#sometimes amy sings and sometimes surge screams

[nonbinary-sticks-the-badger]

they would be in a punk band (and a polycule)

#sonic #amy rose #surge the tenrec #sticks the badger #sticksamy #surgamy #sticksurgamy #sticks is on drums surge is on vocals and amys on bass #sometimes amy sings and sometimes surge screams #surge and amy sometimes play the guitar #yeah

[peantbutter-honeycombs]

The Hollowing Series: Part II

Title: The Boy and His Companion

Word count: 3,339

Characters: The 11th Doctor, Amy Pond, ocs

Warnings: Platonic fic not romantic.

Notes: Originally the story was going to be completely told from the point of Sophia but after a few drafts I decided it should follow Oliver. My college friend who sometimes beta reads my work used to hate the boy but now she likes him. He used to be mean and dismissive toward Sophia but clearly I changed things. Even I quite like his character now.

Speacial Thanks to @underskaro for beta reading this chapter. I know your busy and this really meant a lot to me. So thank so much.

Figured I tag @mirkwoodshewolf because they kindly edited the first chapter and I want them to know I finally got around to the second.

———

The rain had ceased, leaving a heavy blanket of grey white on the hills. It hugged the rain-soaked ground, dancing around each of the kid’s heels. The late day fog controlled the landscape, making it blur in the same way as the opening credits of Mary Poppins.

The entire walk home, the two walked in silence. Oliver, in one hand, held the middle bar of the bright green trike. The metal was ice in his palm. He gripped the bar so tight his knuckles were turning a ghostly shade of white. He held Sophia’s hand in the other, though not nearly as tight. However, still tight enough to make the little girl uneasy.

Sophia would have “said” something if it wasn’t so woefully clear Oliver was cross. His soulful hickory eyes were hard as stone. Instead of their usual boyish spark, there lingered a disdainful flicker. She could swear he was muttering something bitter. Now and then she’d fear a foul word, he’d probably later scold himself for saying.

Whoooooooooo.

He stopped, eyes narrowing. He took a deep, rather stiff breath and sharply exhaled through his nostrils. Adrenaline surged through his system so fast he felt it burn a path through his veins. He spun around, pulling Sophia behind him. Oliver had a glacially callous glare on his face, eyes fixed on the horizon.

The wind tore at the collar of his slicker, and his damp mess of blonde curls. Their surroundings were clouded, hidden, shrouded by the thick veil of fog. Oliver stood silently, the only sound coming from the ferocious flapping of his jacket. He scanned the stretch with the careful eye of a concerned mother.

The fog is not the mist. The fog is not the mist.

The second they arrived home, Oliver condemned Sophia to the time-out chair. She quietly settled in on the stool, positioned in the far corner of the dead end down stairs corridor, without protest. It was an older item. The hand carved mahogany always felt stiff on her bum. But she thought it better not to whine.

Oliver, he sat alone in the living room. A damp, worn out mess of a human being. He tiredly sunk into the couch. He ignored the clammy feeling of his rain-soaked clothes. He completely collapsed across the cushions. Every muscle in his body just surrendered to gravity. He could feel the tiredness pressing on his chest, weighing him down, draining his energy, exhausting his patience.

Why would she think?… Especially now. He rolled off his side onto his back and focused his eyes on the ceiling. She can’t just… Ugh!

He brought a pillow to his face and screamed.

The seconds ticked away into minutes; in the isolation of the sitting room, Oliver let the world around him fade into silence. The minutes ticked into half an hour; Sophia absentmindedly twiddled her thumbs, humming a familiar song in the back of her head; Oliver had been awake for sixteen hours. His consciousness was grasping at straws.

One sniff and Oliver’s eyes are open. He rolled on to his side. Immediately his face fell into irritation. Oliver locked eyes with a familiar pair mere inches from his face.

“I’m not done with timeout. Go back.”

Sophia blinked, processing the instructions she’d just been given. Her eyes darted around, searching his face for any traces of sarcasm or falsehood. Nothing.

Sophia lightly pecks his cheek in the sloppy little kid way. It left a little wet mark, one he’d wipe away once she’d left the room. Oliver chuckles softly, carefully bumping his forehead against Sophia’s. The little ginge giggled, stumbling back, whilst raising a palm to where her temple had been nudged.

“Ten minutes?”

Sophia nods and politely shuffles off.

The landscape blurred, clouded, the fog lingered hovering above the cool streams and the crowned hills. The brilliant greens and vibrant patches of rich wildflower were poking through the fleeting fog. Soon the sun would begin its descent. Lowering, lowering until it was nothing more than a single sliver of gold vanishing on the horizon.

Eyes closed, arms folded over his chest, which rhythmically rose and fell with each dozy intake of breath, Oliver laid quietly on the couch. The father clock at the top of the stairs ticked, the pendulum swung from side to side. Quarter till four, it read.

Sophia sat in her timeout chair, continuing to hum her melodic tune. In these moments of boredom with no toys to play, no stuffy to “talk” to and no Ollie to cling to, all Sophia could do was wait. She sighed, blowing up a long strand of hair that kept dipping, falling between her eyes.

Oliver stuck his head through the white Tudor arch way that separated the sitting room and entryway corridor. Sophia, having somehow positioned herself upside down on the small stool, gave the boy a dopey smile.

Oliver rolled his eyes, pulling at the fabric of his shirt.

“Hey Soph a loaf,” Oliver softly sing-songed, sitting against the wall directly beside the timeout spot. Being upside down, her auburn hair fell in waves suspended centimetres above the rough and stained planks. She was holding her shirt down, preventing it from exposing her stomach.

“You… Wanna make a pillow fort?”

The quiet of the house is shattered by Sophia, letting out a blaring squeal. In moments she somersaults off the bench, landing clumsily on the floor. She’s up on her feet in a heartbeat, bouncing, squealing, stomping.

Oliver chuckles lightly. “Sophia, Sophia, Sophia.”

Sophia poked her head through the arch at the call of her name.

Sophia whined, tilting her head as if to ask ‘what?’

“Nothing. Just… love you Soph a loaf. Lots and lots.”

The pillow fort took longer than expected, given that they both took the construction of fort building oh so seriously. They rushed through putting on their pjs, then moved on to making dinner. No one could tell them not to eat under the bedclothes.

“You can’t put peanut butter on grilled cheese!”

Just as it did every day, the sun set. The shadows of the trees and the aging building stretched up the hills, as the golden ball of orangish yellow began its descent.

Beneath navy blue blankets, patterned with rocket ships and sea creature stickers, sat the two children. Oliver had built much of the fort; Borrowing cushions, towels and blankets from around the house. While Sophia had eagerly decorated their cloth kingdom; twinkle lights, stickers, and scribbled drawings decorated the walls and ceilings.

“So her dad was killed-- Ow. By the same agent trying to recruit her?"

Cuddled firmly against his side was Sophia, her body glued against his similar to Double Pops. Every time she moved, her knees or feet would buck, nailing Oliver in the ribs or hip. He had an arm wrapped around her neck, functioning as both a pillow for her head, and one support for the tablet he was holding.

“That’s quite coinc-- Ow! Sophia!”

Sophia bit the edge of her lip, trying to contain her giggles. Her giggle was a violin playing the open string G (Sol), alluring and dulcet. Considering she burst into a mini giggle fit with each jab, Oliver’s face crumpled like a discarded wad of paper.

He could feel Sophia wiggling against him. Her legs squirmed in a boyishly wild fashion. Her knees curved, beating him in the ribs.

“Ow!" Oliver sat up.

“Okay.” He inhaled sharply. His body was stiff from high levels of irritation. Sophia calmed herself, gently curling her toes. Her brown eyes followed Oliver’s movements, becoming larger, curious.

“Sophia, do you have to use the toilet?”

Sophia drew in her lip. She bent her knees, so she grabbed her toes. She stared, thinking hard. He watched as her face became still, eyes blinking frenziedly. Within fifteen seconds, she nodded.

“Let’s go then.” He stood, helping Sophia up.

He crawled out of the fort’s entry tunnel, it was barely big enough for him to squeeze through. They’d run low on pillows, while building some part of the structure had to be sacrificed.

He heard the soft scuffling of sock padded feet against the old wooden floor. “Sophia?” He looked back over his shoulder, realising Sophia was making more noise than necessary.

“No! Soph, you’re not bringing a blanket to the loo.”

“We lay my love and I…” Oliver sang.

Oliver sat on the third step of the stairs. Beating his hands against his thighs. He was a child. His rigid posture had been replaced by a chill slouch. Sophia had taken her time correcting the blanket as she shifted. She was just now clambering out of the blanket fort.

“Beneath the weeping willow…”

Sophia shuffled past him into the next room, across the corridor from the sitting room. As she passed, Oliver gently took hold of the back of her shirt. Sophia backtracked, then turned on her heels to face him. Oliver had a focused look, his eyes fixated on the ginger like a surgeon during brain surgery.

“Sophia. Where are you going?” He asked.

Sophia wrinkled her nose, pointing in every direction. Oliver simply rolled his eyes.

“Then go find your sweater.” He instructed. Sophia points to the room she was headed toward. “No. It’s not in the drawing room. You left it in my room. Upstairs.”

Sophia let out a pout huff, making Oliver chuckle. She looked past him at the stairs, eyes narrowing to a thin line. Nonetheless, she began her slow ascent upwards. A downside of wooden stairs. If you’re not wearing shoes, instead socks, it's easy to slip. Her sock covered feet slipped and slid, making her ascent up the stairs look clumsy.

“One foot in front of the other.” Oliver teased. Sophia, her face only inches from his ear, blew a spitty raspberry. With the satisfying feeling of retaliation, Sophia pressed on.

“Remember to use the toilet.” Oliver reminded, wiping the flecks of spit from the side of his face.

Oliver patted his thighs and then stood. Standing rather motionless, in his sharp black and orange KTM Factory pyjamas, he distinguished himself amongst the rustic clutter of the foyer. After a moment of stillness, he leapt from the third step, landing on the floor with a hard thud. He resets himself, brushing a hand through his mop top of dirty honey blonde hair.

He wanders around the corridor, gently running his fingers across the wall, over the knickknacks and along the edges of the chair rail.

"But now alone I lie..." he quietly sang, “...And weep beside the tree...”

The house was old. Ancient. It looked like it had been plucked from an autumn-aphile's Pinterest board. Time had been kind to the country home. While the creepers crept along the worn grey cobbles, the inside was a monument to times long gone by.

Thump, thump, thump.

Sophia. She was moving around upstairs.

His mother was a collector. Her husband called her a hoarder. She called herself a dreamer. She was a traveller. When she had been young, before the children, she'd seen the world collecting baubles and knickknacks that now cluttered the home.

Thump, thu, thu, thum.

"Your feet aren't drums!"

A single overhanging lamp dimly illuminated the foyer, mirroring the glow of candle light. Their neighbour had once asked why they didn’t store all their tchotchkes away in the shed. Stacks of completed books left careless about rough wood carvings from around, antique finds nestled beneath blankets of dust, dried flowers, and colourful drawings from Oliver’s younger days.

Thump, thu, thu, thum.

The house, so full of things. Some would shudder at the chaos of it all, others would be queasy because of claustrophobia, and rest would be quietly fascinated.

Oliver stood himself in front of Credenza, pushed up against the left wall. He eyed the reflection staring at him through the distressed mirror mounted about mahogany sideboard.

He’d forgotten a lot rather recently. Thirteen. He’s thirteen. His eyes are a weak shade of brown, not like Sophia’s, the colour of almond coffee. His dirty blonde hair softly curled and tucked, just barely overhanging his sunken eyes.

Thump, thu, thu, thum.

“Singing ‘Oh willow waly’…” he sang, “… by the tree that weeps with me.”

Oliver retreated, leaning against the sloping stair posts. He checked the clock hanging above the front door. Four minutes had passed since Sophia had gone upstairs. Standing there with nothing to do but listen to the creaky footsteps from above.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

“Singing—”

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

His nerves abandon him quickly. His breathing becomes shallow and erratic. He couldn’t hear his rapid breathing, the chaotic beat of his heart dominated. His fingers curl into a fist, nails piercing the tender skin of his palm.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

His eyes dart to the clock. 6:11.

It’s as if his hidden sixth or seventh sense activates. Every tick of the clock is a threat, every creak of a floorboard is a risk. His fingers twitched as he defensively moved toward the door. His body stiffens, trying to shut him down before he can reach the front door. He keeps moving.

His hands tremble and his skin becomes rough with goosebumps as he reaches towards the door handle grip.

No one knocks. No one could would.

He grips the handle tightly thumb pressed on the thumb-place, the metal would surely leave a mark on his palm. He finds it hard to swallow, lungs betraying him. Slowly he presses down on the thumb-place, pulling on the handle.

“Hello!”

Oliver’s blood ran cold. He tightened his jaw.

“You followed us?” Oliver murmured. His grip on the door handle tightened, to where he could feel the cool metal dig into his palm. Standing square, shoulders defensively strained back, he felt a knot forming in the back of his throat. Fear sat quietly, waiting like a vulture, ready to claim him.

“You followed us home?” His eyes darted to the Moors, where a small cloud of mist was slowly forming. He wasn’t quite scared. His eyes showed more of a wary concern. After all, he was all that stood between two mysterious strangers and his world.

“Yes. We did.” As he spoke, Oliver observed the Doctor with slight aversion. When he spoke, he’d move his hands about. A little unnerving. Still Oliver held his ground, preventing the Doctor, still a stranger, from entering his home. “We have some questions…”

“Questions?”

Thump, thump, thump.

That’s when Oliver jumps. A pump of adrenaline surged through his system almost triggering his flight or fight instinct. Without his support “system”, it would have been flight. Oliver shook his head, pushing down his panic.

Thump, thump, thump.

He was the barrier between his world and trespassers. A wave of boldness washed through him, demanding he be bold and shielding. However, a light gust of embarrassment from his jump made his cheeks glow.

“You-- you have questions?” he stammered.

The Doctor seemed to take this as an invitation. He moved to enter the cobblestone house. Oliver slammed a hand across to the other side of the door frame, so he couldn’t enter.

The Doctor’s brows pressed together, his shoulders slumped, and his mouth hung slightly open and loose. His expression gave way to his confusion. A hard stone glare carved into Oliver’s tired eyes. A warning. The doctor took heed and took a careful step back.

His lighthearted manner returned within seconds.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m the Doctor, this is my friend Amy. What’s your name?” He asked as he extended a hand out for Oliver.

Oliver shook his head, smiling a little, as he gently pushed the Doctor’s hand down and said.

“Can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

Just because someone introduces themselves, they aren’t any less of a stranger. Though most of what he observed of the Doctor seemed safe, suspicion and caution still governed his mind. He’d be more trusting in different circumstances. But there weren’t many people worth trusting, at least not anymore.

“You’re still a stranger.”

The Doctor nods, scratching at his chin. “Fair enough.” Something about the grown man’s cluelessness. The right corner of Oliver’s lip twitched, threatening to curve upward. He started gesticulating again, moving his hands about as he spoke. “Answer me this then where is everyone else?”

His brain stuttered for a moment, his face fell, and the blood drained from his face, leaving him as pale as a sheet. He recomposed himself, adopting a more stoic expression.

“Home,” his tone was cold, cold as ice.

“Home?”

The Doctor observes Oliver’s shift in manner with calculative eyes. He leans back, arching a brow. Oliver only nods in response. However, he could see it. The Doctor could see it, the fear trying to hide in the corners of the blonde child’s eyes.

He’d figure that out later, for now…

“Tell me, why should we be wary of the mist?”

Oliver scratched the back of his head. His eyes struggled to focus on one point. Again, they settled on the Moors. His stomach twisted and sunk with his nerves, as he gripped the fabric of his shirt tightly, wrapping it around his hand.

“Hard to see, you could get lost.”

The Doctor squatted, so that his eyes were level with Oliver’s. He carefully studied Oliver’s face as he lowered his mouth. He went to speak, but Amy, she spoke first.

“Have people gotten lost?”

Thud.

This time his muscles become tense. “I-- I better get inside,” he stammered, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. His unsettled eyes shift down to the ground, avoiding the watchful looks of the Doctor and his companion. Oliver cleared his throat and then croaked out.

“You should get back home, before it’s too late.”

Without another word, he shut the door, leaving the Doctor and Amy in the chill of dusk.

Oliver was silent as he fell back against the front door. The tick of the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs felt louder than before. As the full realisation of his conversation sank in, he ran his hands down his face. A loud groan of frustration flowed past his lips.

It’s foolish to trust, he reminded himself, for no one knows what the mist does hide.

A small whine snapped him out of his stupor. He immediately stood. Sophia stood one step from the top of the stairs. She wore a puzzled expression. Oliver rolled his eyes, his brows creased, and he put on a fake smile.

“It was no one,” he lied, dismissively waving a hand in the air. Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “It was no one Sophia, leave it alone.” He insisted, trying to laugh the matter off.

“Now, I have some work to finish.” He said as he moved toward the drawing room. As far as he was concerned, the matter of who was at the door was finished. His mouth twitched into a genuine smile, and his tone softened. “If you’d like, you can color at the desk while I work.”

Sophia shook her head, gesturing with an arm toward the entire upstairs. “No? Just going to play in the upstairs?” He asked. She nodded, making her ginger tresses bounce. “By yourself? Are you sure?” The way her one dimple crinkled, the shifting of her freckles, gave him his answer.

“Fine, have fun, bed in an hour.” Oliver brushed his fingers through his hair, strolling into the drawing room.

Sophia brought a hand to her mouth, then blew him a sloppy kiss. Hearing the noise of the peck from the other side of the archway, Oliver bent an arm back through the doorway to catch it. He cast his head back through the opening, a goofy grin plastered on his face.

“Love you too Soph a loaf. Lots and lots.” he gently laughed. “You be good,” he reminded moving into the drawing room.

“And Sophia,” His tone became serious, and resigned. “Let's stay out of the master room.”

#11th doctor #11th Doctor x child oc #Doctor who fandom #doctor who fanfic #doctor who fanfiction #doctor who imagine #doctor who imagines #doctor who series #11th doctor fanfic #doctor who series 5 #amy pond #ocs #11th doctor imagine #matt smith #karen gillan #noah jupe

[libraryscarf]

Payback

“Which one?” she asked helplessly. She couldn’t parse the blur of songs on the screen with Yato sitting so close to her. Kofuku collapsed on her other side, leaning on her shoulder to browse the titles. “Ooh! This one! Sing this one!” She snatched the screen and poked a button. The song began to play. Hiyori choked. “No. No.” “Come ooon,” Kofuku whined piteously. The corners of her rosebud mouth turned down when Hiyori balked. “You have to sing this one, for me. Please?” Blushing up to her ears, Hiyori slowly stood up and took the microphone. “Okay,” she said, heavy with reluctance. “But…it won’t be good.”

Chapter 7: The Karaoke ( ao3 / ff.net )

Hiyori stared at page 449 of her textbook for half an hour, scanning the same two sentences over and over with glassy, unseeing eyes.

A knock on her door startled her out of her stupor. When she called a welcome, Ami cracked the door open a few inches. Her glasses reflected the sterile blue of Hiyori’s desk lamp, making her look a bit like a sinister scientist.

“How goes the cramming?”

Hiyori looked down at the page of her notebook, which was covered in eyeballs. Not literal, squishy eyeballs, but sketchy doodles of eyes that her hand had been creating absently while her mind wandered.

“The cramming goes shittily.”

Ami hummed in sympathy. Then she was silent, but she didn’t close the door, obviously lingering to say something else. Hiyori spun around in her old, squeaky swivel chair.

“Something on your mind?” she asked pointedly.

Ami opened the door a fraction wider, but still didn’t step into the room.

“Just thinking…maybe you should get out for a bit. Do something besides study.”

Hiyori pinched her eyebrows together with a thumb and forefinger. “God, it must be bad if you’re telling me to go out and be social.”

Ami didn’t seem to take offense to the comment. Instead, she continued standing silently in the doorway. A surge of irritation rushed up Hiyori’s throat.

“Can you spit it out?!”

She hadn’t finished speaking before she regretted the harsh tone, and her head drooped with penitence. Ami cleared her throat softly.

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “Just that he’s here.”

Hiyori’s head snapped up again. Ami could only mean—

“The delivery guy,” she clarified, holding up two plastic bags of takeout as evidence.

Hiyori melted back into her chair, weak with both disappointment and relief. After that damn party, she wasn’t sure she could look Yato in the eye without fainting from humiliation.

“Thanks,” she said without enthusiasm, and reached for one of the bags. Ami pulled her arm back, dangling the food—which smelled mouth-wateringly of broccoli and beef—out of reach.

“My credit card was declined,” she said. Hiyori stared at her in disbelief.

“So...you want me to…?” She trailed off, hoping Ami would show a modicum of shame.

Ami’s shoulders hinted at a shrug, but didn’t quite make it all the way. “Sorry.”

Hiyori dragged herself out of her desk chair, stomping past Ami and down the stairs to the front door, where the delivery-person was, apparently, still waiting for payment. The door wasn’t completely closed, so she flung it all the way open. And then she nearly swallowed her tongue.

“Yato—!” she gasped.

He was dressed in a stained, dubiously gray uniform, and stood with one arm awkwardly extended, holding the electronic card reader in front of him. They stood like that for several seconds.

“You deliver Chinese food?” she blurted stupidly.

Yato didn’t answer for a half-second, his jaw still hanging slightly ajar. Then he inhaled quickly, as though just realizing she had asked him a question.

“Yeah. I got—uh—kind of fired from my other job.”

Hiyori covered her mouth with one hand. “Oh no!”

He shrugged awkwardly with one shoulder. “It happens. Apparently ‘repeatedly missing shifts’ and ‘stealing product’ is not smiled upon in the pizza industry. Plus I smelled like pepperoni twenty-four-seven.”

“Well, now you’re just gonna smell like MSG!”

At that, Yato grinned. Then he realized he was still holding the card reader out, and quickly lowered his arm. The movement jogged Hiyori’s memory, and she pulled out her wallet and rummaged through it for a card.

“Right. How much?”

She brandished a credit card, only to be met with a blank look.

“Huh?”

“The credit card,” Hiyori prodded. “Ami’s didn’t work?”

Yato stared at her in vacant confusion. “No, it worked. It’s all paid. She said she had to go grab some cash for a tip.”

Sudden understanding punched through the top of her skull. Hiyori half-turned her back to Yato, of a mind to find Ami and box her ears.

“Oh, that little—” she fumed, before clamping her teeth onto her tongue and forcing herself to smile prettily at him.

“Of course. Sorry. Um. I guess I should…tip you, then?”

Yato’s mouth shaped several silent syllables before he managed to get any sound out.

“Oh. N-no, I mean, it’s fine! I just—it felt rude to just leave, so—”

Hiyori stuttered for a second, before an immediate, searing realization folded her gut in half.

“I haven’t paid you!” she cried.

Yato stopped with his mouth open, halfway through his string of excuses. Hiyori thought she was sweating much more than was necessary, and had to stifle the urge to fan her damp forehead with both hands.

“For the—the other thing,” she said, dropping her voice just in case Ami—Judas that she was—might be lurking somewhere in earshot.

He shrugged again, though the pause before it was just long enough to be suspicious.

“It’s…y’know, whatever,” he said, obviously wanting to just get out of this conversation as quickly as possible.

The sweat on Hiyori’s forehead was starting to drip down her temples. Feverish with discomfort, she dug through her wallet again for her checkbook.

“I know we didn’t discuss payment or anything, but, um—”

She scribbled three figures on the check, signed it messily, and thrust it toward his chest, hoping she hadn’t already smeared the ink with her clammy hands. Yato stared at the check for a moment, then gingerly took it from her. His eyes were frozen to the total scrawled on the front.

If he didn’t say something soon, Hiyori was going to cry.

“Je-sus,” he breathed.

Oh god, she’d insulted him.

“It’s negotiable,” Hiyori gasped. She eyed the pen in her hand, wondering if it was sharp enough for her to use to commit seppuku.

Yato’s eyes traveled, slowly, from the check up to hers.

“Negotiation isn’t necessary,” he said. “But…this is a lot. Are you sure?”

Hiyori nodded vigorously. “Please. You’ve helped me so much. I really can’t thank you enough.”

It seemed to take Yato some effort to pocket the check, and even when he did, his posture was very subtly altered, as though there were something sharp poking him in the spine. He was quiet for a few more seconds. Something started to push at the bottom of Hiyori’s stomach, worming its way up her throat like an eel.

“Thanks,” Yato said. After another half-second he remembered to smile, but the strain of his facial muscles looked unnatural.

The pressure in Hiyori’s throat quickly became unbearable. If she opened her lips she was going to either puke or scream. She turned back to the open doorway, hoping to put some distance between herself and Yato before she did either of those things.

“Hiyori!” he cried.

She stopped, halfway inside the house. She couldn’t look at him, but the writhing in her throat subsided.

“Yes?”

He cleared his throat loudly.

“I just—I wanted to make sure you were okay, after that night, but I wasn’t sure that—I didn’t know if…”

It sounded like he was forcing the words out with something heavy sitting on his chest. His voice finally trailed away, and after a moment of collecting herself, Hiyori turned back to him. Her cheeks and eyes felt warmer than usual.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

Yato’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m fine,” she repeated with more conviction. “Really. Thank you.”

His lower lip twisted, but he managed to turn it into a slight smile.

“Good.”

It could have been a moment for her to go back inside, for him to walk away.

Could have, but wasn’t.

Yato scratched the back of his neck. “Oh,” he said. “I was also going to ask: has anyone…caused trouble for you since then?”

Hiyori’s eyelid twitched. Fujisaki hadn’t surfaced since the episode at the party, but the mere thought of him becoming litigious towards Yato made her head pound. She felt sick with worry that he was, even then, brewing something awful in revenge.

But she hadn’t warned Yato. She hadn’t offered any help at all. Her own cowardice made her feel ill.

Yato misread the tortured expression on her face, and his expression darkened in anger.

“No!” Hiyori said quickly. “No. No one’s caused any trouble for me. But Yato, you shouldn’t have attacked him. That was so stupid!”

Yato looked like she’d shoved electrodes into his chest. He took a step back, and Hiyori’s hands twitched after him. She sputtered miserably.

“I-I mean. I appreciated it, of course. A lot! So much. Um.”

He looked like he wanted to speak, but she blathered on.

“And I mean, if we’re talking in terms of stupid things we did, I did…um. Stuff that was stupid. Definitely. So it’s not like I can really scold you for punching somebody.”

She shook her head even harder, and fought the urge to clutch her ears.

“Except I am—because he could hurt you, Yato! Do you know how powerful that family is?! And you broke his nose! He deserved it, yes, but…you can’t! You can’t go around punching horrible people’s noses. Because sometimes those horrible people’s noses are attached to just…just a whole lot of money. And lawyers.”

She was extemporizing to the ground at Yato’s feet. For some time now she had been at the mercy of her mouth, waiting for the stream of fragmentary nonsense to run dry. At last, it did.

“Money and lawyers,” she trailed off in a whisper.

Yato made a funny sound in his throat, like he was gargling wasps. Hiyori’s eyes flicked to his face for a second, and saw in it a sort of tortured resolve that bewildered her.

“It’s fine,” he said, quickly composing himself. Hiyori was about to say that it wasn’t fine, and that he ought to consider what kind of damage both money and lawyers could do to him, but then he said:

“Do you like karaoke?”

She frowned. Maybe he’d misheard her.

“Do I what?”

“Do you like karaoke,” he repeated slowly.

Hiyori tried to remember the last time she’d done karaoke. Certainly not in the last several years.

“Um,” she said. Yato must have seen the question mark hovering above her head.

“I was just going to say that there are a few people I know who are going tonight. And I just wanted to know if you liked karaoke, and if you wanted to come.”

He said it all in one breath, so quickly that Hiyori almost couldn’t process it. Taking a few beats to untangle his meaning, she felt her ears catch fire.

“Oh.”

Yato blinked, his face pale and sweating. He looked like she had him on some medieval torture device, ratcheting up the agony with each silent second.

“People?” she repeated, hesitantly.

“Friends,” he hurried to supply. “My friends. You met Daikoku before. He and his girlfriend Kofuku were at the party, but you probably didn’t see her. I’ve known them forever.”

“Oh,” she said, in revelation. “A couple.”

Yato was so white that he could have passed for a corpse, and judging by the expression on his face, he would have found that state of existence preferable.

“Yep,” he choked.

Hiyori couldn’t find her tongue.

What was he asking, exactly? Was this another building block in the pyramid of falsehoods that made up their “relationship.”

“Oh, and Yukine will be there too. Actually—he’s the one who told me to invite you.” Yato laughed uncomfortably. “I think he might have a tiny crush, to be honest.”

Hiyori’s stomach did a nasty somersault. Her eyes stung fiercely. “Ah.”

The door opened behind her, and Ami poked her head out. Both of them jumped at the intrusion. Yato dropped the card reader he was still holding, and it clattered against the sidewalk.

“Did you get kidnapped?” Ami asked. “Food’s getting cold.”

“No! Sorry. I’m just…” Hiyori trailed off, watching as Yato picked up the card reader, straightened, didn’t look at her. She turned to Ami.

Two minutes, she mouthed. She smiled, praying her face didn’t look unnatural. Ami squinted.

Hiyori widened her eyes. Please.

“Okayyy,” Ami said suspiciously. “But I’m picking out all the best pieces if you take too much longer.”

She shut the door with a severe bang. Hiyori gathered her wits.

“Yeah, I’d love to come along!” she said exuberantly. She winced as her fake-bubbly voice shot up an octave. “It sounds fun!”

Yato raised his head. “It…does?” A shade of color was coming back to his cheeks.

“Yeah! Totally!”

Her mood swing was giving both of them whiplash. Hiyori couldn’t handle the insane false cheerfulness that had her in its grip. She grinned like an effervescent demon. She giggled like a cheerleader on speed.

“Great,” he said cautiously. “I’ll…let you know when we’re leaving?”

Hiyori bounced on her heels, smiling a deranged smile. “Yep! Awesome!”

Yato started backing away from the house. Hiyori couldn’t blame him. He smiled back, his eyes a little terrified. “Okay, um. See you later.”

“Uh huh! Great!”

Hiyori spun around and fumbled for the doorknob, hoping to exorcise whatever had possessed her by cutting herself off from any more human interaction. Slamming the door behind her, she found Ami on the other side of it, regarding her clinically over a plastic bowl of Chinese takeout.

“Please,” Hiyori moaned. “Please. Don’t say whatever you’re about to say.”

Ami innocently pondered the broccoli beef between her chopsticks. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

There was silence, punctuated only by the raucous gallop of Hiyori’s pulse.

“So.” Ami popped the beef into her mouth and spoke around it. “How’re your karaoke skills these days?”

Hiyori straightened her spine, cast her friend a withering glare, and stomped up the stairs. She would spend the next three hours staring at her phone, failing to convince herself that the hollowness in her chest was normal, that it was nothing, that she was fine, just fine.

: : :

Following the instructions from Yato’s text, Hiyori arrived at a tiny building hiding between a bustling beauty supply store and an equally bustling porn emporium.

She walked inside to see three people waiting for her. One of them was Yato. The other man she recognized from the umbrella store. The third was a tiny woman with a bubblegum pink bob, who squealed as soon as Hiyori walked in, and flung herself into her arms.

“It’s so good to meet you!” she said rapturously. “I thought Yato was lying about having other friends, but you’re so real and pretty!”

Hiyori laughed nervously. “It’s—um—nice to meet you too?” She cast a helpless glance at Yato over the top of the girl’s pink head.

“This is Kofuku,” was all the explanation he provided, as though this happened all the time. The “pretty” comment did turn his cheeks a bit pinker than usual.

Kofuku released Hiyori from her stranglehold, though she did attach herself firmly to her elbow as they got their drinks and were escorted to a small, bench-lined room by an employee wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed “UNDERWORLD” in bold, dripping red font across the chest.

“This is an…interesting place?” Hiyori observed. The memory of the porn emporium next door was still technicolor in her memory.

“They couldn’t get an alcohol license here,” Kofuku said brightly. “So it’s almost always empty. And cheap!”

Hiyori looked mournfully at what she now realized must be a virgin mojito, and sighed. Behind her, Yato chuckled.

“Trust me, you won’t need alcohol to enjoy hearing her butcher Madonna,” he said. Kofuku let go of Hiyori’s arm long enough to smack his shoulder.

Daikoku growled: “My woman’s got the voice of an angel.”

“Yeah!” Yato said gleefully. “The angel of death!”

Hiyori laughed at that: a loud, undignified snort that, after it escaped, seemed to echo in the room. She slapped a hand over her mouth, mortified.

The other three looked at her for a second. Then Kofuku squealed, clasping Hiyori so tightly in her arms that she swore two of her ribs cracked.

“You’re so, so, so so adorable! I just wanna squeeze you into my pocket and take you everywhere—!”

Yato began scrolling through song options, and Daikoku sipped broodingly on his drink. Neither of them offered to help her. As she turned steadily bluer in Kofuku’s embrace, Hiyori had a revelation.

“Hey,” she wheezed. “Where’s Yukine?”

Yato glanced up from the song list. “He said he was busy again.”

Daikoku frowned sadly. “Aw, damn. I like that kid.”

“He’s been acting so shady recently,” Yato complained. “Why are teenagers like this? I thought he wanted to hang out with Hiyori, but then all of a sudden he has ‘botany assignments’ and ‘study partners,’ and then he’s ditching me to go to the ‘library,’ and—”

“Sounds like he’s just being a responsible kid,” Daikoku pointed out. Yato sulked.

“I didn’t tell him he could do that.”

“You’re not his dad.”

Yato bristled. “Well…I feed him!”

“Day-old pizza and ramen is not a balanced diet for a growing boy.”

Hiyori, overcome with curiosity, interrupted their disagreement.

“Wait,” she said. “Where are Yukine’s parents?”

Yato’s mouth was open to make some retort, but he shut it again. He shrugged, almost nonchalant.

Almost.

“No idea,” he said.

There was a second of silence. Hiyori’s eyes darted from Yato, to Daikoku, to Kofuku. There was a secret here she was being shut out of, and she wasn’t sure how hard she could press before her prying struck too deep a nerve.

“So…you’re basically his caretaker,” she stated to Yato. He shrugged again.

“More or less.”

Hiyori’s chest squeezed tight and hot with sudden, inexplicable grief. “Oh.”

Something in her voice made Yato look back at her. When he saw her stricken expression, his attitude flipped 180 degrees.

“Hey,” he said loudly. “This sure is a bummer conversation! Can we sing yet?”

Kofuku cheered and grabbed a mic. Yato reached for the other, but Daikoku snatched it away with a smooth, lightning-quick motion.

“You gonna take the first duet with my woman?” he said menacingly. Hiyori had no idea whether the threat in his voice were real or playful.

She wasn’t sure Yato knew either. He threw his hands up in surrender.

At that, a wide grin spread across Daikoku’s face. He guffawed, slapping Yato’s back with such thunderous force that he was nearly driven face-first into the table. Hiyori winced.

“Agh,” Yato groaned, giving a weak thumbs-up. “Funny.”

The music started. Kofuku had chosen a syrupy, woeful Lady Antebellum song that she and Daikoku lumbered through with more enthusiasm than skill. Yato’s earlier statement proved true: by the end of the song, Hiyori was dissolving in giggles at Kofuku’s death-defying commitment to the drawn-out, yearning notes.

As the doomed duet drew to a very flat close, she found her shoulder being tapped. At some point during Kofuku and Daikoku’s performance, Yato had scooted along the couch to sit nearer to her.

“You wanna go?” he asked.

She nodded, and took the song selection device from his hands. Their thighs brushed, and heat crept from her collarbones up her neck. She scrolled quickly through the song options, trying to distract herself from the warmth of his leg.

“Which one?” she asked helplessly. She couldn’t parse the blur of songs on the screen with Yato sitting so close to her.

Kofuku collapsed on her other side, leaning on her shoulder to browse the titles.

“Ooh! This one! Sing this one!” She snatched the screen and poked a button.

The song began to play. Hiyori choked.

“No. No.”

“Come ooon,” Kofuku whined piteously. The corners of her rosebud mouth turned down when Hiyori balked. “You have to sing this one, for me. Please?”

Blushing up to her ears, Hiyori slowly stood up and took the microphone.

“Okay,” she said, heavy with reluctance. “But…it won’t be good.”

The song’s intro was building to a crescendo. Soon, she would have to sing.

She met Yato’s eyes by accident. He was grinning broadly—no doubt anticipating her failure—and something hot and hungry in her awoke.

She wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug look off his face.

She lifted the mic.

“I think I did it again.”

Hiyori didn’t recognize the voice that came out of her. Sultry, seductive.

Britney.

She only struggled with a few of the lower notes, and finished to an insane round of applause, mostly provided by Kofuku. Daikoku smiled his approval, which made him seem much more like the gentle young man he was, rather than a hired gun. Yato looked like he was going to pass out. He was sitting motionless, mouth agape, too shaken to even clap. Kofuku elbowed him in the ribs, and he finally joined the applause, though it still seemed like a stiff wind might knock him over.

“Are you okay?” Hiyori asked, sitting back down. She was a bit breathless, but her head was light with elation.

“Uh,” he said. His voice was airy, like the breath after a punch. “Who—Where did you—? You can sing?”

She giggled. It was nice to have surprised him. Too nice.

“I think that was just a good song for my range,” she admitted. “But…thank you. I assume that was a compliment?”

Yato was still staring at her, slackjawed. Then he nodded silently, at a loss for words. A blush climbed into her cheeks.

“Well.” She cleared her throat. “It’s your turn now. What are you going to do to show me up?”

As soon as she said that, his persona shifted. He plucked the microphone from her loose grip, and reached over to snatch the song selection device from Kofuku, who was threatening Daikoku with another sappy duet. As he reached behind her, his arm grazed the back of her neck, raising a host of goosebumps across her neck and arms. Hiyori swallowed.

“You’ll see,” Yato said quietly.

As soon as he pressed the button, Freddie Mercury’s rich, soaring voice broke on their ears.

“Caaaan…anybody….”

“Oh god, no,” Daikoku groaned.

“Fiiind meeee…”

Yato stood up.

“Somebody to…”

He looked straight at Hiyori, and his mouth twitched.

“Loooooove?”

The piano began. And then Yato started to sing.

She had to admit that he was a natural performer, though his falsetto was rocky at best. He had a surprisingly pleasant, deep voice, which resonated with something in the pit of her stomach that she didn’t entirely trust.

He committed utterly to the spirit of the piece, and by the end was lying supine on the floor, kicking one leg feebly in the air as he warbled the last few notes in a dying voice that was only a distant cousin to the song’s key signature.

As soon as he finished, Hiyori burst into applause, quickly joined by Kofuku’s enthusiastic cheers. Daikoku’s face was dark red with suppressed laughter, and Hiyori suspected he was enjoying the spectacle of Yato making a fool of himself more than anything else the night could bring him.

Yato flung himself back onto the couch next to her, his face shiny with exertion.

“Very nice,” Hiyori said sincerely. “Though I don’t think you were supposed to try and sing backup vocals along with yourself.”

He grinned, unperturbed by her critique. “I like a challenge.”

Daikoku’s ears perked up.

“Oh yeah? You up for some Underoath, dude?”

Yato paled. “Do…do they have anything by Underoath?”

Hiyori, who had taken charge of the song selection, shook her head.

“No, but they do have a whole lot of Simon & Garfunkel. Like…too much. And one Katy Perry song. Have they updated this since 2009?”

“Which Katy Perry song?” Kofuku asked brightly.

“I Kissed a Girl.”

“Ooh!” Kofuku squealed. “I wanna do that one. Gimme.”

: : :

Hiyori couldn’t believe it when Daikoku glanced at his watch and yawned.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“9:30.”

Yato scoffed. “What are you, 80?”

Daikoku glowered at him, but before he could retort, Kofuku turned white and clasped both hands over her mouth.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “I just remembered. I think…I think I left the oven on.”

Yato groaned. Daikoku lowered his head into his hands.

“I’m sorry!” she wailed. “I’m so sorry! I don’t even know why I was using it!”

Daikoku stood up, shaking his head in mild disappointment. “Well…I guess we’re heading home now. If it’s still standing, that is.”

Yato slumped back on the couch, and as he did so, his elbow overlapped Hiyori’s. She tried not to react, but the effort to keep herself from shivering at the contact was monumental.

“Don’t worry,” he muttered to her out of the corner of his mouth. “She does this a lot. It’s usually a false alarm.”

Hiyori’s eye twitched. “Usually?”

Kofuku allowed herself to be pacified, receiving repeated assurances from the other three that the oven was probably not on, that the house was probably not ripe with combustive gas. However, she and Daikoku still made movements to leave.

“We were supposed to have the room for another hour,” Kofuku said. “So you two stay and get your money’s worth.”

Then she looked at Hiyori. Somehow, without either of the men noticing, Kofuku shot her a bold, saucy wink.

Hiyori’s stomach dropped. She suddenly harbored doubts as to whether the oven had actually been left on.

“Um,” she said.

“Okay!” Yato broke in, more than enthusiastic to take up the offer. “We’ll sing enough for both of you.” He turned to her, and the joy on his face was so infectious that Hiyori thought it would be outright cruel to puncture it.

“Sure,” she said. Then, after a moment of hesitation: “It was really great to meet both of you.”

She meant it. There was something almost familial about how the two of them had immediately welcomed her as Yato’s friend. She gave Kofuku a warm hug, and had her shoulder affectionately patted by Daikoku.

“Nice singing,” he said sincerely, and Hiyori beamed.

As the couple left the room, Kofuku shot one more mischievous, meaningful smile over her shoulder. Yato caught a glimpse of Hiyori’s expression, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” she said, too quickly. Searching for a distraction, she punched a random song on the screen. As soon as the opening notes played, she and Yato exchanged a look of wide-eyed terror.

“Oh man,” he said. Hiyori scanned the screen for a “skip” button, but the programmers had cleverly hidden it in an obscure corner. Before she could conduct a more thorough search, Yato grabbed her wrist.

“We can’t skip it,” he said earnestly. “That’s cheating!”

“You can’t cheat at karaoke—” Hiyori protested, but he wasn’t listening.

“I got chiiills.” His voice cracked badly, but he soldiered on. Hiyori winced. John Travolta, Yato was not.

“They’re multiplyin’. And I’m looosing control.”

He grabbed her hand, dragging her up from the sofa. She yelped as he swung her in a circle, then pushed the other mic into her hand. Hiyori shook her head, though a grin tugged at her lips.

“You better shape up,” she sang—cautiously at first, then louder as her confidence grew. “‘Cuz I need a man, and my heart is set on you.”

Yato was doing some sort of upper body wiggle that made it seem like he was dislocating his shoulders. Hiyori burst into laughter, losing the tune. He picked it up again, and somehow they blundered through the chorus. At one point, they abandoned the melody entirely, instead resorting to shouts of “ooh, ooh, ooh, HONEY” at random intervals.

Hiyori was weak with laughter by the time the song ended. Yato was sweating, and his hair was wild from all the disco he’d just put it through.

“How have I never done this before?” she marveled, trying to catch her breath.

“Because you needed a cool, hip friend to take you!” he said.

Hiyori turned her gaze on him, and saw that he was one hundred percent serious. Her cheeks warmed.

“I think you might be right.”

She put him in charge of the song selection after that, because she didn’t trust herself to not pick something that would embarrass both of them. Yato was no better at choosing appropriately, as Hiyori discovered upon finding herself trying to carry the tune of “Eternal Flame” a few seconds later. He was belting out the operatic backup vocals, with only a passing nod to intonation.

After butchering The Bangles, Hiyori sank onto the bench again, her throat sore with laughter.

“Aren’t we almost out of time?” she asked, half-regretfully.

“Just one more?” Yato sank into a crouch in front of her, his eyes wide and pleading. “Please?”

She tested her throat and winced. “I’m not sure I can. My karaoke stamina is not nearly as impressive as yours.”

At that moment, one of the employees poked her head in.

“Um. You guys have to leave soon. We’re closing.”

She stared with open curiosity around the humid little room and the two disheveled, sweaty people who had obviously been occupied in some sort of strenuous activity for the last half hour.

“Are you…” The employee cleared her throat self-consciously. “What have you been doing in here?”

Hiyori took in her expression, the state of the room, the state of herself—

“Oh!” she cried out. “Oh. Oh no. We’re…we’re done. Sorry. We’ll leave.”

Yato however, was still caught up in the spirit of karaoke. He grabbed her wrist before she could set down the mic.

“One more?” he begged. “I promise it’ll be great.”

Hiyori cast a helpless glance at the UNDERWORLD employee, who shrugged and withdrew—probably to report to her manager about acquiring a hazmat suit to clean the room after they were through.

“I’m not kidding, Yato,” she said. “My voice is shot to hell.”

“That’s okay,” he reassured her. “This’ll be my solo.”

Apprehensively, Hiyori watched him pick the final song. As soon as it began to play, she couldn’t restrain a bark of laughter.

“Are you serious?” she asked incredulously.

“It’s a grand finale!”

“Yeah, but—“

It was too late; the chorus to “I Will Always Love You” had arrived, and Yato was giving it his all.

His all, in this case, happened to be an unholy screech. His raw, overtaxed voice couldn’t handle the strain of keeping up with Whitney’s extraordinary vocals. The auditory effect came closest to the cacophony of sixteen cats being disemboweled, and was enough to summon the manager of UNDERWORLD to kick them out of the room.

“Well, that was rude,” Yato said in a hurt voice, once they had been unceremoniously hustled outside. Hiyori was still holding her stomach and trying to breathe through stitches of laughter.

“I think you did break their sound system, though,” she wheezed. Yato frowned, clearly displeased with how the management of the place had treated his artistic endeavors.

Once she’d recovered her wind, Hiyori looked around the dark, nearly abandoned street. Her car was the only one in sight.

“Did you walk here?” she asked in disbelief.

“Oh, no.” He winced and scratched the back of his neck. “Daikoku and Kofuku drove. I…forgot about that. Whoops.”

“Well, I’m headed in the right direction.” She shot a sideways grin at him and jingled her keys.

“Need a lift?”

shit got real and i barely got this chapter up today. i'll try SUPER HARD to not make you guys wait more than two weeks for the next one! pleas forgiv

#scarfwrites #noragamibigbang2k18 #yatori fanfiction #yatori #noragami fanfiction #noragami #the editing on this is TRASH i just wanted to POST #DDDD: