I’m really suprised that people actually enjoy the small Kitsune!AU ah//// <3

Made some extra outfits for the boys! Saitama prefers to wear just baggy and loose clothes even after he moves into genos his Temple, while genos on the other hand,,, prefers gold/fancy stuff :’D

[post 4x15]

“What about SHIELD?” she asks, and he’s grateful that she’s at last asked a question that requires and answer more than “How did you get in here?” or “Who are you?”

He glances towards Beth.  She still sitting on his desk, back straight, but he can tell from the way her lips are just barely open that she’s scared.

“What about SHIELD?”

“You never went?”

“Of course not,” he says, and then, without meaning to, “My father and I–”

And she nods.  "How funny is that?“ She whispers.  "It’s not fair that you only get to be loved by one of us in each life.  I suppose he didn’t think things through.”

He doesn’t bother to ask who.  Instead he repeats his first question.  "Who the hell are you?“ and it makes him sick with how much she wants to cry.  

"It’s not real,” she says, for not the first time.  "In the real world, a hole once opened.  A portal to another planet no one new existed.  And you still tied a rope around your waist and jumped straight into it, just because I might have been on the other side.“

He wants to ask "Were you?”  but walks to the desk instead and says “For fuck’s sake, tell me who you are or I’m calling security.”

“Oh, Fitz,” she sighs, and his hand hovers over the call button.  "Please wake up.“

"You’re crazy.”  It’s the first time Beth has spoken, but the girl doesn’t look at her.  She only laughs and it’s the saddest thing Leo Fitz has ever heard.

“I’m dead,” she says, half hysterical.  "I’m dead here and you’re not there to care.“

He knows it sounds impossible cruel, but he feels Beth’s hand on his and, pressing the security call button, says "Why would I?”

“I’m not surprised,” she says.  “You’re the first thing that ever made me want to live.”

Leo shakes his head.  “I don’t know you,” he tells her.  He’s done with her game. 

The door opens and several security guards walk in.  At first, she seems like she’ll let them escort her out.

But she fights.  It surprises him, the strength with which she fights and an odd part of him, a part he doesn’t recognize thinks, “That’s my girl.”

“Fitz!” she screams.  “Fitz!  You have to wake up!  You have to come back to me!”

The guard hits her hard and she falls.  In his head, he’s screaming her name.  

It’s only when they’ve carried her away that he realizes she never told him what it was.  

Keep reading

awaywiththeclouds  asked:

Prompt! (Feel free to ignore, this might make no sense as its 3am so..) After Jake and Amy get married Charles will occasionally just ask for "Peralta" purely so he can watch them both turn round and do the strange giggle he did with the marshmallows

Someone changed her desk nameplate.

Strangely, Jake notices it before Amy. It’s approximately five minutes into their first day back after the honeymoon, still a bit sunburned and moony-eyed but also totally ready to get back to work. Amy’s hung back a moment, still chatting with Terry about the resort they’d stayed at, and while Jake had taken a moment to appreciate the way the wedding ring on her finger somehow made the diamond on her engagement ring catch the lights above her even more than before, he’d turned away to head toward their desks.

His gaze had basically drifted over the nameplates (the way it always does first thing in the morning), but the altered initials had caught his attention, drawing him up short five feet from their pod. He’d stared. He’d even blinked a few times.

But no matter how many times he’d tried to clear his vision, he was still reading DET. AMY PERALTA and DET. JAKE PERALTA.

“Jake?” Amy’s voice at his shoulder snaps him out of his trance. His head swivels toward her, meeting her confused gaze with one of his own. “What’s up?”

“Look,” he points at their desks. She looks, stares, but still has that same bewildered expression on her face when she looks back up at him. “Seriously? You don’t see it?”

“See what?”

He scoffs, drops his messenger bag right there on the floor, and heads straight to her desk. She advances a few paces as he walks, stooping to grab the strap of his messenger bag, bringing her up closer than he’s expecting when he whirls back toward her, but he still smirks - one part triumphant, one part bemused - when he points to her name plate. “Detective Amy Peralta?”

She furrows her brows, staring at the nameplate like she’s never seen one before. “Who did that?” She asks, glancing at Gina.

Gina grunts, eyes glued to her phone, clearly disinterested.

“The Peraltas are back!” A familiar voice squeals from near the stairs.

“Well that answers that question.” Jake sighs. Charles is practically crawling over the small throng of people standing just outside the bullpen gate, his face flushed with excitement, eyes glued to Jake and Amy.

“I told you I wasn’t changing my last name, Charles,” Amy says, her exasperation clear in both her tone and her facial expression. Charles appears not to have heard her; he’s too busy bouncing on the balls of his feet and pointing at the nameplate.

“Charles, buddy,” Jake tries, rounding Amy’s guest chair to take his messenger bag from her. “What’d you do with her old nameplate?”

His grin falls away, replaced by a look of indignation. “What, praytell, are you insinuating? I dare say this is an utterly baseless accusation - nay, an act of pure treachery -”

“Check your drawers,” Amy interrupts. Jake pulls the top one open and rolls his eyes - the nameplate is tucked between two bags of gummy bears.

“I thought maybe after spending a week officially married you might change your mind,” Charles says dejectedly as Jake passes her old nameplate to her across their desks.

“It was super thoughtful of you, dude, but Amy’s definitely staying a Santiago.” Jake says as he drops to his seat and powers his computer on. Amy nods as she kneels beside her desk to slide the new nameplate out of place. “Besides, we’re hella married now, so she could change her last name to Fartmonster for all I care. Side note, Ames, let’s stop by the DMV and change your last name to Fartmonster after work tonight!”


“You’re the most boring wife I’ve ever had.” She sticks her tongue out at him, and he responds in kind. “Anyways, point is, we’re hella married. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted all along?”

Amy snorts, but Charles seems to very seriously contemplate Jake’s words. “I guess.” He says slowly. “Are you guys sure, though? Like, have you really thought it through?”

“We’ve really thought it through.” Jake confirms.

“Well that makes things complicated.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Amy’s head snap up; when he turns toward her, her eyes are narrowed in accusation. “What else did you do?” She asks.

Charles makes a noise, a loud scoff, that echoes through the bullpen. “Unjustified betrayal, my dear woman! How dare you!”


Charles clenches his jaw and takes a small step backwards. “I need to go cancel a few orders I made last week that are totally unrelated to what we were just talking about.”

He scurries away and Jake chuckles, shaking his head as he turns back toward Amy. “I was just kidding about the most boring wife I’ve ever had thing. You’re, like, the fifth most boring wife I’ve ever had.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Peralta.” She says primly, her attention fixated on her desk calendar despite the smile threatening to curl the corners of her mouth upward.

He sighs, melting into his seat. “I bet if we asked Terry right now we could get an extension on our honeymoon. Holt still hasn’t seen us.” Jake offers.

Amy’s head tilts to her left a few degrees, an affectionate smile on her face. “Maybe,” she says, spinning the new nameplate between her fingers. “But we’ve got a ton of work to catch up on here.”

He shrugs, and she laughs. “Ready to be the most badass married couple detective police partners of all time?”

Her affection is dimmed by her frown. “That was a grammatically horrible way of phrasing it,” she says, “but…yeah, definitely.”

His computer flashes to life then, drawing his attention away from her. He glances back a moment later, just in time to catch her carefully tucking the new nameplate into her purse.

anonymous asked:

Headcanon about jake helping Amy after a nightmare? Like an extreme anxiety attack after waking up because she thought he died

Amy’s side of the bed is empty, but warm. It’s the first thing that seeps into Jake’s consciousness with the slow stretch of his fingers across the space, worming through the folds in the sheets, seeking the soft skin that is no longer there. He hears a door close - not slam, but far too loud for such a solid, pitch black darkness shrouding their bedroom - and the sound reverberates through his skull for a moment.

It takes a second for his brain to start functioning properly again, but the moment he does he realizes that something had awoken him. A sound, a grating noise, had pricked his senses and lured him out of sleep. He thinks he has a hazy memory of trembling fingers pushing his hair back from his forehead right before the mattress dipped violently beneath him, probably the result of Amy quickly evacuating.

Jake’s eyelids snap open as the pieces suddenly fall together. It was Amy causing the noises that woke him up - it was Amy who’d torn out of bed like the apartment was on fire.

He can hear her now, in the bathroom, her abrasive hyperventilating gasps for air clearly audible over the running sink and the flushing toilet. His heart thumps and throbs uncomfortably in his chest as he quickly disentangles his legs from the sheets, practically falling out of bed in his haste to get to her. He stumbles across their darkened bedroom floor and essentially throws himself at the bathroom door, just to bounce back from the solid surface - it’s locked.

“Amy?” He calls, too tired to remember to hide the desperation in his voice. He raps his knuckles quickly against the surface, hyper-focused on the hitch in her already erratic breathing. “You gotta let me in, Amy, please -”

He hears a shift, a drag of jello-limp legs along the tile floor, and then she’s fumbling with the lock with what he knows to be lead fingers. He waits as long as he can once the door is unlocked, carefully tracking her awkward shuffle away from the door before pushing it open and hurrying inside.

Amy’s pale and sweating, her hair sticking up wildly where it isn’t plastered to her forehead. Her eyes are wide and her face is blotchy and tears are practically spraying down her cheeks. She’s folded in on herself in the tightest fetal position he’s ever seen, and seems to recoil when he drops to his knees before her. “Amy,” he hears himself murmur, pushing her hair away from her face and trying not to take it personally when she jerks her head away. “Hey, hey, sh,” he whispers as chest-ripping sobs begin to tear out of her. Her chest is still heaving but she seems unaware; her dark eyes stay trained on Jake’s face, like she’s incapable of looking away, only fluttering closed briefly when he runs his thumbs over her cheekbones to wipe the tears away.

It’s never been this bad before, never been this visceral. For the first time in the six years he’s known her, he’s genuinely frightened on her behalf. He pushes through it, though; she very clearly needs him. “Focus on me, babe, I’m here and it’s okay now, I promise. You’re okay. Breathe, babe, keep breathing - that’s it, you’re doing great.” She’s leaning into him more now, eyes closed in concentration, and he methodically counts her through her breathing exercise while fitting quiet praises in each pause.

It takes about twenty minutes (six minutes longer than her worst panic attack on record that he knows of), but eventually her heart rate is normal and her eyes are no longer bright and gleaming with panic. He shifts to sit beside her then, pulling her close, leaned back against the bathroom cabinets as Amy quietly folds herself into his side. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, one palm smoothing up her upper arm, the other gently holding her head in place in the dip of his shoulder. His eyes are dry and prickling at the early hour and a yawn is threatening to bubble up his throat, but he ignores it.

“Sorry,” Amy whispers hoarsely after another moment of peace.

Jake clenches his jaw. “Why are you apologizing?”

She sniffles, and he feels her fingers curling around the loose material of his t-shirt down near his ribs on his right side. “I dunno,” she admits, quieter than before.

He turns his head and kisses the crown of her head, letting his lips linger there for a long moment before lifting his head up to rest his chin on top of her head. “I’ve told you before,” he says softly, “you never, ever have to apologize to me for that stuff. Ever. I don’t care how stupid you think it is, you wake me up. I love you, all of you. That includes the chronic anxiety.”

She sniffles again, but he feels her nuzzling a little closer, so he squeezes her arm reassuringly. The bathroom floor is cold and uncomfortable but neither one of them seem to be keen on moving.

The next part of the conversation is never fun. But then again, the whole affair is pretty unpleasant to begin with, so he supposes it’s to be expected.

“D’you wanna talk about it?” He murmurs into her hair.

He can’t see her face, but he can imagine the look of anguish there. He’s seen it so many times, most often in response to that very question; vulnerability has never been one of Amy’s strong suits. He likes to think she’s getting better at trusting him, even if she still shuts him out sometimes after panic attacks.

“Not really,” she mumbles after a long moment. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t press her; he just keeps lightly, steadily caressing her arm. He feels her shift, shuffle closer, roll her shoulders, and heave a sigh. He remains silent. “I just - I had a dream.”

There. The start. “Good dream or bad dream?” He prompts her after a pause.

Shift, squeezed fingers, adjusted head. “Bad.”

Up and down, up and down. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

The longest pause yet. “I…you…you died.”

Well that’s new. His hand freezes on her arm, his grip suddenly firm, and her discomfort rolls off of her in palpable waves. He desperately wants to see her face, but her fingers have tightened even further around his shirt and he’s got a feeling that if he tries to move away from her, she’ll cling to him as hard as she can just to avoid eye-contact. “I died?” He repeats instead, hoping his voice sounds steadier to her than it does to him.

“Yeah,” she rasps. “It just - it happened so fast, but it felt so real - I woke up panicking, and you were right there but - but for a second, it almost looked like -” she pauses, her shoulders and chest jerking slightly beneath his arm, and he realizes with a pang that she’s started crying again. He resumes his caress, more forceful than before, and shushes her quietly again.

That explains why he’d felt her hands on his face, at least. She was checking to see if he was still breathing. “I’m okay,” he reminds her, voice soft. He feels her nod, and then she turns her head until the delicate line of her nose presses lightly against the side of his neck. There are a confusing number of emotions swelling in his chest right now - too many to dissect this early in the morning with Amy’s tears soaking into his t-shirt and her breath warming a little patch of skin over his chest. “Amy?”

Her eyelashes are fluttering against his neck. “Hm?” She hums.

“I love you so, so much. No matter what.”

“Mm,” the hand fisted into his shirt disentangles and skates across his stomach to wrap around on his other side, bringing her even closer than before. Suddenly they’re embracing sleepily right there on the bathroom floor. Amy squeezes him slightly, a quiet, contented hum vibrating softly in the back of her throat, and Jake has to stare up at the ceiling to fight back a sudden wave of tender affection threatening spill out of him at the noise. “Love you, too.” She mumbles, and then her lips press quickly against his throat.

He should get up. He should get to his feet and pick her up and carry her to bed and crawl in next to her. He should pull her close, he should be the big spoon tonight, he should wrap himself around her so tightly while she sleeps that the nightmares can’t find a way back in. He should not fall asleep with her on the bathroom floor, because they’re both in their thirties and while he may still be a kid at heart his body is most definitely not.

He should do all of those things. But instead, he lets his head loll to his right, his lips brushing against her hair. “I got you, Santiago,” he whispers sleepily.

He’s asleep before he hears the quiet, sleep-addled grunt she makes in response.