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canyouhearthelight · 4 years ago

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The Miys, Ch. 135

I think y’all are in for a treat with this one. I won’t spoil it, though, other than to say that @baelpenrose and @charlylimph-blog thought this chapter was hilarious.

Think about that, please. Charly and Arthur think this chapter is hilarious.

Eyeah. That’s all I’ve got to say about that. I do not take responsibility for any injuries sustained.

As always, please don’t forget to check out the podcast! I will plug it shamelessly, so you may as well.

“Where are they?” Alistair murmured while he searched our shared office thoroughly. Had it been anyone else, I would say he was being calm, but the fact that he was searching for anything, at all, tagged it in my head as a downright frantic pace.

“Where are what?”

“Nothing,” he dismissed, despite continuing his search.

I furrowed my brows. “You haven’t even had your tea yet. Or your breakfast?”

A pale hand waved me off. “I am aware.”

Shrugging, I gave it up as a lost cause and went back to the list of evacuees that Tyche and I had drafted up. After whipping up a preliminary list of who was assigned where, we were doing a more thorough second pass to ensure no conflicts of personality. Deep in thought, I paid Alistair no attention until Parvati and Hannah arrived fifteen minutes later.

“Alistair, they aren’t here, so you can stop looking,” Hannah grinned as she took her accustomed seat.

“I am sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Surrrrre you don’t. Just like I’m sure you don’t know why several of the paint pens ran out of pigment,” Parvati assured him in the most sincere tone I had ever heard. My former therapist would have been proud.

I fought back a smile as he straightened and finally stopped his search, even going so far as to tug his shirt to get any wrinkles out. “I know no such thing.” With that, he turned his back to all three of our snickering faces, requesting his usual tea and scone from the food console.

Composing my face, I tried to be serious for a minute. “You should eat fast, because our appointment with Arthur Farro is in about fi - “

My door whooshed open. Speak of the devil.

“ - ve minutes early, apparently,” I finished.

Unperturbed as usual, the subject of my previous suggestion strolled in with his usual air of confidence. Just as he was going to take a seat beside Parvati, he leaned across the table. “Aww, no kiwi or pomegranate on your clotted cream this morning? Poor fing,” he said with a mocking pout.

“I am baffled why everyone believes such things of me,” Alistair grumbled into his tea with a scowl.

I sputtered. “You were using the pens on your breakfast?”

He didn’t even bother denying the chorus of confirmations from those around him, taking the higher road of sudden deafness. “Farro, I am still not entirely sure why a former warlord is necessary for discussions of an evacuation plan.”

“Warlords are generally just berserkers if they don’t have anyone to be ‘lord’ of.” Farro shot a dazzling smile as I supressed a groan. “But then again, being British, I’m sure you got confused, what with all the lords that were there in the last century without even land to their names.”

It really was easier sometimes to do things without either of them. Time to step in. “Gentlemen,” I purred in my most annoyingly ‘motivational’ tone possible, “the bathroom is right through that door, if you would like to continue your pissing contest. However, some of us have actual work to do, so whether you fuck it out or fight it out, please do so on your own time.”

Both mouths shut with an audible click, and both men looked away from me. But at least they were quiet. Sophia: 1, Whatever-the-hell-this-was: 0.

I forged ahead while I had the chance. “Arthur, thank you for taking time to meet with us regarding the plans for fortifying the safety points. I’m sorry that Tyche couldn’t be here, however she scheduled her stay-cation several months ago and frankly deserves it.” By which I meant I had bribed Derek with a nauseating amount of bao to disable any communications to or from this office from going to her data pad until the start of her first shift post-vacation, and threatened my entire family within an inch of their lives to keep them from bringing up work around her for the next week. “However, I do have her concerns and suggestions ready, I assure you.”

With a scowl, he glanced at me and stood, calling up the emitter-map of the Ark. Quickly, he sketch circles around each of the ‘bunkers’ we had designated. “Xiomara had very sound judgement in the locations she chose for safe-zones, and I honestly expected it. Between her and Evania, there is a frankly terrifying amount of strategic prowess in what is theoretically our Health and Safety office.”

“You can’t be healthy or safe if you’re dead,” Hannah pointed out.

He tossed her a wink and grin. “Touche. However, none of them are perfect. This location,” he leaned to tap and zoom on a mess hall, “is fortified, has access to food and drink, even if you have to furiously call up non-perishables and potable water, and only has one entrance/egress.�� A huge entry/egress, unfortunately: the door is ten meters wide.”

Parvati tapped a couple times on her datapad before chiming in. “It does close, however. And it locks.”

Arthur shook his head. “In two panels, each five meters wide. If even one is blown, the gap is indefensible. Both, everyone in there is free for the taking.”

“You are suggesting we ask Miys to narrow the aperture of the door?” I groaned when I heard Alistair leverage his overly-formal language.

It didn’t get any better when Arthur nodded. “Worst they can say is no, but the size of the door is simply for ease of access and to assuage anyone with proximity issues. Now that we all have these handy alerts - “ he tapped his temple for emphasis “ - it isn’t nearly as necessary. Noah? Bud? What do you think?”

The buzz from the ceiling was clearly amused. “I am amenable if this is a solution. As Arthur pointed out, the width of that door is no longer necessary.”

“Annnd there we go,” Arthur shrugged. “The boatwright said yes, if that’s what we want.”

My jaw nearly hit the floor when Alistair nodded firmly and stood. Swiftly, he highlighted three more areas. “These have the same potential concern. We should include those in the proposal.”

‘We’? ‘We’ whomst??? Since when were they on the same side?

“I agree,” Arthur continued enthusiastically, causing my head to start twinging in pain. “According to the engineers and the chemisists on board, the material of the Ark is remarkably fire-retardant despite it’s organic nature - let’s hear it for advanced civilizations - so there is no additional need for fire doors. There is however a possibility of concussive damage to the actual doors in any area, despite how thick the actual walls are.”

“Tyche recommended shock-absorbent material on the exteriors of each door, dropped via internal trigger and held taught by wires rather than any sort of scaffolding,” I suggested, recovering my focus. I flicked the concept at the emitter, where it was displayed alongside the schematic of the Ark. “Using wires would allow us to also store it in a roll at the top of the door, and allow pulleys to draw the wires embedded in the bulkhead down to cover the entire door.”

Hannah nodded thoughtfully. “The materials she suggests are a good idea - definitely maximizes shock absorption as much as possible. My only concern is that we can probably double the flame resistance of the materials for only a ten-percent loss of effectiveness.”

Calling up my datapad, I smiled as I quoted. “ ‘However, Hannah is a professional weaver and seamstress, and therefore I defer to her on any suggestions regarding materials used, provided there is no more than twenty-percent loss of efficacy’. Apparently she did the calculations and had Charly and Conor both check behind her - anything below twenty percent loss, and the blast would blow the doors.”

“And when did the more sensible Miss Reid learn engineering?” Alistair asked in what sounded like genuine curiosity.

“Tuesdays - I think?” I scrunched my face and searched my memory. “It was something very important when we were cosplaying.”

Arthur snorted, but gestured an apology when Alistair affixed him with a downright lethal glare.

Hannah ignored them both. “Wool… We should be able to synthesize raw wool, instead of the plant based materials here. Best of both worlds - fluffy, incredibly flame resistant, and disperses concussive force like nothing else. Line it with silk for shrapnel? We should be good.”

“Fortress defense via quilts. I like it,” Arthur grinned savagely.

“There is a reason tapestries were so important in the Middle Ages,” Alistair snarked at him. “Both flame resistant and insulating, both very good qualities when you see by torches and candles in a drafty residence that echoes like a cathedral.”

Arthur held his hands up in surrender. “Not arguing, no worries… Genuine respect, swear.”

“Better…”

“Annnnd forging on from whatever-the-fuck-that-was,” I interjected, trying to focus on the topic at hand rather than… well, whatever the fuck that was, “That’s overlarge entries and concussive force taken care of. What other concerns did you have, Arthur?”

“Frankly? Camouflage,” he told us sternly. “The best way to protect against an invading enemy is to make it so hard to find you that it isn’t worth the effort. All these defenses are good an all, but… they’ll stick out like a sore thumb and practically scream ‘Hey! We’re in HERE!’ “ I stifled a laugh when he hopped and waved his arms furiously.

“Very dignified, Farro,” Alistair sniffed as he stood to get more tea.

“I know, right? I’m so classy…”

Rolling my eyes and still regretting having them both in my office at the same time, “We actually have the camouflage solved for.” You could have heard a pin drop, all four of them frozen, mouths open. “It came through this morning from Zach.” I swiped the fortress-quilt specs down, and popped up the plans for the camouflage. “We’re thinking on the visible spectrum, since humans are sight animals. Zach went with a ‘most common denominator’ approach - scent, infrared, acoustic, everything but electromagnetic vision. The quilts cover the infrared and the majority of the acoustic issues: if any body-heat shows through fifteen inches of fluffed wool and a bulkhead door, we’re doomed no matter what.” I highlighted a line of data. “Scent, likewise: Zach is suggesting aeresolized, low concentration sulfur throughout the majority of the Ark, excluding the safe-zones. The safe-zones will also have one of Miys stationed in each one, acting essentially as an air scrubber. This will minimize acoustics from active air filtration, while also adhering to Miys being a non-participant: they will be present to ensure our comfort due to minimizing body odor, nothing more. This was already planned, the fact that it will protect us from being detected by scent is just a lagniappe.”

I waited for the thoughtful nods to pass and decided I did not see the glance that Arthur and Alistair exchanged. As long as they didn’t draw blood during the meeting, I would let it slide. “Where it gets sticky is neuroelectric. Zach, it seems, took a page out of Charly’s manual-of-mischief.” I zoomed in on the specific line of the prospectus and waited.

“He wants to what?” Hannah asked, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh I like this,” came the ‘devil’ in ‘devil’s advocate’.

“How would it even work?” Parvati asked, genuinely curious.

I chose that one to respond to. “Just like the microfilament wires that will support the quilts, he wants to cover the walls inside several false locations with a mesh and electrify it to mimic human synaptic energy. Needle in a haystack theory.”

“Wait,” Alistair held up a hand to interrupt. “Are you also proposing that the doors to these false locations will be covered in the quilts?”

“Absolutely,” I confirmed. “Given how far from prospective entry points all of the safe-zones are located, they would run into several false locations before they encounter a real one.”

“And if they decide to tear into all the locations, even the false-positives?” Arthur poked, trying to find a hole in the idea. Which, I had to concede, was why he was even here instead of sending me messages for this.

“What if they decide to tear into every mess hall? Or every door? We can’t plan for everything.” I shook my head. “However, we can factor in a few things that seem pretty consistent despite species - Beings who don’t have legitimate work and take slaves are generally prone to laziness, despite somehow working harder to avoid work than I have ever actually worked a day in my life. Point being, give them enough false positives on the way, they won’t actually search everything no matter what they say.”

“Speculation and hearsay, not admissible in court.”

“Au contraire, mon frère. Charly did the sociological analysis on all the species most likely to be pirates in the region of the galaxy where we will exit relativistic space, and her estimates are that the plan has a sixty-to-eighty-percent chance of success in the event that all human combatants fail. And I, personally, agree.”

He conceded a low whistle. “Damn. If I didn’t like Evan so much, I would say Charly is being wasted with Huynh. Objection withdrawn.”

“Quite,” Alistair agreed smugly. “Miss Harper’s plan is a sound one. The Archives, however - “

I interrupted, still irritated about the topic. “You will be stationed immediately inside the doors to defend against any intruders who make it that far, while Tyche will be defending the y-junction between the speculative fiction and historical fiction categories to prevent intruders from reaching the actual people.”

“But the religious studies section - “

“Has already been scanned down to a molecular level to preserve the information, even if we can’t restore any actual artifacts,” Parvati advised in a profoundly bored tone. “You do realize that anyone who reaches that section will not be able to reach the actual people from there without doubling back, right?”

“Miss Fletcher, there is a Gutenberg Bible on this Ark, potentially the last one in existence.” The tone was icy enough to send a shiver down my spine.

“Phee,” Arthur threw out, guaranteeing my irate attention, “Is there any issue with moving the Gutenberg to the Speculative Fiction section until we meet with the Ekomari fleet?”

“Are you seri - “

“Not to placate the Monarchist, I swear. Just - that is a profoundly important historical artifact, even if I agree with nearly none of the contents. The start of the Information age! Literature in the hands of the vulgar masses! Your field of study would have never existed in the form it was without that achievement. Who cares if the first use was to print the frickin’ Bible?”

Before I could object, Parvati added her prodigious two cents. “I do not have to be Christian to appreciate the illuminations in a manuscript, any more than I have to be a Muslim to be brought to my knees by the beauty of a mosque. We can appreciate the significance of something regardless of whether we agree with it or not.”

“This is probably where Charly or Tyche would point out that I am a huge fan of laws against animal abuse, despite firmly believing that Hitler was evil incarnate,” I sighed. “Yeah, we can move the Gutenberg Bible, provided - hang on, stop cheering - PROVIDED - “ I paused to make sure they were all paying attention, “that any other works of significant cultural or historical significance are moved as well. Any first additions, significant religious texts - or in lack of ‘significant’ religious texts, just a copy of each that is agreed to be acceptable by all who follow that religion. A copy of Frankenstein, The Tale of Genji, et cetera.”

I knew my request brooked exactly zero argument from Alistair, as his eyes visibly shone when I added more books to the list. What I waited for were any objections from the other three.

Sure enough, Hannah tentatively raised her hand. When I nodded, she spoke up. “I think we should do a kind of Voyager-plate: a copy, even just digital, of all our texts around music, crafts, technology, mathematics… Art, fermentation, food preparation and the history of it. Not just for this scenario!” she insisted urgently, “For any worst-case scenario. Keep a copy, or several. And put those copies, along with all the relevant artifacts that we have on board, and keep them with the people in the Archives, in the safest part of the ship.”

“Where it would take a black hole to destroy it,” Parvati whispered.

Just as the tears were threatening my eyes, Arthur flopped back in his seat and kicked his boots up onto the table. “Jesus fuck, you guys are depressing. Right, but depressing. It’s doable, though. We just transcribe it into the most common language for each version of ‘language’ in the Galaxy…”

Alistair snorted. “You warlords and your short-sightedness. Clearly, the resolution is to transcribe it into the most common language in the Galaxy with instructions on how to translate it further down.”

“No, you limey-ass bastard,” Arthur growled. “Too much is lost in translation - there is a reason the Qur’an and the Sefer Torah should never be translated to be considered valid.”

Nope. I wasn’t dealing with it. We had covered all the necessary topics, I could message the rest. I twitch my head at both Vati and Hannah, at which point they both rose from their seats. Neither was noticed by the arguing men.

Arthur was mid-sentence when a quick strike from Vati to the top of his spinal cord rendered all his words gibberish. Rather than realizing this, he glanced down at his suddenly-tingling fingertips in confusion. Hannah simply hauled Alistair out of his seat and ignored his squawked objections, her shorter but sturdier frame more than a match for his tall, slender frame and brain that was very much against violence towards women but undecided about how to stop them from chauffeuring you out of a room.

With exactly zero ceremony, both men were deposited in the corridor, to the satisfaction of all three of us. I waggled my fingers in a farewell. “Fuck it out or fight it out, I don’t care. But not in my office. Ta!”

I could not hold back the smile anymore when both started pounding on the door for entry, not realizing I had disabled their permissions right after the first volley had been thrown. It was almost habit, at this point, to disable their permissions to my office when they started bickering, only to restore them when they decided to act like adults.

Clearly that wasn’t the case this time. Oh well, maybe in a couple hours. I would need to ask Xiomara to do a ‘sensor test’ of the gym and med bays to be sure.

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#the miys #found family #humans are weird #science fiction #aliens #apocalypse #humans are space orcs #humans are space fae #earth is space australia #post apocalypse #post post apocalypse #original science fiction #original sci fi #original writing

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draven-imani · 3 years ago

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Journal 5 (part 1)

We’ve had an…extremely productive day. We found a note on Hosilla’s person that detailed three safehouses of the cult of Baphomet: Nyserian Manor, Topaz Solutions, and the Tower of Estrod. The note was signed SV—which I’m assuming is Stauton Vhagn. Looks like he came back and finished the job of destroying the Wardstone after Commander Tirabade stopped him the first time.

After talking to Aravashnial, Anevia, and Horgus, we pooled our information together. Nyserian Manor was owned by a noble who sometimes worked with Horgus, and had taken out a loan from him once to buy Commander Tirabade’s sword from her. Anevia hadn’t been aware Irabeth had sold her sword—apparently she’d told her wife she’d lost it. Anevia was going to be having words with the commander of the Eagle Watch upon seeing her again.

The Tower of Estrod was of interest to Aravashnial, as it was a place of arcane studies. He also requested that we look into the Blackwing Library, where the Riftwardens would be located.

Anevia wanted to look for Irabeth, and therefore would like to look into going home as that was the only lead she had on where her wife may be.

As we discussed, we exited the subterranean tunnels and entered the sewers. And came upon three orphan kids and a middle aged pinkish tiefling woman with many piercings and a bow. The orphans immediately ran to Luna, clearly familiar with her. Another point in her favor for ‘good person, not a murderer/serial killer/whatever else the rumor mill decides to say’.

“So you must be ‘Una’,” the tiefling said, imitating the orphans mispronunciation of her name. Or maybe legitimately mistaking her name for that. “Nice to meet you, incase you haven’t noticed, everything’s gone to hell.”

The tiefling introduced herself as Hiskaria. She had arrived in town from Numeria recently to join the Raven Corps, actually, although she was apparently a Kenabres native initially. She was on lone by one ‘Kevoth-Kul’, because she was a criminal on parole, and joining the Raven Corps was her penance.

Ouch.

Aaaaaand as the only member of the Raven Corps around that means it fell on me to keep her around until we could either find her handler or someone with more authority. That and strength in numbers. We couldn’t exactly leave her behind, even if she is a confessed murderer.

Oh, yeah, I didn’t mention that her crime was murder did I? Yeah, our new buddy’s a convicted murderer. One fake murderer and one real one, and if I had to put money on it, everyone’s going to get who’s who wrong.

After some discussion, we decided to head for Horgus’ manor first. It would provide a safe place to leave the orphans, so that we wouldn’t be dragging them around in the open where every demon still lurking around might decide to swoop down on them.

We made it there with only minor incident, some rat demon ripping up a clothing store who dubbed himself ‘the rat king’. He was of personal offense to Melody given that he was in the process of destroying things of beauty. That and the owners of the shop were still there and might be able to salvage some things.

Given my studies I was able to identify the demon as an Abrikandilu, a wrecker demon. A destroyer of beauty, not just of artwork like the dresses, but of physical beauty, using their fangs to cause horrible scarring on those they attack. I also knew that Radiance was the only weapon we had that would pierce its defenses, although it also had a unique weakness to mirrors, due to all demons of this kind having an abhorrence of their own visage. That being the case, I suggested that Luna and Melody slip into the store to get one of the mirrors from the changing rooms within while I distracted and fought it with Radiance and Hiskaria took pot shots at it from a safe distance.

Radiance and I were both more than happy to finally be putting a demon to the blade.

Spilling demons’ blood, at least, we both agree on.

Things went off about how we’d hoped. The Abrikandilu was a bit faster than I’d anticipated and it rushed me rather than me pinning it by the building as I’d planned, but I stopped its fangs with my shield and avoided any new scars. Melody and Luna came out with a mirror, which drew the demon’s attention. Luna’s axe stuck into it. Then Radiance slew it.

Radiance roared in my head each time it drew blood against a demonic foe, in what I can only describe as ecstasy. They, at least, get joy from battle. I wish I could say the same, but the demons die all the same. I feel good about it, that we slayed the demon and helped those people. It’s something good. Not joy, that’s too strong of a word. I feel—satisfied, maybe?

Regardless, the shop owners thanked us. They had little to offer and we tried to assure them that we didn’t need anything, but they insisted on at least providing us with a nice outfit each in thanks. I don’t think I’ve ever owned anything so fine. An orphan and a soldier don’t exactly make for elegant living.

Afterwards we made it to Horgus’ manor with no further incidents. His holdings were untouched. Melody mused at first that perhaps someone was trying to frame him. However after some thought, Hiskaria and I disagreed with that assessment. Demons by nature would seek out where the most people are, the places where they could wreak the most havoc. And as we approached it was clear that his manor was devoid of life. It would seem that his men and his servants had fled their posts when the attack happened, and as a lucky result the manor had been untouched. I’ll give Horgus some credit here. While he was clearly visibly upset that the men he’d hired to protect his holdings had left their posts, he tried very hard to be reasonable that it was for the best that they’d left and protected the servants, and that it had indirectly kept the demons from destroying his things. He was however very upset that they’d taken all of the mints from the little bowl at the front entrance—as was Miss Melody, who bemoaned that it was quite rude of them. Ah what I would give to have her priorities.

Luna was shepherding the orphans—one of whom, Hamm, had taken a shine to Hiskaria’s magic and gotten it into his head that he was going to…what was it? Summon demons in his snot bubbles? Charming kid. Glad his entire world falling apart around him didn’t completely destroy his sense of innocence and wonder. Suppose he was lucky he ran into Hiskaria so the three of them didn’t get killed or worse. That’s a point in her favor.

After gathering up food from the kitchen and some entertainment for the kids from a room formerly used for the staff’s children while they were on the job, Horgus went down to the safest part of the manor: the vault. He opened the safe, which proved to have been completed untouched. Inside was more wealth than I’d probably ever seen in one place before, or ever will again. He paid Luna that looked like a rather hefty sum. Then he also paid myself, Melody, and Hiskaria 1000 gold for returning him here safely, although payment had never been promised. Hiskaria tried to argue that she’d only just joined with us, but he said that it was payment due to someone who couldn’t be here to take their cut.

Horgus…is a complicated man, I am beginning to realize. I cannot pin him down yet. Even more than most people, his words and actions do not align. And even some of his actions I think are more masks on top of that. Luna insists he’s a good man but won’t give details beyond that. She’s had a few private conversations with him, so I’m inclined to believe she knows something that’s given her that impression. And I trust Luna’s judgement in people.

As Horgus locked himself away, we heard the beginnings of him teaching the kids something or another about some…math thing. I don’t know, look, I’m not the one to look to about Abadar tax bracket stuff. Luna was just glad he was hopefully keeping Hamm from thinking about snot demons.

From there we went next door, to Nyserian Manor. Or what was left of it. Which was not much. At all. Or anything, really. See, the demons hadn’t been very discerning in their building demolition. They’d destroyed their own safehouse. Idiots. Served anyone who was inside right for betraying humanity to the demons.

Next up was Blackwing Library.

Oh Blackwing Library. This one made me angry.

If you know me you know that’s bad. Of course, you don’t know me, because you’re just a bundle of inanimate papers sandwiched in leather that I’m writing in to keep my tenuous grip on sanity together. Suffice to say: that’s bad. I don’t get angry easily. Unless you’re a Deskari worshipper or waving his symbol in my face like I’m a bull, but I mean, that’s just asking for trouble from any Iomedaen, really.

As we approached the library, it was immediately apparent that the entire thing had been decimated. Aravashnial was despondent. All of his friends and colleagues with the Riftwardens would have been there, and he feared the worst. While Melody and surprisingly Hiskaria tried to comfort him, Luna tried to sneak closer to look into the library. I stuck close to her, although not so close as to blow her cover.

What she saw was a turncoat Iomedaen with five librarians bound and gagged, and a sixth librarian being forced to pile books around them, to serve as both a book burning and a funeral pyre.

We didn’t have long to think as he pulled out the flint and tinder. Luna downed a potion of invisibility and vanished. We had to put our faith in her. And as usual, she didn’t let us down, as a moment later blood splattered across the floor and she reappeared behind the armored man with her hood up and a declaration that she was “the Butcher of Balestreet, Bitch”.

The cavalier’s two tiefling thugs tried to flank Luna, but I helped fight off one and Hiskaria finished them with a potshot from outside the door that got him right between the eyes, while Melody swooped in to take a stab at the other.

Luna clearly outmatched the man she was facing, and he was smart enough to realize it. He dropped his weapons, and offered to surrender. He swore if we let him go, he’d never do such a thing again.

The others seemed ready to let their guards down.

I didn’t buy it.

I could feel it. This was an evil man. The kind who would just turn around and do something like this again the second he had an opportunity, if we let him live.

Luna lowered her weapon to go deal with the tiefling thug. I told her what I just wrote, that if we let him go he would just harm others. She said it wasn’t going to be her choice to make.

If anyone was making this choice, it was going to be me, and me alone.

Melody tried to reason that maybe we could get some information out of him. That we could take him alive, and question him. After all, that’s what she was best at.

And then what, I asked her. What do we do with him after that? There weren’t any jails. The city was in chaos. Where do we put him when we’re done questioning him so that he doesn’t hurt anyone else?

He swore again that he’d just go away and be good. I called bullshit.

Melody said maybe he’d know more about the safehouses, or the other plans. What we’d potentially be walking into.

Fine. For the safety of the rest of the group, I’d take him alive.

So I punched the cocky bastard in the face and left him to Melody.

Hiskaria and Luna went about helping the librarians while Melody did her thing. She manacled the man and tied him up for a nice friendly chat. I stuck around. I didn’t trust this man. Kaleb, I learned his name was. Much good it did.

Melody woke him up. First thing he did was tried to play ignorant. Tried to pretend like he’d been possessed, like he hadn’t been in control of his own faculties before.

Bullshit. More lies.

Melody saw through his lies this time just as much as I had. She told him to start over and try again.

Next he tried to weave a sob story about how he’d been coerced into doing what he’d done. How he was a crusader who’s unit had been taken captive, and he’d been forced into committing evil acts out of desperation.

Again, nothing but lies. All he knew how to do was lie, habitually, spew whatever falsehood he thought would get him in our good graces.

When Melody and I called him out on it again, he snapped. In a final act of rebellious desperation, he finally told the truth. He’s nothing but scum of the earth. He was a crusader, and his unit had been wiped out, that was the one honest thing that had left this mouth. Afterwards he’d decided to hedge his bets and side with the demons, so he started committing every atrocity he could to try to win their favor. And he swore that when he died and went to the pits of the Abyss to be reborn he’d come back.

And flay us alive.

Bad choice of words.

I think the bull metaphor before was apt, because I certainly saw red for a moment. I don’t think anyone was in disagreement when I stabbed Radiance through his blackened heart at this point though.

We didn’t learn anything though. Except that he wasn’t a cultist. Just a psychopath who found an excuse to start killing people.

As we discussed our next course of action, the librarian we’d rescued approached us. He knew that Aravashnial was with the Riftwardens, and he knew what had happened to them. The Riftwardens after locking what they could in their vault had teleported to a different location, meaning Aravashnial’s friends were safely somewhere else. Unfortunately, a day later someone else arrived. Xanthir Vang. Another of Deskari’s generals. A worm that walks, a terrible creature that is both a swarm and one being bound to Deskari’s will. Xanthir cut through the floor, right above where the vault would be in the secret Riftwarden floors below, and lifted the entire vault from the floor. Then he ripped it apart like it was nothing. He seemed disappointed that the Riftwardens weren’t there—predictably, I suppose, since he had a personal grudge against them.

We found a single dead and dried up worm husk in a corner of the room. I don’t like this. It’s probably my imagination that my arm itches. Probably. Another of Deskari’s generals so close. That’s…terrifying.

With this information tucked away, we decided to head for Anevia’s home to look for clues of where Commander Tirabade may be. Mostly to make sure her wife was safe, and to inform her of everything we’d found out thus far, and a little tiny bit to ask her about that sword she’d apparently sold behind her back.

On the way, we were accosted by a skeletal demon from atop a building, who also called himself the rat king. He claimed the one we’d defeated before was a usurper, and then summoned a swarm of dire rats to attack us. We dealt with the dire rats handily enough. They took a few chomps at me, annoying little things. Between rats and lizards, do I just taste good or something?

Nope, just licked my hand to test it, I’m quite certain I do not taste good.

We arrived to a small unassuming house. Irabeth’s funds clearly went to things other than worldly possessions. Not that it was a bad house. I’m not trying to be judgmental of Irabeth Tirabade I’m just saying with her position most people would have much larger quarters, so she clearly puts hers to good use elsewhere. I’m not one to judge small living quarters, I live in the barracks. Which probably are in ruins now. Ah, well. Not like I had anything of sentimental value in there anyways. My fiddle, my sword, and my shield were on my person, those were the only things I might have cried over losing. And then my sword got forcefully replaced by a talkative holy blade anyways.

I wish I could say Radiance is growing on me like Horgus. Unfortunately, we got off an extremely wrong foot and they haven’t exactly tried to mend any bridges. Luna says I should be more assertive with them, since I’m the only one who can wield them, they need me to do their holy mission they want. And Radiance even agreed with her, because of course they did.

Figures. A guy tries to be nice to the holy sword who he’ll have to be working with for the foreseeable future and apparently even trying to just not make waves with the being you’ll have to work with talking in your head is the wrong move.

Fine…assertive. What do they want me to do, put Radiance in time out in their little box when they get uppity? That is a funny image though.

I’ve completely lost my train of thought.

Right, reread a few paragraphs, Anevia’s house. So, Luna and Melody took a peek inside to make sure nothing was lurking around inside.

Predictably, something was lurking around inside.

He was invisible, but when Melody began using detect evil he ‘pinged’, so she had an idea of where the invisible presence was. The invisible presence summoned a fire beetle outside to attack Anevia, but Hiskaria turned and shot it dead before it got a chance.

Melody and Luna had a good idea where the invisible foe was, and began to force him back into a corner, although their swings of axe and glaive kept hitting nothing but air.

I came in, and I swear to you Iomedae guided Radiance’s blade. Not only did I strike true, from the amount of red that splattered across the ground, I’m certain I hit something vital. That, and I made him very angry. The next thing I saw was an enraged orc, whose invisibility faded away as a blast of fire was released from his hand point blank in my face. Too familiar. Far too familiar. And then darkness.

And then I was awake again, Melody tipping one of my potions into my mouth. Luna had bloodied the orc, but he’d refused to go down in his blind frenzy. Then Hiskaria had stepped in and finished the job.

I proceeded to heal myself a little more thoroughly while the ladies talked to Anevia about what just happened.

Huh, now that Aravashnial and Horgus are gone I am the only guy in the little group of ours, aren’t I?

The prettiest guy in our group by default as well, not that that’s saying much.

Anevia recognized the orc, he was someone who Irabeth had stopped from some previous scheme years back, who she’d left out in the world alive. Apparently, he came back for revenge. He won’t be getting a third chance.

With that settled and no more assassins lurking about, Anevia went to her and Irabeth’s bedroom and opened a secret compartment. Inside she read a note and took out some supplies. She told us that Commander Tirabade and the other remaining Crusaders were hiding out at the Defender’s Heart tavern, and the passcode to get in was “Silverstrong”.

We decided to go straight there, as it was closer than any of the safehouses, and allies were still more useful than victories at the moment.

I was especially feeling that way when that damn skeleton ‘rat king’ showed up again, and threw a flock of vultures at us. Most of which decided to descend upon me. I know vultures are a bad omen but come on, that’s too on the nose even for me. What’s worse? Do you know what’s worse? What’s even worse than vultures? Fiend vultures. These things could smite. I had, no joke, five buzzards smiting me like a bunch of feathery antipaladins.

Just my cursed luck again. Why does Desna hate me?

So, yeah. I was hurting. And really wanting some rest. While everyone else was ready and raring to go for two more safehouses after we finished meeting with the Commander. I finished healing myself again and I was almost tapped out of spells, and completely out of potions. My fervor was wearing thin as well. Luna was all well and good, she didn’t use spells. Hiskaria was fine, she mostly only used her cantrips to empower her bow to fire twice—a neat trick that didn’t really cost her anything. Melody had used one judgement and some spells but she was just fine and equally ready to go.

Ever the weak link.

Eh, no point thinking like that, right? Plenty more happened after that. We arrived to Defender’s Heart and gave them the passcode. They came out to meet us, initially excited to see Anevia.

Then they saw Luna, still with her hood up in her Butcher guise from our fight earlier.

Oops.

We tried to explain that this wasn’t what it looked like. That she wasn’t actually a murderer. That the rumors and stories and reports were wrong. Anevia tried to back us up. Luna took off her hood, and pointed out that she drank one of the two of them under the table at this very tavern just a few days prior, and no one got hurt. Despite our best efforts, tensions were raising. The guards were going for their weapons, and we were surrounded. The paladins were throwing accusations, and no one was listening to our words, they were only hearing what they believed to be true.

Then a strong hand came down on both of the guards’ shoulders. A voice spoke, and told them that maybe sometime they should try actually using the gift Iomedae grants them to detect evil.

Irabeth Tirabade stood behind the two guards, in the flesh, as…everything as I ever would have imagined. Tall, proud, honorable, noble.

The guards scrambled to cast the detect spells, and predictably found that Luna was not evil. They were puzzled but relaxed somewhat. Then jumped and went for their weapons again when they looked in Hiskaria’s direction.

The Commander told them that it was alright, and held up some papers, saying all the paperwork was in order for Hiskaria.

It looked like she was officially Raven Corps now.

Commander Tirabade picked up Anevia and carried her inside, and asked the four of us to follow. She got to quarters where she could lay Anevia down, then turned to me.

And the conversation went something like this.

“Acting Captain of the Raven Corps,” she said.

I was flabbergasted for a moment then realized she had to be talking to me because there was literally no one else she could be talking to. “Me?”

#journal entry #pathfinder #pathfinder wotr #pathfinder wotr spoilers #Draven Imani

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zmediaoutlet · 4 years ago

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in support of wildfire relief, @jesusonthetortillas donated $10, and requested pre-series pining!Sam, with diary discovery. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

After his little lesson from Sabrina, the hot librarian's assistant, it's not hard at all for Dean to find what he's looking for. He drops Sam off at the library the way he usually does, and flirts with Sabrina on his way out like he usually does, but instead of going to his shift at the construction site like Sam thinks he's going to, he circles back around, through the library stacks on the main floor, and waits like a dingus by YOUNG ADULT – ADVENTURE, watching the back of Sam's nerdy, nerdy head where he's hunched at the computer banks, getting up to no kind of good.

It wouldn't have come to this, Dean thinks, if Sam weren't so—he doesn't even know how to think about it. He doesn't know when to pin it down. They were doing okay. Sam ran away, a few years back, but since then he's—well, he's always bitching at Dad and bitching at Dean half the time too, but he's done good in school, he's done his part with the hunting. It was sometime at that last school. September in Maryland. Dad was gone a lot of the time, because Dad always was, and Dean went with him on about half the hunts but Sam got to stay behind, got to just call in research tips and last-minute lore checks, and Dean thought he was pretty happy, as much as Sam ever seemed happy. Chill, just doing his homework at the rickety desk, not complaining any more than usual about Dean's usual dinners of fast food or Kraft or Top Ramen. Seventeen and getting tall and mellowing out, and finally hanging out with his little brother was just fine. Dean thought.

That was two towns ago, three months ago. Dean picks his nails with his pocket knife, leaning on one elbow by the Hardy Boys. Sam's still working away on the computer. Anymore he always is. After school he's always angling for Dean to bring him to the library and if Dean won't drive him then Sam walks, even when it's raining, like it is half the time in frickin Washington, anyway. Always finding a free computer and settling in and disappearing onto the internet. Not coming home until the library closes, and moody if Dean's there when he walks in, and Dean just—he thought they were past all this crap. He thought that maybe Sam had—settled. Figured out how things were, how things had to be.

Well. Either way. Sabrina, with the glasses and the sexy dreads and the legs that very much went all the way to the floor under those wide-legged pants she was always wearing—she gave Dean a computer lesson, free of charge, and he's got a way in, now. Sam won't talk to him, won't hardly look at him. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, watching Sam type on the battered public machine. Sam's not the only one who knows how to research a case, in this family. Dean's going to figure this out. He's gonna fix it.

A bell rings, at five o'clock, like the end of a school day. Sam jerks like he's been shocked and looks up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. He's been engrossed for two hours, typing away, reading. Real frickin' boring, on Dean's end, but he stayed put. Like staking out a house for a job—nothing to do but wait. He takes a few steps backwards, makes sure the shelves hide his face, and there's a general rustling as people leave—a mom and her kid, and tears because the kid's favorite book wasn't here—and when Dean looks again the computer banks are empty, and Sabrina's checking out the last few patrons, and Sam's—gone. Walking home in the rain, little goth that he is. Fine with Dean, if it gives him a few minutes.

When he settles into the chair Sam was in it's still warm. He opens up Netscape Navigator, the library's homepage welcoming him in a friendly kinda way—big yellow smiley face, that's fun. He goes to where Sabrina taught him, in the menu at the top: view, and then History, where it turns out the computer saves all the webpages you went to just in case you need to find them again, and there—oh, jackpot. Gotcha, Sam.

All kinds of crap. A weather website, a bunch of Ask Jeeves searches, something called DiffEQandU. Some mythology stuff, too, and Dean goes to one that turns out to be a history of kitsune. That's something, at least—Sam doing his important homework, in there with whatever other crap he's been working on.

The last bunch of results are all pages from some website called Livejournal, which Dean's never heard of. He clicks one at random and is brought to—huh. A splashy red page, with a big picture on top of kids graduating from high school in those dorky blue robes. He scrolls down, skimming, looking for the important details among the mess, but it's hard to tell what it is. A forum, it looks like. Kind of like the ones Dean's been on where people trade car parts, or swap ghost stories. A square box, dated yesterday, that says WHEN IS HARVARD'S APP REVIEW???, and a panicky paragraph where some chick might die if she doesn't get in. Another, the day before, with questions about the SAT, and a link that says 43 comments that, when Dean clicks it, brings him to a bunch of apparently teenagers all giving each other tips from some test they're worried about taking.

College. Dean's stomach curls into a knot. It's all—college stuff, applications and tests and deadlines. The usernames are all weird shit: tmntpizzadelivery, quistis4ever, willyshakes. Dean can't tell—is one of these kids Sam?

Sabrina's nearly done with her line of book nerds. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and clicks away, tries another of the Livejournal results in the history. Another forum, this one apparently about—soccer? Jesus, Sam. Another forum, this one about Conan the Barbarian, and that one's at least easy to snort at, with people's shitty drawings of Red Sonja and excitement about a possible remake. There are personal pages, though, too—one titled Delaware Sucks, in which some girl complains about her life—one titled trent reznor rules my soul, featuring a goth kid who won't shut up about Nine Inch Nails and his bitch of a mother. Another, with a plain blue-and-grey color scheme, with the title on the road, and a new post from today—from an hour ago—with the text just reading, I don't know what to do anymore, and six comments underneath, waiting.

"Hey—ready to go?" Sabrina says.

Dean jerks in his seat. Sabrina's raising her eyebrows at him, behind her glasses, a little smile curving her mouth that promises something a little better than book dust and computer lessons. "I'm always ready," Dean says, grinning, and gets her to roll her eyes—yeah, he's in there—but his eyes drag back to the webpage, the posts. He scrolls down, quick—post after post, waiting to be read. "Real quick—borrow a pen?"

She has one—she's a sexy librarian, of course she has one—and he uncrumples a receipt from his jacket pocket and writes down the URL, careful to get it right. rearviewmirror.livejournal.com. He wants to click on the comments, but.

"Come on, the movie's starting soon," Sabrina says, and Dean closes Netscape, folds the receipt very carefully into his pocket, stands up. He's got a date to make out with a hot chick in the back of a movie theater, and maybe a little more, and Sam's whole Eeyore routine has to take a number. Dean will figure it out. He's got an easy way to run a stakeout, now.

December 4

Still can't decide. Anyone else going through this?

current mood: agonized current music: motorhead (AGAIN)

Comments:

teenagehamburger: Yes!! I still don't know where I want to go. Mom wants me to stay close to home, but Delaware sucksssss. Where are you looking?

rearviewmirror: Anywhere. TBH I'm still not even sure I should apply.

teenagehamburger: WTF?? Of course you should!! College is the big escape, remember?

December 1

He's driving me INSANE

current mood: annoyed current music: motorhead (again)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: lol you got it bad

rearviewmirror: right now I just want to hit him with a brick, actually

teenagehamburger: LOL!! Sorry :( :(

rearviewmirror: Sigh. I guess it could be worse, right?

teenagehamburger: Definitely!! He could be the cute cheerleader from 4th period who doesn't know I exist….

coppertonebuttgirl: oh, sorry hammie, that sucks <3

November 29

The thing is, I don't even want anything crazy? I just want to be—me. Just me, without anyone breathing down my neck. Trig teacher says I could get in to one of the top ten, but I just want to go *anywhere that's not here*

current mood: restless current music: Pearl Jam (home alone!)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: i hear you lol. why don't they get that the rules and hovering and all that shit just makes us want to run faster?

rearviewmirror: Exactly! My teacher keeps talking about college like it's a place to expand your mind and stuff, and that's fine, but lately I just want to expand my horizons. Kind of ironic?

bloodofreptile: yeah lol haven't you lived like everywhere?

rearviewmirror: Feels like it.

teenagehamburger: Is You Know Who going to college too?

November 18

I feel like it shouldn't be this hard. Normal people have it easy.

current mood: indescribable current music: silence

Comments:

coppertonebuttgirl: feel free to talk to me anytime <3

November 3

Dad's gone again. Didn't say goodbye. We went to the movies and he gave me a beer, and we watched the stars for an hour in the parking lot even though it was freaking freezing. Happier than I've been in a while. Don’t want it to change but it has to change.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

teenagehamburger: OMG, that sounds so romantic?? I can't believe you were drinking!! Aren't you underage?

bloodofreptile: lol relax it's not a big deal

teenagehamburger: I'm just saying!!

coppertonebuttgirl: wish it wasn't hard for you <3

bloodofreptile: dude you've got to say something

rearviewmirror: I literally can't.

bloodofreptile: ok but it's gonna drive you crazy. do you even know if he's gay? start with that maybe

The posts go on, and on. Reading backwards through time, it's a strange piecing-together. rearviewmirror is active in about ten communities and Dean reads through all of them, that week, bringing an illicit cup of coffee in to the library when he doesn't have a construction shift. He reads with his hand over his mouth and by the time he has to get off the computer he's got a headache, every time, his throat dry and aching.

The journal's been active for six months. Dean clicks through the pages to the very start and reads it in the right order, his heart pounding oddly in his ears. I don't know what this place is. A journal, I guess, considering the name. I just need somewhere to talk where no one will listen.

It's not a pouring-out, like some teenage girl doodling hearts around her crush's initials. He holds back. Never says exactly where they're living, never mentions names. To figure out who it was, you'd have to be one of two other people, and Dean knows that Dad can barely turn on a computer, much less go onto the internet and pore over some teenage angst-fest. Dean spends half his time wishing he were the same. Maybe if he hadn't asked Sabrina for help.

At home, Sam's the same as he always is. Comes home after his own stint at the library, eats the dinner Dean gives him. He reads, most of the time. Does his schoolwork. Dean says, careful one night, "Hey, True Lies is on. Wanna watch?" but Sam only gives him a strange, uncertain look and says, "No, I have a paper due," and he shuts himself into their bedroom with the door very firmly closed, and Dean sits there on the couch alone with a beer and Jamie Lee Curtis being sexy as hell on the fuzzy TV, and he—he doesn't know what to do.

He remembers that day, the looking at the stars day. It was November 2. A nasty anniversary, in their family, and yeah, Dad left. Dean got it. He'd thought Sam did, too, by now. It was better to have Dad gone, on a hunt, than trying to drink himself to death at home in the apartment. At least he was working, that way, and not hurting himself. To distract both of them, Dean picked Sam up from the library and they went straight to the movie theater—the Blair Witch sequel, with Dean providing running commentary about how dumb they were about dealing with ghosts, which at least made Sam grin and elbow him to shut up, even if he was laughing too, the liar—and, yeah, afterward they'd picked up Taco Bell, and then after that Dean swung through the liquor store drive-thru and they parked out, and he let Sam have a beer, and they both sat on the trunk and leaned back against the cold glass or the rear window and didn't really talk, much. The stars, big above them. The night, quiet. Sam was pressed against his side, chilled out and not bitching about anything, and Dean tucked his hand behind his head and he was pretty content with the world, right then. His brother, here, and a six-pack waiting, and nothing happening right then that'd hurt them. Sam smiled at him, that night, before he went to bed. It was sweet—like he used to be, when he was little—and Dean had ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching the public access, but his dreams that night were—good, like they never were on the night of November 2, and it had felt… okay.

do you even know if he's gay?

The college prep—that wasn't a surprise. It hurt but it didn't shock. All his worrying, all his whining, wanting to be 'free'—whatever free meant—it was all part and parcel of the last decade. Dean should've known better. Sam wasn't mellowing out. Sam was a stubborn little shit and he'd always wanted to have a life that wasn't—this.

The gay thing. That hit different. One of the communities Sam followed was for lesbian and gay youth, talking about their coming out experiences. Sam didn't post there much but he commented, asked questions. How do you know? What does it feel like? The hamburger girl was from there, a lesbian chick trapped in some Delaware high school. Encouraging, commiserating. They talked about how college would be their big escape, their chance to go to a big city and find their way. Meet people. Only apparently hamburger girl was crushing on the cheerleader from fourth period, and Sam—

Dean makes an excuse the next day. Saturday: no work for Dean, no school for Sam. Alone in the apartment together, all day, after Dean's week of reading—he can't face it. "Where are you going?" Sam asks, eight a.m. with his hair fucked up and coffee clenched between his hands, and Dean looks at him in his pajama pants and his ratty hand-me-down shirt, skinny and tall and hiding things Dean can't handle, and he says, snappish in a way he doesn't mean to be—"Out, Sam, for christ's sake—" and sees Sam's expression shutter before the apartment door slams behind him.

He goes for a drive, out of town. Cold, threatening rain like it always is, but it won't snow. Out—past the airport, past the suburbs, out to Black Lake. They killed the nymph that was drowning people out here, him and Dad, when they first arrived. Sam stayed home. Sullen on the other end of the line when Dean called to say they'd finished the job, and they were getting burgers for dinner, and did Sam want one. Whatever, Sam had said, like even answering was an imposition. That was November, too.

He sits on the hood, heels braced on the bumper, arms locked around his knees. The lake looks cold. He wants to sink into it, wants to feel that freezing shock, like the polar bear dive he did on a dare back in Illinois. The way the brain just goes blank, tv-static filling up everything and washing all the shit away. All the weird crap you don't want to think about, frozen, and the only thing to focus on just—getting out.

He's not going to dive into the lake. It's nine in the morning and he's wearing his only pair of boots. He hasn't gone out with Sabrina all week. He's been piss-poor at the construction site and McMillan nearly brained him with a hammer yesterday, because Dean wasn't paying attention, and the foreman screamed at him in front of the whole crew. None of that feels close, right now. He breathes the wet-clogged air, cold and mossy, turning his ring restlessly on his finger.

Back at that high school they went to in Raton, Mrs. Encinas in 6th period English told Dean he'd be smart, if he didn't just give up all the time. All he needed to do was take the time to read between the lines, to actually interpret what he was reading and not take things on face value. He made some joke. He doesn't remember what it was, now. Like he didn't know what the fuckin Great Gatsby was saying, when he hoped and hoped and never got what he wanted. When happiness always felt like it was about a thousand miles away, on the other side of a lake he couldn't cross, and hope went out like a snuffed light. Dean can read what's not there. He's done it his whole life.

The problem: Sam's little online journal went back six months. They've lived in four towns, in that time. He never uses names, never puts up anything that'd really identify him. They were in Maryland, August-September-first of October, and it was a comment right at the end of August, on the community for gay kids, talking to the hamburger girl: I like someone, too. He doesn't know. He. The same he that carried forward, through all his journal entries, from Maryland to Washington across whole breadth of the country. He likes classic rock. He drives me nuts. He gave me a beer, and I wanted—

Dean curls forward over his knees, sliding his hands into his hair, breathing hard between his knees. He can read between the lines and he wishes that he couldn't. He wishes—god. What? That Sam would just meet a nice girl and fuck her and get it out of his system? Except how he was writing, it wasn't like it was new. It was something he'd been thinking about. When did you know? had read one of the forum posts, and in the responses, among all the dumb teenage crap about formal dances and jerking off to the wrong person in the music video, there was a comment by username rearviewmirror that said, I broke my leg and he carried me to the car and I wanted to kiss him.

Sam broke his leg in July, the summer he turned fifteen. He'd been trying to stay quiet but he'd had this trapped whimper in his throat that he couldn't stop, and Dad had stayed behind to cover their backs and it had been left to Dean, to scoop Sam up, his whole body quivering with the shock—to hug him close between the trees, humid Georgia night making every place their skin touched slick with sweat—to let Sam cling to his neck, shuddering, and to put a hand on his back and whisper, hey, Sammy, it's not even that bad, huh? no bone sticking out, you did good. we're gonna get you a cast and I'm gonna draw you a great picture, okay, Cindy Crawford with her tits out, right there on your shin and Sam had been so shaky that his laugh sounded like he was crying, but he'd nodded against Dean's neck and chattered out sounds cool, Dean, and when Dean got him to the car Sam hadn't wanted to let him go—so they crawled into the backseat together, Sam still half in his lap and with his arms still tight around Dean's neck. Dad got into the front and frowned at Dean in the rearview, and Dean nodded, and when the car leapt forward Sam gasped and gripped at Dean's shirt when his leg got jostled, and Dean put his hand in Sam's hair and said, it's okay, you're okay, and Sam—wanted to kiss him.

He can't square it. It's like there's some twinned version of his brother, in this place Dean never knew existed. All these secrets he's been hoarding, this other person he's been. These wants that make him a stranger.

He goes back home with stuff for lunch around noon. Sam's reading, in the bedroom. "Got pb&j or grilled cheese," Dean calls, down the shotgun kitchen through the thin-carpeted hall, and Sam calls back, "I'm not hungry," which is a goddamn shit of a lie. He grows like an inch a day, he's never not hungry. Dean braces his hands on the counter and counts to five, in his head. He puts the bread away, and puts the cheese in the fridge. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV and it's college football, which is boring as hell, but it fills the apartment with noise. He wishes Dad were home. He wishes he were hunting.

The Huskies lose. Sam hasn't come out of the room, as far as Dean can tell. He's had—four beers? He looks at the table. Five. It's getting toward dark and it's raining, a-fucking-gain, and Dean's still wearing his jacket and his boots and his ears are cold, because the heater in here sucks, and he's shredded the label of the beer everywhere, everywhere. He brushes it off his knees and that just means it's gonna get ground into the shit-brown carpet, but—who cares. He's got other things on his mind.

He gets the last beer out of the fridge. Should've bought more. "Got some spare cash," he says, to the dark hall. There's a halo of light around the half-closed bedroom door. "Thinking pizza for dinner."

Silence.

Dean pushes the beer bottle against his forehead. "C'mon, Sam. It's not going to kill you to prefer pepperoni or sausage. Just say something."

"Doesn't matter," is the response.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed, slams the bottle down to the counter. It's four steps to the bedroom and the door flies open under his palm. "Just fucking say," Dean says, and Sam's looking at him with big eyes, curled up on the twin bed with his back up against the wall, books spread open all around him. Homework, of course. "Just say it, okay? What do you want?"

Sam stares at him. "I don't care! Get—whatever, pepperoni. Jeez, what's up with you?"

"Sure you don't want sausage?" Dean says, kind of nasty, and Sam frowns, shakes his head. Goddamn it. Dean drags a hand over his face, sags against the door frame. He's—a little dizzy. Oh—okay, so maybe he should've eaten, sometime since this morning. "Damn it, Sam," he says, his stomach twinging.

"What?" Give him this—maybe he's sneaking around, maybe he's lying about half his life, but Sam doesn't shrink back from an argument. He's still in his pajamas. He shoves his notebook away, lifts his chin. "What?"

"Been doing some reading," Dean says, and watches Sam's face scrunch disbelievingly. "Rearviewmirror? You don't even like cars."

It's weirdly satisfying to watch Sam blanch. He's been so unaffected the last little while it's almost a relief to get a real reaction. His mouth parts, his eyes go big. He stares at Dean in total silence except the rain drumming on the roof, and then he says, "That's—private."

"Not that private," Dean says. "You're putting shit on the internet for any asshole to read, Sam. It's not a pretty princess diary with a sparkly lock."

Sam's face is white. He licks his lips, his back rigid against the wall. "How did you—you never—"

"I know how to use a friggin computer," Dean says, and watches Sam close his eyes. "So? Got a lot to say to a bunch of strangers. Might as well say it to me. I mean, I'm your brother, right? Family."

It comes out hard but his voice cracks, on the last word. He swallows and some of the anger dissipates. Sam's jaw flexes and he tucks his hands behind his neck and his knees drag in, like defense. Like he needs defense. Against Dean. Like it's Dean who's wrecking things.

Dean's legs go out from under him. He sits down. Right there, in the doorway to the bedroom, the frame hard against his spine. The rain's loud and he doesn't—what is there to say? "You should've told me."

That's really it. Sam looks at him. Disbelief. "How?" he says, and Dean tips his head back against the wall, looks at the popcorn ceiling, says, "I don't know, it's not my damn secret. But you should've."

"Yeah, that would've gone great," Sam says, sarcastic.

Silence. The rain. Dean drags his hand over his face again, clears his throat. "So. You're—queer." For some reason it seems like the simplest thing to start with.

Sam snorts. "I'm not, like, jerking off to JC Chasez," he says, bitter.

"Who?" Dean says, but shakes his head. "God, whatever. Jesus, Sam, I can't—don't talk about you jerking off. You're not—you don't date chicks, either. Ever. So you're—"

"I don't know," Sam says. Kind of firm. Dean closes his eyes to not look at him. "I don't know, okay? But that's not what—" Pause, while he drags in a breath that's audible across the room. Dean curls over, his forehead between his knees. It's too big to hear. Sam blows out air. "You read the whole thing?"

Frail. Cobweb soft, like if Dean breathed too hard it'd break. Dean folds his hands over his head. "I read the whole thing," he says.

"Don't—" Sam says, quick, and cuts himself off. Dean can't stand it—he looks, peeking up, and Sam's made himself small, there at the head of the bed. His mouth is small, his lips between his teeth—his eyes, big and scared. "Dean. I wouldn't—I swear. I wouldn't—"

"Kiss me?" Sam flinches like from a raised fist, when Dean's all the way over here. Dean licks his lips, dropping his hands so they dangle useless between his knees. "Or, what. Leave? Either way it's pretty fucked up, for me, Sam."

"Oh my god," Sam says, very quietly, and—christ. Looks like he's gonna cry.

"Sam," Dean says, and no matter how pissed he is, that's not—Sam fights back. Sam always fights back, he's frickin' annoying that way. He's not supposed to crack like this. Dean rolls up to his knees and Sam's looking away, neck craned unnaturally so that his face is pointed at the broken-blind-covered window so that Dean can't see, but Dean can—Dean can see his teeth so hard in his lip that the skin there's white, and his chest shaky, and his fist clenched in the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and, and—"Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam's eyes close and there is—shit, shit, a tear, running fast out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek so quick that if Dean could blink he might've missed it.

Dean's gut hurts, like he took a punch from a werewolf and he's gonna be bruised for the next three weeks. He doesn't have anything to say to make it better, not when it's this screwed up. This isn't Sam bitching about Dad or whining about crossbow practice or pouting about a move. Sam's been thinking about this for two years and he's managed to talk about it with people, online at least. Dean's coming at it with a week's slow raw realization and he doesn't know how to make it—not how it is.

He gets over to the bed, on his knees. Sam won't look at him, like the view of nothing through the blinds is the most fascinating thing in the world. There's a wet shining trail, down his cheek to his jaw. A damp circle on his t-shirt. Dean says, because he can't think of what else to say, "You really—you want—" and even then, can't articulate it. A kiss. Sex. A kind of close they've never been. He says, slower, "Is that why you want to go?"

Sam drags in air. Sounds like it hurts.

Dean drags his teeth over his lip. There are books all over the bed. He pushes them away, and Sam's notebook. He pushes up—knee on the mattress, and sinking down to his hip, and Sam's close enough to touch, now, and he jerks and looks at Dean like he's an alien. A ghost. Something that can't be real, only they both know that it is. Dean touches Sam's hand, fisted there in his pants, and Sam jerks again, his stiff shoulders back against the wall, and he shoves Dean's hand but no matter the crazy growth spurt Sam's been having Dean's still stronger, still has the reach—he grips Sam's wrist and yanks, gets him off balance, and then he's right inside Sam's grapple and has his hand flat on Sam's chest, pressing him harder against the paint, and Sam stares at him wild-eyed with his breath both fast and deep and Dean leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a bad kiss—he barely hits on center, and Sam freezes—but there's the touch of warmth, Sam's lips—soft—and the shocked air hitting Dean's face—and Dean drags in breath through his nose and resettles, fits his mouth to Sam's soft open lower lip and makes it better, his head tipping, easy pressure there, just the faintest amount of suction so that when he pulls back a millimeter there's a little smooch sound, and that makes it—real.

He kissed his little brother. No getting around that. No pretending. His nose brushes Sam's cheek and Sam's not really breathing, and Dean—fuck, Dean does it again, pressing in and letting Sam's wrist go so that he can get a hand on Sam's jaw, tipping him so it's good. Sam makes a tiny noise and breathes out hard against his mouth, and when Dean kisses him for a third time Sam meets it, his lips moving finally out of that still shock, his fingertips brushing Dean's arm all careful, his heart pounding under Dean's hand.

Dean pulls back. An inch between them—not enough but all Dean can seem to manage. He swallows. His lips are tingling, and his eyes are closed and he doesn't want to open them, and his fingers—jesus, he's got them tangled in Sam's hair like Sam's some easy hot chick he's picked up at a dive bar, pressing her up against the wall in the bathroom hallway, knowing how the night's going to end.

"We can't," Sam says. Sam. His voice, steady and familiar. "We—Dean. This isn't—"

"No," Dean says, god knows why. He pulls back, though—pulls his hand out of Sam's hair, stands up. His legs wobble for a second. He has to open his eyes and so he drags in a breath and does, and Sam's sitting there with his shoulders high and tight and his hands fisted on his knees and his hair a little fluffed on one side, a little screwy. His mouth parted and his eyes—fixed on Dean's face, looking all over it. Like he's memorizing a trail map, for an unknown stretch of land.

"I'm drunk," Dean says. It's not true. Five beers—he's buzzed but he knows what he's doing. Sam doesn't contradict the lie. "Acting nuts. Sorry, Sam. I—"

"I want pepperoni," Sam says. His face isn't white anymore. He's flushed, dark pink in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are dark, wide and fixed on Dean, and there's still that shining trail on his cheek but it's drying. "Order from that place on Melrose. Garlic knots, too."

Dean backs up a step, pins on a smile. "What, you think I'm dumb? Like I wouldn't get knots," he says, and Sam doesn't smile but he nods, brief and fast like Dean's picking up a play in some con they're running, and Dean snaps a finger-gun at Sam—fuck, what is he doing—and turns out of the room, says—"Okay, dinner in thirty minutes or less or your money back!" and walks through the kitchen and out into the living room and out the front door, and closes it behind himself, and leans against it and stares blindly out into the rain, the setting sun still sparking some tiny golden bit of light out to the west, past the horizon.

He licks his lips and tastes salt, not his own. Sam's hand, on his arm—skimming, brushing light through the thickness of his jacket. Like he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to really touch. He drags in the rain-soaked air. He'll drive, to get the pizza. He'll drive, and he'll give Sam time. When he gets back he'll offer Sam half the pie and a beer, and there'll be some movie on TV that Sam probably won't want to watch, but maybe he will. They'll be—brothers. Dean knows how to do that. It feels like it's all he's got left.

It's—not easy but it's not all that hard, either. There's a brutal week where Dean's torn between walking on eggshells and wanting to wrestle Sam to the ground, and Sam goes perfectly silent—not pouty withdrawal or furious silent-treatment, but as still and quiet as though he's not even there. Dean can't bear it. It takes Dad coming home to break it—Dad, and christ, when he calls to say he's coming back Dean completely freezes and his mind fills up with—with—but then Sam looks at him and takes the phone out of his hand and says, his mouth's full—what's up? and after that it's like things… settle. It's not okay but it's livable.

rearviewmirror.livejournal.com goes quiet. Dean checks, occasionally, over the months that pass. When he's looking up some random piece of lore for Dad, when they're hunting alone and Sam's stuck back at whatever shitty hotel they stored him at, and Dean's on research duty because Sam's in high school and can't answer his phone. Dean types in the address and checks, and it's still that last post. Anyone else going through this? He hopes, sincerely, not. It's too fucked up for anyone else to bear. At least the Winchesters have practice.

They run PT. Sam does his homework. Dean watches TV. Hunting focuses things. There's stuff to kill and people to save and things aren't falling apart any more than they ever are, so—Dean deals.

Sam leaves.

It's January. Dean's in a library, alone. Dad's working a job north of Boise and he sent Dean down to Wendover to take care of a haunting, and Dean's done and Dad called and said two more days and there's this raw wounded spot where Dean should be able to turn, to look over his left shoulder and say—but it's empty there, and so he's in a library.

Sam started posting again, when he got to school. Small stuff. That he was sorry for the long break. That he'd ended up at a university after all. The hamburger girl doesn't respond anymore but the Nine Inch Nails boy does: thought you were dead, he says, no-caps like he's so goddamn cool, and Sam says, Just working some stuff out.

Sam likes his professors. He plays pick-up soccer with some of the guys from his dorm. His roommate snores. He doesn't listen to music at all. There's nothing—real. There's none of the sadboy shit, nothing about what he's feeling, no pondering of what it all means. He picks up a few different Livejournal friends, clearly people from his classes, who crack jokes about Ancient Civ and Linear Algebra. He joins a community focused around civil rights litigation. He might as well not be there.

Dean reads it all. If Sam's not calling then Dean's gonna check in whatever way he can. When Sam left Dean made sure he had at least one good knife in his bag and he said don't forget the salt when Sam hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and Sam snorted and looked at him like a gunshot but he nodded, and Sam's not dumb, he knows how to take care of himself, but. Dean's the big brother, here. He's within his rights, to check and make sure baby bro's not being a dumbass.

January and it's fuckin cold, in Wendover, but the library's too warm. Dean keeps his coat on anyway, scrolling through the comms. He's kinda turning into an expert, navigating the pages, recognizing the shorthand. He hasn't made an account. Doesn't know why he would. He finishes his scan of the comms Sam's part of and doesn't really see any relevant posts, and no comments from rearviewmirror that he can find. He chews his cheek and goes back to the main page, thinking—okay, he can get out of here. Beer and dinner, and finding a motel that doesn't look toxic, and waiting for Dad to call. Not the worst night he could have. He refreshes, one last time, just in case, and there's a new post. He reads:

January 23

Done with class for the week. Feeling restless.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

lawblog69: we should go out!!

bloodofreptile: go get laid

Dean snorts. At least the NIN kid is consistent. He refreshes again and there's a new comment.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

He takes a breath, sitting there at the computer bank. It's quiet in here—the good people of Wendover aren't much for the library, apparently—but he feels like someone's right there. Like he could reach out and touch, when it's just words on a glowing screen. Still—the speed of the comment—Sam's… sitting there. Right now, on a computer in Palo Alto, looking at the same thing Dean is.

He refreshes.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

bloodofreptile: still holding onto that? very hufflepuff. how long has it been?

rearviewmirror: my whole life

Dean presses his knuckles to his lips, hard enough that he can feel his teeth pressing back. Jesus, Sam. He refreshes—another comment, from coppertonebuttgirl, agreeing about the restlessness but apparently she's off to a date with her boyfriend, and Sam responds and says sounds nice :), and jesus, Sam, Dean thinks. Off to have the big college experience like he wanted so bad, off to have that new shiny life, and after five months away he's still all sadsack, still not actually living.

He clicks the comment box. He types, unaccountably mad. He hits submit, and gets a warning that it'll show as anonymous. He waits, and refreshes, and reads:

Anonymous: Just go hit a bar. Live a little. Thought you were supposed to be smart, college boy.

rearviewmirror: Since when does smart have anything to do with it?

Dean rolls his eyes. He can hear Sam's voice saying it, nettled and trying to sound like he isn't.

Anonymous: You're on here mooning after Cindy Crawford when Claudia Schiffer and Tyra Banks are out there in the real world. Have a beer, get over it.

A pause. Dean has to refresh twice. The librarian walks by with her cart of books and gives him a distracted smile, and Dean's so addled he doesn't actually process and then return it until she's already gone.

rearviewmirror: I don't think it's something you get over. It mattered. It still does, to me.

Dean chews his thumbnail. Sam's face, turned unnaturally, looking out that window at the rain. The wet track, on his cheek.

Anonymous: Matters enough that you're never going to move on?

rearviewmirror: I didn't think you could move on from family. Maybe I was wrong.

The air goes out of Dean's chest. He turns away from the computer, entirely, swiveling the chair so he's looking out at the lonely bookshelves. He flexes his jaw and swivels back around. Hits refresh.

The thread of comments is gone. He blinks, confused. He doesn't think he was hallucinating—been a while, since he was that tired and drunk. But—oh—in its place, a single comment, under the brief conversation with the NIN kid:

rearviewmirror: Tell me if it's you.

Dean licks his lips. He closes out of the browser, picks up his notepad and keys. On the steps outside it's cold, cold, fucking cold, and this town is bleak. He walks down to the Impala, waiting there in the iced-over grey snow, and braces his hands on the hood, and blows out a long purling winter-dragon breath, and then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Another new phone, but he's got Sam's number memorized, and he almost calls before he chickens out. If it's not actually wanted—he imagines that conversation and he's just not constitutionally capable, right now, of facing how goddamn awkward it'd be.

He texts: It's me.

The response, after seconds: Where are you?

The shitty part of Utah. That's saying something. Easier, like this. Like it's not him kicking down a doorway right into Sam's head.

I don't have class tomorrow.

Could be random, if he didn't know who he was talking to. Dean leans his elbows on the hood of the car, looking at the little box of black-and-white text. He chews his lips and thinks. Before he can respond, another message:

I don't want to move on.

Dean tips his head enough that he's pressing the edge of the phone into his forehead. His fingers are cold. He sniffs, his nose dripping in the icy weather, and types, careful to make sure he gets it right: I'm nine hours away.

Less, if he goes over 100 in the boring parts of Nevada, and if he doesn't stop at all for a catnap.

Stop in Reno for a nap. You get weird when you drive all night. Text me when you're close.

Dean works his jaw, standing there in the cold. He's got nothing to do, for two days. He's got most of a tank of gas. He's got—nothing. Nothing. He gets in the car, and he drives.

It's only 9:30 when he gets to Reno. There were parts of Nevada where he drove very, very fast. He pulls into a truck stop, gets more gas and parks out near where the semis are lined up, the drivers early-birding the night away. Still cold here but less so. He twists around so his back's to the passenger door and looks out the driver window at the neon signs of the truck stop, the cars going in and out of the gas islands. He ate a little but his stomach was all twisted up and he couldn't get much down. A beer would go easier but he doesn't want to be drunk. Well. He does. This is insane. This is—completely stupid.

He pulls out his phone, looks at it. Dials and holds it to his ear, and it rings three times—long enough for him to change his mind four times—before there's an answer, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"

His voice. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold glass of the window. "Long time, no speak," Dean says. It feels rusty.

Sam's quiet for a second, on the other end. "Not really, though. Right?"

"I guess so. It's not the same." Dean listens to the little acknowledging sound Sam makes. There's silence again, for seconds that he counts—one and then two and then three. He listens to the cooling tick of the engine, through it, and then says, before he loses his nerve, "I shouldn't come. Right? This is nuts."

There's some noise, staticky. Like something passed over the mic on Sam's phone. After a beat, Sam says, "You should do what you want to do."

"Oh, should I," Dean says, and it comes out sarcastic, but he doesn't really mean it to be mean. Sam doesn't take the bait, staying quiet on the other end, and Dean opens his eyes again, watching a huge truck muscle past the gas island, watching the normal world go by. He rubs his eye. "I've been—it's been weird, Sam."

Understatement, but he doesn't know why he says it. That kind of stuff isn't for Sam to worry about.

"Go to sleep," Sam says, instead of responding. "An hour or something, just enough so you won't drive off the road. Text me when you're close."

Same thing he said before. "It'll be like three in the morning when I'm close," Dean says, and Sam says, "I'll be awake," and then the line disconnects, and Dean's left there alone again on the bench seat, but it—feels different.

He sort of sleeps, sort of doesn't. He's got a talent for going to bed wherever and whenever he has to—on spare tires and on forest floors and in a closet, once, with a propane tank as his pillow—but his brain won't shut up. He drifts in and out, for the hour Sam asked him for, and then he gets out of the car and goes into the 24-hour c-store and buys a big cup of coffee and a Hershey bar, and points the hood west, and follows the yellow dashed line home.

He texts from a gas station outside Sacramento. Sam texts back in less than a minute with an address. Dean glances at his map of California and responds: 45 minutes, and it's more like thirty when he pulls up to the—yeah, the motel, and he makes a sound that's sort of like a laugh except it doesn't feel like one. He turns into the parking lot and the headlights flash the building, and there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to a pillar.

Dean parks. Sam has his arms folded over his knees, but he unfurls, stands. Dean gets out of the car and Sam's—jesus, ten feet away, his face totally visible under the streetlight. His hair's a little longer. "Did you get taller?" Dean says, and Sam huffs, his head ducking, and—fuck everything else, it's Dean's little brother, and he drags Sam into a hug, folding his arms over Sam's shoulders even if he has to lift on his toes a little to do it. Sam goes stiff for half a second, but he hugs back, and Dean turns his face in, Sam's hair in his nose like it always is, and feels him—warm, and safe. All Dean ever wanted for him, pretty much.

"You have to get the room," Sam says, when they pull apart. At Dean's eyebrows he shrugs, the corner of his mouth curled. "What? My scholarship doesn't include seedy rent by the hour stuff."

"Oversight much?" Dean says, but he goes in, and he gets a room. Two queens, because that's what the tired miserable little desk clerk says they have available. Means Dean doesn't have to think about other possibilities, and it means that when he dangles the keys off his finger and Sam half-smiles at him, when they've walked down the cold sidewalk side by side, when Dean opens the door and finds the different motel room, same as the first—Sam sits on one bed, and Dean sits on the other, and they look at each other, and it's like it's two years ago and they're just two kids, waiting for Dad to come home.

Sam is taller. Taller than Dean, now. His hair long enough to fall in his eyes, which it does constantly. Newish sneakers, and old jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt, and a denim jacket over the top of that. Not warm enough for the Bay in winter, but Dean bites his tongue before he says anything about it.

"How are your classes?" he says, instead.

Sam's cheek sucks in, like he's chewing it. After a second he says, "You don't want to talk about my classes, man." His head tips. "Anyway. You read about it, right."

It was a mistake not to stop for beer. Dean needs something to do with his hands. "Your algebra professor sounds like an asshole," he says.

Makes Sam smile before he ducks his head, looking down at his lap. "I thought—" He swallows, audibly. He shakes his head, his hair falling down and hiding his face. "Only reason I started posting again was that I wondered if you might still—if you'd check."

It's quiet, honest. Dean hasn't talked to Sam in person for half a year and he's off-balance. Expecting Sam to snark, to be dismissive, to roll his eyes. Small hours of the morning, maybe he's too tired not to be honest. Maybe he's growing up. Dean's not prepared for that.

Sam looks up at him when Dean's silent for too long. His teeth dig into the corner of his mouth and he drags his hand through his hair, gets it off his forehead. "I said I didn't want to move on. You know what I meant, right?"

Dean huffs. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot, Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes tighten. Dean leans back on his hands, tips his head back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. "Thought this was the whole point of getting out. Getting away, making a whole new life. Being someone else."

"I'm still me," Sam says, unseen. "And it wasn't the whole point. I want a life. That part—whatever, that doesn't matter right now. But I never thought the other thing was going to go away."

He stands up, so Dean can see him. Dean looks at him down his nose, and Sam's—god. Tall. That keeps being his first thought. Tall, and maybe not a stranger, even if he's real damn strange. Sam steps closer, in the little space between the two beds, chewing his lip again. He's gonna make a sore there. "Dean," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "You came."

"Yeah," Dean says, rueful. "Well. I'm Cindy Crawford."

Sam's face ripples—a frown, surprise—and then a huffed little laugh—and then he steps between Dean's knees and touches his chest, his jaw. Leans down, slow, telegraphing like they're practicing a fight, and Dean stays exactly where he is, leaned back on his hands, and Sam's mouth touches his—softly. Not hesitant. Dean lets his eyes close and feels it. Puff of air against his face as Sam lets out a tense breath and then another kiss, the damp inside Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and Dean kisses back then, reaching up and getting Sam's jaw, his jacket, fisting the denim and pulling Sam closer. There's a stagger—Sam's knee landing on the bed by Dean's hip, and Dean gets an arm around his lower back and kisses him again, tasting him. Salt, and when Dean kisses him again and presses his mouth open, licks inside, there's coffee-taste, Sam's tongue—slick, tentative—he stayed up, to wait for Dean—his kiss clumsier now, like he doesn't have much practice.

Dean pulls back a few inches. Sam's half-draped on him, his weight nearly in Dean's lap. His eyes are dark but big with surprise, like he didn't expect Dean to go with it. "Sammy," Dean says, and Sam—shudders, his hands closing hard around Dean's shoulders. Okay, Dean thinks, filing that away. He drags a thumb over Sam's jaw, where he's got a barely-there prickle of stubble. "What are we doing?"

Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. "This," he says, holding the side of Dean's neck. "This."

They peel Sam's jacket off, and then Dean's. Sam's still in that hoodie, soft black, and Dean gets his fingers just under the hem of it, barely grazing Sam's stomach, kissing him again—tangled up close on the edge of the bed, Sam's thigh slung over his. Sam keeps touching his face, his chest. His amulet, swinging forward between them when he urges Sam down to his back on the mattress, a knee between Sam's and his hand still there on Sam's belly. Sam grips the amulet and breathes out hot against Dean's face and lifts up for another kiss, which Dean gives him easy, and it's—god, it's good. The lights on, the room warm, Sam wanting underneath his hand. His mouth, slick and open, learning how to press back, how to give as good as he's getting. Dean kisses his cheekbone, his jaw, settles his hand flat on Sam's stomach to ground him, says, "Sammy, you've done this before, right?" Sam hitches breath, nods. Dean sorta laughs, lifts up so he can actually see Sam's expression. "More than once?"

"Twice," Sam says, and when Dean raises his eyebrows he frowns, vaguely indignant. "Jenny Morrison, just before graduation." He licks his lips. "And—a guy. After student orientation, here."

"Playing the field, huh?" Dean says. There's no reason it should make his stomach go molten hot. He rubs Sam's stomach, feels the rise of his breath. "You like it?" Sam nods, again. "What'd you do?"

Sam's cheeks are dark, brick-red. He licks his lips again and Dean ducks back in to kiss him, knocking his mouth open, tasting inside. Earns himself a small deep noise and Sam's hand sliding through his hair where it's too short to grab. He nudges Sam's nose and sits up, peeling off his overshirt. "C'mon. What'd you do? Didn't put that up on your journal, how am I supposed to know?"

"It was a rush party," Sam says, looking at him. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, making sure his amulet stays put, and Sam blinks heavily, his lips parted. Jeez—it's weird. Hot. Sam wants him, Dean thinks, and it sends a rush of blood south. "He's—uh. Pre-med, smart."

"Not looking for his biography, Sammy," Dean says, and spreads his hands on Sam's hips, pushing up. The hoodie moves, the t-shirt underneath rucks up—Sam's pale here but still that faint all-over tan, darker than Dean's skin. He licks his lips. "What'd you do? Jerk each other off?"

Sam nods, again, his mouth open. God, Dean can imagine it. On some dorm-room bed, their heads leaned together, Sam's mouth open just like this—panting, his hand fumbling down—fuck, fuck it's hot, Sam nervous and into it and trying, making sure. "You liked it, huh?" Dean says, stroking his thumbs over Sam's bare belly.

"Yeah," Sam says, thin on not enough air, his knee drawing up. "But I—I thought about—when you kissed me—" and Dean kisses him again, groaning. Jesus, Sam's gonna kill him. Thinking about some shitty nervous freaked-out kiss when another guy's got his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam grabs his shoulders, sits up, and Dean accommodates him easy, letting Sam touch him back—Sam's hands sliding down his chest, around to his ribs, grasping. "Dean," he says, panting.

"Let's get this off, huh?" Dean says, pulling, and Sam yanks the hoodie off in a second flat, his hair all ruffling up behind it. The shirt comes with it and there's just Sammy's bare smooth skin, that same pale tan all over. Small brownish nipples, slim muscles. His body. Dean dips and kisses his bare shoulder, licking there, biting, and Sam's nails dig into his ribs so he does it again, swinging a leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap, taking his time. He scrapes his teeth over the swell where Sam's collarbone dips into the arch of his trap, and Sam grips his neck, his back arching. He's hard. Shit, he's nineteen, he has to be hard. Dean slides his fingers down Sam's belly to his belt, tucking under the waist of his jeans, but Sam grips his wrist, then, groaning, saying—"Wait—wait—"

Dean drops his head to Sam's shoulder, groaning back. "We waited," he says, but Sam's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back, making him look. "What?"

Sam's pink. "Have you—with a guy?" Dean rocks back but Sam's holding him close, looking all over his face. "Dean. Have you—"

"Yeah," Dean says, and watches Sam's ears go red. Sam doesn't need to know when, but it was all in the last year. Three dudes, hookups that were way too easy. They were good—turns out that Dean just likes sex, any way someone will give it to him—and he learned what it felt like to have a dick not his own in his hand, how it felt to slip a cock into his mouth and make a man groan. He hadn't thought about Sam while he was doing it, not really, but he's thinking about it now, and Sam's eyes have dropped, his lips between his teeth. Jealous? Dean smiles while Sam can't see and breaks Sam's hold on his wrist, and slides his hand down, and cups the crotch of Sam's jeans where he's swelling them out. Sam jerks, eyes flying open. "Means I know what I'm doing. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and then it's—undoing his belt, and unzipping, and then—god, he's still got his sneakers on. Dean backs off and kicks off his boots, deliberately, and Sam blinks at him hot-eyed with his chest heaving and his jeans half-open looking like a friggin porno, but then he gets with the program, and the shoes thud to the shitty carpet and then they're practically racing, undressing, and when Dean kicks his boxers off to the side Sam's—naked, half on the bed, staring at him. Dean stares back, circling a hand around Sam's ankle. God, to look at him, in the lamplight. Long legs, hairier on the shins and lightly furred on the thighs, and a decent dark bush around a dick that's—jesus, that dick. Big, bigger than Dean's, bigger than—Dean licks his lips and looks up with an effort and Sam's staring right back at him, focused between his legs, his mouth parted. "Like what you see?" Dean says, and Sam doesn't answer, just reaches for him, and Dean crawls up the bed and settles on his elbow above Sam with their legs brushing bare, Sam's dick hot against his hip, and Sam kisses him with both hands on his face, his thigh dragging up against Dean's, his lips almost trembly.

Dean soothes a hand down Sam's ribs but Sam's—fuck. Shaking. They haven't even done anything. "Sammy," Dean whispers, between Sam's needing brief kisses, and Sam shakes his head and kisses him again and then ducks his head down, his nose brushing under Dean's jaw. Dean pulls Sam closer—tips, so they're on their sides—and pulls Sam's leg over his hip, pushes in, and—ah, shit, shit that feels good, Sam's big dick brushing in against his, dragging heavy and hot. "Oh," says Sam, small, and Dean slips his hand further and grips Sam's ass, the muscle tight and small—pulls in, and pulls again, encouraging, and Sam grips Dean's shoulder underhand tight enough to hurt but follows, pushing in with the rhythm Dean's urging. He's breathing fast, hot against Dean's throat, but he's got it—humping in, meeting Dean, making their dicks slide, his cockhead smearing wet against Dean's belly. Dean hums, kissing Sam's temple where he can just reach it, just enjoying the—insane way it feels. He lets Sam's ass go and Sam keeps going—good, good—and he licks his fingers sloppy, and reaches down between them, and for the first time he gets a grip on Sam's dick, feels the heft of it. Sam makes a sound like he's been shot and Dean says shh, easy, slicking his hand down to the base, squeezing hard as he pulls back up, and Sam makes another gulping strange sound, his thigh clutching hard around Dean's hip, his hand crushing Dean's lower back in closer. "That feel good?" Dean says, and Sam—comes. Fast, humping in, spurting up Dean's belly and his own, the slick getting all over Dean's dick, hot and wet, the sensation enormous. Dean squeezes him through it, knowing, and Sam humps in again and grabs his ass, nails digging in. Dean tips his head back, feeling it. God, it's good. Sam. His brother.

He swallows. His dick's throbbing, wanting more, feeling left behind. Sammy shudders and Dean licks his lips, pushes Sam back so his shoulders hit the bed. He flops—boneless, shocked—and Dean drags his hands over Sam's ribs, frames his hips. His dick is still big, flushed and wet, his balls clutched up high, and Dean licks his lips and says, "Okay," to no one, and leans down, and gets Sam's dick in his mouth.

A shock, Sam's body practically lifting off the bed. "What," he says, somewhere Dean can't see him—"What are you, oh—" and Dean thinks, oh, what if no one has done this? What if Jenny just opened her legs and she and Sam humped awkward and teenage in some backseat—what if pre-med only wiped his handful of Sam's jizz on the mattress and passed out—what if Dean's the first one, here, opening his jaw wide, careful of his teeth, slicking down, getting the whole fat length of it in his mouth. Only—he can't, fuck, Sam's too big. He fists the base, pulls off, spits and slicks the wet down. When he glances up Sam's up on his elbows, staring, and Dean grins at him, jerks it again, swallows. He can taste Sam's jizz, leftover from coming before. "Hang on," Dean says, and goes back down, letting the head bust his lips open, slicking tight down to his fist, dragging his tongue hard against the underside, suckling easy. Sam takes his statement as an order and grips his head, his shoulder, his hips cringing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean heaves in air, feels Sam firming up again, thick and needing and good.

He's only done this a few times but he—shit, he liked it. Likes it better the other way around, of course, but like this—his dick pressing into the bed, throbbing—Sam splitting open his mouth—yeah, it doesn't exactly suck. He bobs up and down, making sure to pay special attention to the soft ridge at the head, and Sam's making insane noises, now, up above him, petting his head and his shoulders and gripping, trying to shove up. Dean leans into his hip so he can't, fists his dick, pulls off gasping and licking his lips. Sam's still staring, down the length of his torso, and Dean jerks him through the goopy mess they're making—his spit, Sam's precome, what Sam's already come. "You like it?" Dean says, and Sam—rolls his eyes, the little shit.

"You're smug," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "You're damn right I am," and lets Sam's dick go and goes down, down, no fist in the way until Sam's dick hits the back of his throat and he gags—breathes through it—slurps up with tight lips and then goes right back down, getting his throat used to it, learning the feel of this massive, awesome dick. Sam moans, pushes his hips up, and Dean lets him, rides it—lets Sam fuck up, lets him get a rhythm, like fucking—Sam, fucking his face—and Dean reaches down between his own legs and fists his own dick, finally, groaning in relief and making Sam shudder as the vibration rumbles through Dean's open throat. Sam grips his head with both hands, holding him down, and Dean drags in air through his nose and holds there, filled up with Sam and choking, spit flooding out of his open mouth—the world dark and just Sam's taste, his smell—and Sam makes a little sound—and Dean grunts and lifts off, breaks Sam's hold and crawls up his body, straddling his hips and dragging his dick against where Sam's is all sloppy-hot, dripping wet. Sam gasps up at him and grabs his hips, his ass, fucking up into him, and Dean grips both their dicks in two hands, fucking into the tight wet channel he's making for them both, and Sam pulls at his ass, spreading it, rocking his hips to help, moaning and looking helpless up into Dean's face, and Dean leans down and breathes against him and Sam still comes first, creaming them both, his dick flexing and twitching in Dean's grip, and Dean braces one slick hand on the bed and fists himself seriously, jerking fast, and Sam moans and kisses his jaw and pulls at his ass with those big hands, his fingers slipping low, dipping—and Dean jerks and spills, his belly seizing, his thighs clamping around Sam's hips, Sam's lips open and dragging wet against his throat, his fist gripping the bedspread so hard that his fingers cramp.

Sam's stroking his hips, repetitive and soft, when he's done panting. Dean swallows, shifts his weight. He's slumped on top of Sam, his face buried in Sam's shoulder. Wet between them, sliding, and he releases his dick and slips his sticky hand out, bracing on the bed enough to get some air between them. When he lifts up Sam's eyes are half-closed, but he focuses on Dean's face right away, and his hands stop their stroking and just squeeze, warm and tight. "You okay?" Sam says.

"My line," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes again, squeezes again. Dean sits up more but Sam doesn't let go. "C'mon, we should clean up."

Sam's eyes tighten, just barely. He sits up, keeping his grip on Dean, and Dean rocks back but doesn't tip over. He gets a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep his balance and Sam says, steady, "Don't freak. Okay?"

"Who's freaking?" Their dicks are still pressed wetly together, though Dean's basically soft, now. Sam's still plump, thick. He swallows. "C'mon, we're gonna get cemented together," he says, and Sam's mouth purses but his grip goes light, and it gives enough room that Dean can lift off, get his feet under him. Jesus, there's enough jizz on him that it's rolling down his belly—he claps a hand to it before it can drop, smearing it over his abs. "You come like a geyser, dude," he says, not really complaining, but Sam's cheeks are red when he looks back up, and he feels—shit. He doesn't know.

He goes to the bathroom. Fluorescent light, pink-painted sink. He wets one of the five-cent washrags and wipes himself up, and he's not turned on anymore so his thought is mainly that it's just gross, and that bed's going to be wrecked, and also, what is he doing. What is he doing.

Sam's hand appears, reaching around him. He jumps. In the mirror behind him, Sam's tall, looking over his shoulder. Looking at Dean, even as he wets the other rag, cleans himself up. Dean chews the inside of his lip and can't really turn away. Sam's got red marks on his shoulder, where Dean was biting him.

"Stay," Sam says. He tosses his wet rag back into the sink and settles his hands on Dean's biceps, squeezing. When he steps forward his dick presses into the small of Dean's back and his chest is warm, damp. "Tomorrow at least. We've got the room. Stay."

"You want your dick sucked again?" Dean says, and that time it is mean and he did kind of mean it to be, and Sam's eyelids dip and his jaw clenches, but he only slips his hands away from Dean's arms to his ribs, holding him. It feels… Dean shakes his head. "Sam," he says, but there's not really anything that can go after it.

A big hand slides up and over, flattening on his breastbone. "It's not just this," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror, and it makes Dean's cheeks go hot.

He covers Sam's hand with his. He shivers, for some reason. He says, "I should take a shower, I've been in the car all day," and Sam says, "Okay," and Dean takes a shower and Sam sits on the closed toilet, watches him through the clear curtain. Gives him a towel when he comes out. Takes his hips, when he's dry, and presses him to the tiled wall, and tips his head up, and kisses him clean.

Five in the morning, or later. There's a clean bed and Dean hasn't slept in a day. He lays down and Sam lays down with him, a few inches away until Dean relents and turns over, and Sam curls up behind him, holding on, his mouth against Dean's shoulder. There's going to be a call from Dad, at some point. Dean's going to have to meet him somewhere, because there's going to be something bad that needs killing. He can't stay. He's wired and tired, all at once.

"Sleep," Sam says, and Dean turns his head against the pillow, knows he will.

"Hey," he says, and Sam makes a quiet noise. "If you put this on your journal, maybe bloodofreptile will finally shut up about you getting laid all the time."

"His name is Dennis," Sam says, and Dean laughs, weirdly glad. Dennis. Yeah, that fits. "And this isn't going on the internet."

"Probably a good idea," Dean says, and Sam says, again, "Dude, go to sleep," and Dean tips back into Sam's warmth, and does, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in a year.

#fffr #wincest #weecest #first time #long fic #my writing #--seriously this one also went too long #but idk it felt right this way

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fanfic-me-up · 5 years ago

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okay so i kinda got carried away with this one??? i just really love this idea and how freaking fluffy it is! so thank you for submitting it @peachy-yabbay! 😊 also lowkey im sorta falling in love with kaminari?? like he’s so fun to write and i had a smile the entire time. anyway i rlly hope you enjoy!

Feel free to request more here. I write fics, drabbles, and headcanons 💖

Also, I have a yoga fic already posted with bakugou x fem!reader so if this doesn’t satisfy your need of bakugou being a flexible pretzel and failing you can read more here 😂

Bakugou Katsuki

THE STRUGGLE IS REAL

like Bakugou prides himself on going to the gym everyday, but he focuses on strength training and muscle building

the art of flexibility takes time, effort, and perseverance

he gets super frustrated when he can't get the splits in 2.5 seconds

“Careful or you might pull something.”

he ignores you ofc bc for some reason he thinks he’s gonna get the splits if he just - forces himself???

“seriously, Bakugou, don’t push so much-”

“Shut up I know what I’m - OW SHIT FUCKING HELL”

poor bby is on the ground cradling his thigh bc he pulled his hamstring

And lemme tell you THAT SHIT HURTS 😭

he’s literally screaming bloody murder

-like he’s faced a lot of pain from hero training but pulling your hamstring is just so. much. worse???

you grab an icyhot pack (aka you grab Todoroki lol) but Bakugou’s just like “hell no fuck off half n half”

“Must be bad. I heard you crying from downstairs-”

“I SAID FUCK OFF” Todoroki shrugs and leaves.

you roll your eyes at Bakugou’s stubbornness and grab some muscle balm instead

“Tch. I can do it myself” but you ignore him and rub the balm on his thigh, he doesn’t fight it

after that whole fiasco he finally listens to your warnings when you tell him that's enough

he’s in the splits in a little over a month!

“Oh my god, Bakugou, you’re doing it!”

“Tch. I know.”

you don’t miss the small smile on his face

he goes up to you later and shoves something in your hands

“Um. What’s this?”

“A movie ticket” you stare at it blankly, he rolls his eyes

“I’m taking you to the movies tonight, dumbass.”

“Like a date?” you stare up with hopeful eyes

“The fuck? No! As payment.”

you blink, clearly confused

“You know… for helping me with my stretches.”

Oh.

you blush in embarrassment at the misunderstanding

“I’ll meet you out front at 7. Don’t be late.” he walks off, but before he reaches the corner he stops-

“Ugh fine! It’s a date! Happy!?”

you erupt in the biggest smile

he wants to be the only one to make you smile like that from now on

Todoroki Shouto

Todoroki is impressed with how flexible you are, and you’re quite surprised when he asks you to help him

the most aloof - and handsome - guy in your class you’ve barely spoken TWO words to has come to you for help??? is this a dream? someone pinch you 👀

but there you are, the next day in his dorm, gently pushing his hips down

Todoroki’s working on his warrior/scorpion pose (ya’ll there's so many names for this pose jfc the one where you’re standing on one leg, back arched, and you’re holding the other leg above your head)

he’s sweating and breathing heavily, and when you go to steady him, you actually burn your hand on his bicep.

“Ouch!”

“Are you okay?”

he’s hovering over you the next second, you show him your hand, a blister already forming

“Damn it. I still have trouble controlling my left side,” he looks away from you, clenching his fists, “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” you blow cool air on the wound to stop the tingling, “all better,” you smile up at him

“Here, let me,” he pulls his shirt up to reveal his stomach and places your hand on the right side. You sigh in relief as your hand is instantly cooled.

Uh oh.

you realize where your hand is currently pressed against 😳

you’re so tempted to trace along the hard contours of his abs

“Y/N? You’re burning up.” he touches your cheek, your heart doing somersaults at the closeness

“Oh-kay, that’s enough for today!” you squeak, running away from a thoroughly confused Todoroki

Todoroki shows excellent progress in just a couple weeks. He says it’s because he has a great teacher, but you know it's his work ethic and how he listens to your advice and applies it flawlessly.

He’s even gotten better at controlling his left side since he’s constantly relaxing his muscles to get deeper in the stretch.

it happens during warm-ups before training

Class 1-A goes into some stretches when you see Todoroki go into a perfect scorpion. His back perfectly arched and his leg reaching above his head.

“Oh my god, Todoroki, you’re doing it!” you clap your hands in excitement

“Am I?”

...is this boy for real? lol

“YES” you laugh at his stoic expression

“I see.” He softly comments before going into another stretch.

your shoulders deflate, disappointed at the lack of enthusiasm

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he cracks a small smile and your breath is taken away by the simple gesture. It’s rare to see him with such a soft expression, and the fact that you’re the reason for it sends your heart aflutter.

AND bc he’s totally oblivious to your current state, he goes up to you and whispers, “you’re an amazing teacher, Y/N”

“It was n-nothing re-really it was a-all you!” you laugh awkwardly, unable to meet his eyes.

“How can I thank you?”

“It-it’s really n-not necessary!”

“Hmm…” he walks away deep in thought and you’re just standing there like the stuttering mess you are bc how dare he walk away like nothing!?

Mina’s got your back tho bc frankly it's quite sad how awkward you are and how oblivious Todoroki is that she NEEDS to become the captain of this ship stat

She “casually” suggests to Todoroki that he should take you out to eat as a thank you for helping him.

and when he walks you to your door that night he says, “I hope you enjoyed our date”

“D-date?” cue the butterflies in your stomach

“Was it not a date?” You’re pinned by his intense gaze, but you manage to squeak out a “yes!” in your confused daze. He chuckles at your nervousness

“Have a good night, Y/N.” he kisses your cheek

and when you give Mina the details of your date there’s a bunch of squealing from her end and you’re just like 😳 the entire night

Kaminari Denki

“Woah, Y/N, you’re really flexible. Can you put your foot over your head?”

You show him and he’s totally amazed. “Cool! Can you teach me? I wanna put BOTH legs over my head!”

first day of stretching with Kaminari is… def a day you remember

“Ow ow! Y/N, don’t break me!”

“Denki, I’m not even touching you!”

He looks up where your hands are on your hips

“oh... heh” he gives you a sheepish smile

You roll your eyes. How you’re gonna get this boy flexible enough to put his foot over his head is beyond you, but you’re happy it’s going to take a while - it means more time spent with your crush

You spend an hour with Kaminari each day to perfect his stretching routine (It should only take about 20 minutes, but the boy’s got the attention span of a newborn puppy)

“Woah check out that cloud, Y/N.” Kaminari looks in awe at the sky. You sigh, not again

“Denki, we’re not done, get back in the stretch”

“Look Y/N,” he points, “doesn’t it look exactly like baby yoda?” He lies down on the grass to gaze at the clouds

“Oh my god, Denki, I’m gonna kill - oh wow…” you gaze up in awe at the cloud, “baby yoda…”

You and Kaminari spend the rest of the hour cloud gazing

After literal MONTHS of getting on Kaminari’s ass he can FINALLY put his legs over his head.

He calls out to you during a training exercise, “Y/N LOOK I DID IT!”

“NOT ONE BUT TWO!” he points at both of his legs with a huge smile

You feel a rush of happiness because even after how frustrated you were with him at times, you would do it a million times over if it meant getting to see such a pure smile.

“Congrats!” you say, “Now, stand up so I can give you a hug!”

“Um…” he sheepishly looks up at you, “I’m kinda... stuck?”

You roll your eyes affectionately, “the things I do for you.”

You’re about to help Kaminari when Bakugou shoves him backwards giving everyone in class a clear view of his ass in the air 😂

“Hah, dumbass.”

Kaminari waddles helplessly side to side

“Y/N?” he squeaks, “a little help here?”

Later that week he tells you he found a yoga class for both of you to take and you’re surprised. He still wants to spend time with you?

But then he says, “Are you crazy? Why wouldn’t I wanna spend time with the coolest person I know?”

You choke on your tea, in disbelief at his words - that was a huge compliment and you know Kaminari is a very open person so you just brush it off with an “Oh stop it…”

“No I’m serious, Y/N, you’re awesome. Like super awesome,” he gives an awkward laugh while rubbing the back of his neck

“I’ve been thinking… maybe after yoga, we can, i don't know... hit up the arcade or something? Or it doesn’t have to be the arcade, it could be anything really!”

You’ve never seen Kaminari this flustered before. He’s the type to brush off his mistakes with a laugh, always moving on to the next moment.

“No, the arcade sounds fun!”

You reassure him and the confident light in his eyes returns

“Oh and Denki?”

“Yeah?”

“Prepare to get rekt in mario kart”

This starts a whole ass play fight about who’s gonna get dunked on when racing down rainbow road

#bakugou x reader #todoroki x reader #kaminari x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #kaminari denki x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha #mha #bnha headcanon #katsuki bakugou x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #denki kaminari x reader #bnha fluff #fanfic-me-up #fanfic-me-up request

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bootyyy-shaker9000 · 4 years ago

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I have a TWO things I wanna say/note for people but I cba making multiple posts for it so I'm just gonna put them here:

1) Self-shipping content -

I'm hoping some of you do already do this, but please, if any of my f/o posting makes anyone uncomfortable for any reasons - for instance: Because you have the same romantic f/o as me, you don't understand it, you simply just don't vibe with it, etc - please block my self-shipping tags

My fairly obvious ones are #boy in blue and #he's self-shipping again get the hose but if there's any others that you want me share, I don't mind doing so.

I will not feel bad if you want/need to. I'd rather you block it if it makes you uncomfy, bc despite this being my blog and I am in every right to carry on posting it as long as it strays away from being problematic, I don't want anyone to feel obligated to have to look at it too (that's why there are tags there in the first place)

It probably isn't necessary saying this bc a lot of you are very capable of blocking a tag if needs be, but I've seen a couple of ppl who also self-ship with Leo interact with my self-indulgent posts despite them being very clear they don't like "sharing" (I'm not judging, I'm very much like that too) and my hyper-anxious brain here just wants to guarantee that they're not making themselves uncomfortable just to view it.

Or just anyone. I don't wanna make anyone uncomfortable, that's mainly the point I'm getting at here. Basically, just block the tag if you want to.

2) REQUESTS -

If it says in my Title !Requests : Closed! then they are closed.

If it says !Requests : Open! then they are open.

It doesn't get any simpler than that.

I've had to delete so many requests (not just recently, in the far past too) bc people keep sending them in when I've clearly stated that I'm not taking them. It says it in my Title, my pinned post and usually I'll make a post announcing so. I shouldn't have to be saying this now bc it already tells you this very clearly in my RULES FOR REQUESTS in the pinned post but I've noticed a lot of people have been dismissing it thinking I wouldn't notice. (Yeah you ain't slick guys, I can tell, I'm not that fckin dumb)

I'm not trying to tell ppl off here (well I kind of am, it's the teacher in me) I'm just tired of having to delete asks that I could've genuinely answered if you sent them in when I permitted you to.

I have a life, I have shit to do, and quite frankly I don't have the effort, especially for those who don't listen. Just be patient, goddamn.

#for the requests thing i know not everyone is meaning to be ignorant or whatever but pls it's not hard 😭#if you don't know whether it's cool or not to send in a request ASK ME instead of going ahead and sending one anyway #it will get deleted #if you read this all the way through- THANK YOU #yo if this is ignored i'm legit going to go off the rails lmao good luck to those guys ig #arlo talks

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everythingoesnk · 4 years ago

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Better Late Than Never

summary; john plays cupid (sorta?)

word count; 1 711

request by anon; “heehee i never knew u took requests!! ur writing is so lovely u rlly are talented❤️❤️ i was wondering if u could do smthg ab being georgies neighbour and like him n the quarrymen r rehearsing and they invite u to watch and they flirt w u and he gets jealous”

disclaimers; this sat in my drafts for ages but i finally finished it. glad that i can post it for once and for all. don’t be too hard on me cause i haven’t written shit in so long and i’m super sceptical about my work ty

warnings;

********

A few weeks earlier, Paul and John made the decision that Eric Griffiths had to go. They wanted George to be part of the group, and with Eric on board there were just too many guitars. The Quarrymen, along with Lowe on the piano and Hanton on the drums, had a demo recording scheduled in Kensington in a couple of days, so whenever they had the time, they would invest it in practising and sprucing up their performance.

You were coming back home after babysitting a three-year-old boy when you saw Paul and John’s distinctive jaunty silhouettes down the street.

They were carrying their instruments.

”Reunion of bitches?” you teased, bumping your shoulders with theirs to open a spot for you in between.

They were so used to you being a nosy little bird that they didn’t even flinch when you appeared.

“If what you mean by that is if we’re heading to a rehearsal, yes we are” Paul confirmed looking down at you with a warm smile. He slid his arm around your neck and patted your cheek persistently just to annoy you. “It’s the three of us this time, the others are busy”

You tried to smack his hand away while he spoke, but he had it strongly clamped over your mouth now, playfully sticking to his cat-and-mouse game. John was used to Paul behaving like this around you, you being like a little sister to him even though you shared the same age, so he didn’t move an inch when you began asking for help through the muffled laughter.

What came out of his mouth instead earned puzzled looks from you and Paul, who slowly let his arm drop.

“You can’t come” he had stated, because he knew you and it was only a matter of seconds before you started badgering them to let you stay and watch them play.

“Why not?” you snapped back, forehead puckered up.

John threw his head back to stare at Paul and raised an inquisitive knowing eyebrow at him.

After witnessing the looks they were giving each other, you huffed loudly, tired of the melodramatic secrecy. “Not again with the silent conversations”

“You can’t expect to know everything, (Y/N)” John stated.

“But what is there to know?” you questioned, beyond confused.

You were missing something and it was stressing you out that they knew what it was but wouldn’t tell you because they didn’t feel like it.

Paul felt empathy for you after seeing you so lost.

“We don’t progress much when you’re around because you distract Geo too much” he explained.

“Bravo, Macca” John sighed as the three of you continued to walk towards George’s house.

With their ‘silent conversation’ they agreed not to rat out George, but Paul’s mouth was faster than his brain could ever be.

John should have taken into account his mate’s overspoken nature.

“I do?” you said, lines forming between your brows, not understanding. “How so?”

John snorted. “Sit and observe”

You turned to Paul. He was staring at John the same way one does when you recognize your friend is about to put on a show and you aren’t very sure if it’s the right time or place, but you know that anything you say will fly into their ear and out of the other.

He fixed his eyes tenderly on you after and shrugged his shoulders with a peculiar cheekiness.

George looked every bit the unconcerned man as he sat back and watched John plop down on the couch next to you, splaying his arms along the top of the seat as he asked you how much you get paid for the babysitting.

They were in a break after been playing for two hours.

“Not much” you noted.

“Quit” he interrupted, smirking friskily and brushing a strand of hair behind your ear cautiously. “I’ll double your wage if you join the band. We are missing the attractive factor”

You wheezed. “I’m positive with your talent it’ll be sufficient” you said, laughing still.

You looked over at George. He wasn’t looking in your direction but John’s, mouth compressed and something you couldn’t fathom flitting across his eyes.

“Besides,” you added, “I don’t know how to play any instrument to save my life”

“The piano a little bit” George chimed in, after deliberating whether to speak or not.

You blushed settling your gaze on him one more time, marvelled that he remembered. “It’s been years since I last practised”

“If the piano is too much I’ll give you my harmonica. I’m fucking tired of blowing into that shit” John offered, resting his left hand on your thigh and giving it a firm squeeze.

Everyone laughed except George. He didn’t even smile.

He dipped his eyes and ran a finger over his brow back and forth for a couple of seconds before grabbing his guitar again.

Something was off with him, and it upset you that he was feeling under the weather when Paul, John and you were vibing and having such a wonderful time.

John kissed your cheek and cuddled you after wrapping his leather jacket around you even though you didn’t ask for it. George saw and shook his head gently, forcing himself to continue working on his part so he would nail it in the upcoming session. His mind was elsewhere and the chords didn’t sound as good as he wanted them to be. He brought his brows together and you stifled an affable grin, observing silently while he mumbled under his breath, probably putting himself down for not getting them right.

John smiled seeing you stare at George, but Paul knew what that smile meant, what was really behind it, and he started gesturing at him as subtle as he could not to push his luck with George. He’d keep his conscience clean regardless of what happened from now on.

John’s smile enlarged when he saw his best mate from the corner of his eye trying to catch his attention, but he had it all mapped out in his head.

He leaned forward, elbows on the knees and fingers interlocked.

“(Y/N), is it true that you’ve been seeing Sam?”

You looked over at John, perplexed.

George also raised his gaze, disconcertion lurking in it.

Paul slapped a hand to his forehead.

Clueless as to why he would ask that, you turned pink. “Where have you heard that?”

George interpreted your blush as you being embarrassed because you got caught, and your question as wanting to know who spillt the news. The suave yet pained expression tinted on his face was replaced by a rather sad and fragile one.

Instinctively, you pinned your eyes to George’s when John didn’t answer you. You weren’t dating anyone named Sam and you didn’t want him to believe that you did.

He remained there staring what felt like a lifetime into your eyes, only for his to fall to the floor seconds after. He stood up and paced to the door.

Envy overloaded him, making his jealously evolve into what a romantic would describe as passional delirium.

Hastily, he turned, came up to you and closed his fingers over your arm. John watched with a wry grin.

“Can we talk?” George asked, his tone filled with forced politeness.

You nodded and let him guide you towards his kitchen.

He looked over his shoulder first to confirm that neither of his bandmates had followed you there.

Then, for a few seconds, he froze. You noticed he was agitated and internally saturated with mixed feelings.

Out of the blue, he straightened his spine, a different kind of thickness filling his throat. Determined to overcome his shyness and insecurity, he gave a long exhale. Throwing you off guard, he grabbed your face, fingers gripping tightly your cheeks, and pressed his mouth to yours so enthusiastically that you subtly felt his front teeth.

Excitement and love rushed into your veins.

You kissed him back and wrapped your arms around his waist, knowing from the get go that this wasn’t going to be the last time that you would taste his lips. George couldn’t open his eyes at first after having departed from the kiss, which turned out to be the best and most pleasant, pure and precious kiss he had ever shared.

When he flicked them open, he couldn’t resist the drive to glide his thumb over the soft skin of your sweet fleshy lips.

John suddenly burst into the kitchen pretending to pull off that the obtrusion was casual. The real and obvious reason was that he wanted to see what was going on behind curtains.

George quickly pulled back.

That reaction and the swollen lips from both of you was enough for John.

“Don’t mind me. Just came here for something to drink” he said, but the clownery in his voice was oh so present and solid.

Cheeks burning, George didn’t move.

John, with the glass in his hand, turned to him before leaving.

“I mean, maybe it’s you who needs some water. You look feverish, my friend”

You quickly pushed him out of the kitchen.

George slowly looked up again when he wasn’t around. “There’s no Sam, is there?”

You shook your head no. “John is a crackhead, a good bloke but a crackhead. Never listen to him, listen to me” you smiled. He drew you into his arms, missing your warmth already. “I’m not dating Sam, Geo. He’s blond and I’m not into blondes”

George chuckled. “What are you into, then?” he asked, needing to hear from you that you only wanted him.

“I’m into this guy from The Quarrymen. Not the one who plays the bass, and clearly not the blind one, he’s too much of a ponce sometimes” you smirked. “Into the bushy unibrow guy”

He laughed harder and tightened his embrace.

“Lucky you he’s had his eye and unibrow on you for some time”

“Sweet, cause I’ve been in love with him ever since I met him”

George stared dearly down at you with the brightest smile and captured your lips again.

He didn’t know if John was a genius or a foolish cretin for causing him to feel so enraged before, making him believe you had a boyfriend.

The perfect mix, he conceded.

#george harrison x reader #john lennon #paul mccartney #ringo starr #the beatles #george harrison imagine #george harrison fanfic #george harrison fanfiction #tayloredstarr

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darkblueboxs · 5 years ago

Note

If you're taking requests, maybe the foxes reacting to soft andreil? I love seeing their relationship through outside perspectives

Sorry for the delay! I ended up with two very different ideas for this and wrote both of them. I’ll be posting the other one in the next week or so! [EDIT: Here it is!]This was great fun to write. Thank you for the request.

In the Eye of the Beholder

Read here or on AO3

#1 Dan

Dan raps her knuckles against the door to the monster’s flat and waits. Nicky greets her with an impressive mop of bedhair and a baffled expression which smooths over only when Neil darts past, citing brunch with Dan as his excuse for being awake at such a thoroughly reasonable hour on a Sunday morning. He’s in high spirits, from what Dan can tell, rolling on the balls of his feet as they wait for the elevator to arrive. Dan is ready to put it down to excitement over their plans – she has a stack of potential recruits under her arm thicker than Les Misérables for them to discuss, hopefully with a stack of pancakes of equal height on the side. Then she spots the light bruise peeking over the hem of Neil’s collar, and draws a very different conclusion about the source of Neil’s good mood.

She smiles as they step into the elevator, but keeps the observation to herself. While some members of the team love to badger Neil for the slightest insight into his relationship, Dan is willing to push her curiosity aside for the sake of Neil’s privacy. He has plenty other teammates to pester him without her jumping on the bandwagon.

Just before the doors slide shut, an arm bursts through the gap, forcing them open. Andrew is as stoic and terrifying as ever (not that Dan would ever admit it) even while wearing Neil’s foxprint-patterned pyjama bottoms. The quickened rise and fall of his chest is the only hint that he ran to get here.

Neil raises an eyebrow at the sudden appearance of his underdressed partner.

Andrew lobs something at Neil which bounces off his chest and lands on the floor between his feet. Neil stoops to scoop it up, and Dan sees that it’s his wallet.

“Thanks.”

“Idiot,” Andrew huffs. He retracts his arm, and the doors slide shut on the sight of him stalking back to their dorm.

Neil taps the wallet against his hand a couple times before sliding it into the wallet.

“You’re both idiots if you think I’m letting you pay for brunch,” Dan says wryly.

Neil shakes his head. “I said I was going to pick up some stuff at the store afterwards. But thanks. Brunch is on me, though.”

“We’ll see,” Dan says, which means no. “Okay, I’ll admit it. That was sweet of him.”

The corner of Neil’s mouth twitches. “Nah. He’s just making sure I come back with the junk food I promised him.”

“Sure.” And, oh, Dan had been trying to be good, but she really can’t help herself any longer. “So, did you guys mean to give each other matching hickeys, or was that just a fun little accident?”

Neil slaps his hand to his neck and groans.

All in all, it’s a great morning.

#2 Kevin

Aaron’s trial is coming up. Kevin wouldn’t care (well, he would, but for different reasons) except that it’s making the cousins snippy and fractious. More so than usual. Andrew isn’t sleeping properly, although he would deny that it had any relation to the trial. Unfortunately, his insomnia is contagious, which ends with Neil losing focus at their night practice, having spent the best part of a week running on fumes and gatorade.

Kevin has been patient – patient by his standards, anyway – but the third fumbled catch in a row snaps his temper like brittle bone.

“Get the fuck off my court, Josten.” Kevin says, smacking the base of his racquet against the floor.

“Fuck you,” Neil answers reflexively. He stops to push his lengthening bangs back from his face.

“I’m not joking. You’re in no state to play. Get the fuck out.” Kevin wishes Neil would take it as the blessing it is, a night to re-focus and re-calibrate, but instead he’s glaring Kevin down like he just asked him to eat sewage.

Neil turns away from him to send another ball barrelling towards the goal. It misses by an entire foot.

“Neil,” Kevin says sharply, readying for a fight that neither of them have the energy nor patience for.

Before he can begin, the doors to the court bang open. Andrew stands in the entrance, arms crossed. It’s the expression that ends an argument before it’s had time to start; Kevin knows it far, far too well.

Andrew leads Neil away to the showers while Kevin continues his drills.

When he’s finished washing up, he finds the pair in the team lounge, collapsed on the wider of the couches. Neil is asleep, slumped into Andrew’s side. Andrew looks up as Kevin enters, but he doesn’t move his hand from its resting place in Neil’s hair. Although Neil was the only one of the pair training that night, Andrew’s hair is plastered against his head as though he, too, is fresh out of the shower. Kevin tries not to consider the implications.

They wait in silence for a few minutes, watching as Neil sleeps, properly sleeps, for the first time in far too long. Neither are willing to disturb him, but the night is late and Kevin has a whole host of classes waiting for him in the morning.

“I’ll walk back,” says Kevin. Andrew meets his gaze for a long moment before nodding briefly. The bags under his eyes betray him.

Kevin darts back into the lockers to pick up Neil’s abandoned kit bag. When he passes them again, Andrew has slouched onto his side, having manoeuvred Neil in front of him so they can both lie comfortably. His arm is slung protectively around Neil’s waist like Andrew is prepared to beat off the world to keep him there.

Kevin knows they spend more nights in each other’s bunks than out of them in the dorm, but somehow they’re always up and away before anyone else is awake enough to give them any hassle over it. Kevin doesn’t care, but Nicky can be overbearing at the best of times, and Aaron is… well, Aaron. But here, in the privacy of an empty stadium, it looks like Neil has finally found enough security to drop off at last, and Andrew looks ready to follow. Kevin shuts the door behind him, not quite smiling, but close. It was strange to some, the idea of Neil and Andrew, but anyone who saw them curled up together would see it plain as day. They just fitted.

The next day, Neil is closer to being himself again, and no more is said on the matter.

#4 Matt

Matt has to admit that press duty with Neil is never boring. The interviewers seem to share his opinion, visibly perking up when Neil follows Matt into the room. They lost to the Bearcats, but it was close enough that Matt doesn’t have to lie when he says that he’s proud of the team’s performance today.

“Some are saying that the failure of the defence line in later stages was due to Minyard’s performance in goal in the second half. How would you respond to that?

Matt doesn’t know why he bothers opening his mouth; the question may be directed to him, but he knows damn well that a boulder in the shape of Neil’s fury is already barrelling in this hapless reporter’s direction. “Well-”

“Last time I checked, this was a team sport,” Neil says loudly. “Was I hallucinating that, or has there been a few rule changes since yesterday?”

Matt isn’t sure whether to laugh or groan. Coach had told Matt to keep an eye on their resident fire-starter as though anyone was at all capable of controlling Neil when there was a mic in front of him. Matt feels sorry for the poor sucker that will one day be assigned to the role of Neil’s publicist, because he’s sure that Neil will drive them into an early grave alongside Matt’s.

“You have to admit that the number of goals that he let in-”

“I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that his entire defence line had already played two full quarters before he even stepped foot on court. People get tired the longer a game goes on, of course defence is going to suffer in the second half. But sure, keep pinning it on the goalie you clearly have it in for.”

Matt claps a hand on Neil’s back. “What he said,” he agrees, staring down the reporter.

They take no further questions.

Matt doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but when he leaves the showers to see Andrew and Neil alone in the locker room he ducks back out of sight. He walks into at least one dramatic confrontation amongst his teammates per week, and sometimes the best way to deal with the daily bouts of fox drama is to hide and wait for the storm to pass.

“Point me to where I asked you to lead my own personal crusade.” Andrew’s flat tones echo off the tiled floor. Matt regrets leaving his Ipod in his bag. The conversation doesn’t seem too personal to overhear, but Andrew and Neil have never been the easiest reads.

“I’m tired of them talking shit about you just because they have a vendetta against anyone with your…” Neil trails off. Matt imagines him to be making several expressive hand gestures; it’s hard to condense all of Andrew’s history and circumstances into one word. “…everything,” Neil settles on.

“Your principles should not intersect with my business.”

“Even if it could affect your future career?” Neil’s words are met, unsurprisingly, with silence. “Besides, yours do.”

“Explain.”

“When I first came here, you told Nicky to back off. Not out of concern for me. Because of your principles.”

This time, the silence stretches so long that Matt doesn’t think Andrew is going to answer.

“Point,” Andrew concedes.

“Besides, is it so bad that I’m standing up for you?”

“Only when it’s making new enemies for you. How many does one man need?”

“I’ve got room for a few more,” Neil says. There’s a rustle of movement, and, oh, are they kissing? Matt strongly suspects that they are kissing. It’s more than his life is worth to look. He takes a few steps back, rattles his kit loudly and makes as much noise as possible before entering the locker room. The pair are a safe distance apart by the time he enters, and Matt gives them a probably-not-convincingly-casual nod before busying himself with his change of clothes.

The pair spend the journey home holed up together at the back of the bus, and if he suspects that they’re doing a little more than talking, Matt keeps it to himself.

They’ve earned a little privacy, after all.

#5 Aaron

“Well, maybe if you stopped and took the time to, I don’t know, explain literally anything that you do, we wouldn’t be in this fucking mess.”

“Aaron,” says Bee, a gentle reprimand. He isn’t in the mood to hear it. His attention remains on his brother, who’s features remain the same stony, impassive blank that they have in almost every joint session to date. It’s an expression that makes Aaron want to tear his hair out, or kick his brother’s face in, or both.

“What would you like me to explain?” says Andrew, more of a challenge than an offer. Aaron snorts, because, where to fucking begin?

“How about we start with your little fuck-buddy, seeing as you’re so keen to start on mine.” Earlier that week, Andrew had returned early from a class to find Aaron and Katelyn together in their dorm room. The result, while not outright violent, had been deeply unpleasant for all involved. And of course, Andrew was being an ass about it.

“Aaron. We’ve talked about this. How can you expect Andrew to talk about Katelyn respectfully if you won’t offer the same respect to his own partner?”

Aaron scoffs. “It’s not the same.”

Andrew’s eyebrow… it doesn’t quirk, but it twitches. “Oh?”

Aaron gestures vaguely. “You know what I mean.”

“I can assure you that I don’t.”

“Me and Katelyn. You and Neil. It isn’t the same.”

“How so?” Andrew’s tone isn’t in the danger zone yet, but it’s edging towards it.

“I’m not talking about the gay thing. I’m talking about…” The hand Aaron was waving clenches into a fist as he drops it into his lap. “Don’t make me say it.”

Andrew and Bee share a look over his head.

“Aaron,” says Bee.

“I just, fucking…” Aaron grapples with words, struggling to find a combination that won’t rip them apart any worse than they already have been. “How the fuck can you expect me to believe that you and him… that you’re real. That you’re normal, that you’re like us, after everything those fuckers did to you. What makes him so different?”

Andrew watches him. Just when Aaron resigns himself to the fact that no answer is coming, Andrew speaks. “If I ask him to stop, he stops.”

Aaron bites down on the inside of his cheek so hard that he thinks he might have drawn blood. “It can’t be that simple.”

Andrew shrugs.

“How?”

Andrew’s eyes flicker upwards, like he would rather be anywhere else, having any other conversation in the world than this one. “We have a system. We don’t touch each other without asking first. We listen to each other. We talk. What more do you need me to say?”

Aaron falls silent. He doesn’t know what he needs from his brother, still, but it’s something.

“I have a question in return,” Andrew’s eyes flick to Bee. He isn’t looking for permission, but she nods in encouragement nonetheless. “Katelyn. What makes her so different?” Andrew meets his gaze dead-on as he turns Aaron’s own words back on him. “How can you trust her, after everything that bitch Tilda did to you?”

And finally, it all clicks into place.

Aaron forces himself to look his brother in the eyes. So much like his, yet at the same time so different. “Okay,” he concedes at last. “I see.”

Because, at last, he does.

#7 Allison

Neil appears at Allison’s door with a black eye, a bust lip, and the words “don’t freak out,” spilling from his mouth before she can get so much as a word in.

“Great start,” she says, pulling him in. “Who do I need to kill?”

“My shoelace came undone and I ate shit while I was on my run. I just need enough makeup that I can get through class without looking like I’ve been in a fight again. Do you know how many of my lecturers have taken me aside to give me the domestic abuse hotline?”

“You should know how to do this yourself by now.” Allison rolls her eyes as she leads Neil through to the table.

“You’re better at it,” he admits grudgingly, and oh, doesn’t that just warm her heart to hear.

“Nice try. You’re still taking me out for coffee after this.”

Neil pulls a face, and Allison laughs. It doesn’t take long – Allison has treated him in far, far worse shape, as much as she’d rather not think about it – and soon there’s only the faintest smudge around Neil’s eye.

“Can I tempt you to some mascara? Glitter?” Allison asks, waggling her eyebrows as she spreads the contents of her makeup bag out for his inspection.

“Maybe next time,” says Neil, “When I’m not going to a calculus lecture.”

“But that’s the best place for it.” Allison dabs the tip of his nose with her brush, and Neil’s face scrunches up as he tries to hold back a sneeze. His hair flops back down over his forehead as he moves, falling into his eyes.

“Don’t move just yet,” Allison says, yanking a drawer open and fumbling for the kitchen scissors. “I’ve been meaning to deal with that mop for weeks, and right now I have you trapped.”

“Oh, no,” Neil says flatly, but still he surrenders herself to her demands. Wise move.

“Perfect,” says Allison a few minutes later, ruffling Neil’s hair to shake away the last loose strands. “Ready for the red carpet now. I hope there aren’t any cute guys in your maths class, or Andrew is going to go mad with jealousy.”

Neil snorts. “He’s not really the type.”

“Mhmm,” says Allison, because in her experience, everyone is the type.

Speaking of the psychotic little devil himself, Andrew bursts through the door just as Allison is brushing up the last of the trimmings.

“Hey,” Neil says, apparently impervious to Andrew’s thunderous entrance. Andrew ignores the greeting, taking hold of Neil’s chin to turn his face from side to side.

“Kevin said you fell,” he says, relinquishing the grip. Allison half-turns away, pretending to busy herself tidying but really listening, because the monster’s overbearing-boyfriend performances are rarely seen in public yet endlessly entertaining.

“Shoelaces. Who could have seen it coming?”

“I did. And warned you. Twice.”

Neil winces. “My bad.”

Andrew mutters something under his breath that seems to involve the words kill you. The day Allison understands their relationship is the day that she gives up on any and all gossip for the rest of her life.

Then, Andrew pauses, distracted. “Did you trip and fall onto a pair of sheers?”

“Allison gave me a haircut. How does it look?”

Andrew holds his hand in front of Neil’s face. When Neil nods, Andrew runs it quickly through his hair, gently tugging at the roots as he goes. “Awful.”

“Hey,” Allison interrupts, outraged. They both start, and Andrew’s hand drops away, like they had forgotten she was there. Which was the point, really. She holds the scissors in Andrew’s direction. “You’re next, scraggy.”

“When I’m dead,” Andrew replies flatly. It’s clear he isn’t joking. Neil shakes his head at them both.

“Come on, then,” Allison says. “Neil’s taking me for coffee. Give us a ride and I’ll buy you the sugariest, most expensive drink on the menu. I’m hoping the diabetes will finish you off if lung cancer falls through.”

Andrew glances between them. “Fine.”

Sugar and Neil; the keys to Andrew’s stony little heart.

#8 Nicky

Nicky is fully capable of responding to his cousin’s newfound domestic happiness with maturity and decorum.

He just chooses not to.

This has nearly ended in violence no less than eight times. But really, how can he be expected to let it lie when his cousin, who came to him an unruly, violent teen to whom any conversation was like pulling teeth with plastic tweezers, is, for the first time, experiencing the gay teen college romance Nicky could only have dreamed of?

With his fiancée a million miles away, Nicky has to live vicariously when it comes to matters of the heart. There is no better subject for this than his violent baby cousin, who, it seems, isn’t such a baby anymore.

Nicky is beyond late for his class already when he realises that his laptop is dead. He had been skyping with Eric until ass-o-clock in the morning, forgot to plug it in before passing out in his bunk and is paying for it three-fold. He has two options; pencil and paper (what is he, a toddler?) or steal someone’s laptop. The answer is both clear and obvious.

Andrew’s is the first to hand. He most likely won’t surface until noon, by which time Nicky will have returned from class, leaving him none the wiser. The perfect crime.

Or it is the perfect crime until Nicky opens the laptop in the middle of his seminar to a webpage that is filled with very, very unsafe-for-classroom content.

Nicky slams the laptop shut. It wasn’t a video, none of the sites Nicky knew from his own fits of late-night loneliness. Large blocks of text, diagrams that were more analytical than downright pornographic. Nicky slides the laptop open again, just enough for the screen to light up once more, and tabs up. No, not porn. Informative. Educational.

The girl beside him, although unable to see his screen, is giving Nicky some very strange looks. Nicky glances back to the laptop before sliding it shut once more. Pencil and paper will have to do.

The class is drier than dirt, leaving Nicky’s mind with far too much space to think. A dangerous pastime in Nicky’s case, Eric would say teasingly. Nicky had assumed – well, not that he had thought about it, much, but Andrew always seemed so set and sure of himself that it was hard to imagine him googling how-to guides like an acne-riddled teen the night before prom. His apparent innocence is weirdly adorable. Not a word Nicky uses out-loud in his cousin’s presence, but true all the same.

Nicky remembers his first time. Awkward, uncomfortable, and involving entirely the wrong set of genitals. He can only hope Andrew and Neil’s is better.

He shouldn’t get involved. He really, really, shouldn’t.

Nicky slips the laptop back into place mere moments before Andrew slouches into the living space. Nicky watches him as the coffee-maker gurgles away, thinking.

“Andrew.”

Andrew glances up. Nicky isn’t sure what he reads in his face, but it must be setting off alarm bells, because his hands move almost unconsciously to his sleeves. Nicky holds his hands up.

“Hey!”

“What?”

“I just…” Oh, this is a lot more awkward than Nicky anticipated. “You know, I’m always here for you. If there’s anything you want to talk about.” He clears his throat. “If you have any questions…”

Andrew’s eyes narrow. They flick in the direction of his desk. Nicky remembers, far too late, Andrew’s impossibly perfect memory. He would remember the exact position he left his laptop in. Nicky is busted.

“Don’t borrow my laptop,” Andrew snarls. The coffee brewer clicks, and it may be the only thing that saves Nicky’s life.

“I’m sorry! I was in a rush!” Nicky says weekly. “If it’s any consolation, the guy who sits behind me now thinks I’m a grade-A pervert.”

Andrew slams a mug down on the counter so hard he almost cracks it. “One more word. One more.”

“I won’t. I won’t, I promise, I’ve been there, okay?”

Andrew takes his coffee and his laptop and leaves without another word. Nicky counts it as a blessing.

The next day, he’s working his way through the mother of all essays when Andrew enters the room, pulling the door shut behind him. Nicky keeps working until Andrew pulls a chair over to Nicky’s desk and sits in it. He stops typing mid-sentence, fingers hovering over the keys.

“Everything okay, Andrew?”

“I want you to take a moment and remember how many knives I have on me right now.”

“A lot, I assume.”

“A lot,” Andrew confirms. “If I had any other choice in the world, I would take it. But I have you. So, I’m going to ask you something, and you are going to be calm and level and mature and everything that you usually are not when you answer.”

“Of course,” Nicky says in a heartbeat. He can’t think of a single time Andrew has ever come to him for help, not even when he was wrapped up in bed and coughing his lungs out the day before his AP Calc exam. Nicky has never been more determined to get something right in his life.

“How,” Andrew says, stops, starts again. Today is full of firsts; Andrew is usually so careful and measured with his words. “How do I do it without hurting him?”

Nicky’s heart is ready to melt or break or explode, maybe all at once. “Oh, Andrew.”

“The knives, Nicky. Remember the knives.”

“Okay,” says Nicky, and he tells Andrew everything he can. He wants, more than anything, for Andrew to be safe and happy, and if it involves going into details that even Nicky is squeamish about discussing with family, then that’s what he’ll do.

He offers to write out a list of reliable books and websites for Andrew to check out, ones he used himself and others Eric recommended to him. Andrew shakes his head.

“Just tell me. I’ll remember them.”

When they’re done, Nicky almost claps Andrew on the shoulder. He thinks better of it, hand hovering mid-air before he withdraws it. “Andrew.”

Andrew is half-way out the door, but he stops, which is more than Nicky expected.

“You’ll be fine.”

Andrew huffs, and abruptly disappears. Nicky smiles to himself as he turns back to his essay.

It took him a long time to piece it all together, but the truth is that Andrew really can be quite sweet, in his own terrifying way.

Nicky wonders how long it will be before he has to give Neil the sex talk too. Maybe he should offer.

Best not to; he has some self-preservation instincts, after all.

#9 Renee

Renne likes to think that she has improved at reading Andrew over the years. Some of his quirks are more obvious than others, however; it doesn’t take a student of human character to notice that when Andrew wants to spar, it’s usually because he has something on his mind.

Renee is hardly in a position to judge, not when she finds the cut and blow of a vicious fistfight as cathartic as he does. There’s still a piece of Natalie Shields underneath all of Renee’s growth like the pit at the heart of a peach. Sometimes the best way of holding her down is by letting her out in controlled increments. Give her the inch so she won’t take the mile.

As usual, it is only when they have beaten each other to exhaustion and back that Andrew is ready to talk. They sit cross-legged in the centre of the room, slurping down apple-juice cartons like kids in the playground, and finally, Andrew speaks.

“I want you to train Neil.”

Renee sets her carton down. “I thought Matt was teaching him to box.”

“He’s a shit boxer.”

“Neil or Matt?”

“Both.”

Renee shakes her head. She reaches back to pull out her hair tie, letting her bangs tumble back into their usual place. “Is there a reason Neil hasn’t asked me himself?”

Andrew is silent. There it is; the heart of the matter.

Renee sighs. “I’m not going to force Neil to train with me if he doesn’t want to.”

“I don’t force Neil to do anything,” Andrew says sharply. Renee winces; it was a poor choice of words on her part.

“Why do you think he needs it?”

“Matt is teaching him how to box. It’s not the same as real fighting.”

Renee hums. “Can’t he do something for fun?”

“That’s not the point. Besides,” Andrew pauses. “Matt only knows how to fight like the fuck-off giant that he is.”

Renee can’t argue with that; Matt never had to learn the same style of combat that she and Andrew did. He may teach Neil how to throw a good punch, but there’s a big difference in stance and strategy when your opponent is a foot taller than you. Renee and Andrew learned that the hard way.

“And who is it that you think Neil is going to be fighting?”

Andrew waves one arm in an all-encompassing gesture. “Have you met him?”

“Andrew.”

“Renee,” he shoots back, imitating her tone and inflection.

“What did he say when you suggested that I teach him?”

Andrew scrunches up his features in an imitation of Neil’s ugh face. “He said that he gets enough bruises as it is.”

“He’s not wrong.”

Andrew doesn’t roll his eyes, but his eyebrows twitch as though he’s considering it. “He also said he doesn’t need to get any better. Because he…” Andrew grimaces. Sharing is still tough for him, even after years of therapy and trust. “He has me to protect him.”

“As I said,” Renee says, smiling. “He’s not wrong.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“He has his moments.”

They finish their juice boxes in silence.

“Well,” says Renee, getting back to her feet. Her legs may be going stiff, but there’s still some fight left in her. There always is. “I may not be able to train Neil, but at least I can train his bodyguard to the best of my ability.” She holds her hand out to Andrew. After a moment of careful consideration, he takes it, using the pull to swing himself to his feet. “One more round?”

Andrew nods, determination setting in his eyes like concrete. “One more round.”

Renee likes to think that she has improved at reading Andrew over the years. This time, as they trade hits and kicks, it isn’t anger or frustration powering Andrew’s movements; it’s something far more powerful.

She thinks – hopes – prays – that the worst of Neil’s fights are behind them. All the same, she sleeps a little easier knowing that, should the day come, Andrew will be at his back with a knife in each hand.

That’s love, after all.

Thank you for reading - please let me know what you thought

Still open to requests!

#aftg #andreil #tfc #neil josten #andrew minyard #my fic #asks #anon

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yandere-society · 5 years ago

Note

Hello, I love all of the reactions on this blog 😍😍 could I request one with the maknae line? How would they react to seeing their s/o tagged in a picture with their ex on Instagram? Either a very intimate pic or just a cute date haha. Thank you guys for the hard work you do. 👭👾

Maknae Line Reaction to a Post with your EX

Admin: @nomnomsik 🎉

Trigger warnings: yandere-themes, guilting, and violence. It is also a female reader with a male ex to make it easier with the pronouns, especially with Taehyung’s. Please read with caution.

Jimin

“What this?”

Jimin was home finally after a long day of practice, scheduling, and dress fittings. Upon walking back in his comforting home at 12 am, he wasn’t surprised that all the lights were out, knowing that you always slept early.

But as he dumped his things onto the kitchen counter, taking out his phone as he strolled down the hall, he opened Twitter, only to find a picture of you smiling brightly at the top of his feed.

Jimin squinted, wondering where and when this photo was taken, peeved by how the tweet was only sent 1 hour ago and by… your ex…?

Jimin clicked the actual tweet, confused and verifying this was the official account of your ex, another idol in the industry who you had befriended and dated for a short while, only to split up by, of course, him.

His hand opened the bedroom door, ready to find your sleeping figure, but as he pushed it further and further, he realized, you weren’t there.

He immediately went into a frenzy, running and pounding his feet on the floors as he flung open the front door, hastily sliding on his shoes and immediately speed-dialing your number.

You picked up, the sound of cars passing by as you spoke. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” Jimin seethed, impatiently stomping his foot as he waited for the godforsaken elevator to reach his floor, the highest one.

“I’m walking back home, right now. I’ll be there in 5 minutes, why?” You had asked, causing Jimin to sigh in relief, but still simmering in anger.

“Why are you out so late? Why are you with your ex? Didn’t I tell you to tell me where you go? What if something happened to you? I only asked you to just let me know in advance so I don’t worry about you! And you can’t even do that for me?!” Jimin yelled into his phone, clearly pissed off as he tightly clenched his free hand into a fist.

“I’m sorry…” You whispered, your voice small and timid, scared and upset. “I knew you wouldn’t be happy about it… But he’s still my friend.” You choked up, Jimin noticing how you were on the verge of tears by the way your voice wavered. “I won’t do it again. I’m sorry…”

“Shh, don’t cry. I’m sorry for yelling and I forgive you, baby. Now, tell me where you are so I can meet up with you, okay? Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah… I’ll send you my location. See you soon…”

Taehyung

Taehyung was resting in bed, home after a long day of work as an idol and finally ready to get his good night rest. You shimmied your way through the door, quietly tiptoeing around the apartment to not alert him of where you had been off to.

Taehyung slept through the quiet sounds of the shower running and the soft sounds of opening the closet and drawers. You quietly joined Taehyung in bed, scooching up to him, hands to his chest as you closed your eyes.

His breathing was calm and skin as soft as an angel. His locks brushed over his eyes, cascading to his eyelashes as he breathed in and out. But, as you stretched your body, ready to pass out, you accidentally hit his leg, awakening him in a hazy state.

“Y/n…?” He groaned in a low voice, wrapping his arms around you. “Where were… you?” He mumbled lazily, pulling you closer, his hold on you tight and constricting.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow, okay Taehyung?” you whispered, closing your eyes as you both fell asleep together.

Upon the morning sun, you woke up, only to find the other side of the bed empty. It was late, almost noon as you scrambled out of bed and rushing downstairs to see Taehyung.

“Good morning.” He had smiled, phone in his hand and a glass of juice on the kitchen counter. You took a seat next to him as he continued to scroll through his phone, only for his finger and body to halt rigidly, and then relax.

“Is something wrong?” You asked, confused at his body language. Taehyung gave you a bright smile, the ones that seemed to make you blush and warm your heart up.

“Nope! I just remembered how cute you were, y/n. That’s all.”

He watched diligently as you turned the other way to hide the pink tint in your cheeks to which he smirked internally, a tongue rolling in the inside of his mouth as his thumb almost cracked the screen of his phone.

It’ll be fine. I’ll see him next week at the music show. I’ll show that stupid guy not to touch things that are clearly mine.

Jungkook

“Didn’t I tell you to say away? Didn’t I?!”

Sweet, bunny-like, and doe-eyed Jungkook would never show aggression to another person… is what only dumb and naive people thought.

Jungkook had your ex pinned in a tight corner of the halls in the music station, way before he was needed to be in the makeup chair, coincidentally running into the person he despised so much.

Your ex was terrified, alone without anyone to call out for help. Your ex was backed into a corner facing a man who had a deadly look to his face, eyes dark and ready to kill.

“I was nice enough to spare you since you quickly broke up with y/n, but… did I give you permission to hang out with her?” He asked rhetorically, suffocating close.

Pulling the cuff of your ex’s shirt up, Jungkook looked at him, eye to eye, warning him. “Strike one was dating y/n, strike two, hanging out even though I told you back off. Strike three- and then you’re out.” Jungkook spat, throwing him into the wall and storming off.

The deadly glare was wiped off his face as he entered the changing rooms, his eyes were even smiling, running up to you from the behind and hugging you.

“Did you just get here?” He cooed, looking over your shoulder as you absentmindedly played a game on your phone.

The two of you sat in silence for a while as Jungkook cuddled up to you, your eyes focused on your phone. He pouted, his cheeks puffing up as he huffed.

“I heard you were hanging with your ex… Is that true?” He asked out of the blue, cocking his head to the side, his eyes wide and creepy as you turned to look at him.

“You know…” Jungkook continued, trying to keep the sweet smile on his face. “I don’t like it when you do things behind my back.” He dug his sharp nails into your shoulder, voice low and dark, eliciting a flinch from you as you continued to look down.

He brought his mouth close to your ear, his fingertips sending chills down your body. “You wouldn’t like it if I did things behind your back, now would you?”

“So don’t. Do. Things. You’ll regret.”

#yandere bts #maknae line #yandere jungkook #yandere jimin #yandere taehyung #yandere v #yandere jk #bts jimin #bts jungkook #bts taehyung #bts reactions #bts reaction #bts scenarios #jungkook x reader #jimin x reader #taehyung x reader

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princess-sengoku · 4 years ago

Text

Secret Santa Fanfic

@hunny-pp This is for your request in Secret Santa for this year. I hope this is great. Merry Christmas to you and Merry Christmas to everyone else. AAAA My first fanfic to be posted on Tumblr :')

Carnival Competition

Rating: K

Modern AU

Summary: Shingen and Kenshin are going to Osaka carnival to see who can win the most games at the carnival.

The carnival's in town as everyone from all over the land of the rising sun go to one of the most underrated festivals in the land; Osaka Carnival. The fun games, great food, and amazing rides that it had was all in good fun for everyone to enjoy. Once Shingen heard for himself that the carnival was going to be in town tomorrow, he just had to call Kenshin to join him for the carnival. He was disappointed that he didn't show up last year, then again they weren't dating at the time. Maybe this year would go in his favor? He and Kenshin could at least compete in the games, kinda like a battlefield? Shingen was in Osaka for a quick vacation and the carnival would be the top of the cake. With that in mind, Shingen picked up the phone and began to text to Kenshin.

Shingen: My stoic dragon "nemesis", are you still awake?

Kenshin was comfortable on his futon at his Castle, just starting to head off to bed and sending a quick prayer to Bishamonten to thank the god of war for allowing him the pleasures of life. There was wine, business, and finally Shingen. Shingen was probably one of the most worthy friend and business partner he could ask for in this life. Although he didn't show much happiness on his stoic face, his actions show that he cares for him, especially when he accepted to be Shingen’s boyfriend. Speaking of Shingen… 'Bing Bing'. Kenshin heard his phone go off. "It is almost time to go to bed… Who's texting me?" He said, visibly annoyed. He picked up his phone and once he saw the message, he softened a little bit. It was Shingen.

Kenshin: Tiger of Kai, my "nemesis", I was about to go to bed, but I can talk for a bit.

Shingen gave a good-natured chuckle at Kenshin's message sent a couple of minutes later. Of course he forgot that Kenshin would be getting to bed around this time.

Shingen: Sorry about that, I was hoping maybe this year we can go to the carnival together. Think of it as a date.

"A date?" He mouthed to himself. When was the last time they had a date together? It had been a while. They were both taking it slowly so they wouldn't be discovered and to have it at a carnival, that everyone was going to…

Kenshin: Are you sure you want me to go?

Shingen was not giving up on making him go to the carnival. They were always competitive when it came to the games. A lightbulb went off in his head. He can use the games as an excuse for him to go.

Shingen: I bet I can win a lot more games than you. Don't worry I'll give you some prizes :)

Shingen always knew how to push Kenshin's competitiveness button. They both were like strategists in their own businesses but eventually one must come on top eventually. He really now was interested in this carnival but he would conceal his intentions to him.

Kenshin: It is tempting to go to the festival to have a friendly competition. Go have fun. Good night "nemesis"

Shingen shrugged at his message. At least he tried to convince him to go. At the back of his head, he did feel that Kenshin would come here. He just had that hunch.

Shingen: Good night. Don't have a rough night.

As soon as he got Shingen’s message, Kenshin got dressed again, called his limo driver, and took a blanket. He would now begin to surprise Shingen to the festival date. "Shingen, let's see who wins the most games." he thought with confidence. They always liked competitive plays over each other. He just thought of what kind of games would be there to play as the limo left with him inside, going to Osaka, as he drifted to sleep.

~The next morning- 8 AM~

Shingen saw the shining sun glimmer in the curtains as morning came and he was just starting to wake up from the tiger's slumber. This short bald man yawned as he sat up in the bed, slowly getting his act together. It was also very hot today when the festival and vacation was in the summer. He could only imagine what the south had to deal with like the Shimazu in the summer. After 10 minutes of just sitting there, he finally got up to brighten the room. The curtains opened and Shingen shielded his eyes from the brightness a bit. Once it got adjusted, he finally saw a limo in front of the hotel. It had the Uesugi symbol on the side and the limo was white. He could see Kenshin come out the doors. "Hahaha, I knew Kenshin would be here!" Shingen said to himself. He put on a tiger print t-shirt with some khaki shorts and some sandals.

Kenshin walked out of the limo with a nice short sleeved buttoned white shirt with white pants with some nice black loafers. He was casually sleeping the whole ride so he would be well rested for today. Carnivals are mostly energy sucking. The driver let him know he's here so he doesn't have to rest during the day. "Great Bishamonten, please give me strength to have fun today and beat Shingen in a whole bunch of games." He prayed. They both met in the lobby and gave a hug. "Haha, I knew you would come. So are you ready for the carnival?" Shingen asked. Kenshin gave a small smile and nodded. "I am. Looking at the clock means that it had just started." Said Kenshin as he looked at the clock which read 9:00A.M.

Looking out at the carnival laid out before them, it was full of life and high fun energy. Many games, food stands and other attractions can be seen before them. People were walking around them full of laughter and friendly talk. You can't really hear what they had to say because there were so many people and they were loud. Shingen and Kenshin simply walked side by side together holding pinkies looking out at what games they should play.

The first game they saw was kinda strange with a huge log and there were lines in the ground. Musashi was actually the one hosting that game. "Hey you two! Do you want to try the log toss? 1 yen to try it and the rules are clearly read on the sign." He managed to get Shingen and Kenshin's attention. "You want to have a go Kenshin?" Asked Shingen. "Sure" said Kenshin blatantly.

They both walk up to the wooden sign. It was well made with no chances that anyone can get a splinter and it looked really smooth for writing on as shown in words that are painted on. It says the following:

Log toss:

'You throw a log as far as you can. This can be played for competition. If you are solo, you win a prize no matter what. If you are against each other, then the winner gets a prize.'

Shingen was known to do some lifting at the gym sometimes, Kenshin watched him while he worked so he knew as well. They've decided to do the competition version. The prizes included stuffed animals, posters and pins. Shingen went first as he went and picked it up by the sides then he spinned around a few times getting ready for the wind up. He threw it up and away pretty far and it landed with a thud and the ground shaked a bit. Musashi ran to where the log went with a measuring tape and a flag. "150 feet-1st person!" Musashi announced. Kenshin smiled at Shingen’s impressive performance. It was as expected for him as was a worthy challenge for Kenshin to try to beat.

"You're next Kenshin." Shingen said as he stood back with a smirk, a smirk that Kenshin loved a lot. "I have practiced a bit in lifting." Kenshin remarked as he picked up the log. He winded up by standing back a bit then using the force that he gathered to launch the log forward as he stepped forward. It flew not as high as Shingen did but it definitely was going far. There was a thud in the distance and Musashi was running fast with the other marker. "Not bad! It's about… 160 feet. The second person wins!" Musashi announced happily as he went to pick out a prize. Kenshin kissed Shingen on the forehead proud of his own victory. "Well done 'nemesis'." Shingen said, congratulating him. Musashi gave Kenshin a big tiger plush. 'It would be perfect for Shingen.' Kenshin thought.

Many hours go by with more prizes, food, the times they went through a funhouse and a haunted house in a succession while holding many little toys, pins, posters, more stuffed animals. It was a lot to carry for a long time, then again they had played lots of games. Games were ring toss, balloon pop, guess what's approximately in the jar, bumper cars, test your strength, and many other games.

It was the last few minutes of the carnival to be open for the day. There was one more game they wanted to try for a magnificent dragon plush. Shingen was immediately reminded of Kenshin when he saw that plush. "Kenshin! Before we go let's try this game!" They both look at the bucket of water with ducks floating right along. The sign read the following:

Lucky Duck:

'You hook a duck on the hook stick provided to you. Get a star duck (which the star is on the bottom) to win any prize you want.'

"This game sounds simple and quick." Kenshin remarked. "You can do this game." Said Kenshin as he gave the game owner 1 yen to play the game.

Shingen concentrated on the pond itself like a fire trying to get hotter by the minute. Any of those ducks could have a star on the bottom and any number of the ducks could have stars. They all looked the same. All he could do would be to guess which one had the star and which ones didn't. He took the hook stick on the ground and just went for it, eyes closed. When he opened them again, he looked underneath the duck and a gold star was at the bottom. He won the game and the dragon. "This is great!" thought Shingen as he got the dragon in his hands.

As Shingen turned he saw Kenshin take the tiger plush out of the mass of prizes they won and handed it out like it was a gift for him. Shingen saw a slight blush on Kenshin's stoic face. "So umm… this is for you 'nemesis'." Kenshin said in a softer voice than usual. Shingen laughed out of kindness a little, knowing that Kenshin wasn't used to the sometimes sweet moments of their relationship. "Thank you 'nemesis'. In return, I will give you this dragon I just won." Shingen blushed a little bit as he received the tiger and Kenshin received the dragon. They soon divided all of the prizes in between them. Shingen’s vacation would go on and Kenshin would join in for the last week that Shingen had left.

--------------------------------------------------

P.S. as a bonus I give you some headcanons of the pairing on google slides that I made myself. This helped me create the fic lol.

#pokemon conquest secret santa #samurai warriors #kenshin uesugi #shingen takeda #shingen x kenshin #musashi miyamoto

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gigi-sinclair · 5 years ago

Text

5000th Post Ficstravaganza: Part 5/5

And my actual 5000th post!

Part 1 is here (The Terror, Joplittle, Pancake Day)

Part 2 is here (The Terror, Joplittle, Edward’s spectacles)

Part 3 is here (Good Omens, Aziraphale/Crowley, bathing)

Part 4 is here (The Terror, pre-Joplittle, a dark and stormy night)

For @buttymcbuttface, who requested Edward being very ticklish, and Thomas taking advantage of it. Full disclosure, I actually really hate being tickled myself, so this may not have the graphic tickle scenes you were hoping for, but there is some light bondage!

Forever and Not Nearly Long Enough, rated M. A followup to my fic Breakaway, aka the football/agent modern AU I stole borrowed from lafiametta. Mentions of Goodsir/Silna and Crozier/Fitzjames.

Tom doesn't realize just how drunk he is until he attempts to put his key into the front door, and the lock eludes him.

"Need a hand?" Ed presses up behind him, his arms winding around Tom's waist and his tongue tracing the edge of Tom's ear. He moves down to kiss along Tom's jaw, then to suck at his neck. None of this does anything for Tom's coordination. He tries to bat Ed away, but Ed doesn’t move.

There are only two other flats on this floor, and the corridor is currently empty. Still, Tom has no desire to be caught making out against the door like a couple of horny teenagers.

Ed's public coming out has gone better than Tom honestly thought it would. A couple of his bus shelter advertisements have been defaced with unimaginative slurs. At first, there was a little awkwardness in the club changing room, which Tom has stopped visiting, but Ed hasn't lost any endorsements. In fact, he's gained a couple. More important are the emails and Instagram messages Ed has received from dozens of LGBTQA kids who, up until now, had believed their sexuality automatically precluded them from any future as a professional athlete. Ed doesn't say much about it, but Tom knows how much those notes mean to him.

The key finally hits home, and Tom and Ed stumble into the darkened flat. The moment they cross the threshold, Ed kicks the door shut and is upon Tom once more, pushing him against the wall and sliding his tongue eagerly into Tom's mouth.

"If I'd known weddings did this to you," Tom gasps, when Ed grinds against him, "I'd have taken to you to one a long time ago."

Harry and Silna's wedding was beautiful, like most weddings are. The bride was radiant; Goodsir spent the entire time looking like he couldn't believe it was actually happening. Tom had a great time, dancing with Ed and talking to the other guests, including Francis Crozier's new, close friend, Britannia Fitzjames. On the heels of Ed's coming out, the popular Instagram model made an announcement of her own, revealing her identity as a transwoman. Tom admires her, but not as much as Francis does. When Tom and Ed left, the two of them were sitting in a cosy corner, holding hands with hearts in their eyes.

"Not weddings," Ed murmurs. "Just you." He backs off a little and removes his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the floor behind him.

Tom frowns. "Don't leave it there."

"What?"

"Your jacket. It'll get creased as hell if you leave it on the floor.”

An indecipherable look appears in Ed's eyes, even as the corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. "What will you to do me?"

"Excuse me?”

"What will you do? If I leave the jacket there."

Tom isn't sure what this is about, beyond the fact Ed is clearly just as drunk, if not drunker, than Tom. It's rare for him to be playful. Tom finds himself wanting to take advantage of it.

"Oh," Tom says, "I know just what you deserve."

He reaches out and yanks Ed's shirttails from his trousers. Before Ed can react, Tom slips his hands beneath and slides his hands up Ed’s bare sides.

"Fuck, Tom!" Instinctively, Ed tries to escape. Tom doesn't let him. "You bastard," Ed laughs.

The discovery that Ed is extremely ticklish was made quite by accident. In bed one day, Tom noticed him squirming and giggling--actually giggling--when Tom brushed his sides. Further experimentation revealed Ed had a similar reaction to Tom touching under his arms, the back of his knees, the soles of his feet. Being a kind and benevolent man, Tom has never abused this knowledge. Until now.

Still laughing, Ed twists away from Tom's tickling fingers and flees. Tom puts the jacket on a hanger, because, all jokes aside, it is Louis Vuitton, and follows.

He reaches the bedroom just a dozen paces behind Ed, but it's long enough for Ed to position himself to attack. He jumps out as Tom steps through the doorway, tackling him onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath their sudden, combined weight. "You think you're clever?" Ed asks, grinning.

"Yes," Tom replies, honestly. Ed sits up, but doesn't remove himself from Tom's body. Pinned beneath him, Tom watches as Ed loosens, then removes, his own striped club tie.

"You know how I feel about being tickled."

Tom remains defiant. "I don't regret it."

"Not yet, maybe." Ed loops the tie around Tom's right wrist and ties it to the headboard with the loosest knot imaginable. If he so wished, Tom could easily break free. He finds himself not wanting to. More than that, he finds himself growing warmer, his breath coming faster as Ed pulls off Tom's tie and uses it to restrain his left hand. "There." Ed surveys his handiwork, a flush on his cheeks Tom is certain must be matched on his own. "Seems like I'm the one in charge now."

Tom swallows around the lump which has suddenly appeared in his throat. "True."

"Seems like I can do anything I want."

"Seems like it."

Ed falters. For a moment, Tom thinks Ed will revert to his usual self, but he doesn't. Instead, without saying a word, he steps off the bed. Remaining in Tom's line of sight, he removes the rest of his clothes: shirt, shoes, trousers, underpants and socks, leaving them piled on the floor in a way Tom is sure is deliberate. Once he is naked, he straddles Tom once more, giving him an excellent view of most of Ed’s many tattoos, including Tom’s favourite: Tom’s own name, inscribed right over Ed’s heart.

"What if I want to tease you? Get you all revved up and leave you hanging?" Ed asks, with a little wriggle.

“You wouldn’t do that.” Would he?

Another gleam comes to Ed’s eye. “What if I want to ride you?”

They've never done that before. Intellectually, Tom knows, for Ed's sake, this isn't something they should be undertaking for the first time while they're drunk and, at least in Tom’s case, growing increasingly desperate, but Tom's intellectualism disappears the moment Ed unzips his trousers and pulls out Tom’s already-eager cock.

"Don't come on my clothes," Tom says.

"Yes, sir," Ed replies. Tom's cock jerks again. "Any other requests?"

"Enjoy yourself."

Ed laughs and slides down the bed to take Tom into his mouth.

It's amazing, of course. Ed undertakes everything he does with single-minded focus and determination. After several months of living with him, and several more of working with him, Tom has learned he personally does not always appreciate this unswerving dedication of Ed's, particularly when it would be useful for him to multitask a little. In bed, however, Tom has no complaints. Rather the reverse. The look of pure concentration on Ed’s face as he lowers himself, slick and tight, onto Tom’s cock is a thing of such beauty, Tom wishes he had the artistic skills to capture it. Then again, Tom is happy with this view being for him and him alone.

Afterwards, Ed cares for Tom gently, although that feels more like something Tom should be doing for Ed. He unties his wrists and undresses him the rest of the way. True to his word, there is not a spot of semen on Tom's bespoke Jermyn Street suit.

Ed even goes so far as to hang up Tom's clothes, as well as his own, before returning to bed. Tom knows he should ask after him, make sure he's not too sore or, worse yet, embarrassed by what they just did, but he’s so tired, he can't bring himself to form words. In the morning, he promises himself.

Ed rests his head on Tom's shoulder. "Three months."

"Hmm?"

"It'll be our turn to walk down the aisle in three months."

"Ten weeks.” Tom has an intricate system of colour-coded folders dedicated to every aspect of planning their wedding. Tom opens his eyes. "Are you looking forward to it?"

"Are you joking? I can’t wait. I’d marry you tomorrow, if I didn’t know how much work you’ve put in for this big do." The complete certainty in Ed's voice brings a smile to Tom's face. Not that he ever doubted it, but Ed isn't always the most expressive of people. It's nice to hear it out loud, once in a while. "Even," Ed adds, "if you are a bastard."

“Your bastard,” Tom corrects. “Always.”

Ed reaches up for a kiss, then cuddles in close. Tom falls asleep happy. with his face in Ed’s hair and his arm, steady, secure and not at all prone to tickling, about Ed’s middle.

#the terror #joplittle #football au #5000th post ficstravaganza

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megabadbunny · 6 years ago

Photo

so after sketching out the doodle for this post upon the request of the lovely @chiaroscuroverse, I decided it was high time I finally got started on something I’ve been wanting to do for a while now. Thusly, I present to y’all the first installment of my sketch series New Who Companions in (Mostly) Historically-Accurate Period Costumes! :D

(clicky on the smaller images above to embiggen; clicky the read-more for costume history facts and assorted nerditude for each design!)

So long story short, I’m a big ol’ fashion history nerd, studied a good chunk of fashion history in the Western world during ye olde college days, and sometimes I like to think about what our New Who companions might have worn if they wanted to go mostly-historically-accurate in their old-world adventures. Below are some descriptions of what those costumes could have looked like, and a little bit of the historical context surrounding the ensembles. Thanks for joining me on this sartorial nerd-journey! <3

Fig. 1: Donna Noble, The Fires of Pompeii (Roman Empire, 79 AD)

So Donna’s original costume, while very pretty, is not accurate in any way; I can only imagine the designer was held back by some untold constraints (i.e. this costume is either constructed based on stylistic requests from Catherine Tate or it’s the product of executive meddling). Here, Donna wears a stola, i.e. a dress-like garment fastened with fibulae clasps and held in place with a girdle high above the waist. This garment would technically be worn by a married woman, to sort of show off her wealth and worth, but I figure Donna don’t give no shits about that, just give her the pretty dress already. She’s also wearing a palla, a shawl Roman women wore when going about their business outside. You would typically see the palla wrapped around the woman’s body to both accentuate her curves where desired, to hide her features when wanted (women might draw the hood close to the face to hide from unwanted male gazes), and to keep the material from dragging along the ground. The volume of fabric in the shawl signified a woman’s status; the more fabric, the wealthier the lady. Donna’s garments are fashioned from the finest material available, being linens imported from Egypt and silks imported from China.

Fig. 3: Bill Potts, The Eaters of Light (Scotland, c. 100 AD)

So, finding solid details on how women dressed in this time and place was fun,* but I did my best to sort of piece things together into a design that would make sense given the convergent influences and the materials (cloth/fibers, dyes, equipment) available in the area at the time. Basically, you’ve got a tunic cinched at the waist, and a woven cloak on top sporting a Pictish-type design, and simple jewelry fashioned from alloys that were commonplace at the time. Bill’s brooch and belt would definitely be met with approval from the other ladies; only peasant-women left the house without a belt.

* It was not fun. It was frustrating.

Fig. 2: Rose Tyler, The Stone Rose spinoff novel (Rome, 120 AD)

Rose’s garments and hair are intentionally sculptural in design, inspired by a series of Roman statues built around the time the story is set (I figured it was appropriate given the book’s plot!). Here she is wearing half of her Fortuna costume, on her way to save the Doctor (obv). Typically, a not-yet-married woman would only need to wear one layer (as unmarried women were, shall we say, low on the priority list in terms of Roman fashion), but here, on her way to being immortalized as the great Fortuna, an exception has been made for Rose; Marcia’s servants have draped, wrapped, and pinned some very fine material over Rose’s close-fitting tunica. Rose is also shown with a mantle, for covering her hair in public. Both Donna and Rose would have had their hair curled using a calamistrum, or an early curling iron, which varied in shape and style, but in this case likely would have actually been made of iron, and warmed over hot coals.

Fig. 4: Clara Oswald, Robot of Sherwood (England, 1190 AD)

Okay, so why did they make this look like a Halloween costume? It’s just, this episode clearly had a budget, the designer clearly did their homework, so who made what decision and where and when that led us to this? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice Halloween costume! Like, one you would have to rent instead of buy, because she is le pricey. But I’m curious to know why the designer ventured so close to the actual periodwear without actually committing to it. Like the sleeves—the flare at the elbow suggests the overdress, or bliaut, is of French design, except those sleeves ain’t near big enough, neither in terms of volume or length. Sometimes these sleeves were so long, women would have to knot them to keep them from dragging the ground. If you don’t wanna deal with big sleeves for your action heroine, that’s fine, just go with a more English design, which forewent the exaggerated trumpet-shape in favor of something more subtle. The current shape just looks weird—like, it’s halfway there, but got tired and gave up. Then you’ve got the front-lacing on the bodice; this is a nope, and only enhances the Halloween/fancy dress look. Dresses would fasten on the side or in the back; if you were upper-class, you might be looking at a modesty panel to hide the lacing in the case of the latter. The hair is another instance of halfway-there; the top half is pretty good, with its center-part and the wraparound braid, but the loose bottom portion and the salon-curls are a big no-no. Curls weren’t really in vogue in the area at the time; ladies’ hair was worn long and braided, both to keep it out of the way and to show off elaborate styles. And last but certainly not least, why the heck is Clara’s circlet shaped the way it is? It’s like they took a necklace, situated it with a bunch of slack in the chain, and stuck it to her forehead using spirit gum. Would noble ladies have worn circlets/coronets at the time? Sure! Would they have been shaped (or stuck-on???) like that? Nope! The original ensemble is full of potential but it feels like someone somewhere along the decision-making process looked at the original, better design, said, “Eh, can you modernize (read: sex) that up for me?” and then this was born. Again, it’s not horrible, just, it could have been so much more.

/rant

Fig. 5: Amy Pond, Vampires of Venice (Italy, 1580 AD)

So I realize there’s a class difference between what Amy wore in the show and what’s depicted here, but I figured the upper-class depiction made more sense, given the fashions of the other young ladies accepted into Calvieri’s school. (That being said, Amy’s original outfit still isn’t quite there; this shows an example or two of what a working-class woman would wear at the time.) On the right, Amy is wearing a velvet gown over a petticoat; even though the color and bodice-shape denote a heavy Spanish influence, the dress would have been referred to as a French gown due to its fitted shape. Were Amy to go whole-hog and give herself some true mid-sixteenth-century hair, the front would be short, and regularly wound into tight, compact little curls, while the back was kept long, for elaborate braids and updos. That’s right--the sixteenth century was technically full of mullets. Mullets everywhere.

Fig. 6: Rose Tyler, A Groatsworth of Wit spinoff comic (England, 1592)

ok but the design in the comic, just

I don’t even understand why the artist drew it this way. It doesn’t make sense, not from a costume history perspective and not even from a design/fudging-the-details-for-the-sake-of-modern-sensibilities perspective. (Also from a perspective-perspective; dude’s having some major issues figuring out how foreshortening works, but that’s neither here nor there I suppose.) It would actually be way faster to focus on what this gown does right instead of wrong. So, let’s see here: it has a lace collar, which was a thing. It has a structured, paneled bodice; also a thing. Full layered skirt, that’s good. And, that’s officially it. The rest of this design is garbage. Like, why the eff is she wearing a ruffle as some kind of low-slung belt? Is that supposed to be cartridge pleating? What century are those sleeves supposed to be from? (Do those outer sleeves even? Show up in any century to speak of, outside of my nightmares???) If you’re going to do a lace cuff at the end of the fitted sleeve, why not do it right (i.e. like the way they actually looked at the time, which was usually in a cone shape flaring out from the wrist to the elbow)? Why would the artist imagine that Rose would go to the trouble of pouring herself into this 80’s-teal monstrosity without bothering to do anything to her hair except for a ponytail? What the fuck is up with the fucking boob lace??? See, I know the artist can draw actual historically accurate outfits, because Shakespeare in this comic looks fine. His shit’s pretty accurate. But for some reason, when it came to Rose’s dress, it’s like the artist lost their goddamn mind. (Don’t even get me started on the jewelry and accents, not if there’s a loving god in this universe)

Fig. 7: Martha Jones, The Shakespeare Code (England, 1599)

So Martha has herself a lovely heavy brocade gown, trimmed in sable, accented with soft leather gloves, and topped with a cartwheel ruff round the neck. (Don’t worry; I imagine the TARDIS only carries ethically-harvested furs, like they’re grown in a lab somewhere or collected after critters have had a long and prosperous life or the hairs are vacuumed up and reconstituted by some futuristic device, etc. etc.) Elizabethan sumptuary laws dictated that folks had to dress according to social class, so depending on what your social class was, you may not have been legally permitted to wear things like silks, certain colors, certain furs, and more. Fashion was such a surging industry and indicator of wealth that, at the time, you had higher-ups selling huge swaths of land in order to have the money to dress themselves as well as possible--it was seriously that important to be fashionable. Martha’s garments indicate that she has pretty high social standing, given the materials used. Also, she wears a pretty bitchin’ hat.

Fig. 8: Yazmin Khan, The Witchfinders (England, 1612)

Yazmin’s dress sports a fashionably high-necked bodice featuring embroidered linen silk, topped with a standing collar and “wings” at the shoulders. The dark hues shown here were super-popular at the time due to a surge of obsession with melancholia in arts and literature. Yaz also wears a “Cavalier” style hat, accented with an ostrich feather. Her outfit is basically a riding-habit/hunting-habit, constructed with ease of movement in mind.

Fig. 9: Mickey Smith, Rose Tyler, and Reinette Poisson i.e. Madame de Pompadour, The Girl in the Fireplace (France, 1758)

Setting aside my many issues with this episode’s story/plot, the bugaboos I have with Reinette’s original costume design in the show are relatively minor, and I imagine can mostly be explained-away with stuff like “this is what the BBC already had on hand” and “goddamn that’s pretty.” Both pretty salient points! But I do think it’s interesting that the designer(s) went the way they did--Madame de Pompadour was actually famously not in favor of glittering gems (actually, she supposedly donated palace jewels to the French treasury more than once to help out during times of war); she tended to prefer fairly simple pearls as embellishment, instead. She also wasn’t really into big hair; obviously the styles shown here on Ms. Myles aren’t exactly Marie-Antoinette-big, but they’re definitely more voluminous and modernized than the styles the real-life MdP typically sported, which usually consisted of a slight pomp and fairly close-knit curls framing the face. (It’s also interesting that Moffat wrote her with such a heavy innuendo for sex/romance, because rumor had it she didn’t really actually enjoy things in the bedroom all that much, instead preferring to pull political strings, promote the arts, patronize motherfucking Voltaire!!!, help design architecture!!!, and keep the king constantly entertained and distracted so he literally didn’t royally fuck everything up. She was a very busy lady! Also she like. Paid contractors and artists on time? Instead of dicking them over with “credit” bullshit like other wealthy patrons??? Sorry she was just WAY more awesome than the show gave her credit for!) Anyhoo, long story short, Rose and MdP are shown here wearing gowns and hairstyles that are heavily inspired by those worn by the real-life MdP wore in some of her many many portraits.

Thanks for tuning in to my giant costume nerdfest; see you next time for part 2! <3 <3 <3

#donna noble #bill potts #rose tyler #clara oswald #amy pond #martha jones #yazmin khan #mickey smith #madame de pompadour #doctor who fanart #donna noble fanart #bill potts fanart #rose tyler fanart #clara oswald fanart #amy pond fanart #martha jones fanart #yazmin khan fanart #mickey smith fanart #madame de pompadour fanart #man i wanna post this right meow but the timing #al;kdsjflsakdjf #anyhoo this has been a lot of fun to work on #and this is the first time i've drawn amy! so that's fun #also this is an interesting illustration of How Colors Look Very Different On Different Computer Monitors #this computer (the ol' at-homer) is more saturated than my iphone or work computer so we'll seeeee how the colors turn out elsewhere lol #anyhoo more commentary in the read-more in the post #thanks for checking the post out! <3 #mbb draws

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