowardice.

“Clarke, I am so sorry. It’s not what you th-” the ringing of the same bell from earlier cuts him off mid groveling. She glances past the two individuals in front of her to see who had just entered the store. When those cerulean blues meet those familiar forest greens she is overwhelmed. There, before her, in another perfectly tailored suit stood the same woman who had inhabited her mind for a week. Her heart was racing and her emotions were so intertwined that she couldn’t decipher whether she was feeling rage or excitement at the prospect of seeing the jade eyed beauty. The brunette moves steadily forward towards Clarke before pausing to speak in a language the young woman had never heard. The more frightening of the two women grabs Finn and makes a quick exit; leaving Clarke alone to deal with the newest player in this fucked up game.

“My name is Lexa Woods and I-”

“Get out.”

“You and I both know I can’t do that. I am truly sorry that you’ve found yourself wrapped up in all of this.” She doesn’t know whether to believe the woman. Clarke tilts her head back and shakes it slightly; trying to get her emotions in control. The florist refuses to cry in front of this poor excuse for a person. Clarke Griffin will not give Lexa Woods the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

“I know who you are; who your family is and the things you do. I watch the news. I know what goes on. For fuck’s sake, I saw it with my own two eyes!”

“I appreciate the fact that you didn’t say anything.” Lexa was being honest. Most people either jump at the opportunity to try and turn her in or use whatever they’ve seen or heard as blackmail. She couldn’t help the odd sense of pride that swelled in her chest at the fact that the gorgeous blonde hadn’t tried to rat her out. It made it all that much harder to do what she had to now.

“We, my family and I, own your store now and will be using it to launder money we’ve acquired through our own businesses.” Lexa watches the rage bubble up in the blonde’s features. The way her brows furrowed creating a small crease between them might have been considered endearing or even cute in different circumstances.

“So, this is what I get, huh? I keep my mouth shut. I don’t say anything about what I saw and trust me, I remember very clearly what happened. And now, you just walk in here and tell me that some piece of shit guy that I had drunk sex with months ago sells my store — which he has no rights to — out from under me to some kind of…criminal. Great. Just fucking great.” Clarke was borderline hysterical at this point. Her dream was once again out of reach and this time she wasn’t sure she’d ever get the chance to make it come true.

Lexa inspected the woman before her. She was strong, stubborn even, but she was also extremely passionate. Not many people found the nerve to speak their mind around Heda and Lexa had to admit, it broke her heart to see those fat tears roll down the ivory skin of the woman’s cheeks. She truly did feel bad that Finn had fucked this woman over but, it was too good of a business proposal to give it up. She knew that her business dealings tended to involve and attract a shadier group of individuals and that this poor woman was most likely saddened at the idea of losing her shop to these people and their less than legal activities. Taking a deep breath to keep her own emotions in check, she tries to comfort Clarke as best she can.

“I know you’re scared but this won’t last forever. A couple of months, long enough to clean the money and earn it all back plus any interest and we’ll be out of your hair. We only skim our profits off the top; you keep everything else. And if it’s the other families you’re scared of…I promise not to let any of them hurt you.” Clarke angrily wipes the tears from her face and sniffles before asking an honest question.


“They’re all afraid of me.”

“If that’s true; if you’re some how in charge of them and they’re all scared of you, why don’t you kill me yourself? I mean wouldn’t that be the smartest decision. That’d be the best way to make sure I never talk, right?” Lexa can’t truly describe the feeling she felt when the florist suggested Lexa kill her. It was something akin to…anger. Anger at the simple thought of someone, anyone, bringing harm to the beautiful woman lit a fire in the brunette. One that she felt in her whole body. Finger tips burning to punish anyone who dare lay a finger on the owner of the blue eyes she had come to admire so much.

“I would never hurt you, Clarke. This city can be quite ugly and I know that I play a large roll in that but you, you opened a flower shop right in the middle of all the ugliness. You strive to bring beauty to such a dark place. I admire people like you…plus, I would never hurt a pretty girl.” Turning sharply on the heel of her expensive Oxford shoes Lexa begins to make her way out of the store. She stops briefly to look at the flower arrangement Clarke had been working on before. Studying it and all its intricacies before muttering a quick: ‘have you thought about using orchids? Do you know they represent love? Just a thought’, and continuing on her path out of the store.

Feel Free to send asks, headcanons, and submissions!

Prompt: Chuck Shurley

A/N: I tried a new concept I’ve been thinking of on this one. Also the plot in this story is kind of not canon

Pairing: Chuck/Reader

Request: Prompt #20 with Chuck

Word Count: 1302

Originally posted by sooper-dee-dooper-natural

          Chuck didn’t know how royally screwed he was until he met you. He thought his life was a disaster, what with the throbbing headaches and extremely graphic and vivid premonitions, which had inevitably caused him to turn to alcohol and (sometimes) cheap sex with call girls to take his mind off of the constant hell that went through his head. If only he’d known what’s to come.

See, you were sort of a hunter. You spent most your cases working with the Winchesters, even the ones involving the 66 seals and trying - but failing - to keep them in tact. So you were a huge part in the boys’ lives at the time, almost always with them. Like this time, the three of you had found out about a book titled ‘Supernatural’, by one Carver Edlund, that depicted a frightening amount of things that had happened to the boys. The demons, vampires, brotherly love triumphing over love for humanity, everything. Everything, except, well… you. And some other minor details (maybe a couple important ones too).

So, you and the boys decided to meet this ‘Carver Edlund’, who actually turned out to be a ‘Chuck Shurley’, and figure this whole thing out, although you were certain that Dean would throw a bitchfit about having someone make a book out of his hardships. Maybe it was due to the fact that you weren’t in it, but you figured since it was in the fiction section that no one would even believe it’s real.

Imagine your surprise when you find out that this man was actually a prophet of the lord. And a cute one at that, you might add. After the whole fiasco with Lilith was dealt with, you decided to pay him a visit and ask something that had been on your mind.

“Not that I’m terribly conceited, but why am I not in the books?” you asked him, furrowing your brows. You were more confused about this than upset. His crystal blue eyes met yours for a minute as he thought out the answer.

“Truthfully? I’ve never seen you in the visions. There were quite a few times that I felt as if someone else was there, but I could never really get a glimpse, and believe me, I’ve tried,” he stared at you with a look in his eyes that you couldn’t quite place, something akin to confusion, or maybe even awe.

“Huh,” you breathe out, crossing your arms. “I wonder why that is.”


Chuck wasn’t quite sure what it was, but everytime they spoke his vision got clearer, he was more focused… and the premonitions seemed to never end, and not just of the Winchesters, but of ‘everyone’. He started remembering things. Things from his past, from his real past. Names flew around in his head, Gabriel…Michael…Raphael….Lucifer.. Although that last one wasn’t really new to him, he saw enough visions of Lucifer already. He even started to remember….Heaven? Why was he remembering Heaven?

He had all these pieces, and he wanted to piece them together but they weren’t all there. Not yet, at least. He tried to remember more after you left, but all that did was give him another migraine.

He didn’t know what to do with all this new information. He didn’t know what it meant or if he was just going crazy. But he did know one thing. Everytime he met with you, the barrier in his mind that kept ‘that’ information from the rest broke just a little. So he decided to finally get it over with and meet up with you on the hunt that he saw Sam and Dean were about to wrap up. He knew you’d be there too, and it was only a couple towns over from where he was.

When he got to the diner that you were in, your eyes immediately met his, surprise evident on your face as he strode briskly up to you, the boys already out in the car.

“Chuck, wha-”

“Please don’t hit me,” he cut you off pleadingly, shortly before placing his hand on the back of your neck and gently but firmly pulling you into a kiss. You let out a surprised gasp before kissing back. If he were anyone else, you would have knocked his lights out by now, and he knew that.

It was almost like an explosion, things coming back to him that he never would have thought to be true. The Creation, the archangels, Leviathan, mankind… and her. More specifically, you. The wall that had been blocking his memories - his real memories - had disintegrated. He’d have figured that finding out that you’re the big man upstairs would be too much to process in one single moment, but that was the beauty of being god; he knew exactly who he was and took all of that information, knowledge of literally everything in existence, and processed the whole thing in under a second. He remembered needing a break from everything, and asking Metatron to write down instructions on how to run things while he was gone.

Not only did he need a break from everything, he finally figured out where you were. For, you see, you were special to him. In the beginning, he created all human souls that were to walk the earth, from the beginning to the end. All of them except for one. You. He wasn’t exactly sure who created you, but ever since he had laid eyes on your bright, thriving soul, he had awaited the day that you would walk the earth.

When you were born, he would have wept if he could. He had even sent an angel to look over you while you grew up. For awhile, watching you from above was enough to sate him, but when you had been introduced to the hunter’s life, he found that watching from Heaven wasn’t enough. He had tried using other angels to persuade you to quit the life, but you were stubborn. You wanted to help people, and when you found out that you could manipulate your soul to heal people - and not just people - you definitely weren’t getting out of the game. You had a lot of love to give, and you did. You healed nearly everyone, monster or not. That wasn’t to say you let them free, if they’d went on killing sprees, well, you usually left them up to other hunters to deal with afterwards.

It was when you crossed paths with the Winchesters that he finally decided to do something about it. He hadn’t had much actual interaction with humans before, so he hatched a little plan. He would walk the earth a human, clearing his mind of everything god-like. He made it so that he would start to remember once he met you, albeit slowly so as to get you to trust him, treat him like a human. He knew that if you thought he was the almighty, you would be turned away, maybe even a bit frightened by him.

All of these thoughts went through his head in a manner of seconds, before the two of you parted. Your eyes were filled with love and confusion as you stared at him, asking the silent question ‘What the hell was that?

Chuck - he had grown to like the name, he figured he’d keep it - let a grin grace his features. He stood up, shoulders squared but relaxed, his whole demeanor emitting confidence.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he says softly, and he could see it in your eyes. You saw what he saw. Without even speaking a word, he knew that you felt the same as him. He brushed your cheek with the back of his hand, the look in his eyes pure.

He finally had you.

A dragon’s treasure

Prompt: Metalicana interacting with the twins by @ninja-status

Word count: 2k

Summary: Metalicana is asked to babysit the twins. It’ll be a piece of cake, right? RIGHT?! Modern-AU; Human!Metalicana.


After three knocks to the door, only one thought crossed his mind unrelentlessly.

How had he agreed to this?

The door swung open and he looked down to be met with two hazel eyes and a bright smile.

Oh, right. It’s all the brat’s fault.

“Welcome, Metalicana,” Levy greeted him in her singsong voice and he sighed in defeat.

“Where are they?” His gruff voice and dark appearance could have scared the bravest warrior but did nothing to her. Instead, she smiled again and stepped aside to let him come inside the house.

Yeap, it’s the brat’s fault for falling for the ballsiest and cutest woman in the whole world. Don’t get him wrong; he loves his daughter-in-law, she seemed to be the only one able to keep his son in line and she was the main reason the brat cut his connections with the dark businesses he got involved in when he was young.

Still, it didn’t explain why Metalicana had to bear with the consequences of his son’s choices.

“They are in the living room watching a movie. Come on in.” She closed the door once he stepped inside and he couldn’t help but scrunch his nose at the fruity and floral scent that wafted through each corner of the house.

“Hey Pops,” Gajeel greeted his father when he came into view and- wait, did he just smiled at him?! Was Gajeel actually happy to see his old man?!

“Brat,” he greeted back and couldn’t keep the faint smile off his face at seeing his son so damn happy. Yeah, this tiny blue haired woman was changing Gajeel’s life and Metalicana hoped it would be for the better.

“Hey Lev, could ya help me with the tie?”

“Sure, honey.” Gajeel leaned down for her to be able to reach for his tie without going up on her tiptoes. With a quick motion, Levy finished her task and patted him affectionately on the chest. “All done.”

He thanked her and kissed the top of her head which earned him a cute giggle from the woman.

“Ugh, get a room ya two.” Metalicana rolled his eyes and crossed his arms feigning irritation at the scene.

“What? Ya want a kiss too old man?”

“Yeah, in my ass,” he shot back and both males grinned at each other.

“Now now, be nice the two of you,” Levy chided but before Metalicana could argued back a new voice interrupted them.

“Grampa?” Yajeh stood at the other end of the entrance hall eyeing the older man curiously.

“Come here, sweetie.” The five-year-old boy did as his mother told him and ran into her arms happily. She lifted him up with ease and embraced the child with motherly love. “Is the movie over?”

“Yeah, it was great! Can we look for our dragons next time we go camping?” His eyes shone with excitement at the mere idea of riding his own Nightfury.

“Sure thing, champ.” Gajeel chuckled and ruffled his son’s hair.

“We’ll need lots of fishes! And no eels!” Shutora added as she stepped closer to the adults. She eyed her brother with shyness and something akin to jealousy. She also wanted to be hugged but she was too proud to admit it.

As if reading her mind, Gajeel swiftly lifted her up and sat her on his shoulder. She laughed and hugged her daddy’s head to not fall off. Metalicana just rolled his eyes one more time at the family’s antiques; that many shows of affection were too much for him to bear.

“Why is Grampa here?” Shutora questioned noticing for the first time the older man in the room.

“He is staying with ya for a couple of hours,” Gajeel said as he gently put his daughter down.

“Really?” Yajeh looked up at his grandfather with his bright red eyes.

“Yes. Daddy and I are going out for a couple of hours so Grampa will be looking after you until we come back,” Levy explained as she kissed her son in the cheek and put him down. “So you better behave, alright?”

Now, both kids looked up at Metalicana with wide eyes and unreadable expressions. He started to feel uncomfortable under their innocent and intense gaze. Surely they might have prefered to be babysat by Blondie or by Igneel’s brat but according to Levy they were unavailable for the night. So now, the twins were stuck with him and they were probably going to throw a tantrum about them not wanting to spend time with their grandfather.



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Mallory (Lin/Reader)

so this is a sort of Version One to the College!Lin fic promised to @burninglaurens , who also came up with the name of Mallory in my moment of desperation.

Length: 2,169 words

Warnings: None

Summary: It takes one girl to bring and your best friend together.

Note: reviews give me life <3 Version Two is a possibility 

Her name was Mallory. That was one the two things you knew about her.

The other thing was that Lin — your best friend — liked her.

Although like was a bit of an understatement. He was more or less infatuated, pining after her from the moment she entered the room. You couldn’t blame him. Mallory was beautiful, and no one could deny that she and Lin would make an attractive couple.

Not even you, it seemed, as you encouraged Lin to go talk to her.

He shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Y/N. She’s drunk and we’re at a party. I’m not going to go and talk to her.”  

You rolled your eyes at him. “If not now, when?” You questioned, and Lin raised his eyebrow at you. To avoid a wisecrack comment courtesy of Lin, you continued on. “Just go and get her a drink. Ask her to dance. Have a laugh. Who knows, she might enjoy it and by then, I’m sure flirting is acceptable.”

“Like you’d know anything about flirting,” teased Lin, making you send a deft punch to his arm. Lin swayed on his feet, grinning at you. You were about to grin back before seeing Mallory move in your peripheral vision. Her dancing had stopped, and she approached the drinks table with as determined a look as a drunk girl could master.

“Go,” you said suddenly, pushing Lin forward. “Go now.”

Lin looked confused, stumbling as you gave him another firm shove. “And leave you? Y/N, it’s getting late, and I’m your lift home, remember?”

“I’ll find someone else,” you assured him, giving him an encouraging nod. Your eyes swept the room confidently, though you doubted anyone would bother giving you a lift home. “If not, I can walk.”

Lin gave a happy, albeit nervous, thumbs up as he turned and approached Mallory and the drinks table. You sipped your own drink, fingers tapping nervously on the plastic cup as you watch Lin awkwardly stoop to talk to Mallory, you watched the two laugh, and winced as she dug her brightly painted nails into his dark shirt as she led him to the dance floor.

There was a third thing you learned about her: Mallory was a surprisingly good dancer. She was beautiful, her dark and generously moisturised skin almost glowing under the harsh florescent lights of the party, her dark, glossy hair swishing this way and that as she wrapped her arms loosely around Lin’s neck, drawing him closer—

You looked away, a mild disgust overcoming you. Disgusted in the same way you might be if Lin was your brother, you decided, which he practically was anyway. The two of you had been met in the first weeks of college and, after hitting it off right away, you’d stayed friends until this very day.

You doubted much would change was you left college, but you still after a strange sense of protectiveness at the thought of you going your separate ways.

Sneaking a glance back at Mallory and Lin, you saw her pull him ever nearer, whispering something with her mouth pressed to his ear. You looked away, grimacing as you downed the pitiful remainders of your plastic cup.

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