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bestfriendforhire · 2 years ago

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Children of BFFH, Entry 178

“You said yesterday that you watch movies and play games with your other friends.” commented one of the quadruplets as we sat around in the water, chatting after finishing our game of tag. “Do you have a favorite?”

“I have a few.” he admitted somewhat sheepishly.

“Which ones?” asked Aspy excitedly.

A faint blush rose in Ben’s cheek, making me consider changing topics, but he said, “Honestly, the old ones my parents got me into. I like the Terminator movies, Alien, Star Wars, and other Sci-Fi.”

“All of us happen to be a bit into Star Wars as well.” stated Four diplomatically as he took in the shift around us.

“Oh, boy. Here we go again.” stated Rona with a grin.

“The words have been spoken.” agreed Aid, levitating himself out of the water with a spell and making the water evaporate.

“The Force is with him, so we must see how he handles it.” insisted Crazy with a wild grin. Not to be shown up by Aid, she used a spell to throw herself backward, flipping in the air while using a series of spells to dry herself before landing with a dramatic pose.

“But are you with the Jedi or the Sith?” questioned Four as he smiled at Ben, who seemed confused about why everyone was heading to the shore.

“We have a tradition, Ben, of enacting a Star Wars style battle every time the movies are mentioned aloud. I’ll provide the costumes after you choose which side you want to join, keeping in mind that our battles are partly inspired by the numerous games as well.” I explained for him to try to ease his confusion. “The various Force powers will be replicated through magic. Since you have none, I’ll take care of the effects for you when you do the appropriate movement such as thrusting out your palm for a Force push.” I told him, demonstrating on Crazy who threw herself backward into a tree, acting as if that was a mighty blow that left her stunned.

Ben hesitated only a second, before smiling and nodding. “Cool. I can definitely get behind this.” He was at least acclimating to the things we could do.

“I recommend using your hybrid form if you have no formal sword training.” suggested Aid before explaining that we all have practiced various styles based off those in Star Wars specifically for our enactments.

Crazy decided to demonstrate that as well, substituting a lightsaber with a tree branch that she reshaped before making the “blade” glow with light-absorbing, demonic energy. The resemblance to the Darksaber was fitting, but I felt for Ben. His eyes would not be appreciating the look of that blade.

“Umm… Maybe I’d be better off just watching?” questioned Ben aloud, looking away from Crazy’s demonstration and finding his eyes wandering back.

Crazy’s movements were, of course, sublime. She had no more issue with being perfectly graceful at human speed than I would, especially when going through a routine she had performed countless times. Most of us could do that much easily. Crazy’s demonstrations only became complicated for anyone when she started doing over fifty spells at once to emulate slowly lifting every pebble in her vicinity off the ground and making them start spinning around her faster and faster. She always was a showoff.

I created a screen of darkness between her and Ben to get his attention again. “Let’s discuss what you would like. First, would you like to join the Jedi or Sith?”

“Jedi.” he responded immediately.

“Have a preference for lightsaber style?” I asked, creating an illusion of fifty hilts in the air as well as colors for blades.

“Oh… okay. Um… This one.” he pointed. “And green, please.”

“And what would you like to wear?”

“Something like Kenobi in the movies?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

“As you wish.” I told him, creating everything he wanted, floating in the air above the shore.

Seeing that I was already creating our gear, everyone else gave me their requests, knowing I’d hear it. We all headed to our temporary abodes, changed and met up just outside of camp. Surprisingly, none of the adults were joining us for once. Maybe they didn’t want to overwhelm Ben too much?

Four explained the rules with our friends taking turns demonstrating. Ben had a few things to clarify about what Force powers he could use and how to signal them to me, but that was easily explained. Then Four improvised a scenario for us to enact, which led to me getting permission to create part of a bunker like the one seen on Endor. I also created a few “sensor towers” that would need to be taken down as we approached. Surprisingly, Sis told me that the Boss wanted me to clean it up and leave it there once we finished, making me wonder what he was going to do with it. I didn’t bother asking, knowing that Sis would have told me had the Boss been inclined to let me know.

Ben ran back for his phone to get some pictures posing in front of the bunker in his human form after making sure that wouldn’t be an issue. I couldn’t blame him. Even we didn’t play with large props regularly—excluding the forts—and Ben obviously didn’t have another quality Star Wars costume at home with how he kept stroking the fabric and playing with his lightsaber. This was all new to him, so I was more than happy to see him excited.

The quadruplets, on the other hand, were disappointed that I only used “basic electronics” throughout the base. Yes, the doors were merely hydraulic and the majority of the lights and switches were for show, but I wasn’t going to try creating new technologies on the spot just for playing around. I wasn’t my mother!

Four and I were on the Jedi team with Ben, two of the quadruplets, Stormcrow, Rona, Aspy, and Valeria. Our mission was to infiltrate the bunker and download schematics on a new type of Imperial ship—which would just be simulated by a console lighting up after we inject our drive. I cringed a little, thinking Mother was probably laughing at me right now with how simplistic I made things. Maybe the quadruplets were right, and I should step up the gizmos I make.

Ben joined Four and me as the bunker assault force. The stormtroopers we fought as we approached were illusions created by Four, but Ben enjoyed deflecting the blasters and cutting down the illusions. As we fought our way into the base, word came over our communicator that the towers were taken down, surprising Ben. He apparently hadn’t expected the communicators to do anything. I was tempted to explain to him that I could manage creating simple radios just fine, but he could obviously see that. Besides, there was no reason to be defensive about my laziness. This was a camping trip!

Four and Ben held off the attacking illusions as I cut a couple wires and made the door open, which made Ben gape. He apparently hadn’t realized that I really did make a bunker. The other Jedi showed up in time to cover us as we fought our way through the base, eventually encountering three Sith.

Watching Ben as he attempted to keep up with Ella’s movements, I felt sorry for him. The conversation his parents had with him last night had left him feeling like he couldn’t argue with us. He had bitten back his words numerous times now, worried that he might say something offensive. Now he was in his hybrid form, which gave him speed and reflexes beyond what Ella could match, but he had absolutely no chance of landing a blow on her with his lightsaber. She was being nice and keeping the fight going, but I was fairly certain that even Ben realized he wasn’t actually winning.

Even Crazy was playing relatively nice with Four. She let him cut her down after putting on a bit of a show. Whichever quadruplet I was fighting wasn’t being such a pushover. Due to the difference in speed, I had plenty of time to admire her attacks. She mixed a Sith fighting style with Mother’s, creating an aggressive combination that wasn’t lacking in subtle deceptions. Her footing fooled me several times as she performed different attacks than I had anticipated. I ended up letting her cut me down, so she could fight Ben and Four.

Unfortunately for Ben, the quadruplets actually were physically on par with a werewolf, and all of them were very skilled. This one matched him easily while mostly focusing on Four, who was taking it easy on her, given that she was fighting two people, one of which lacked control. In the end, the Jedi won, Sith lost, and Ben gave his parents quite a story when we were back at camp.

#Children of BFFH #Children #of #BFFH #Jovial #Times #Jovial Times #Fantasy #Fiction #Story

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sarahjkl82-blog · 4 years ago

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Artistic Instinct Chapter Nine

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 6500

Warnings: Language as always, warning of racist language (Nush talking about her mother's experiences), yearning, fluff to second base (yes, my darlings- IT IS ON!), alcohol is mentioned, food, anxiety attacks.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who read, re-read, pointed out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something. This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit!

People often think artists

Create with their hands

But really they create

with their hearts

So please be gentle

For we wear our vulnerability

On our sleeves

And freely give all we have

Hoping someone will fall

In love with the parts we offer

R. Evelyn

Chapter Nine

The sharp buzz of the door startles you out of your daydream. Laden with roughly the entire contents of your spice cupboard, vegetables, meat and prawns, your hands are crisscrossed with creases from where the weight of the totes has gouged at your skin. A smart-looking kindly gentleman greets you, “You must be Ms Pierce. Mr Pike has asked for you to wait here for him.”

Wow! Marcus’ place has a concierge - who did he have to blow to get a place like this?!

Throwing the bags onto one of the hotel lounge-like chairs, you slump into another as you rub soreness from your hands. A small ping tells you that the lift has arrived - you look over in the direction of the noise, a tremor of excitement rippling through you. An adorably scruffy Marcus, wearing old jeans and a t-shirt, steps out - his face utterly beaming on seeing you. “Hey! How are you doing?” he leans in to kiss your cheek twice - hang on, when did this start being a thing?

“Why didn’t you let me pick you up? You’ve carried so much over- lemme see your hands,” his brow knits on seeing the rapidly reddening welts as he takes your hands in his, brushing his thumbs gently across your palms.

“You live four roads away from me - they’re not that bad! And anyway, you can help me now- which floor do you live on?” You outwardly roll your eyes at the sweetness Marcus shows you, secretly enjoying the stroke of his fingers and the ghostly press of his lips still burning a hole in your cheek.

Marcus takes all of the bags from the chair, refusing point blank to entertain you helping him to take them upstairs - you watch as his arms twitch under the weight, enjoying the mixture of confusion and shock at your strength across his face, “you carried all of this?”

Nodding at him, you try to take a bag again, but he dangles it just out of reach, “Watch it - you do realise that I have two other brothers apart from Ads? I will think nothing of rugby tackling you to the floor and pinning you down,” you warn, enjoying the flush brought to his cheeks.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Marcus flusters as he calls the lift, handing you the smallest, lightest bag.

✪✪✪✪✪

Exiting at the top floor, you’re taken aback by the amount of light and quiet that washes throughout the building. Feeling so removed from the shadows cast from the tower blocks and the hustle and bustle of the streets below, the broad daylight offers a sense of serenity, a peace that invites itself into the soul and makes itself at home. As Marcus unlocks the door to his flat, you kick off your shoes at the entrance, “You don’t have to do that,” he offers through the keys in his mouth, holding the door open with his elbow, still refusing any help from you.

“Oh believe me, if I didn’t, my mum’s radar would go off and I would be cruising for a bruising,” you giggle, taking in the glorious spaciousness of his apartment, “I promise my feet aren’t too stinky and that I put on clean socks.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable,” Marcus’ eyes crinkle at you, “Can I get you something to drink or eat?”

“A coffee would be ace - strong and black please,” you reply, your gaze drinking in the details of his home. Books line the shelves along one wall - such a mixture of titles ranging from airport bestsellers to obscure art catalogues - the relief to see actual paper and hardbacks adorning the shelves rather than trinkets and plants when so many keep their books electronically in their pockets.

A couple of large canvases lie propped against another - long hours preventing them from being hung - their bright colours sure to bring joyful hues to quite a stark room. There are a few photo frames dotted around - mostly pictures of a moment in time rather than poses - of people you assume are friends and family from back in the States. Handing you a steaming mug, Marcus looks over your shoulder as you look at a photo of an older couple dancing and laughing at a wedding, “That’s my mamá and papá at my oldest sister’s wedding. It was such a magical day - just so much love in the air.”

“You can feel the joy radiating from them,” you offer, lowering your gaze from him to grab the frame next to the picture of his parents, “Are these your sisters or cousins? You all look very alike.”

“Yeah, my little sisters,” he grins proudly. “This one is Beth - she’s two years younger and is a paediatrician in Texas. Has two kids with her wife, Sophie. And this one is Cat - she’s doing her own thing out on the West Coast as a musician. They definitely inherited all the clever and cool genes.”

“Hah! You’re kinder to your sisters than I am to my brothers,” you grin, “They’re all total idiots but due to some weird genetic and biological insistence, I still love them.”

Taking a gulp of your coffee, you turn back towards him, “Come on you, we’d better get to work if you want a curry this evening.”

He pouts, looking more like a sulky little boy than a middle aged man. You can’t help but laugh at the sad puppy dog eyes he is conjuring at the thought of work, “Oh poppet, what’s wrong?” you teasingly mock.

“I kinda hoped you were a magician who could just magic a curry outta nowhere so we could watch films til the others arrive,” Marcus grumps shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Well, there is UberEats for that but you horrible lot put me up to this so you’re going to help,” you wag your finger at him, “But as you’re the only one here, you get the honour of being the chief taster,” you add, tapping him playfully on the nose.

With a soft huff and a furrow of the brow, Marcus guides you into the kitchen where, whilst he was making your coffee, he has helpfully already put all the fresh produce in his fridge as the sides are delightfully blank apart from the bags of spices.

“What are we making today, Chef?”

“Ok, meat dishes are a spiced yoghurt leg of lamb, a keema - don’t you give me that look, a cardamom butter chicken, and, a prawn and courgette curry,” you turn to Marcus’ fridge to find the lamb, “Needs to come to room temperature before we cook it.”

“My tummy is rumbling already,” Marcus adds, his eyes glinting excitedly as he licks along his lower lip, the skin glistening damply. You have never quite figured out whether your love of his lips is due to their fullness or the association with the kindness of his words.

“Hah- you’re not getting away without having some veggies, too, mister,” you cluck as you hand him a bag of onions and several bulbs of garlic to skin, chop and crush for the various dishes.

“Ok, Moooom,” Marcus dramatically rolls his eyes at your dictate, “I admit, I’d rather eat sugary or salty things over green stuff but I can make an exception for curried veg.”

The arch of your eyebrow virtually reaches your hairline at him teasingly calling you mom, so you reach for the towel, twist it and flick him hard on what you’d hoped would be his hip but catch him square on his arse instead.

A yelp of pain and wide eyes greet your action, “Did you just…? Oh, it is on.! You might think you’re tough from your brothers but my sisters taught me sneaky tactics.”

“Come at me, bro!” you taunt from the other side of the kitchen, putting up a boxing stance.

Brandishing the hand without the paring knife in your general direction, he answers, “Nope, gonna use the element of surprise and attack when you least expect it!”

Tutting your tongue at Marcus’ weak ass response, you grab the spices you need to prepare under the power of your pestle and mortar. With the waft of roasting cumin soaring through the air and your battle with your boss at a supposedly declared ceasefire, everything starts to feel comfortable and easy again. You could be six years old and standing on the chair next to your mum, watching like a hawk as she lovingly prepared meals for your family with an ever burgeoning belly. It was then, during those hours shared in the galley kitchen that became your time with her when normally it felt pretty split between her work as a GP and your brothers.

What the fuck… You jump out of your skin when a warm, solid wall presses you out of your nostalgic reverie, “Hah! Pinned ya! Sneaky tactics- told ya they worked,” a deep, soft voice whispers in your ear.

Your heart flutters like a bird trying to escape its rib cage with the closeness of Marcus, the heat rising through your body from your proximity to him - a visceral response to the glorious cocktail of masculine smell from his aftershave and body wash.

What do I do next?

Why can’t I bloody think straight?

Wiggling yourself around so that you face him, his face now so close that you can feel his warm breath upon your cheeks. Your eyes playfully catch the steady gaze of Marcus’ deep soulful pools. It would only take the smallest of movements to reach forwards and kiss him right on that stupidly gorgeous, plush Cupid’s bow and crease. But… what if he doesn’t want that? He’s my fucking boss - that would be a stellar move to make…

Instead of the tiny incline forwards to press your lips against his as every inch of you screams to do so, you drop to the floor and crawl out from between his legs, “Not pinned well enough it seems,” you tease haltingly as your tongue sticks in your dry throat.

As you check the browning of the cumin seeds, out of the corner of your eye you see Marcus’ head drop sadly, hearing a small sigh - his hands still upon the work surface and feet not having moved from the position he had pinned you in moments earlier.

Did he want to...? No, surely not.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, Nush,” Marcus humbly apologises, pushing himself off the side, “I hope that I haven’t made things awkward.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” you softly say, pouring the roasted cumin into the mortar, ready to be ground, “I was the one who flicked you on your arse - I am the one who should be apologising.”

You beckon gently to Marcus, who has now taken refuge in the furthest corner of the kitchen from you - wringing his hands instead of chopping the onions, “Come over here - I want you to experience one of my most favourite smells of childhood. These are roasted cumin seeds and when you grind them, they release the most heavenly scent.”

After a few grinds, you offer the bowl towards Marcus’ face as he closes the gap between you, “I… Wow! I wouldn’t have thought it would make such a difference but it’s almost like you’ve entirely transformed it. See,” the dimple deepens in that right cheek of his, “you are a magician.”

“I love how spices - a bit like paint - can take on completely different characters depending on how you treat them. Leave the spice whole and you have this mild and fragrant taste. If you crush them, then their attitude comes back tenfold with a vengeance. Toast them, and they may as well be Clark Kent in a phone booth.”

Looking up you see Marcus gazing at you with a sweet half smile on his face - could he like me… like that?

“Sorry, you don’t need to hear me blathering on,” you fluster, waving your hand in a dismissive gesture as the heat rises through your face.

Shaking his head gently without dropping your regard, “No. No, please don’t ever stop. Your passion for things is beautiful.”

“Growing up, I didn’t realise that other people didn’t have whole cupboards filled to the brim with herbs, spices and seasonings. I mean, for all the damage the British Empire reeked, you’d have hoped that the spices would have entered more of their culture, but no! Apparently, my family was the weird one for having food with a flavour,” you shrug your shoulders at some of the ridiculous things you’d heard as a child - accusations of differences you’d never thought to be of note.

Marcus chuckles at your indignance, “It’s funny you should say that. I didn’t realise that my mamá had an accent until it was pointed out to me when I was a kid.”

Noting your slightly confused expression, Marcus explains, “She’s Argentinian- came to the States as a political refugee as she was a journalist following the disappearances during the Dirty War. Met my dad, and I came along very soon after, and the rest is history..”

You can’t help but laugh at the flush on Marcus’ cheeks as he recounts his personal history to you, “Love can’t be held back when it hits and it’s obvious that they’re still crazy about each other now from that photo.”

“Exactly, no point in wasting time when you know what you want,” Marcus grins, looking at his feet.

“My parents have a similar story. My dad is as English as they come - I mean we’re on a freaking island so there’s no true thing as being completely English. My mum is from Pakistan - Karachi - it’s in the South.”

“She came over due to the fighting between East and West Pakistan - the two countries that are now Pakistan and Bangladesh. It kept interrupting her studies to become a doctor so she came to England and restarted her degree here.”

Marcus’ brow creases in thought, “Why did she restart her degree? Could the credits not just be transferred to the college she moved to in the UK?”

“Hah- yeah. It was the seventies, during a time where all Southern Asians were P*kis - no matter where they were from on the Indian subcontinent- and thought of as dirty, lesser beings. There were constant race riots for anyone who wasn’t ethnically white or English. She would never have been taken seriously with her mediocre medical training from some Adobe hut in the middle of a jungle,” you fume, pounding the seeds into fragments. The mortar being threatened with the same fate too.

Marcus’ fingers wrap around your wrist to try and prevent your rage at the ignorance of others from causing you an injury, “I am so sorry,” he pulls you into a warm, tender hug, tucking your head under his chin, “How long before food can take care of itself so we can put a film on? I think we both need a rest.”

“Hmmm, ten minutes and then most things can simmer or be switched off ready for a reheat or proper cook this evening,” you say, leaning reluctantly out of his comforting arms to go check on the bubbling saucepans of food.

“‘K. I’ll go get things set up so you can flop for a bit,” Marcus touches you gently on your shoulder as he goes to set up the front room. You go to squeeze his hand but it’s removed from your shoulder too quickly for your response.

✪✪✪✪✪

“You ready?” Marcus calls through the wall as you turn off the heat from the final pans.

“Mhm,” you mumble in response to his question - double, triple checking that everything is off. Too many fire alarms ruining perfectly lovely meals or moments.

“What did you pick?” You ask, curling up on the other end of the sofa to Marcus, “Do you have no cushions?”

“Shit, no -I’m a guy, what can I say? - lemme grab the pillows from the bed,” Marcus jumps up, calling through from his bedroom, “Bet you have loads on your couch.”

“A fuckload, but, mainly to hide the fact the springs have gone. It’s like a precarious balancing act of comfort on there,” you surreptitiously sniff the pillow, inhaling the smell of Marcus’ shampoo, “Did you give me your pillow?”

A confused look is shot at you from the other end of the sofa, “Whaddya mean?”

“Smells of your hair,” you say as you squish it into the perfect comfy shape, “Like a mixture of lemon and eucalyptus.”

“That’s a sharp nose you’ve got. I gave you the other side though,” Marcus huffs through a chuckles he shakes his head at your somewhat strange comment, “Guess I’ve been sleeping across both sides then.”

“Best thing about sleeping alone- getting to starfish across the bed. Unless of course…”

Marcus can’t help but laugh at your awkward dig to find out whether he’d brought home the goddess from Friday’s antics, “So you wanna know if I brought home Kemi?”

“She was very beautiful. You’d have been mad not to,” you try to school your expression as best you can, keeping your eyes glued to Bing Crosby and Grace Kelly singing about true love, desperate to hide the jealousy coursing through your veins.

“Must be mad then. Didn’t even kiss her,” Marcus honestly answers whilst copying your tactic of staring at the tv, “She could see that there was someone else I liked so it would have been cruel to have done anything.”

You mull this over in silence, trying not to speak, to ask a million questions.

“Nush.”

“Mhm?”

“Can I talk to y…”

You both jump as an alarm goes off on your phone to remind you to turn the lamb down in the oven.

“Oh shit. Hold that thought,” you jump up from the sofa, heading in the direction of the kitchen with zero thought of what the man at the end of the sofa is desperately trying to tell you. Fiddling with Marcus’ ridiculously swanky oven until it looks like it is doing what you want it to do, you walk back in with two ice cold beers from his fridge.

“Raided your fridge,” you cheekily grin, holding one out to Marcus, the condensation running, down your fingers, “Hope you don’t mind!”

“Good thinking, Batman,” Marcus nods in appreciation, “Any more alarms set to scare us both?”

“Only due to go off when the film is done, so…” you yawn widely, “We’ve got a while yet.”

Marcus’ hand that was slung over the back of the sofa, lifts to stroke your shoulder, “You sleepy? C'mere, you.” With a soft tug of your t-shirt sleeve, he pulls you into his side - your willingness to sink into his broad chest very apparent. Your ear is pressed against him, his heartbeat singing a lullaby to you as his fingers stroke and caress the silken waves of your hair. You wonder at how this man - a total stranger a week ago - has seemingly knitted himself into becoming a cocoon of safety for you, his gentleness and calm offering a haven of tranquility in your otherwise cacophonous world, as the light in the room slowly fades to black.

✪✪✪✪✪

“Uh oh.”

“Hey, welcome back, sunshine!” a gentle pair of fingers stroke back the hair that had drifted into your face as you dozed.

“Sorry for falling asleep. Again,” trying to finesse your way through the heat flaming your cheeks, you offer an awkward grin towards your chuckling pillow, “Guess we’d better start getting things finished as we’ve only got a couple of hours until everyone arrives.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Marcus! I don’t want to move either but this curry won’t finish cooking itself.”

“Spit spot, there’s work to be done,” Marcus trills as he adopts his best attempt at a British accent.

“What the fuck was that? Did you just turn into Dick Van Dyke or something?” You tease mercilessly at the appalling sound coming from those lips, choking back laughter at his mock offended face.

“C’mon, you’re right. We’d better get moving,” Marcus stands with a stretch and a creak before reaching back to tug you to your feet.

Back under the glowing lights of Marcus’ kitchen, his presence is now constantly close to yours as you glide together around the space - stirring, chopping and checking. Every time he passes, above the general aroma of cumin and coriander, the onions and garlic, you can smell the cedar and amber upon his skin- a deliciously masculine scent that only seeks to entangle your senses further.

“Here, try this,” you hold out a heaped teaspoon of mince curry to Marcus, “This is the keema - I promise that I only put in the two chillies you chopped for me, this time.”

“Mmm, that’s so good,” he says thickly between chews, stealing the spoon from you as he dives in for a second, third, fourth spoonful.

“Hahaha! Leave some for the others- and you need to try it with some raita and fried onions too,” you check through your dog-eared, yellowed and slightly sticky recipe book that your mum had handed you the day you’d left home at eighteen - a memo of all the times you had cooked them together.

“Shit, I’d better start the chicken,” going through the spices in front of you, you search for the cardamoms that would make the butter chicken sing, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Marcus’ head snaps up from the green beans he was preparing towards you, “What’s up, sweetheart?”

“I can’t find the cardamoms for the butter chicken - gah I knew I’d fuck this up!” you cry, scraping your trembling hands through your hair, eyes flashing around the room wildly as your cortisol rises, making you want to run and scream at your failure to feed your friends.

“Whoa - where’s this coming from? C’mon, look at me. Look at me, Nush,” Marcus has his hands on either side of your shoulders, squeezing them gently, “There’s enough here to feed our whole office for the week with the daals you prepared yesterday, the vegetables we’re about to make and the meats that we’ve cooked up already here. Andy is bringing all the rice and naan, Kiri is bringing beers and Dian is on gin and tonic duty. You have done more than enough and I will not allow you to get this upset over one missing ingredient especially when there is a small store downstairs that I’m sure will have it, if we cannot find it after we look for it together.”

After seeing your numb nod as an agreement, Marcus moves his hands to the side of your head to focus your gaze on him rather than the panic seeping through you. As he strokes his thumbs across your cheeks, you allow your eyes to close and your breathing to regain a normal pattern.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologising?” Marcus searches your now open eyes.

“My reactions are ridiculous. Most people tell me to stop being so stupid and that just whips the storm inside my head even more,” you whisper, “But you. You know how to slow everything down and stop the spinning.”

The corner of Marcus’ mouth twitches, “D’ya wanna know a secret?” You nod at him, “As you know, I was married before. When it ended, I totally spiralled. The world kept spinning too fast and I experienced constant anxiety, very nearly burning out of my role.

“I was lucky. My boss was understanding but made me promise to get some support. He knew of someone mental health trained within the FBI who was there for mainly hostage negotiations - not part of the true psych team but someone who could help without it turning up on your record.

“Kwame worked with me for almost a year - pretty much to the point my decree absolute came through. Our sessions were done on a track - by running with me, he was teaching me the skills I needed to control my fears. By my feet hitting the tarmac, he was grounding me. By going over running techniques, he was teaching me how to control my breathing- taking longer and deeper breaths. And running is just repetition. A mindful repetition that allows your brain to have a bit of a break.

“So when I see you start to spiral, I try to give you the same steps he taught me. Get you grounded, opposite me so you copy my breathing and hope that gets you on the right track.”

“Thank you,” you drop your head forwards, relaxing onto his chest. He feels so - safe.

“You don’t need to thank me. Well, okay maybe you do as look what I’ve just spotted,” Marcus holds the offending spice aloft.

“Oh my god, I could fucking kiss you. You have just saved the curry,” you dramatically declare, clutching the cardamom jar to your heart before placing it next to the other ingredients on the counter.

“Go on then.”

What?

His comment makes you snap your head over to catch Marcus’ tremulous gaze, his eyes darting between the floor and your lips. He takes a small step, closing the small distance between the two of you, threading his fingers between yours. Each slow movement offers an unspoken opportunity for you to step away. To tease him and move on with the day.

But why on Earth would you?

With your heart racing faster and faster, you lure him ever closer with your eyes, soft but absolute in their conviction of what was about to pass between you. A small part of you understands that when you kiss him, something will change forever. That within his lips you may find the place to call home - the aching in your stomach may cease and life could start to make sense again. The anxieties of the week washing away, the pain of your collective pasts and the hint of a brighter, happier future before you.

When he doesn’t move again, you seize the moment. Pushing up onto your socked tiptoes, you tilt your chin, inclining your face until your lips come to rest upon his in the sweetest, chastest kiss. Drawing back slightly to check that Marcus is okay with a raise of your eyebrows and widened eyes, he holds your gaze steadily, similarly stunned - a mirror of each other with racing hearts and slightly parted lips. It’s like in that moment everything around you ceases to exist as anything other than extraneous nonsense - all the noise inside your head silenced by that one touch.

A small dumbstruck smile creeps across Marcus’ lips before he lowers his head to press another gentle kiss upon you. Then another. Then another. Each press of your lips a little longer. A little deeper. Your lips part to allow his tongue entry as every single thought is quietened by the taste of him. Dropping hands for his to cradle your face and yours to thread through his hair as your bodies press together tightly.

Oh the taste of him is utterly exquisite! From where you’ve been using him as chief curry taster, there’s an element of spices with the tiniest hint of mint. And how you have missed having that beautifully solid warmth of his body next to yours. Inhaling his breaths that fall upon you, your hearts match each other’s rhythms as your lips explore each other, every sensation drawing together to create a humming ball of energy, like you are standing at the point where lightning strikes the Earth.

✪✪✪✪✪

Hands fisted tightly in each other’s clothing - both stuck in the quandary of wanting to tear the fabric from your bodies but also frightened of pushing the other too far. Finally pulling apart, you gaze upon Marcus - all lust blown pupils and dopey smiles. Your foreheads come back to rest against each other, unable to quite let go just yet, not wanting to break the spell and return to reality.

“I have wanted to kiss you since perhaps the first time I met you,” Marcus murmurs as his lips gently ghost over your cheeks, “Maybe even from seeing the photo in your file when Andy drove me here from the airport.”

“Was the person, me?” You quietly ask, finally with the confidence to finish that conversation, “The reason you didn’t kiss or sleep with the goddess?”

He drops his eyes as he gives you a small nod, “Normally, I’d have just asked you out but I was scared of fucking up. It’s been a long time since I felt a spark with anyone.

“You’ve entered my life in this whirlwind of intelligence, beauty and tenderness - I didn’t want to frighten you or make you feel uncomfortable if you didn’t reciprocate.”

A thousand thoughts flood your mind as Marcus says those words. All at once, you want to tell him how safe he makes you feel. How much now that you’ve started kissing him, you never want to stop. How the cruel critics of slumber, silence themselves when you feel his heartbeat against your cheek.

Instead you stand there, silent.

Trying to stroke out the creases you’ve created in his t-shirt as you attempt to find words to put into a logical order, you notice his face twitching when the material under your fingers makes contact with his sides, “Oh Marcus, are you ticklish?”

“Um, no,” Marcus tries to deny breezily as he takes a small, hesitant step back from you, pretending to steady himself.

Making a small movement towards him, your hands at the same level as the point of the bunched fabric - you ask, “Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah,” Marcus is now eyeing you suspiciously - desperate to kiss you again but also a little worried as to what havoc your fingers might reek.

“Then, why are you moving away from me?”

“No reason…” his usually deep voice now a little tighter and higher, “Nush… What are you about to ARGH!”

His knees crumble beneath him as you attack his sensitive sides, “Gah! Quit it, woman,” he weakly commands between wheezes and hoots of laughter.

Taking full advantage of Marcus’ prone and vulnerable position, you take the opportunity to straddle him - effectively pinning him to the floor, “This is how you pin someone.”

“I let you pin me,” Marcus corrects you with a wink.

“Oh really?” you contest, entirely unconvinced by his bravado.

“Yeah,” he says with a small wiggle, bringing his hands to the back of your head, “Cos y’see, I can flip our positions quite easily.”

Suddenly, you find yourself flat on your back in Marcus’ kitchen with zero air in your lungs to form any sensible thought other than to kiss him hard. His large hands cradle your head as he props himself gently above you on his elbows. You feel his entire body covering yours. Deliciously pressing against every single inch of you and oh how it takes every bit of the minutismal amount of self control you have to not beg him to fuck you senseless into that floor.

✪✪✪✪✪

“Shit, is that your door?”

“Fuck,” Marcus pushes himself up to kneeling between your legs, “Can we pretend we’re not in?”

The harsh realisation of an evening with your colleagues, albeit lovely people, sinks in to you both.

“Nope,” you groan, popping the p with a deflated gusto, “Hang on, don’t buzz them up until I’ve tucked my boobs back into my bra.”

“I dunno, makes for easier access,” Marcus lopsidedly grins with a wink as he heads for the door.

“You certainly didn’t seem to make hard work of it earlier,” you mumble at him, before you affix a smile to your face, “Hey! How are you all doing?”

A sea of never ending hugs envelopes and separates you from Marcus as everyone piles into his apartment. The stupid grin still firmly in place on your face since you’d first kissed, you find that every time you look over at him, he’s gazing right back, mirroring that lovestruck smile.

“Oh my god, it all smells so amazing,” Dian waxes lyrical, squeezing you tightly as she inhales a lungful of exotically scented air, “What’ve we got?”

You take her by the hand into the kitchen to show all the different things you had bubbling away. Andy ducks into the kitchen behind you, laden with bags filled with pilau rice, naan and chapatis, and a beautiful small bunch of spring flowers in his other hand - tiny tête-à-tête daffodils with multiple heads along each stalk, brilliant yellow and red tulips standing like soldiers and the otherworldly looking stems of hyacinth, wickedly scenting the air under your nose as he thrusts them under there.

“Hey pretty girl, here’s all the bits you asked for. You deserve a much bigger bunch for what I’ve roped you into but I know you love the early blooms,” he offers by way of apology, sticking a kiss to the side of your forehead, “Smells fucking good though as ever. Hope you don’t mind but I’ve brought a box to take some home for Greg - he was a jealous arse this evening so I suppose I should share.”

“You know the way I cook, enough for several small armies,” you wonkily grin at him, truly thankful for the part he’d had to play, “‘Fraid there’s no easy way to say this and you will have to be the one to break it to Greg, but there’s no butter chicken tonight.”

“You’d better have a damn good excuse for this slatternly behaviour, madam,” Andy gives you a serious side eye for this infraction.

“Well…”

“Initially Nush couldn’t find the cardamoms but then we ran out of time. Plenty of food here, though,” Marcus answers for you, his hand gently holding your hip as he reaches around you to grab a couple of beers from the fridge.

You see Andy catch Marcus’ hand lightly stroking your side as he walks back to Kiritopa, but are entirely grateful when his expression and mouth say nothing. The light chatter in the kitchen, whilst Dian dips a teaspoon into all the pots, is interrupted by a small knock at the door. Sticking your head around the kitchen door, you spot Marcus opening the door to a nervous-looking Harper. Andy sidles past you, to pull her into the main room, rather than her previous position of standing on the doorstep, utterly awkward and obviously feeling quite out of place.

“Hi, I hope you don’t mind me coming. I know I wasn’t there Friday but I don’t really do large crowds and drinking.”

You walk over to her amidst the chorus of “not to worry”s and “lovely to see you”s, “Fancy something to drink now? Got plenty of soft options and I think I’ll stick alongside you as I’ve got to make sure I don’t burn stuff.”

“Including yourself, this time,” Harper retorts quickly with a small smile and a raise of her eyebrows.

“Hah, chance’d be a fine thing,” Andy laughs, slapping your shoulder before turning back to clink bottles and talk with Kiri and Marcus.

✪✪✪✪✪

Through the full length doors of Marcus’ balcony, evening spring sunshine streams through, bathing the group of your co-workers in a gentle, diffused light that flows around the room coating you in a golden glow. You all eat your fill and then some, with full tummies and tired eyes - the kitchen still full of half eaten dishes.

“Can we make this a weekly thing?” Kiritopa asks through a mouthful of food, hopefully.

“Not unless we take it in turns or get a take away - I don’t have the physical or emotional energy to make this level of curry every weekend,” you pointedly remark, looking up from your coke to meet Marcus’ eyes.

You’ve spent the evening barely speaking to each other for fear of alerting the others but surreptitiously brushing past so that you can sneak touches. Tender hidden strokes that feel like the kindest stitches on hidden, gaping wounds.

Marcus stands up to help usher the evening to an end and get you to himself again, “I have some boxes for y’all to take food home as otherwise, I’ll be eating this for weeks - delicious as it is.”

Everyone thankfully takes their boss’ hint and head into the kitchen to grab platefuls to reheat after long days. Slowly saying their goodbyes, your friends drift off in the direction of their homes as you throw yourself in an exhausted heap of bones on his sofa. Two strong hands grip you under your arms, to drape your torso across his lap.

“Hey tired girl,” you slightly open your eyes to spy a smiling Marcus gazing down at you. His fingers draw lazy patterns over the sensitive skin of your neck.

“I’d like to take you on a proper date this week. Wanna do this properly. Make a bit of a fuss.”

“Yeah? Not just pin me down and ravish me on the kitchen floor?” you grin widely at him.

“Well, I’d hardly call that a ravishing…” your eyes widen, eyebrows raising at Marcus’ comment, excitement pooling in your tummy, “Yeah, I saw there’s an Argentinian restaurant in Blackheath so how about steak, Malbec and homemade ice cream before I bring you back to either yours, or mine, for another, even better ravishing?”

“That sounds amazing, although with the amount of food in my belly, I may never have to eat again,” you give your stomach a rub, “But the ravishing…”

Hauling you up to sitting across his lap, you protest loudly, “I am going to crush your legs.”

“Stop making ridiculous comments and c’mere,” Marcus demands as he gently turns your head towards him, stealing a delicate kiss from you.

“I...should… - argh! Stop kissing me for a second,” you beg halfheartedly, “I should go home.”

“Stay.”

“Please stay,” Marcus desperately entreats you, “I’m not expecting anything but I’d love it if you stayed. I know you’ve got nothing here but give me two minutes and I can have a spare toothbrush for you. I’ll drop you home early tomorrow morning so you can grab some clothes and then we can go into work together?”

It feels as though the wind is knocked out of your lungs with the depth of Marcus’ need to be around you.

How does he do it?

“There’s no games with you, are there?” you twist in Marcus’ lap so that you now straddle his thighs, placing your hands on either side of his ridiculously handsome face.

“No,” he shakes head slowly, all the while holding eye contact with you, “I’m too old and I know what I want.”

“What’s that?”

Stroking his hands up and down your sides as he nuzzles your neck, he clearly and confidently declares,

“You.”

Tag list of glory (as ever, please ask to be put on or dropped from the list): @astroboots @silverwolf319@sirowsky @leonieb @disgruntledspacedad @bison-writes @the-ginger-hedge-witch @danniburgh @sugarontherims @green-socks @tardisfangurl @absurdthirst @pedropascalito-deactivated20210 @mouthymandalorian @mrsparknuts @zukoyonce @agirllovespancakes @yespolkadotkitty @lunaserenade @theravenreads @lv7867 @songsformonkeys

#pedro pascal #josé pedro balmaceda pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal#ppascaledit #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfic #marcus pike x oc #marcus pike x oc reader

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silence-burns · 4 years ago

Text

Please Hate Me //part 33

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine

[Somewhere in a universe far, far away…]

There was a soft brush of fabric on the polished floor that accompanied the approaching steps of leather shoes. Frigga stopped a little to Heimdall's left.

"What do your golden eyes see, my friend?"

"They see many things, my queen."

Bifrost glimmered in the million colors under their feet. Lines and flashes passed faster than the human eye could see. The sword that was the key to every way, waited in Heimdall's hands.

"What do you see of my troubled sons?"

"They are both learning through new experiences."

Frigga sighed. "Which usually means they’ve gotten in even more trouble. Tell me, what is it this time?"

Heimdall stood tall on the dais, the armor forged in ancient times by the hands of legends half forgotten by time still impeccable. The worlds moved before his eyes, with no secrets hidden from the gaze of the All-Watcher.

"They are faring well, my queen. Even Loki."

"I had hoped that banishment to Earth would be a better choice than the dungeons." Frigga's hand clutched the gown over her heart. "What did he do this time?"

A smile ghosted on the lips of the All-Watcher. "It appears that he's made friends. Quite close ones, I dare say."

"Oh, dear," Freya repeated in a completely different tone. A wicked light played in her eyes. "Do tell, my friend."

[The same universe, a little closer]

Life in big cities bears a certain strain on everyone's minds. Despite what the newspapers, thirsty for anything and everything worthy and unworthy of filling the pages with, would like you to believe, life had always been difficult.

Time is always lacking, and money is never enough, and no matter how much you strain your brain, it just sometimes happens that you might not remember about the things stored at the very back of your tiny shop, tucked cozily into the corner of a very calm street.

"Well," the man said. "I had no idea that I still had those in the freezers. I could've sworn that I have cleaned them before the winter and left nothing except for the packed broccoli. It must be your lucky day, my boy."

The boy indeed felt very lucky. It was not everyday that one could be sent out to fetch ice cream for a living god in the middle of winter.

"Have a nice day, sir!" he called on his way out.

The chilly breeze bit into his cheeks, warmed up in the comforting interior of the grocery. Snow shined on the few surfaces not yet stamped on. The sidewalk Peter chose was a slippery trap that only his spider senses got him through unscathed.

Loki sensed his coming, and looked over his shoulder at the approaching boy. His other arm was currently wrapped around your shoulders, tucking you closer into him. Peter tried his best not to stare too openly, but couldn't stop the grin from splitting his face. He sat on the other side of the god, the bench icy cold.

"Thank you, my boy." The god took the ice cream with obvious delight. It had been your idea to spend the few hours before Peter's totally-not-a-date trying out the goods New York had to offer. At first, Loki had snickered at the suggestion of trying out whatever ice cream was available in the middle of winter, but after a few interesting flavors were discovered, Loki apologized. There was an almost disturbing variety of flavors Loki couldn't even imagine existing.

"You're welcome, Mr. Mischief. I'm sure there would be a bigger choice if it was summer. I always go to that one vendor two streets away from my house, because he has this special recipe that absolutely blows my taste buds away every time."

"Sounds intriguing." Loki's mind conjured the last time his taste buds had been blown away. If he recalled that unfortunate event correctly, it had something to do with pizza and a bet. "But I think I'll pass for now."

The look of pure adoration in the boy's eyes hadn’t perished.

"I still can't believe you won't get sick after having so many," you said, and watched Loki devour the caramel.

"It must be nice to be a god," Peter sighed. "You have awesome superpowers, get to do what you want and they even make action figures of you…"

Loki frowned. "The what?"

Peter blanched. He started fumbling with his jacket and 'accidentally' looked at his watch. "Oh, I think I’ve gotta go, it's getting so late and I don't want to make MJ wait—"

Loki reached out and fixed the hair Peter had been nervously fighting with for the past few hours they'd all spent outside. "Don't forget the ring, boy."

"Thank you!"

The boy was beaming on his way out of the park.

"I'm never washing my hair again."

The totally-not-a-date that was steadily approaching was something Peter wasn't sure he was ready for. So many things could go wrong—and he had already imagined most of them. It wasn't as if he couldn't sleep all night thinking about it, he just… Was busy. Thinking.

Peter straightened the jacket that was in absolutely no need of straightening. His hand moved to his hair, but he stopped it halfway with a smile. It'd been touched by the hand of god, so it was as good as it could ever get.

On his way out of the park the three of you had been resting in for a while, Peter's mind was in a strange disarray of thoughts. However, he was still capable of noticing the interesting new graffiti decorating the Avengers' statues set up in the middle of the park. Whoever decided to redecorate them this time, certainly had a pair of skillful hands. The wild mustache covering half of Iron Man's face looked almost lifelike.

Loki and you watched the boy leave, nervousness apparent in his every too-stiff step.

"They grow up so fast," you sighed, leaning further into Loki.

He nodded. His finger circled lazily around your shoulder, drawing spiralling patterns. Loki turned his head toward the memorial statues raised in the central part of the park. People took pictures in front of them, posing and smiling as they milled around. Those were the heroes, after all. Saviors of the day.

Loki added a mustache to another statue.

You noticed and eased a giggle. "They're going to be so pissed."

"My very soul aches at that thought. What a terrible crime."

The patterns changed as you shifted slightly. The presence on his shoulder was warm and softened by the fabric of clothes that kept the winter frost from you.

"I thought using magic in this world was difficult."

"It is.There's a lot more focus required to make it work than I'm used to. It's nothing dramatic, though. I've heard of worlds where the trickle of magic is even more strained, to the point where it barely exists at all."

"Do you miss them? The other worlds, I mean. Like Asgard."

The patterns changed again. They slowed down, became more deliberate.

"Sometimes," was the honest answer and the one he gave after careful consideration.

"Will you leave, then?"

Loki looked down at his wrist, where a thin band of metal used to reside, blocking every and all effort he might take against leaving Earth or using magic in any form. It was no longer there, which meant, although it would be extremely difficult to conduct, Loki could technically leave.

The only obstacle was that it was no longer his priority.

"I've never been one to sit aimlessly on my ass for too long, and especially not when and where I had been forced to do so. I think I could name more than a few places I'd like to pay a visit," he admitted, putting his cheek on the top of your head. His throat bobbed slightly. "The only problem is that I just recently found out how terribly boring touring alone might be. It's a real wonder why anyone bothers to do so anymore, and," he swallowed, "I think I could use some company."

Loki cursed himself for putting his head on top of yours, and blocking the view of your face. Especially as he still didn't get any answer. His heart jumped into his throat, making it difficult to breathe.

"...I mean, I know it's still so early, and that's okay if you feel overwhelmed or unsure and I won't force you into anything more than you're willing to do—”

Loki's rumbles were cut short when you finally moved to look up at him. The wild gleam in your eyes and a wicked smile so similar to his struck him dumb.

"You'd never be able to leave this planet without me."

A choked breath, so similar to a whispered name ghosted over his lips. "Of course I wouldn't. What would be the fun in that?"

[The galaxy, elsewhere]

"Oh, dear," the queen broke the biscuit in half with perfect manners. Barely any crumbs dared to ruin the fragile dessert. "I guess he really is experiencing something new."

Heimdall sipped the tea. Servants at the queen's quarters left them with a small table full of goods of the highest sort. The warm breeze played with the curtains with the subtle shimmer of gold. The trees rustled on the wind, losing old leaves to it.

"He's also plotting an escape," Heimdall added. His helmet laid on his knee.

Frigga waved the biscuit in a gesture that had very little to do with manners. "That sounds more like him."

The softest hint of a smile graced her features.

"I wonder what will become of him. Maybe it's in my nature as a mother, but no matter how much I try, I can't help but continue to worry about him, even after all these years."

"I swore to keep an eye on him, and I will." Heimdall put a hand to his heart. There was no smile on his face, only seriousness as he recalled an oath he'd never break.

"Thank you, my friend."

#Please Hate Me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki #loki laufeyson #i love loki #marvel #loki marvel #loki mcu #loki fanfiction #loki imagine #loki laufeyson imagine

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pl-panda · 5 years ago

Text

Damienette arranged marriage: part 18

Credits: Miraculous Ladybug team for the elements I take from MLB show. DC for their characters, @ozmav for the AU, @maribat-archive for giving me access to so many different stories to have take inspirations from, @thyladyanput for idea for Chat Damian and me for the plot.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

Part 12 Part 13 part 14

part 15 part 16

Part 17

Damienette arranged marriage: part 18

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

“I think it will be best if I tell the truth.” She looked at Damian for a moment, but then returned her sight to Marinette. “It has mostly to do with your grandma. My mother had two daughters actually. Me and my sister. Her name is Sandra Wu-San, better know as Lady Shiva”

“What the fuck!?” Was Damian’s reaction.

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

“Judging by Damian’s reaction, I guess she is not that popular…” Marinette stated, having no idea who was this ‘Lady Shiva’ beyond apparently her aunt.

“She is…” Her mother started, but this time it was Tom who stopped her.

“Sandra is an assassin, much like your husband.” He glared daggers at the boy, who felt shiver going up his spine. Perhaps it was because they were Marinette’s parents, but this two scared him on equal level as his father on bad day or angry Alfred. He’d only seen the butler in foul mood once. He could not really remember what caused it, but there was no stopping Alfred then.

“Ex-Assassin Papa. Damian is a good person.” Marinette defended him. Sabine was about to say something, but the girl had none of that. “Damian is honest, caring and loyal. He was willing to give up his freedom to protect me and he tried to fight an akumatized Chat Noir to buy me time to escape.”

“Wait. Chat Noir got akumatized?” Her mother asked bewildered.

“tt. Yes.” Damian answered. “That moggy decided that he no longer wants Ladybug and instead went after An… Marinette” Luckily for him, neither of the parents acknowledged the nickname he started to give his wife.

“He probably got akumatized over something else and it just appeared this way…”

“As if!” Her father shouted. “I knew that boy would only bring trouble. If I get my hands on him, I…” Tom stopped himself before he said too much. His daughter might have been married (he still had hard time believing this was real), but she was a child nonetheless. “then I will hand him to Sabine!” He finally declared. It was not like he could invent any worse fate for Chat Noir anyway.

The mother in question turned to Damian with her cold stare. “I want you to be honest with me young man. Did that mogger do anything to my sweety?”

“He kissed her.” Damian answered truthfully.

“Tom! Get me my bag!” Sabine shouted.

“Maman! It was because of the Akuma! You can’t go out and try to skin him alive…” Marinette tried to defend her partner. And I just thought I dissuaded one former assassin from extracting vengeance. She thought to herself.

“Oh Sweety! It doesn’t make it right.”

“Maman!/Mrs. Cheng.” Marinette and Damian exclaimed at the same time. Girl allowed her boyfriend/husband to speak first.

“While I would be more than eager to assist you in the hunt for the rascal, I believe the priority here is Marinette and what she wants.”

“Huff. Yes. You are right boy.” Sabine was not amused, but she gained some respect for the boy. He was considerate about her daughter’s opinion. At least that was a plus.

“I have one question.” Damian noticed that she relaxed a bit and decided to test his luck. “Sabine Wu-San was declared dead almost quarter a century ago. How is that you are here.”

“Well, I think I owe Mari this story and you are not leaving any times soon.” The last part held a underlain threat that he better stayed and explained himself thorough. She heard the retelling of the events from month before, but she still had more than a handful of questions for the boy. The kind that she would ask when Marinette went to bed.

“You don’t need to Maman.” The girl quickly sputtered.

“It’s okay sweety. Given the situation you should probably know.” Sabine reassured the girl and took more comfortable position on the couch. “Well… My sister and I were raised to be perfect assassins. We were practically born into the League of Assassins. By the time I was twenty, I already mastered most of the conventional martial arts and weapons. But it was not what I wanted. I wanted out. I wanted freedom. I didn’t want to be just a killing machine.”

“Mmmmffffmfmf” Talia gave another muffled sound. This one was even more angry, but nobody cared what she

“Oh! Shut up you murderous… “ Sabine stopped herself. “Would you cover your ears sweety? I must tell Talia some words that should not be said in presence of such sweetheart.” Marinette wanted to frown, but Damian took the chance and came closer to her and put his hands on either sides of her head. He scowled when Tom did the same for him. Both teens could see Sabine yelling something at the tied woman, but they didn’t hear anything. It lasted for quite a bit before finally much more cheerful woman gestured Tom that she was done.

“You feeling better Maman?”

“Yes Sweety. Where was I? Right. When I was twenty I run away. I faked my own death to make sure I was left alone.”

“I remember. That was the first time Lady Shiva emerged.” Damian recalled what he read in his father’s files when he was bored. “She was out for revenge. She was mercilessly tracking all people who had any connection with the case.”

“Yes.” Sabine admitted sadly. ‘It was almost two years before she found me.”

“So she knows you are alive?” Damian implied.

“Yes. Sandra is sweet once you get to know her. She comes on my birthday or at least send an overly expensive piece of weaponry. I keep it all in ‘The bag’.” Sabine chimed happily. “If she ever happens to be in Paris we make sure to go out for a coffee and catch up.

“Maman! Why didn’t I ever meat Aunt Sandra then?”

“You did once. She posed as Wang’s assistant, remember?”

“That was her!?” Marinette remembered hazily that about four years ago Uncle Wang was accompanied by some woman who claimed to be there to deal with the press and the likes.

“Yes.”

“Miss Cheng.” Damian started with a bit of a hesitation. “Are you aware that your sister had a daughter?” He asked unsure whether this was appropriate or not. His human skills were already put to the test here.

“Excuse me, but could you repeat?” Sabine asked befuddled.

“Cassandra Cain. She is the daughter of Lady Shiva and another Assassin David Cain. At the moment she lives with my father in the Manor.”

“Oh…” Marinette watched as her mother was completely at the loss of words. “Excuse me why I go make a call and yell at certain family member. Damian. Be so kind and ask your father if it would be okay for me to meet her.”

“Will do madam.” The young Wayne actually smiled. He always respected Cass and was happy that maybe the girl would find some of her family.

The happy atmosphere was broken when suddenly Talia crashed the chair she was tied to and freed herself.

“You are all in. So. Much. Trouble!” She spat through clenched teeth.

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Taglist (sorry if I missed you)@pheonixashtree @sassakitty @unabashedbookworm @vixen-uchiha @maggiecc12 @actualdisasterwoman @tired-butterfly @shizukiryuu @floralfi @imanerddealwith @northernbluetongue @krispydefendorpolice @toodaloo-kangaroo @dast218 @bluesoulblueheart @theatreandcomicfreak @disneyfoxuniverse @mindfulmagics @alwaysnumberonetruth @nyaabinch @jardimazul @lenamau @rosep16 @dramatic-squirrel @sonif50 @daminett4life @lulutheawkwardess @weird-pale-blonde-person @mooshoon @jeminiikrystal @mochegato @moonlightstar64 @dragonflyswing @silverwhiteraven @shamefullove @magic-miraculous @valeks-princess @heaven428 @mlbchaosqueen @winter-gardenflower @spicybelladonna @emo-elaine13 @vetilora @karukofox21 @my-name-is-michell @sturchling @lokiifriggasonn @redscarlet95 @melicmusicmagic @interobanginyourmom @the-fusionist @razzledazzle247 @miss-mysterys-blog @darkthunder1589 @i-is-mysterious @catthhay @the-one-woman-army @zestyzealot @dahjokester @write-for-your-life2 @mermaidreject @peachedpocky @sassakitty @dahjokester @crazylittlemunchkin @novicevoice @justafanwarrior @eliza-bitch @schrodingers25 @tired-butterfly @toodaloo-kangaroo

#maribat #damienette #maribat au #marinette x damian #arranged marriage au #maridami #league of assassins #order of the guardians #guardian!marinette #evil!adrien #batman #miraculous lb #miraculous ladybug #mlb #mlb x dc

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ultimate-distaster-material · 3 years ago

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-Shuichi Saihara Birthday Special- Birthday Boy~Vol.2

SHUICHI POV

I wake up to the unbearable sound of the monokubs yelling into the monitor, alerting me to wake up. Something about today felt different from the last, as excitement flushed through me, and had absolutely why I had felt like this. Today had a quite special feeling to it that I couldn't recognize. Yet I ignored the thought and quickly got dressed, brushing the sprinkles of dust littering my uniform and wasting a full 5 minutes contemplating whether or not to wear my hat to breakfast. I decided to leave it behind, trying to fight off my addiction to wearing it. Plus, if things got out of hand, I could always come back for it.

I briskly walked out of my dorm, venturing to the kitchen to fix myself a coffee and relax. I love coffee.

"Shumai!"

I instantly knew who that voice belonged to. My lovely boyfriend, Kokichi Ouma. I turned to witness him bouncing excitedly towards me, with a big box rested in his arms. I pondered for a moment.

-Why does he have a box? And why does it have wrapping paper on it?-

Suddenly everything clicked. The special vibe to the day, the present Kokichi was carrying, and why I had felt an overwhelming excitement earlier.

It was my birthday.

September 7th

I waved happily at Ouma as he inched closer, somewhat struggling to carry the present and running out of breath rather quickly. I quietly chuckled at his attempts, and watched him as he almost dropped the present onto the seat and collapsed into my arms, panting heavily. I continued to laugh at his childness and ran my fingers through his silky purple locks, while he impatiently looked up at me, before suddenly jumpscaring me by throwing his hands into the air.

"Happy Birthday, Saihara-Chan!"

I smiled as he aggressively hugged me like a human teddy bear, and I thanked him soon after. I watched as he began to speak, not expecting what happened next.

"Saihara-Chans a big meanie! He doesn't wanna open my present!"

He wailed, clearly attempting to make a dramatic scene as crocodile tears poured out of his purple orbs, hitting the floor with a slight splat. I rolled my eyes and picked up a present.

"Calm down Koki. I'm opening it now."

"Yay! Let's see what you get Shu-Shu!"

I gently peeled the checkered wrapping paper, revealing the box hidden inside it. I was a little scared to open it because it was from Kokichi, yet I still trusted him. Carefully, I opened the box, to reveal a ton of objects scattered inside.

"You didn't' have to waste all your money on me, y'know."

He grinned and put his arms behind his head, doing his signature pose.

"Don't worry! I used Momota-Chan's money instead!"

"WHAT?"

"You heard me, nishishi!"

I sighed and pulled out one of the objects, which was a stack of mystery novels. I swore he could see the stars in my eyes, even without looking. I studied the books, acting like a child on Christmas Day. If he got a cent for every time I said thank you to him, he would be rich. I peered down at the box, reaching for the next object. Mascara. I glared at him.

"Really?"

"Y e s"

I sighed and placed the mascara back into the box, pulling out a black coffee mug instead. I smiled at the object, studying the designs decorating its outsides. Beautiful thin streaks of teal blue slashed across the side, and the deep black colour surrounding the lines.

"Thank you for this, Kokichi."

He smiled at me, swaying back and forth on his heels, his black and purple shoes digging into the tiles. I carefully placed the mug onto the table, and grabbed another object from the box. A checkered scarf. dug through the box to find the very last item. I let out a long relaxed breath as the last item sat perfectly in my hands. A realistic drawing of Kokichi and I, hugging each other. I peered up at my boyfriend, curious.

"Did you draw this?"

"Maybe."

I sighed and stared at the beautiful picture in my hands, before gently placing everything back into the box.

"Sidekick! Maki~Roll and I are here to wish you the best birthday to ever happen in the galaxy!"

"Shut up. You're just embarrassing yourself."

Maki sent a deadly glare at Kaito, making him shiver a little as he handed over the present. I ripped the wrapping paper that was littered with stars and gazed down into the box. I picked up the first item, which was a plastic covered CD of some sort. I inspected the disc, reading the information on the back. My Chemical Romance. I had been secretly wanting this for a while, yet would never admit it. The only person I told was Maki, because I know she honestly doesn't care about judging people other than Kaito and Kokichi. And maybe a few others that I shall not name. I peered back down into the box, double checking that I hadn't forgotten something. The only thing there was a 'Milky Way' chocolate bar that I would eat later.

"Atua told me to give this to you, Saihara~Kun!"

The random voice popped out of nowhere as I was thanking Kaito and Maki. I almost jumped off the chair in fright.

"A-Angie! How long have you been there-?"

"Only a few minutes, nyahahaha~"

I sighed and took Angie's present from her hands, the paper decorated with paint splotches and strokes. I repeated the process, open the box and find a new item to add to my growing collection. This time I had gotten a quite large paint brush, and a drawing of me. I gratefully thanked Angie for her gifts as Miu dramatically entered the room.

"Ayo virgin! I got something for you emo boi. Take it or leave it, it's from Miu Iruma herself! "

She sat down a few chairs away from me after handing me the box. I wasn't prepared. It was probably gonna be something sexual. To my surprise, it was a extra pair of her goggles, but just the way I would've wanted them. I've always told Miu her goggles looked cool, and now I was thanking her for giving me a pair.

"Also...Piano freak told me to give you this and say happy birthday for her."

She passed me a photo of Kaede and I playing the piano, which I admit seemed was a memory I would cherish forever.

As the day went by, I was almost buried in gifts and wrapping paper from all of my classmates. I got a load of new items, and I was grateful for all of them. Gonta had even gotten me a mini cage with a small caterpillar in it, so I could learn how the insect turned into a butterfly. And Rantaro got me a necklace that matches his. Tenko only go me some chocolates, claiming that she didn't wanna give me something better since I was a 'degenerate male'. Himiko had gotten me a beginners magic trick set and a guide to go with it. Tsumugi had sewed me a cool detective costume I had grown quite fond of. Kirumi and Ryoma had even offered to play board games with me and had rented me some books from the library. Korekiyo had gotten me a 'ritual guide', which I studied a little and was pretty interesting. Kiibo had even set up a huge slumber party for all of us. Kaede showed up eventually, claiming that she was helping Kiibo set up the surprise party.

I must admit, that was one of the most fun birthday I have ever had. Ever.

#Happy Birthday Shuichi Saihara #Birthday #saiouma #oumasai #gay panic #danganronpa v3 #:>

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archiveofprolbems · 4 years ago

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Digital Art NFTs: The Marriage Of Art & Money by Julia Friedman & David Hawkes

Over half a century ago, Marshall McLuhan identified a ‘moral panic’ that continues to roil Western culture today. In his now-canonical Understanding Media (1964), McLuhan discussed the mixture of fear and snobbery exhibited by ‘many highly literate people’ in response to the dramatic rise of ‘electric technology’— the telephone, the radio and above all, the dreaded television.

Since these new media ‘seem[ed] to favor the inclusive and participational spoken word over the specialist written word,’ McLuhan argued that they posed a threat to established hierarchies of culture and class. As he pointed out, elitist systems of cultural knowledge and power extend all the way back to ancient ‘temple bureaucracies’ and ‘priestly monopolies,’ and the cultural elites have always worked to keep their domains exclusive.

A strikingly McLuhanesque spasm of outrage followed Christie’s’ procured sale of a digital art non-fungible token, or NFT. Everydays: The First 5000 Days, an NFT created by the savvy operator known as Beeple, fetched an eye-watering $69 million at a recent auction. That kind of money always guarantees mainstream media attention which, of course, is part of the point. Another part is the furiously hostile response to that kind of money being splurged on such a radically innovative art form: so innovative that a large part of the cultural elite questioned its status as art in the first place.

It doesn’t help that Beeple’s content is resolutely demotic: puerile cartoons, defaced logos, ironic emojis, frat-boy fantasies. Writing in Spike magazine, Dean Kissick remarks that ‘the old gatekeepers have been losing their power for a while now,’ and he counts the entrance of NFTs into the artworld among the costs, denigrating Beeple’s ‘triumphant procession of popular things’ as a violation of art’s privileged autonomy. In the ‘collective-hallucinatory firmament’ of postmodern hyper-reality, artists no longer express ideas but rather present empty ‘images of images,’ which Kissick defiantly dismisses as ‘tired art, recycled pop, bad taste, political spectacle, and hyper-speculation.’ As J.J. Charlesworth observes in ArtReview: ‘What really seems to disconcert ‘our’ current artworld is the sense that a form of largely unregulated, DIY mass culture has spawned beyond the reach or control of cultural gatekeepers.’

The twentieth century was replete with artists questioning the relationship between art and money. Their difference from Beeple was that they were looking for ways to uncouple the pair, rather than fuse them.

Beeple (b. 1981), EVERYDAYS: THE FIRST 5000 DAYS. Minted on 16 February 2021. non-fungible token (jpg). 21,069 x 21,069 pixels (319,168,313 bytes). This work is unique.

It is tempting to see the cultural gatekeepers’ protests against digital art NFTs as the grousing of a critical establishment at its own loss of influence. The snobbery of the self-appointed elect was challenged decades ago by Marcel Duchamp, in what looks like a premonitory contribution to the current NFT discourse. In his 1957 paper ‘The Creative Act,’ Duchamp rejects the elitist exclusion of ‘bad’ art: ‘art may be bad, good or indifferent, but, whatever adjective is used, we must call it art, and bad art is still art in the same way that a bad emotion is still an emotion.’ Yet Duchamp also rejected the idea of equity in artistic value: ‘Millions of artists create; only a few thousands are discussed or accepted by the spectator and many less again are consecrated by posterity.’ Three conclusions follow for our own day: (1) Everydays is indeed an artwork, (2) it has passed the approval of the spectators (buyers) by garnering such a high bid, (3) only posterity will determine its ultimate aesthetic value. Nowhere does Duchamp mention professional critics.

This omission is especially glaring since the late 1950s were the apex of critical influence on contemporary art. These were the years when a pair of New York critics—Clement Greenberg and Harold Rosenberg—wielded an almost dictatorial influence. Such critics did not just evaluate already-existing art; their pronouncements determined the forms of future works. Because the relationship between artwork and art criticism has been mutually determining for most of the twentieth century, one of Beeple’s many transgressions is his deconstruction of the polarity between the two. The media response that his oeuvre evokes is not something external to it, but one of its most vital components. The outrage increases the price, and the price is not an addition to the art but its very essence. In the form of the NFT, the ancient opposition between art and money is finally abolished. So perhaps the consequent eruption of indignation and disbelief throughout the artworld is more than defensive elitism, and there are reasons other than snobbery to be suspicious of the NFT’s fusion of aesthetics with economics.

NFTs also represent the ultimate aestheticization of exchange-value—a process on which artists and art critics have meditated for most of the last century.

Marcel Duchamp, Henri-Pierre Roché, and Beatrice Wood, The Blind Man No. 2, 1917, “The Richard Mutt Case.”

Before the twentieth century it was a simple matter to own a piece of art. One simply bought it, took possession of it and, if one chose, locked it away in one’s cellar. Ownership gave exclusive rights to access the artwork (albeit not to its copyright). That changed in the age of mechanical reproduction, and by the twentieth century anyone could view the same image as the artwork’s owner photographed in a book or magazine. What ownership brought was now access to the original, the bearer of the mysterious, pseudo-scarce ‘aura’ described by Walter Benjamin.

The relationship between art and money has always been symbiotic. It has been equally true with papal patronage in sixteenth century, and with the interwar European avant-garde whose fortunes, according to Greenberg, were inexorably linked to the market ‘by an umbilical cord of gold.’ After all, art and money are basically similar phenomena: both are valuable and significant systems of symbols. The twentieth century was replete with artists questioning the relationship between art and money. Their difference from Beeple was that they were looking for ways to uncouple the pair, rather than fuse them. As early as 1914, Duchamp’s revolutionary concept of the ‘readymade’ had undermined the process of commodification that had engulfed the artworld. Along with his Dadaist allies, Duchamp succeeded in redefining the fine arts, moving away from the given of physical painting and sculpture and towards serialized, de-commodified, temporary or even traceless performances and manifestos.

By insisting that a fictitious ‘R. Mutt’ had the right to anoint a urinal as art because ‘whether Mr. Mutt with his own hands made the fountain or not has no importance. He CHOSE it,’ Duchamp initiated what the late David Graeber called the ‘aesthetic validation of managerialism.’ A lowly plumbing fixture can be art, as long as someone (who did not even create it) calls it art. The task of validation, and the creation of value, later devolved from artists to curators, who could throw ordinary objects into the mix along with bona fide artworks, confident that no one could legitimately object. Today this function falls to auction houses which, in Graeber’s words, use ‘money as a sacral grace that baptizes ordinary objects magically, turning them into a higher value.’ That is exactly what happened to Beeple’s opus on March 11, 2021 when the sale closed at $69,346,250.

Subsequent movements like Fluxus and Conceptual Art continued Duchamp’s efforts to separate art from money. Their methods included relying on performance instead of painting or drawing, and using DIY kits instead of traditional cast or carved sculpture. They documented events with sets of instructions or certificates of authenticity, and these took the place of paintings and sculpture as the physical manifestations of art that was otherwise disembodied. The remarkable Piero Manzoni created works such as Merda d’artista (Artist’s Shit, 1961), and advertised his ‘product’ by standing in a toilet with a tiny tin in his right hand and a coy smile on his face. Manzoni commented on the relations between art and money in Sculture vivendi (Living Sculptures, 1961), which consisted of living people ‘authenticated’ with different colored ink stamps designating various body parts, or the entire person, as an artwork. He incorporated cheeky pricing systems into his artworks: the price of the shit-tins corresponded to the price of gold, the color stamps on the living sculpture were priced by body part and so on. Manzoni documented his works with photographs, making the record part of the process, and proving their uniqueness, just as the blockchain records the uniqueness of the NFT today.

If aesthetics and economics are not merely analogous but actually identical, we must bid farewell to aesthetic experience itself.

Piero Manzoni (1933-1963), Merda d'artista, 1961. Tin can, printed paper and excrement, 48 × 65 × 65 mm, 0.1 kg.

Yves Klein (1928–1962), Performance Transfer of a "Zone of Immaterial Pictorial Sensibility" to Michael Blankfort, Pont au Double, Paris, February10, 1962. Photo : © Giancarlo Botti. © The Estate of Yves Klein c/o ADAGP, Paris

At around the same time, Yves Klein was inventing, performing and documenting his transgressive classic Zone of Immaterial Pictorial Sensibility. Performed on February 10th, 1962, it involved Klein throwing half of his payment into the river Seine. The work’s buyer then burned the receipt for the transaction. This performance presaged the NFT in several respects. The artwork included the physical destruction of the artist’s remuneration, provocatively suggesting an equivalence between the two processes. As Klein gnomically explained: ‘For each zone the exact weight of pure gold which is the material value correspondent to the immaterial acquired.’ To be authentic the event had to be witnessed—Klein specified by ‘an Art Museum Director, or an Art Gallery Expert, or an Art Critic’— in a manner that anticipates the authentication provided by an NFT’s imprint in a blockchain. Klein even included a provision to prevent resale: ‘The zone[s] having been transferred in this way are not any more transferable by their owner.’

Klein had first made his point about the arbitrary value of art in 1957, when he placed eleven identical paintings in Milan’s Galleria Apollinaire. These were to be purchased at various prices, according to what the buyer felt each was worth. Thirty-five years later, the British duo K Foundation performed an artwork by burning banknotes to the value of a million pounds sterling. By the twenty-first century, when Banksy’s $1.4 million Girl with Balloon dramatically shredded itself to pieces in front of a stunned audience at Sotheby’s, and Maurizio Cattelan taped a perishable fruit to the wall at Art Basel, the venerable system of exchanging enduring artworks for money had been thoroughly and irretrievably deconstructed in theory. It continued to flourish in practice, however, and it blooms anew in the parodic form of the NFT.

The confusion and scorn with which the general public has responded to the sale is no mere backwoods Luddism. It may be true, as the influential dealer and gallery owner Stefan Simchowitz recently pointed out in a Clubhouse chatroom, that NFTs are just another commercial platform based on a new technology. But they also represent the ultimate aestheticization of exchange-value—a process on which artists and art critics have meditated for most of the last century. NFTs are the apotheosis of the tendency described in Guy Debord’s 1967 book The Society of the Spectacle, whereby alienated human labor-power attains an autonomous, performative force by taking a symbolic form. Debord had nothing but scorn for the society of the spectacle, but it would surely be rash to dismiss his prophetic diatribe as cultural elitism.

The real ethical objection to the rise of NFTs involves the elimination of aesthetics itself as a discrete sphere of human experience.

NFTs’ dramatic entrance into the art market announces another stage in this process. It is not access to the artwork that has been sold: anyone with an internet connection can view the content, which has in any case been dismissed by Beeple himself as ‘trash.’ And there is no ‘original’ to which the owner might enjoy exclusive access. What the NFT’s purchaser has bought is not the image itself, or even the copyright to the image, but ownership of the image. Furthermore, this ownership is entirely conceptual or, if you prefer, financial. It does not consist in exclusive rights to view the image; it consists in exclusive rights to sell the image. Ownership of art has become identical with art per se, just as an artwork’s price has become part of its essence. Art has become money, it has turned into currency. The real ethical objection to the rise of NFTs involves the elimination of aesthetics itself as a discrete sphere of human experience.

This erosion of the border between aesthetics and economics is also visible in the financial sphere, where most value now takes the form of ‘derivatives,’ a hyper-symbolic mode of representation whose manipulation for profit looks more like artistic than economic activity as traditionally understood. Meanwhile, artists like Beeple assimilate the market dynamics which give their work value into their art itself. He is a true heir of Kaws, whose current retrospective at the Brooklyn museum was characterized by the New Yorker’s Peter Schjeldahl as ‘a cheeky, infectious dumbing-down of taste’ where ‘blandness reigns.’ The content of Beeple’s work is unimportant. Its images are self-consciously banal, proudly lowbrow, deliberately jejune. But it is not images that Beeple is selling. They’re not even what he’s creating. What he’s creating, what he’s selling, is ownership: financial value. The advent of the NFT renders the distinction between art and money obsolete.

Does McLuhan’s dismissal of the mid-century cultural elite and their suspicion of the new media as a ‘moral panic’ apply to the widespread critical suspicion of NFTs in our own day? There is surely an element of elitism, and even envy, behind the cultural gatekeepers’ dismay at Beeple’s success. But that does not mean there are no reasonable or ethical objections to the NFT’s forced union of art and money. If aesthetics and economics are not merely analogous but actually identical, we must bid farewell to aesthetic experience itself. Art will no longer be even theoretically autonomous of the market. There will be no sphere of experience that can meaningfully be separated from finance. The prospect of Beeple’s $69 million will undoubtedly encourage many to tie the knot (as evidenced by the upcoming Sotheby’s and Phillips auctions entirely dedicated to digital art NFTs), but the marriage of art and money may well turn out to be fraught, fractious and ultimately unfeasible. And divorce is always expensive.

Source: https://athenaeumreview.org/essay/digital-art-nfts-the-marriage-of-art-money

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shireness-says · 5 years ago

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Wherever You’re Going (I’m Going Your Way): Epilogue [6/6]

Summary: 1952. A lost boy without a home, Killian Jones rides America’s back roads on his motorcycle, searching for a purpose that’s just out of reach. This pit stop was only supposed to be a few days, a couple of weeks at most, but a pretty blonde waitress just might be his salvation. Is he brave enough to let her? Rated T for language. ~1.8K. Also on AO3. Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4 Ch. 5

~~~~~

A/N: We’re at the end! I can’t believe it. Thanks again to the @captainswanbigbang mods, to @thejollyroger-writer @snidgetsafan and @profdanglaisstuff for all their help, and to YOU for reading this whole thing! I’ve loved all your lovely comments.

Enjoy this soft little epilogue - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

They go… everywhere. They crisscross the country without any particular route in mind, sometimes doubling back to see landmarks Emma suddenly remembers from her elementary geography class, sometimes simply blowing where their whims might take them. They see Niagara Falls as Killian planned, becoming drenched in the spray, and make sure to ride down to the southwestern deserts as the weather turns cooler again to marvel at cacti and the Grand Canyon.

(Killian grumbles about the heat the whole time, especially the way it dries up every inch of moisture in his body “like a dead leaf, Swan, I’m serious, I might as well just crackle into little pieces — why are you laughing at me?”)

(She laughs at his pouting the whole while, especially since this particular jaunt was his idea in the first place. He plays it up a little, just to hear the sound.)

They see everywhere in between, too. Killian particularly enjoys their excursion through Yellowstone, finding a certain kind of peace in the stillness of their surroundings. The sky is so big in this part of the country, wide open and all around them. At night, stars practically litter the sky.

(Killian finds himself sleeping better these days. The dreams still come — he’s not sure they’ll ever stop, no matter how happy he is — but they’re less frequent with the warmth of Emma’s body by his side to lull him into peaceful rest. The stars aren’t his constant companion anymore; Emma is instead.)

They drive Route 66, just to say they did it. They pose in front of the Golden Gate Bridge for strangers to take their picture with a second-hand Polaroid camera. They swing through Chicago, the crowds an utter nightmare but the awe on Emma’s face pure magic. There’s hardly a corner of this country they haven’t touched, putting more miles on the motorcycle than Killian likes to think about. Every one of them is worth it.

(She tells him she loves him in a little town in Kansas. He can’t even remember the name of that rest stop, but he’ll never forget the rush of pure joy surging through his veins.)

Emma sends postcards to her family back in Storybrooke from every major attraction, and even a few attractions that aren’t. Killian is assured that David in particular will enjoy the card from the Corn Palace in Iowa, though he also assumes that must be a joke. They call, too, as much as they can, Emma becoming just as much an expert in the ritual of long distance as he is. Though Belle may have planted the crazy, wonderful idea in his head in the first place, she was surprisingly hesitant when Killian first called to tell her the news that he had a new travel partner.

“And you’re sure, Killian?” she asked in that softly worried tone she’s perfected. “I know you really like this girl, but what if that changes? What if things don’t work out between you? What if she wants to go home?”

(It’s touching, really, the motherly concern, like he’s just another one of her kids who needs to be protected from pain and bad decisions. It’s just that Killian doesn’t think that Emma qualifies as either one.)

“Then we’ll figure it out. I’m not making her do anything she doesn’t want to, and I won’t start either. This is up to her as much as me,” he’d replied. “But for what it’s worth? I’ve got a good feeling.”

“If you’re happy…”

“I am.”

Emma and Belle talk later — he can’t quite remember if it was on the next call, or the one after that. What Killian does know is that something must have been settled between the two, as his cousin now asks warmly after Emma and he makes sure to pass the phone along.

He’s writing again these days, too; there’s something to be said for the right inspiration. It’s not much, of course — he’s not a prodigy, just a man trying to express himself in some small way on the page. It’s a compulsion, to find a way to capture the way she looks in the freedom of the mid morning light on the back of his motorcycle and the way he feels watching her. Words will never be enough, but he’s already mailed two notebooks to Belle for safekeeping and has almost filled a third.

Today, they’re in Florida — at the beach, just like Emma yearned for during their first real conversation. As much as so many things have changed, Killian still is wary of the sea. He’ll let the tide wash over his feet for Emma’s sake — anything for her, truly, and she knows not to expect him to submerge more than his ankles — but most, he’s happy to sit in the sand and watch the way Emma beams in the sunlight, still his own angel.

The sunlight catches more than just her smile, now. He’d bought the ring in St. Paul and barely held out for two days before proposing, almost two months ago now. The ring itself isn’t anything particularly special — a small diamond set in silver. But for all the ways that his life has been entirely upturned, Killian still places a good amount of stock in that symbol, that Emma wants to be with him forever. Maybe it’s silly; after all, they’ve driven from coast to coast and back again in the last year, and spent nearly every moment together. It’s hard to get closer or more committed than that, and it makes any ceremony seem almost superfluous.

Still. When he looks at her, sees her joy and all the ways she makes his life better… he wants. And he’s lucky enough that she does, too.

(He still can’t quite believe that she said yes. He’s still a mess of a man, even if he’s trying, even if he’s better. Inexplicably, she loves him anyways.)

Emma scoops up her shoes and starts walking back to his perch on the sand, tendrils of hair whipping around her head where they’ve escaped the messy braid he’d helped her twist that morning. “God, that sure is something, isn’t it?” she laughs, collapsing onto the pearly expanse.

“Everything you dreamed of?” he asks, tugging her closer into his side. Emma flops her head dramatically onto his shoulder at the movement, right where they’ve learned she fits perfectly against him.

“And then some,” she sighs. “You were right, it’s so different from home — from Maine. It almost doesn’t look real. But then you get in the water, and it’s just the same. The tide comes in the same way, even down here. I don’t know, I suppose it’s a little comforting.”

Killian just hums and leans down to drop a kiss on Emma’s head before they lapse into a thoughtful silence, watching the birds circle and the waves roll in and out. It’s picturesque; frankly, he’d even say beautiful. He doesn’t regret the visit in the least.

But Emma had said home, and he can’t stop thinking about that either.

It’s not the first time he’s thought about it. As much as Emma has loved finally seeing all the places she’s heard and read about, he knows she misses her family, the short but frequent phone calls proof of that. Emma loves him, and she’s loved their adventure, but there’s unbreakable strings tying her back to Storybrooke. To her home.

It’s not Killian’s home, not truly. He hasn’t spent enough time in the little town to form that kind of attachment. But he wouldn’t call any other place home, either, and Storybrooke is as good a place as any if he’s got Emma in his life. She grounds him — soothes that itch to always move until he finds someplace — or rather, someone — worth sticking around for. After months of the open road, it’s maybe time for this phase of their adventure to conclude, and another one to start.

(Besides, she ought to have her little hodge-podge family at her wedding. He wants to give that to her, after all that she’s given him.)

“I’ve been thinking about that lately,” he says casually, trying not to make it all seem like quite as big a deal as he knows it is.

Emma hums a questioning note back to him, though mischief sparkles in her green eyes. “What, about the tide? That seems… odd.”

“No, you ridiculous creature,” Killian replies, rolling his eyes for good measure. He knows she’s teasing, after all, even if he did technically set her up for that. “I’ve been thinking… maybe this has been enough. Maybe it’s time to go home.”

Emma jerks her head up to stare back at him blankly, evidently shocked by the suggestion. “Home? You mean to Storybrooke?”

“Aye. I know you miss it, and… I just think it might be time.”

“Oh, Killian, we don’t have to stop on my account. I’m fine to keep going,” she protests.

“I know. And it’s not… I’ve loved this, but I don’t need to keep going the way I once did. If you have more places you want to see, we’ll go see them, and I’ll be happy just to be there with you, but I’m not… this idea isn’t all because of what I think you might want. It’s for me, too.” He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts; he feels like he’s not expressing things quite the way he wants to. “I shouldn’t assume though. I suppose I thought… I know you miss your family, but do you want to go home?”

Emma heaves a heavy sigh and stares out at the sea. Killian grants her the space to think; this is a turning point, he knows, and he’d never want to rush her into anything she doesn’t want. He barely hears her when she finally does speak, her soft admittance carried away on the breeze. “I do,” she tells him. “I love this, and I’m so glad we’ve seen all that we have, but… I think I’d like to settle, a little bit. Especially if we’re getting married. A little house and a pretty ceremony… I know Storybrooke isn’t your home, though.”

“It isn’t,” Killian admits, “but it could be.”

“Just like that?”

“Don’t you understand, Emma?” he asks. “You’re my home. Wherever you are, as long as I’m with you… I’ll be home. Whether that’s on the back of the motorcycle or in Storybrooke or on the moon. I’ll always be home with you.” He leans in to seal the sentiment, brushing his lips along Emma’s and letting her deepen the kiss when she sneaks her hands behind his neck and into his hair. She’s always been willing — eager, even — to take the lead, and Killian is still happy to let her.

“I love you,” she whispers when they break apart, foreheads still touching as they breathe the same air. “You’ve given me the world, and I love you.”

“I love you, too, Swan.” A blind man could hear his smile in his voice. “Now let’s go home.”

Together — all the adventure he needs.

~~~~~

Tagging: @kmomof4, @aerica13, @thisonesatellite, @searchingwardrobes, @let-it-raines, @teamhook, @ohmightydevviepuu, @optomisticgirl, @winterbaby89, @spartanguard, @scientificapricot, @snowbellewells, @welllpthisishappening, @tiganasummertree

#captain swan #csrt #cs ff #captain swan ff #Wherever You're Going (I'm Going Your Way)#50s AU #my writing

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thecurseoflife · 4 years ago

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CHAPTER 13 - Cold Hard Floor

Camalia was woken up by a sunshine piercing through her eyelid. She grumbled and rolled over, hiding behind the soft sheet.

She was about to slide back into a very comfortable and nice sleep when all of what happened the night before hit her and she tossed the sheet away, brutally sitting on the bed.

Camalia was in the most messy room she had ever seen. To be fair, she hadn't seen many, but she was convinced it was definitely not normal.

The bed itself had all those things attached to it, some kind of mechanical arms here to do... god knows what. All the windows except one were shut by planks of wood, except the one on her right, offering it's light to what she could only assume was an alarm clock. The clock-thing was resting on a drawer that was vomiting all of it's content, so filled you couldn't put a sheet of paper if you wanted to. There was gears and metal all over the place, not only the bed. The clock, of course, but also levers on the drawer and a weird lamp above her head, some kind of giant gear wheel on her right, all of these things she couldn't name and a lot of alchemy supplies scattered then and there. Books were as present as metal, in piles or tossed everywhere. There was a plan of the black rocks plastered on the wall on her left, and under it was the weirdest guitare she had ever seen, with a horn thingy sprouting out of it.

Camalia suddenly tensed up, looking around to see her own guitare, and panicking when she couldn't find it. She jumped out of the bed and started frantically walk around, hoping her precious instrument would pop out on that spot she checked 20 times already. After being absolutely convinced it wasn't here, she dramatically opened the door that lead to another bedroom. But this one was much more organized and simple. There was some books, a giant painting of the man in the amber, a lady and a baby she assumed was Varian, a wardrobe and another drawer with small drawings of Varian or that de on it.

Despite the emergency of the situation, she couldn't help but giggle at the very simple chalk drawing of the blue strip boy with his goggles that were way too big for his tiny head. It was really cute, and Camalia couldn't wait to tease him about it.

She swifted the room quickly, but her guitare was still lost. She opened the trap door and quickly ran downstairs. At the floor, there was a giant corridor with two doors on each side of it. One of them was big and seemed to give to the rest of the house, and the other one was small, and had a word incaved in it, but it was so poorly written and so low that Camalia didn't bother reading it.

She opened the door wide and faced... the bathroom. There was a giant squared tub and a barrel full of water beside it. Soap was carefully put on one of the corner of the tub, and the girl couldn't help but notice the weird flashy orange color of the soap. The bathroom sink was filled with dirty water. It hadn't been changed in days, maybe months. She couldn't be sure, but Camalia swore she saw seaweeds hanging out in there. Two toothbrush were hanging there, and one of them -probably Varian's- was covered in gears and metal and seemed to be made to put on the head.

She quickly exited, embarassed to enter their privacy. Camalia opened the second door and entered the kitchen. It was HUGE. Not as big as the lab or the castle's kitchens but it was pretty big.

Once again, no sign of her precious guitare. But there was some interesting cookies on the table... No, they were probably unhealthy. They must have been on that table for months. There was a counter, and a lot of drawers -again-, another dirty sink and a lot of kitchen stuffs.

Camalia brushed softly the table, and glanced at the two chairs sitting at the opposite of the table, awaiting for another meal that the father and son will never share again. Her eyes glimed slightly. She wish she could have done more. She wasn't able to save him. She wasn't able to help. She felt horribly guilty, she knew she let Varian down. It was her fault, but she couldn't have done more. She did her best.

She left the kitchen with a weight on her heart.

The next room was not exactly a room. It was... a place to pass through. There was no furnitures, and no light. Just the front door, and the door to the lab.

Camalia pushed the door that lead to the lab, and was immediatly greeted by the sight of Quirin in the amber. She looked away, the guilt still darkening her heart.

And there it was. Wisely waiting where she left it, her guitare was there, on the rock floor. Camalia immediatly went to embrace it, relieved. She put her dear instrument back on her shoulder and resting on her back, where it felt right, where it belonged. Since this matter was done, the music mage now had the time to think of other things. And the primarly thought that occupied her mind was Varian. Where was he ? Was he okay ? Did he do something reckless and stupid ? Probably not, but hey.

She looked around and quickly spotted her friend asleep against the amber, a sad look on his face, Ruddiger on his lap. She sighed and got closer. He had big eyebags, and was slightly shivering. It's true it wasn't especially very hot in the lab. Well, the teasing will have to wait.

Camalia picked him u-tried to picked him up and failed really badly. Wow, if he was the one to have put her in his bed 3 floors above, he was really strong. She shouldn't have been so surprised. After all, he's an inventor, and he worked alone.

He may be the strong scientist, but she clearly wasn't. Instead, she played the melody of levitation, as quietly as possible and after tucking him in his bed with Ruddiger, she went back down. Well. She didn't really have much to do. She thought about it and her eyes fell on the kitchen's sink. Mmh. Nevermind.

The sun was already settling down when Varian woke up of a dreamless sleep. He would've sleep a little more in that oh so comfortable bed of his, that he missed so much those past few months, but he got up, worried about Camalia after what happened, and immediatly sneezed. A shiver ran down his spine and he decided that after all, the bed was looking very inviting. He got rid of his boots that he still had on (which confirmed he definitely did not go to bed by himself) and got back into the welcoming warmth of the cherished bed.

But very quickly, the comforting warmth transformed into a boiling heat, and Varian had to get out of there before suffocating. He coughed doing so, and each cough was reaping his throat a little. And now he was cold.

Ruddiger was watching his friend's strange behavior, and after seeing him enter and jump out of the bed for the third time, he decided he should go get Camalia. The raccoon went through the half-open door and took the trap-door in Quirin's room, went down the stairs and peeked in the kitchen, where Camalia was battling against the sink, armed with her determination and some soap.

Since for now she couldn't get rid of the water outside, she simply put the horrible green thing that filled the sink into buckets she put in the weird corridor between the lab, the front door and the door to the rest of the house. At least there they wouldn't have to stare at it. The sink from the bathroom was already sparkling, and completely clean, she just had to finish this one. What she did not expect was to found months old dishes dipped in the opaque water.

All the plates were rotten, but hopefully, with a touch of magic, maybe she could save them. She put them aside and started working on the sink.

When Ruddiger arrived, she was halfway there. She smelled like she took a dip in the nearest lake, and also looked like it. The raccoon chittered, catching Camalia's attention. She wiped her forehead and smiled to the rodent.

-Hey Ruddiger ! What's up ? Can I help you ?

That was one of the thing he particularly liked about the girl. She always treated him as her equal, like she would talk to anyone. She saw past their different species and he loved it. He was sure that if one day she met Maximus and Pascal, they would also like this aspect of her personnality. Although, as sad as it was, she probably acted that way because of the snakes.

-Ruddy ? You okay there buddy ?

He shook his head and squealed again. He left the room and when he saw that she wasn't following, he poked his head in the kitchen again and tilted his head. A light of understandment finally crossed her eyes and she got rid of the once white apron she was wearing and followed the raccoon.

He led her to Varian's room where he was back in the bed, panting softly, sweating, and a soft blush across his face. He looked up to see who enter the room and met Camalia's worried gaze. He got up and immediatly started shivering. He acted as if he wasn't very sick and clearly in need of rest and walked over to Camalia who backed down. Varian stopped and frowned.

-I am not getting sick, Ball. Back in the bed, now.

Varian rolled his eyes and shook his head.

-What are you talking about, I'm fine ! I need to get to the lab to work on... on something.

It was the music mage's turn to roll her eyes. She stared at him in disbelief, arms crossed on her chest and the alchemist winced.

-Please, don't... don't make me stay in bed. He pleaded.

-Why ?

The boy looked away and squeezed his arm, sign that he was stressed or anxious. Camalia's worry rose a little bit more and she gave up her power pose. She reached out but didn't touch him. She really didn't want to be sick.

-Hey, it's okay Ball, I won't judge you, just tell me what's wrong.

It wasn't the best choice of words but it seems to work. Varian shut his eyes closed and took a deep breath. It's okay. He can trust her. He can be vulnerable around her, she's his friend.

-I-I don't want to be able to... think. To have the time to think about all this. I-I just want to dive into work- any work ! Anything. Just... I don't want to think.

Varian couldn't help but think that not so long ago, just expressing this to her would have been so easy, but after her lies, he felt like everything was to be done again. He wanted to go back to the way it was, but it seems like the wound would take more time to heal than he thought. Unaware of her friend's thought, Camalia relaxed. She put heer hand on his shoulders and squeezed lightly, showing her understanding and affection.

Because, oh did she understand. She always hated to think during crisis. Or after. Just, thinking about it was awful. But she knew it was necessary to move on. Although, it didn't have to be now...

-O-okay. Okay. I understand. But you're sick Varian. You probably caught a cold and all this exposure to magic for the past few months didn't help... I think. I never used magic with someone for this long, I-I don't know the side effects to it. Anyway, what I mean is, I can't let you work or just... not rest in bed. But I'll be here, so will Ruddiger, and we'll be getting your mind off of thinking, okay ?

Varian mumbled something and went back to bed, looking anxious and tired and mostly very sick. Camalia's eyes glimmered a little as she chew her bottom lip, feeling a weight in her stomach. She initially planned on going make him something hot to eat (hopefully something that would actually be edible since she had no idea how to cook), but seeing his shoulders stiff and his eyebrows curved down in a tense expression changed her mind. She got a chair from Quirin's room and sat beside the bed, Ruddiger already comfortably installed next to his friend.

She just had the time to sit down that Varian already spoke, eager to get his mind off of any thoughts.

-So, hum... I've been meaning to ask, you told me you loved "The Tales of Flynnigan Ryder", and I-uh... I wanted to know why. I mean, you had so many other books to read, and-and you have ! But why are they your favourites ?

Camalia took the time to think and smiled fondly, looking in the distance.

-Well, he had everything. He was adventuring all around the world, helping people and getting the girls. He fought for the good he believed in, he was seeing beautiful scenery, travelling, just... getting out there and seeing the world by himself... with Lady Mason of course.

Varian snorted.

-Obviously.

Suddenly the music mage had and idea. She got up on the chair and drew an imaginary sword from her belt. She pointed it to the sky with a serious expression.

-"How dare you kidnap my precious Lady right before my eyes, Baron Von Lugner ?! Return her immediatly or suffer the consequencies !"

The alchemist laughed and sat on the bed, looking down as if Cama- Flynnigan Ryder was down his tower, claiming Lady Mason as if she was his.

-"Your ridiculous threats do not frighten me, you miserable thief ! I stand here, in my castle, surrounded by guards loyal to me and doors I can easily lock. What do you have but this small sword and stupid hope ?"

Camalia jumped on the bed and yield the sword, saying the next line, and Varian grunts and answered. They play this little game for a while, from time to time making Ruddiger play Lady Mason. They laughed and joked around for a while before calming down and talking a bit.

As the day went by, and the night took his place, they were both getting more and more tired, but Camalia waited until Varian fall asleep before allowing herself to finally rest.

It was the middle of the night when Varian awoke. He was in tears, constantly pulling on his shirt right where his heart was, as if it could calm it down. A drop of sweat ran from his forehead to his trembling chin as he took in his surroundings and was slowly relaxing. He patted by his side and found Camalia's hand, that had fallen asleep on the chair and was resting her head on the bed, and on his other side Ruddiger's fur. He took a deep breath and fell back on the soft pillow, wet with tears and sweat, stroking gently his raccoon fur and holding his friend's hand, not too strong to not wake her up, but with a despair that would made her heart ache. His anchors were there. It was okay. They were okay.

But one thing was for sure, he couldn't fall back asleep after that dream. And he was all alone. In the middle of the night. With no distraction whatsoever. And what he dreaded the most happened.

He thought.

Camalia was in the middle of a very sweet dream for once. It was full of better days, outside of jail, with new people, good people. Full of new things, and mostly full of the blue sky. The wonderful blue sky that seemed like it never lasted.

-Camalia...

She was gently shook awake. It was early morning, the sun was pointing it's nose through the window, despite the plak of woods there to seal it. Varian was wide awake, smiling at her, but she saw the dark circles and the point of sadness in his eyes. Not that it was unfamiliar. But she didn't like seeing this on her friend's face.

She streched herself, still half-asleep.

-Good morning Ball ! What do you want to do ? I've got ton of ideas if you want.

Varian smiled grew a little bit, happy to see how his best friend cared about him, and immediatly put his well-being first. Well to be clear, he wasn't happy to see that she wasn't really taking care of herself of thinking about herself, but he was glad that she was there. And was willing to help, no matter what. But sadly...

-Camalia, I... I've been thinking-

The music mage straightened on the chair, concern and worry painting itself on her face.

-Oh no, I-I'm sorry Varian ! You should have wake me up sooner !

She seemed genuinely bummed out, and was blaming herself for not preventing it. In any other situation, your friend apologizing for letting you think would be rather hilarious. What, does he not want you to be smart ? To have good grades ? Or just to think, reflect on things ? What a terrible friend. But in this situation, very peculiar and unusual, it just squeezed Varian's heart in a very uncomfortable way. After all, their friendship is really weird. And they met at a point in both of their lives where they were at their lowest. It was difficult to talk, but not as much to understand.

And at that point, Varian understood that his friend felt responsible and remorseful. Because in the past, he understood it may have caused her pain, and at that time no one was there to prevent her from thinking. He understood that she felt like she let him down. That she thought she was being a bad friend, that she didn't do the right thing. But she was wrong. And he wished someone told him that.

-No no no, hey Camalia, i-it's okay ! I'm okay, everything is fine. I just... Listen, I think I might have...

The alchemist sighed, trying to put in words exactly what he didn't want to hear nor acknowledge. Not really the easiest thing to do in the world.

-It's possible that I've... known. That this...

He gestured to Camalia and her guitare.

-...this wouldn't... it wouldn't work. To-to free my dad.

Saying that clearly took a lot out of him, and he took a deep breath, trying to focus on saying what he had to say and avoid the flood from happening. Camalia was listenning, and right now that's all he needed.

-I am not saying I... mourned. Far from it. Really far. But... I-I don't think that... I don't think that my dad can be...

The knot in his stomach was heavier and heavier, his nose tickled and his view was blurry, despite his best effort to keep his emotions in. He managed -god knows how- to keep his voice relatively steady, and kept going.

-What I mean to say is that... my d-dad... he can't be... h-he can't be...

The distress was intense, he couldn't say it but he had to. He had to admit that his father was gone. A tear rolled down his cheeks, followed by many others. He had to say it. Camalia took his hand and pressed gently, meaning he didn't have to continue, she understood. But he had to say it. He just needed to say it in one go. Put some context, useless sentences around it so he could blurt it out.

-W-while I was in jail, I-... I thought about it and... If the princess' hair couldn't do anything to... to help, then nothing will. I tried to regain hope by thinking about what you could do but... I don't think I ever... believed it ? If that makes sense ?

The music mage nodded calmly and he wiped away some tears, a very weak smile on his lips.

-A-anyway, I know now that...

He took a deep breath.

-I-I know that my dad is trapped. Most likely... f-forever.

There. He said it. He couldn't say more. He couldn't say Quirin was dead, that he was gone, that he would never see him smile or hug him close ever agian, that he would never, never say that he was proud of him. He couldn't say it. It was too soon. He couldn't.

Camalia leaned closer and hugged him tight. He wrapped his arms around her, burrying his face in her shoulders, letting the tears flow. She brushed her thumb on his back, trying to calm him. They stayed like this a while, Varian trying to process the fact that it was said now, written into stone : he couldn't help his dad. Camalia was just trying to ease his distress, as much as she could. Once the alchemist was seemingly calm, they broke the hug and weakly smiled at eachothers. An awkward silence fell and neither of them knew what to say. Maybe it was better to just expose his decision to her. Varian cleared his throat.

-So, hum... I- My jailmate, that I talked you about, hum Andrew ? Okay, well he has a plan, but it's probably a little bit very illegal ?

The mage shrugged it off and smirked.

-Oh well you know, Corona and laws don't really go together.

Varian's brows went upward, slightly interested.

-Really ? That's not the feeling they are giving.

-I read a lot of law books after all ! She chuckled. And I can assure you Corona doesn't respect half of it, like for example not putting a 4 years old behind bars.

Camalia gritted her teeth, looking upset.

-But... didn't you asked to be put in jail ?

-I was four Varian ! I was a kid, I-I'm still a kid ! And I mean sure, I would've stayed in the cell even now but they knew why. They knew why I was there, they knew about my curse, and no one bothered to even call a-a wizard or a mage or even a regular doctor ! The king and queen never came visit me for someone's sake ! I've been living in their basement for 10 years, and they never came to see me ! I WAS FOUR ! THEY DIDN'T EVEN TRY TO HELP !

Varian eyes widened. He didn't thought she would hold such a grudge against the royalties. Distracting her would probably be for the better.

-And me ? Should I have been put in jail ?

The guitare girl seemed to calm down immediatly and winced at her friend. Hoping it wouldn't hurt him. That would be the last thing he needed.

-Welllll, you did some pretty messed up things, Ball.

Varian rolled his eyes and shrugged it off. Surprised by his reaction, Camalia snorted and bursted in laughters, immediatly forgetting her wrath. Happy to have helped her, Varian joined in. They accidentally awoke a very sleepy Ruddiger in the process. Of course his misdeeds were still hurting. They were scars that most likely would never heal. But with Camalia, he felt like he could joke about it. He felt safe, and he knew she wouldn't judge him or give him a frightened look.

When they calmed down, the mage stated more seriously :

-But honestly Varian, no. You shouldn't have. You're... you're a child, and you just did things because no one helped you. You were in pain, an unbearable pain, and left completely alone. No one should go through that, let alone someone as young as us. The entire year you were in jail, no one came to help you. It's not right. It's not fair. It's wrong, it's so, so wrong.

Varian opened his mouth but nothing came out. It was the first time someone actually said that he shouldn't have been locked up. He assumed that after explaining her everything she just agreed with the royal decisions but... it appears he had been wrong. He frowned, trying to find something to reply but there was nothing to say. He simply gave her a grateful smile and decided to simply expose the Saporian's plan.

A pretty simple plan, to be honest. One of the saporian, a mage that went with the name Clementine, had to use her wand of oblivion she hid on the King and Queen, and once they had amnesia, they convince them to let them took over and rule the kingdom. As soon as he had time and ressources, Varian was to work on a solution that would replicate the effect of the wand on a larger scale, and reset all of Corona's memory.

That way, Varian could start over, without the weight of his past, and the Saporians would get their kingdom back.

Camalia had listened without interrupting, but growing more worried at every sentences. At the end she had a very concerned frown. Her friend was looking at her expectantly, but the mage was conflicted.

-Varian, that's-

That's a bad idea. The fact that everyone forgot your mistakes doesn't mean you did. You won't be happier that way.

-I-I don't...

I don't think that the Saporians taking over is a good idea. First of all they don't know how to rule, and second, nothing says that they won't make Corona hell on earth.

-I don't think that-

I don't think that you should do it. It will only make things worse. If the mix of magic and science don't explode in your face, something else will. And once the princess and her friends will be back, you and the saporians won't stand a chance. I'm convinced you won't. Don't do it. Don't.

-I don't think that you should be going alone.

The alchemist's smile had been fading as Camalia was trying to speak. He could feel she didn't approve. But he needed her to approve. She had to. Someone had to tell him he was right. But her last sentence was the last thing he expected. He looked at her blanckly, a small confused smile on his lips.

-W-what ? No, of course I won't, you... you'll be there, and-

-Varian.

Her tone was serious and determined.

-I can't go back. Not now.

They looked at eachother, Varian feeling increasingly nauseous and petrified as the conversation went on. But above that, he could feel the knot of rage in his stomach making it's way through his throat, ready to burst out any minute.

-...what ?

OWO WHAT’S THIS ? FIRST / Previous / NEXT (wattpad) (next next on Tumblr)

#varian #tangled #tangled the series #varian the alchemist #chapter 13 #story #oc #ocs #original character #camalia #the curse of life

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homenum-revelio-hq · 4 years ago

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Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Midge!

You have been accepted for the role of ANDROMEDA TONKS with the faceclaim change of Gemma Arterton! We really enjoyed how the old prejudices come out with your Andromeda, all while trying to combat them. We think it’ll be really interesting to see how she fits within her role in the Order, especially since she’ll be connected to old family. So excited to have you as part of the roleplay!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME & PRONOUNS: Midge ( she / her )

AGE: 28

TIMEZONE: EST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: It’s pretty solid - I am generally around to plot on mobile throughout the day and while my job can be very demanding at certain times of the year, I still am able to post a few times a week.

ANYTHING ELSE: ( Triggers ) Rape, incest. [edited for clarity]

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Andromeda Cassiopeia Tonks ( nee Black )

AGE: Twenty-nine

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: CIS Female ( she / her ). Heterosexual. While Bi-Curious, Andromeda has never explored her sexuality fully.

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Slytherin

ANY CHANGES: I would love to use Gemma Arterton, if possible!

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY: Scorpio ( Sun ). Scorpio ( Moon ). Taurus ( Rising ).

A sun in Scorpio and ascendant in Taurus, Andromeda does often find difficulty understanding how she is perceived by others. In a position where rubbing people the wrong way was never much of a worry of hers, she often presents herself as materialistic and overly self-involved. While materialism is something she is mindful of ( finding comfort through her means being something she does strive towards ), this is not her driving force.

Her Sun being in Scorpio means she has a fundamental urge to get to the bottom of things, which can at times lead her to be manipulative or power-hungry, but it is from a place of intense passion for authenticity, real intimacy, and the truth. Andromeda is driven to set herself apart from others, often through her close relationships and long-term partnerships. Her desire for marriage was not only born out of a moment of heated vitriol to her family, but also in the pursuit of sustaining the connection she felt with Ted in the most lasting manner she could think.

Her Moon represents her emotional self: intense, passionate, and a bit dramatic. With an eye for a bit of a show, she still is inclined to keep her more intense and darker emotions private and has a hard time truly letting people in. Trust is hard-fought with her, and while she is very perceptive this sometimes manifests in suspicion and even controlling tendencies. The through-line of Andromeda’s personality is that she craves intimacy, and while it takes effort to get to the core of her it is upon being truly known she finds herself most fulfilled.

Dromeda is extremely practical, she is reliable and deliberate, giving off the impression of someone who is sensible ( though sometimes, extremely, stubborn ). Through her insightful intuition, Andromeda excels not only in her career but her obsessive tendencies make for someone who can build out a life for herself. She avoids “ beating around the bush ” where she can, and as a result can come off as harsh or intrusive. Being as intuitive to others as she is, she also heavily relies on communicating through body language or if the relationship allows, physical affection.

Ultimately, Andromeda can be very internal even when present with her own deeply intuitive and feeling self. Run through with a stubborn nature and desire to use her mental capacities to achieve her own personally set goals, she is ultimately a loving and devoted person to those she allows past the moments of discernment. As a result she’s always very aware of any who come into those people’s lives, utilizing her scrupulous nature to ensure that what she holds dear remains safely guarded.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY: ( TW: Mention of child death )

It is their cousin who tells them his sister died.

Not much older than Cissa, Iris died before she could even get a place on the family tree. Aunt Lavinia sits by a window and while her eyes are transfixed on the glass, Andromeda somehow knows she is not looking at anything that is outside. The house is quiet, save for Evan occasionally tugging at the cat’s tail just to hear it hiss. Normally Dromeda would tell him to stop, normally she would start pulling his hair so he could understand how it felt. But normally he did not have a dead sister so she sits with her hands politely folded in her lap.

In any case, she has a question to ask.

" Why? "

" How? "

The second question comes rushing from Bella.

They do not receive any answer right away, a pinch from Mother and a look from Father bars any more words from leaving their lips the rest of the visit. They get their answer at home before bed, Mother and Father sits them down in front of a window. Aunt Lavinia’s eyes must still be looking at but not out the window in her own home, Dromeda thinks while her too-wide and observant eyes strain to study Mother’s face.

As usual, it comes back to those creatures called Muggles. The same who burn witches and wizards alive, the same who beat Andromeda’s relatives and stoned them to death. Those evil beings who destroy everything and made Wizard-kind ashamed of their powers. Mother tells Bellatrix and herself of a new heinous act. They sneak into nurseries of the most innocent babies with their special, magical blood and pierce their soft, sweet skin with their teeth. They drink and drink until the baby stops breathing. They take all that is special from the child to pass on to their own offspring, to make those mudbloods look and speak as they do. They do it to infiltrate, to feed on more, to destroy every bit of goodness in the world.

( Aunt Lavinia’s baby is dead because of muggles - she was killed by a greedy, horrid monster. )

Mother tells her to stop clutching at her as she walks her back to her bedroom. She does her best, straightens her back and balls a small fist at her side - she stops holding Mother’s hand and instead tries to hold her own. It does nothing to stop her heart from racing. Once in bed, she counts the footsteps of Mother’s graceful stride until she knows she is alone. Until she knows she can move from her bed without being punished. Andromeda's less-than-graceful feet fumble from sheets and scramble to the ground. Frantic steps carry her toward the nursery. The door is cracked, and that is concerning.

It takes all of her courage to push through.

She expects to find a horned creature with long fangs hovering over her sister’s crib - instead she finds Bella laying on the floor beside it. With only a look exchanged in recognition, Andie joins her and is comforted in the thought Bella does not mind when she holds her hand. No matter how hard she squeezes.

Without any words the two sisters resolve themselves to be the protectors of the youngest from those who would wish to prey on her.

This memory begins to dull at age eleven. She watches a boy from across the Great Hall with mild curiosity, and his whole body moves as he laughs.

“Filthy mudblood,” is sneered from somewhere down the table. Instinctively, Andromeda reaches for Bellatrix’s hand.

( How odd, she thinks as she spots him later, he doesn’t seem to have fangs at all. )

She’s thirteen by the time they are formally introduced, her upbringing does not allow for her to be anything less than polite. At least, this is what she tells herself as she engages in conversation. He tells him his name is Ted and Andromeda spends the night thinking of how it felt when they clasped hands.

They talk, confined by isolated areas and the moonlight. Out of shame at first, perhaps. But there are some things Andromeda comes to find she only wants the moon sharing with her, with him.

Later ( in secret, away from her sisters’ prying eyes ), she’ll trace the veins in his wrist and she thinks she can feel the blood beneath begin to warm. How could it be thick, how could it be muddy - she thinks. His blood, and a burgeoning feeling becoming increasingly harder to ignore is as pure as anything she’s ever touched. Soft and warm when she’s nestled beside his beating heart, soft and warm even when she’s not.

( He’s not dirty, she thinks. Her family might be the one that is wrong. )

She’s lost to them long before they realize, long before she herself has accepted the truth. Ted holds one half of her, she believes, reserving some part that has listened to the lessons taught by her parents. Bellatrix’s infatuation of her own dalliance grows, a man who is allowed to eat at their table and handled their most prized heirlooms. He is the one who is unworthy, he is the one who poses the greater threat to everything important. ( There are bigger problems, she reasons, than a simple affair. )

Pregnancy brings on horrid morning sickness, and a slap that rings in her ear to this day, if she listens closely enough. “ Dead to us, ” they say. But offer a gift in the wake. As she spills out into the night air she finds herself gasping, as though she had resurfaced, as though she has just been saved from a watery grave.

( She stops by Cissa’s room, hoping to salvage at least one piece ).

Years of playing protector, vanquisher of the monsters under the bed, come full circle on her own. Nymphadora is born without the usual pomp and circumstance she has known in such occasions, but love pours from her quickly enraptured by strong lungs unabashedly wailing into the night air. Born able to achieve whatever she would like. That’s what she tells her, whispered promises like the exchange of vows shared with Ted before.

( She tries to ignore the Daily Prophet’s proclamations of anything else ).

A life is built, with difficulty and with trial and error ( how was she to know washing machines were to work like that? ) She is happy, she thinks, after years of being told such pursuits are foolish or secondary. She can protect them, she can keep them just isolated enough to not call any attention their way. There’s an effort to bring them closer to the fold but Andromeda balks at such a concept. ( Albus Dumbledore can not be trusted, she implores. Men with such power rarely care for their pawns at play ).

And still the part of her remains. The way certain light catches and she can feel those around her stiffen ( She looks so much like her, doesn’t she? ) The part of her which sharpened fangs in duels with Bellatrix left idly twiddling her fingers. It’s relentless, the tide. All the reasons why her job suits her. All the best, she thinks, to keep some things separate.

( She was told, once, about the myth behind her name. The Chained Woman. Andromeda was never asked her opinion, or so it’s said. Perhaps she only knew better to keep it to herself. )

OCCUPATION:

Unspeakable in the Ministry of Magic. A niche for ancient artifacts and interest in history allows for her attention to be drawn to the mysteries that keep magic interesting. Andromeda enjoys her job, finding it satisfying an itch she oftentimes could feel ashamed of ( if she spent much time thinking about what compels her, that is ). It is with the understanding of the level of access such a position has given her that she found herself acting as informant to the Order in the first place, and not necessarily because she felt any good will towards the movement of radicals. Andromeda isn’t compelled to trust the Ministry, exactly, nor is she inclined to leave her trust with men recruiting children to war. Her loyalty has always been a closed circle, stuck to a desire to move forward and a need to provide for her family.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER:

Andromeda is more inclined to believe that the Ministry and actual authority would have the means to bring about the end of the war, but with the shift of tide she understands that such measures are a necessary evil. For however far removed she has been from the Black Family Tapestry for the time she’s been married, Andromeda still remembers what it was like to host Voldemort for dinner parties as Bellatrix’s obsession for him grew. She is of a unique group who understood what was happening long before the Daily Prophet began their war correspondence.

That being said, Andromeda also knows of the ambition of man in general. Whispers of a vigilante group were met with indifference at first, she was ( perhaps misguidedly ) indignant at the idea of a select few taking matters into their own hands, let alone the rumors that some were being recruited right out of school? Her opinion on the group as a whole has only slightly softened since a few loved ones got involved, most notably Sirius and now Ted. Accepting the reality of the threat they are faced with comes with the ( somewhat begrudging ) acceptance compromises must be made.

SURVIVAL:

To put it bluntly, survival is everything to Andromeda. Above all else she is a true Slytherin and will do whatever it takes to survive, the caveat being that this extends to her family. Andromeda, though certainly affected by her upbringing in prejudice and violent bigotry, has not been indoctrinated in the same way. However, a certain edge to her allows for more than a few people to draw the direct line of understanding she is cut of the same cloth as Bellatrix Lestrange. While Bella found herself perverted past recognition to her devotion to the cause and her “master”, Andromeda made conscientious decisions to be as self-possessed as possible. This includes a willingness to play coy with the war effort that stands to protect her way of life.

Because, and this is very important, Andromeda thinks herself above it. She does not always draw a direct correlation to the suffering of others to what could become of her, because in Andromeda’s mind she will simply not allow it to happen. She knows she will be ruthless when it comes down to it, and tries to maintain a certain amount of plausible deniability when it comes to moments in which she is directly associated with the war.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Ted is, above everything else, the love of her life. She would have moved them to another country if she had her way but they settled on a cottage by the coast. They have fundamental disagreements and while there are times when he is met with exasperation on her end Andromeda has always liked the challenge he presented to her. A certain recklessness to give himself over to a cause rather than be content with the life they have stolen away offers a host of issues she would rather avoid; and it is in part due to this reasoning she doesn’t always share her own passing along of details. Ultimately, however, everything Dromeda does is for Ted, for their family.

Andromeda carries with her an adolescence of her family’s social engineering, which means she has connections in various places ( some she isn’t the quickest to acknowledge ). I think she finds herself drawn to the other members of her family who have been disowned, or even the women around her year who she recognized herself in. Which is to say nothing of the particular status she has achieved as an Unspeakable. Indifferent to status ( possibly as a result of it always being given to her ), Drom certainly knows how to use it.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: I am a huge sucker for Tedromeda, to be perfectly honest. But at the end of the day I will write with wherever there is chemistry and am always looking for fun avenues to explore!

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?:

There is a lifetime of prejudice which Andromeda needs to consistently unpack and confront ( and, as is the way of someone who grew up as incredibly privileged as she did, she is not always willing to do the work ). In many ways, hers is the story of triumph of love over the built-in bigotry that poisoned her home. In practice, it is much trickier. For as much as Andromeda knows what her family is now, there are still fond memories she holds dear. For all the horrors she knows that have been perpetrated in the name of purity, she often finds herself subject to the conditioning she was raised on.

Andromeda was taught, young and often, through the various state-sanctioned ( and family approved ) propaganda pieces to fear and resent anything that would be seen to be an outside, infiltrating force. She does attempt to give her daughter a more objective education of the world around them, though this is made increasingly difficult with the way the war seems to be going. Fear does things to people, she knows more than most, but there is a lack of malice in her heart.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO?:

Honestly, I’ve been keeping my eye on this roleplay for some time and the stars just aligned in terms of my schedule opening up and a role that I wanted to play around with! Andromeda is fascinating to me because of all her contradictions, as well as a major resistance to actively take part in a war which she could potentially play a role in. I think the natural tension between her and former family members could also lead to a very interesting dynamic as we move forward!

PLOT DROP IDEAS:

I am open to going with the flow and love organically plotting, but I think Andromeda’s position at the Ministry / her being an informant to the Order could really challenge her laissez faire attitude when it comes to the war in general. Along with the building tension she has in her own home, and her desire to keep her family safe above anything else, it would be interesting to explore the boiling point of where that all comes to a head. Passivity has no place when she has a husband actively partaking in the war effort, and when the outcome could potentially call into question his safety she might have to fully establish herself as a combatant against what she was raised in.

ANYTHING ELSE? I don’t think so!

#homenumaccepted #harry potter rpg #hp rpg #marauders rp #marauders rpg

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bonkers-4-hatter · 5 years ago

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Snow Day Pretend (Kid Gou, Rin and Sousuke Story)

This was a commission for a lovely dear! I enjoyed writing this! I don’t really write for kids or about kids that often, so it was a nice change and I hope to write another story like this again.

Hope you guys enjoy!

If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee.

If you’d like a commission, please message me.

“It looks so cool out though mom, why do we have to stay in and play”? A seven-year-old Rin was pouting, his eyes staring outside at the falling snow blanketing the already white ground. It was winter break and the kids were at home. Rin had his best friend Sousuke over to play, but when the snow started falling harder, they were ushered inside to play.

Pitter patter of feet were heard as Rin’s younger sister, Gou ran down the stairs her giggles being heard by the two young boys. She bounded over to her brother and started to jump around him and his friend.

“We can play pretend! It’s so much fun, please, please, please!” The energetic child kept jumping around them both until Rin finally sighed and nodded. Gou was so happy, she grabbed both Rin and Sousuke’s hands and dragged them up the stairs to her room.

“You both will love pretend! It’s much funner than stupid soccer!” Both boys groaned as they were led into Gou’s bright pink room, the overabundance of the color making their eyes hurt a bit if they stared at something for too long.

“What now?” Rin was still pouting, his arms crossed across his chest and bottom lip out to show his distaste at the whole situation.

“We pretend, silly!” Gou’s shrill laugh rang out through the room as she ran to her toy chest, her little hands rummaging through the giant box, clearly on a mission to find something specific.

“W-What’re we pretending t-to be?” The shy, timid voice of little Sousuke only made Gou grin as she started pulling out hats, swords and other toys and setting them to the side.

“Princess and Dragon!” Gou proudly proclaimed this as she pointed the toy foam sword into the air like she just proclaimed the sentence of the century. Sousuke stood silent as he silently giggled at Gou’s silly stance. However, Rin only scoffed and stood to the side looking bored and not interested.

“So, you’ll be the Princess and we’re the Dragons that sounds so boring; come on Sousuke, let’s go do something else!” Before Rin could make it to the door, Gou stood in front of it, a giant smile on her face as she tossed him the bright pink Princess hat. It was tall, pointy and had a glittering pink mesh hanging down in the back.

“I’m not the Princess, you are! I’m the Knight in shining armor and Sousuke’s the Dragon! Now put the Princess hat on, Princess Rin.”

“I’m not gunna be the Princess, I’m not a girl!” Rin only kicked the bright Princess accessory and glared over at his sister who still had the foam sword poised in an attacking position. Sousuke was silent as the siblings continued to glare at each other, he didn’t like it when they fought like this so, always being the voice of reason, he stepped in between the two and picked up the Princess hat and put it on.

“I-I’ll be the Princess and Rin can be the Dragon…d-does that work?” Both siblings just stared at Sousuke who had flushed cheeks. Gou was the first to break the silence and throw her hands up in the air and hugged Sousuke.

“You’re so awesome Sou! Now, let’s play!” Rin was still a little taken aback at what his friend just did, but he only smiled and let out a big growl, lunging forward to Gou. With her trusty sword, Gou stepped back and gave a battle cry as Rin and herself had an epic battle. Little Sousuke just sat back, Princess hat still on top of his head with a small smile on his face as he saw the two siblings having fun.

“Don’t worry Princess, I’ll protect you from this mean dragon!” Gou’s high-pitched voice rang out, jumping in front of Sousuke, sword held high as she blocked Rin’s “claws” from attacking the fair maiden.

“I’m not mean!” Rin protested as he gave a ferocious growl and lunged toward Gou, deflecting her sword as they continued their battle around the room. A loud rumbling echoed through the room making Sousuke laugh. It was Rin’s stomach that growled, making the red head flush. Gou grinned and poked Rin’s stomach lightly with the tip of her foam sword, giggling.

“Your growling tummy sounds mean to me!” She continued to poke it with her sword until Rin swatted the sword away, making it tumble to the ground and out of the knight’s reach.

“Oh no!” She gasped as her weapon was out of reach, making Rin grin, his pointy teeth shinning in the light. “Quick Princess, run!” Gou quickly grabbed Sousuke’s hand and pulled him along as she ran from the room in search of another weapon to defeat the mean ole dragon with. She could hear Rin behind them, growls and all. She pushed her little legs to go as fast as they could, running into the playroom and ushering the Princess under the bed for protection.

“Umm…Good Knight, why are we under a bed?”

“To hide from the Dragon, I must protect you! I have to find another weapon to fight him.”

The Princess only nodded in understanding as their little eyes started to scan around the playroom in search of a weapon for the Knight to wield, but also on the lookout for the Dragon. That sneaky beast could be anywhere for all they knew! His eyes spotted a magical wand, decorated in pink and purple sparkles, the wand having a moon shape. Sousuke looked over at Gou, who was running around frantically, shifting through toys to find a valiant weapon to defeat the evil dragon. He always enjoyed playing with both siblings, but Rin never really invited his younger sister to play. Both siblings were like his family and when he spent time with one and not the other, he always felt bad afterwards.

Getting the chance to play with both made Sousuke happy. He enjoyed how Gou was really into the game, playing the part of the Knight well and he could tell that Rin was into it too, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Smiling at the frantic girl, Sousuke decided to join in on the fun.

“Good Knight, there’s a magic wand to use!” He dramatically pointed to the wand as Gou gasped at the find. She pranced over and grabbed the weapon from the toy chest and raised it high into the air to show it off in a heroic pose.

“Thank you, Princess, this’ll show that nasty Dragon who’s boss!” Lowering her new weapon, Gou scampered over to Sousuke quickly grasping his hand and running toward the door, not before grabbing a plastic shield that was blue and yellow in color and handing it to him. Once in the hallway, the Knight looked around to make sure the coast was clear before handing the Princess the shield.

“Here Princess, this’ll protect you while I slay the Dragon!”

Sousuke smiled at the gesture and accepted the shield, holding it up in front of him, making sure the flowing, glittery material of his Princess hat didn’t stick to the plastic toy. Gou was showing him how to “properly” hold the toy of course. Deciding to make her even happier, he mimicked a curtsey, something he’s seen on TV before. His actions made Gou laugh. While still curtsying he properly thanked her for the protection as any grateful Princess would to their Knight in shining armor.

“Thank you, brave Knight, for protecting me.”

Gou continued to giggle at the scene. “Anything to protect you, Princess!”

“You’ll need that shield after I defeat the Knight, Princess!” Gou gasped, there, on the other side of the hall was Rin, pointy teeth on display and he even had a red dragon mask on the top half of his face. In an instant, Gou was in front of Sousuke, magical wand held high, ready to slay the beast in front of her.

“Do your worse Dragon, I’m ready!”

With a mighty roar, Rin lunged at both Gou and Sousuke, slashing his claws near Gou, but thankfully she dodged the attack. Doing a few poses, Gou held her magical wand up high and shouted.

“Ice Beam!” With her attack out in the open, she pointed the wand at her brother who froze in place, arms still raised, and moth open like he was going to take a bite out of someone. With a grin, Gou grabbed the Princess and booked it to another room.

“Quick Princess, that attack only lasts 15 seconds, we have to find another hiding place!” The two ran down the long hallway and even ventured down the stairs, Gou trying not to trip while going down them quickly. Once down, Gou pushed Sousuke to hide against the side of the staircase just as Rin ran past the stairs on the second floor. Wiping her forehead, Gou made sure her bother wouldn’t come back around before taking off on the first floor, passing by the kitchen where her mother was in making something yummy by the smell of it.

“In here, hurry!” Gou pulled Sousuke into the laundry room, closing the big door behind her to act as a shield against the dragon’s vicious attacks.

“Quick Princess, you have to hide, otherwise you’ll be eaten!” Gou’s frantic voice startled Sousuke a bit, but nonetheless he nodded as the now magical wand wielding child opened the dryer and gestured for him to get in. Clambering into the machine, he was enveloped by darkness as Gou closed the door. He could hear her footsteps as she was pacing the small room, guarding him of course.

It stayed like that for a few minutes, just Gou pacing the floor as she mumbled to herself about the different ways that she could slay the dragon and what kinds of neat magical attacks she can come up with. Sousuke tried to get comfy in the dark, cramped space, his hat falling off because of how small the space was.

“There you are! Prepare to die human!” Sousuke had to cover his mouth to stop himself from laughing out loud. From the sound of it, Rin was in the laundry room now. Not wanting to give away his hiding spot, he kept quiet as he could hear the commotion going on beyond the dryer’s door.

“That’s what you think evil Dragon! I’ll slay you and then rescue the Princess! Prepare to meet your maker!” Gou gave a battle cry of sorts after her little heroic speech as a string of magical attack names came from her along with Rin’s grunts of being hit or laughs of victory as he from what Sousuke could decipher successfully dodged her attacks.

A few more minutes of the attacks went on before Sousuke was blinded by the light of the outside world, his eyes straining because he was cooped up in the small, dark, enclosed space for more than he would’ve liked. Once his eyes settled, there stood Rin with a giant smirk on his face, hands on his hips in a victory stance. The Red head held his hand out for his friend to take, which he did as he helped Sousuke out of the dryer. Glancing to the right, Sousuke saw Gou on the floor, sprawled out as if she was dead; an obvious sign of her defeat.

“I tried to tell her, her silly magic tricks wouldn’t work on me, but she didn’t listen.” Rin continued to grin as he took the mask off. A scoff was heard as Gou jumped up from the floor, hands on her hips and magical wand in her hand.

She made her way toward Rin, a look of determination on her face before she stuck the glittery weapon in her brother’s face.

“You were just lucky, next time I’ll get ya!”

Rin only stuck his tongue out at his sister, taunting her of course. “Sure, sure, whatever you say; face it, I’ll always win I’m the big brother.”

“Just because you’re older doesn’t mean you’ll always win.” Gou pouted as she looked down at her weapon of choice before holding it up and making a declaration.

“When we fight again, I’ll be ready! I’ll be practicing my attacks, just you wait evil dragon!” With a new determined vigor, Gou ran out of the room, screaming her declaration of becoming stronger to defeat the Dragon. Rin and Sousuke looked at each other before bursting out in laughter. After gathering themselves, they made their way out of the laundry room, as Rin and Gou’s mother shouted about a snack being ready for them.

“I guess that wasn’t that bad…still would’ve wanted to play out in the snow.” Rin had a neutral look on his round face.

Sousuke scoffed at his friend. “Sure, thing Rin. You had fun, admit it, you liked playing pretend.” He nudged his Red headed friend who only scoffed and mumbled something. Sousuke heard it though not that he’d tell Rin.

Without another word from either of them, they made their way to the kitchen, the thought of a yummy snack on their mind.

#q #que #commission #writing commissions #writing commission #play pretend #pretend #childhood #free! eternal summer #free! iwatobi swim club #free! fanfiction #rin matsuoka #gou matsuoka #sousuke yamazaki #rin matsuoka story #gou matsuoka story #sousuke yamazaki story #free! kids

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lycorogue · 5 years ago

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Love Square Fluff Week: Part 5 - AU Day

That’s right, folks. I’m still stubbornly working on those @lovesquarefluffweek prompts. It kept me nearly an extra week to decide what I wanted to do with the prompt ‘AU Day’, and only finally figured it out after thinking of an episode of Ouran High School Host Club. It then kept another week - and about 5 different rewrites and major storytelling shifts - for me to actually get the darn thing figured out. I wanted to have the final 3 prompts completed before the end of February, but Life sucks, doesn’t it? I AM still going to work on those final 2 prompts - ‘Your Voice’ and ‘Reveal’ - and I hope to get at least one more up this upcoming week.

UPDATE (3/1/2020): You can now read this story at my other three normal locations: on AO3, on FFN, and on DA.

Without further ado, I revive my Fluff Week story for chapter 5:

Making the Complicated Simple

Summary: The Love Square is as complicated as it’s always been, with Marinette only in love with Adrien, and Adrien only in love with Ladybug. Tikki confesses that she might have a solution to the whole problem, but it ended up making things even MORE complicated. Marinette just wants a simple solution to everything.

Word Count: 4881 Rating: General Audience Spoilers: Major - Rena Rouge and Carapace in Season 2, Puppeteer 2, and Zombizou Minor - Frighteningale, Felix, and Dark Cupid Love Square Side: Adrienette and MariChat (sorta) Romance Level: Collapsing Love Square; attempts to woo

WARNING: This story is probably going to feel trippy until you “get” it.

There he was: Adrien. The love of Marinette's life, although she could never find a way of letting him know, despite her many attempts to do just that.

“Marinette?” Tikki chirped from Marinette's purse.

The teen kept staring longingly at the street poster of Adrien, debating how much trouble she'd be in if she swiped it. Adrien was posed a little seductively, his elbow resting on a counter just behind him, and his other hand running through his hair as he gave a cheeky grin to the camera; his eyes a little heavy. He filled the full poster, meaning he was also life-size. Marinette felt the temptation to lean into the public advertisement board outside their school and just place a long kiss on Poster-Adrien's lips. Germs and embarrassment kept her from following through.

“Marinette!” Tikki tried again. “Just go to him and tell him how you feel.”

“You mean like I did at the wax museum?” Marinette snarkily replied.

“Um.” Tikki sheepishly tucked herself further inside the purse. “Maybe not so dramatically? I'm sure a simple 'I really like you, Adrien' will work.”

“You know I can't do that.” Marinette slumped against the poster so her head was nestled against the arm Adrien was leaning on.

“Just try. Use the poster. Tell him how you feel, but, maybe keep it simple. Like you did in the Valentine, or when you made that video to try to cheer him up.”

“Tikki-” Marinette looked down at her kwami, but Tikki simply waved for her to go on. Looking around, Marinette discovered she was alone. The streets were surprisingly empty for such a sunny afternoon. She checked her phone to see if there was an akuma alert she somehow missed, but all she saw was a white screen with black font reading 'NOTHING WRONG'.

Shrugging it off, she deeply inhaled, plotting out what she'd say. Turning to the poster, Marinette became just as shy and warm as she normally would be around the actual Adrien.

“Adrien,” she started meekly, “I need to tell you something. I should have told you this long ago. I love you. I've loved you practically since we first met. You are amazing, and I hope you know that.”

“That was perfect, Marinette!”

Marinette looked at her friend upon Tikki's encouraging words. A smile slowly grew on her face, her cheeks pinking.

“It was very sweet,” Adrien's voice chimed in.

Marinette jumped, and looked up at the poster. Adrien had shifted in it. He was standing upright instead of leaning on the counter, and his one hand was rubbing the back of his neck instead of combing through his hair. His shoulders were hunched, and his cheeks were lightly flushed.

“A-Adrien?” Marinette squeaked in disbelief.

“It's a shame that I only think of you as a friend, but I appreciate how much you care about me.” Adrien stepped down from the poster, rested a hand on Marinette's shoulder, gave her another soft smile, and then walked over to his father's awaiting town car. He waved her goodbye, and climbed into the back seat.

Behind Marinette, the poster restored to Adrien seductively posing against a counter.

~ o ~ o ~ o ~ o ~ o ~

“I told you dozens of times already, Chat Noir. I'm in love with another boy.” Ladybug leapt from one roof to another, her partner racing beside her.

“I know, but isn't it hard to never be able to tell him who you really are? Meanwhile, I already know about your superheroing, M'lady.”

“First of all, Ladybug isn't who I really am. Which means it's actually you who doesn't know the real me.” She stopped to scan the horizon. A large dust cloud kicked up from a street about a kilometer away. That was where the akuma must be. She started off in that direction.

Chat Noir quickly followed. “That's very true, Bugaboo, but wouldn't it be better to be able to talk to your boyfriend about how stressful being a superhero and Guardian is? Plus, I would understand if our dates had to be cancelled because of akuma attacks.”

“We wouldn't be able to have dates. We don't know who the other is.”

“I set up that picnic on the rooftop once. We could do that as dates. And I don't mind not knowing who you are under the mask. I like a little mystery to spice up my relationships.” He landed beside her on another rooftop and winked.

She giggled despite herself, then waved him off with a stern arm slash through the air. “We don't have time for this, Chat Noir!” She scanned the area. It was a wreck, but there was no akumatized supervillain anywhere that she could see. She didn't spot any hurt civilians either, so that was a positive.

Behind her there was a loud rumble. She turned in time to see another large dust cloud.

“He moved this way, hurry up! And no more talk about us dating. You need to give that up, Chat Noir!”

Hooking a flag poll sticking out of a nearby building, she swung herself towards the villain. She never actually found it, but saved the day none-the-less.

~ o ~ o ~ o ~ o ~ o ~

“Okay, enough!” Tikki shouted as Marinette looked longingly at the Adrien collage on her desktop.

“Tikki? You okay?” Marinette pushed away from the desk as she turned to her irritated friend. She had never seen Tikki so riled up before.

“You've been in love with Adrien for months, and nothing has changed. Yet you keep turning Chat Noir down because you can't think of anyone besides Adrien. Clearly you aren't going to move on, are you?”

“N-no. No, I'm not, but-”

“No buts.” Tikki crossed her arms in front of her and shook her head. “That's all the answer I need.” She sighed audibly, hanging her head. “I didn't want to tell you this because I don't like using it, but as the Kwami of Creation, I can even create feelings. I can make Adrien fall in love with you if you really want me to.”

“You can?” Marinette leapt from her chair, scooping Tikki up and practically pressing the little being against her nose. “You truly can?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes! Please, Tikki? Please? I'll do anything!”

“You do understand that if I do this you can never be sure if it's my magic that makes him love you or if he truly does. Are you prepared for that?”

“Tikki, it's Adrien! Please. I just want him to love me back. Then we can get married, and have three kids, and a hamster. And he'll be my personal model, proudly showing off his wife's amazing work. And then we'll retire to a private island and spend the second half of our lives just cuddling with each other. And-”

“Okay! Okay. I'll do it. You're lucky I love you, Marinette.” Tikki pouted as she gave her holder a long side-eye.

“Oh! Thank you, Tikki! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She placed a large kiss on Tikki's cheek and nuzzled her kwami.

“Fine. I'll be right back.” She giggled off the affection Marinette poured onto her, then zipped through the wall.

Almost instantly, Tikki dashed back through, in a panic.

“Tikki? What's wrong? Did someone see you?”

“This is bad. This is very bad. I'm sorry, Marinette. I didn't mean to.”

“Didn't mean to what?”

Above them, there was a tap on the skylight.

Marinette didn't remember climbing to the roof. She was just there, as if she had teleported to her balcony. She wasn't confused, though. She leaned against the railing and looked across the Seine at the Notre Dame.

“Good evening, my princess.” Chat Noir cooed behind her, making her jump.

“Evening, Kitty. What are you doing here?”

“I had something very important to tell you.” Chat Noir knelt before her and scooped up her hand with his left. In his right was a single red rose. “Marinette, I love you.”

“You- you what?” Marinette screeched.

“I don't know why I never saw it before.” He stood up, her hand still in his, and he inched closer. “You have hair dark as night, but eyes as vibrant as bluebells. You're kind and brave. You're amazing, Marinette.”

There was something about the softness in Chat Noir's voice that last sentence. He quickly flickered into Adrien before flashing back into Chat Noir. She blinked a few times, but the image of Adrien didn't return. As Marinette studied the artificially-green eyes hidden behind a black mask, she remembered exactly who it was that was confessing his love to her. It wasn't the boy of her dreams, like she would have wanted. It was her superhero partner. Marinette was baffled as to why he was confessing to her so out of the blue.

Then it came to her.

“You!” Marinette panicked, ripping her hand from his as she skirted her balcony. “You figured out- You discovered I'm-”

“In love with me too?” Chat Noir interrupted as he followed her around the small space.

“Wait. I'm-”

“I'm sorry, Marinette.” Tikki chirped from her hiding space. “I cast the love spell on him instead of Adrien by mistake.”

“He doesn't know about Ladybug?” Marinette didn't worry about whether or not Chat Noir would hear her. Her balcony was empty anyway.

“No. No, he gave up on his love for Ladybug in favor of you. That's part of the spell.”

“Oh.” Marinette wasn't sure how she'd handle Chat Noir's affections towards her civilian self, but at least being Ladybug would be easier.

~ o ~ o ~ o ~ o ~ o ~

“So what's the plan, L.B.?”

Ladybug was hiding with Chat Noir inside an alley. A red water bottle with black spots was cradled in her hands. She looked around the alley. Nothing. She poked her head out of their hiding spot slightly, scanned, and noticed an abandoned car with the driver's side door open. The nearby light post also looked promising, as did a small patch of sidewalk lining the Seine that had chips and some deterioration already in it.

“Almost got it. I just need to-” She continued scanning. There were a lot of potential pieces to the puzzle, but they didn't quite fit together yet.

“No problem.” Chat Noir took his stick off the small of his back, extended it, and whipped it around himself as he prepared to use it as a weapon. “I'll keep the akuma occupied. How much more time do you need?”

“Um...” She should have had the solution already. She just couldn't get it all to connect. She was distracted. “Spare me as much time as you can. I'll let you know once I've got it.”

“Works for me. Catch ya in a little bit, Ladybug.” No wink. No pun. No pet name. He just did a leaping forward roll out of the alleyway, swinging his stick like a bo staff around him to make sure the coast was clear. He then ran to his right.

He hadn't called her a pet name or otherwise flirted with her the whole attack. Chat Noir was still a little playful and liked showing off his skills, but it wasn't the same level as how he normally acted. He was mostly focused on the akuma. It was weird.

“Pound it.”

Ladybug held her fist out for Chat Noir. The water bottle wasn't in her hand anymore. A woman whose face Ladybug couldn't make out was kneeling in the middle of the street. The magical ladybugs had already returned the street lamp, car, and sidewalk to the way they were before.

“Until next time, Ladybug.” Chat Noir was more attentive of their Miraculouses beeping, and didn't bother trying to stick around despite the time-crunch, unlike how he normally would. He didn't call her 'M'lady' or bow or try to kiss her hand. He simply gave her a quick two-finger salute, then turned to leave.

“Wait!” It was weird. Having him not flirt with her was nice, but also felt very wrong.

“Something wrong, L.B.?”

Yes. Something was terribly wrong.

“You, uh, you didn't flirt or call me M'lady or Bugaboo or anything.”

“You don't like those things.” His eyes narrowed, and an eyebrow quirked up.

“True. I was- I guess I just wondered- You're okay, right?”

“More than okay.” He grabbed her hands, and everything felt normal finally. “Ladybug, I'm in love.”

“I know you are, but-”

“Marinette is just the most amazing girl, isn't she? Thank you for introducing us!”

“Wait, what?” So the spell truly did wipe Chat Noir's love for Ladybug and replaced it with undying devotion for Marinette instead.

“Don't worry, Ladybug. I'll be careful with my identity.” His ring beeped. “Whoops. Gotta go! Take care.” He again saluted her and dashed off.

~ o ~ o ~ o ~ o ~ o ~

“I fixed it.” Tikki phased through the window and landed on Marinette's lap.

“You what?”

“Adrien. I-”

There was a tap on the skylight, increasing in intensity and pace the longer Marinette ignored it. She glared at Tikki, who cringed as she shrugged.

“What is it, Chat Noir?” She was on her balcony, and he was again kneeling before her. His left hand on his heart, and a small bouquet of flowers in his right.

“For you, my fair princess in the high tower.” Chat Noir plucked one of the flowers out of the bouquet, and tucked it in her hair behind her ear. “Want me to make you a crown with the rest?” He winked. She hadn't realized how much she missed his winks.

“This is very sweet of you, Kitty-cat, but I'm sorry. I can't accept these.” She gently pushed the flowers away as she took a step back. “I- You see, I-”

Chat Noir's whole body slumped, and he studied his bouquet as if he could figure out why they were wrong. He had been so happy a couple of seconds ago, and now he was this poor, wounded thing. Marinette knew she should just tell him she loved someone else, but she couldn't find the heart to break him further.

“I can't date you because you're a superhero,” she blurted out. “I, uh, I appreciate the gift, and it means a lot to me that you care so much, but it wouldn't feel right. Ya know, without us being able to actually date or anything.”

“Who says we can't date?”

“Wait, what?” She thought she already had this discussion with Chat Noir as Ladybug. “I mean, it's obvious, isn't it? We can't very well hang out in public together. What if Hawkmoth finds out? I- I could be used against you somehow.”

“Do you need us to be out in public for our hang-outs to be dates? I can still spend time with you, can't I? And I can still show you Paris without anyone else seeing us.”

Marinette folded her arms and raised her eyebrows at him.

Without a word, Chat Noir smirked, and scooped her up in a bridal carry. He then pivoted, and placed her back on her feet, his hands protectively remained on her waist.

They were on the roof of the Notre Dame, watching the Seine drift around the sides, and the lights sparkle in the waters.

“What do you think of the view?” Chat Noir leaned close to Marinette's ear, sending a small chill across her neck.

“It's gorgeous.” As Marinette watched a small ferry float down the river, she leaned against the golden angel statue on the roof of the Palais Garnier. The impressive vocals of the opera performance permeated the glass dome.

“Amazing,” Marinette sighed.

“See?” Chat Noir playfully purred. “I'm even the sophisticated sort. Bet you weren't expecting that.”

Marinette giggled, and turned to look at Chat Noir. The glittering of Paris spread out before them from atop the Eiffel Tower. She walked around the observation deck outside of Gustave Eiffel’s office. It was certainly lovelier without a horde of kiss-obsessed “zombies” coming after them.

As if summoned, Chat Noir stood firm against the kissing zombies. His stick fully extended across the width of the balcony to hold back the dazed reach of the brainwashed citizens pouring out of the elevator. Chat Noir's cheek had lipstick marks, but he hadn't fallen under the spell yet.

“Chat Noir?” Marinette ran up to him, and cupped his cheek with a gloved hand; red with black spots.

“Don't worry. Everything will be fine.” He smiled at her, and the horde disappeared behind him. The lipstick marks remained, but he now stood tall before her, with soft, heavy-lidded eyes.

“You trust me that much?”

“More than you know.” He took her bare hands in his own.

“Probably.” She squeezed his hands, and waited to feel him squeeze back. “You're also a lot sweeter than I give you credit for. You're one of my best friends, Chat Noir, but- but I think you're more than that. I love Alya and Nino and all, and I trusted them with Miraculouses-” Marinette didn't care about identities anymore. This needed to be said, and nothing was going to hold her back. “-but I don't have the same bond with them as I do with you. I'm completely lost without my kitty. Even when I do have to fight alone, it's usually with the resolve to do whatever it takes to bring you back to me.”

She stepped towards him, and he to her. They pressed their foreheads together, each closing their eyes to fully experience the touch. The gentle rumble of the Seine beneath their feet accompanied the soft rattling of the Lover's Locks along the wired fencing of the Pont des Arts.

“So let me stay with you.” Chat Noir whispered. His voice was pleading, but with a strange bravado to it that nearly caused Marinette to whimper with yearning. “I just proved I can take us on dates without anyone else knowing. We have other ways of announcing our love to the world.”

They pulled away from each other, and Chat Noir held out an open padlock on his palm. 'CN + MD-C' were carved along the side. Her hand shaking, Marinette grabbed the keys to the padlock, and hurled them into the Seine. She turned back to Chat Noir, but the initials on the lock now read 'AA + MD-C'. His gloved hand was bare. Marinette hovered her hand over the lock, wanting so desperately to attach it to the fence.

Instead, she quickly closed Chat Noir's re-gloved fingers around the lock, and gently pushed his hand away. The sound of rushing water was replaced by gentle traffic. The Notre Dame was behind Chat Noir. They were back on Marinette's balcony.

“I'm sorry, Kitty. I can't. It's- it's not just about the dating. I should have just told you before, but- but I love someone else.” She screwed her eyes tightly shut. She couldn't bear to watch him get hurt again because of her.

“You- but-” His gasps choking down tears forced Marinette's eyes open. Chat Noir's cat ears folded low against his head, and his belt tail hung limp behind him. “But, everything you just said.”

“I know. If- if I didn't- If I hadn't already-”

Chat Noir's shoulders curled forward, and he wouldn't hold eye contact with her. “I wish you would consider me, just once.”

She reached out to cradle his face, and he leaned his cheek into the touch. As she raised his head, his mask and cat ears disappeared, and his bangs swept out of his face. Adrien looked at her with hurt, piercing eyes. Begging her to love him. She jumped, and dropped her hand from Adrien's face. His head lowered again; once more Chat Noir.

“Who?” he choked out, “Please at least tell me who it is you love.”

“It's not important-”

“It is to me. Please.”

Baby-doll eyes. Who taught him that she was weak to baby-doll eyes?

“Adrien Agreste,” she breathed. “But before you say anything, it's not because he's a model or rich or the son of my favorite fashion designer! It's because he's sweet, and funny, and cares for his friends.”

Chat Noir's cat ears shot up, and his belt tail prickled behind him. “But I- I saw him with Kagami. He loves her, not you! I'm the one who loves you!”

“That doesn't matter, Chat Noir.” Marinette's voice had a bite to it. “Of course all I want is for Adrien to love me, but whether or not he loves me back doesn't stop me from loving him.”

“Marinette?” A sweet voice called up from the street below.

“Oh, no.” Tikki muttered, and hid further inside Marinette's purse.

Marinette leaned over her balcony railing. Standing a few meters below, Adrien's face brightened upon seeing her.

“Marinette! Love of my life! Girl of my dreams!”

“I- uh- what?” Marinette held herself upright against the railing.

“May I come up, my love?” Adrien gestured towards the railing. When Marinette numbly nodded, he easily vaulted up and over the railing, landing beside her on the balcony.

“Hey!” Chat Noir snarled behind Marinette, reminding her that he was still around. “What are you doing here, blondie?”

“Why, confessing my undying love for Marinette, of course. What about you, you stray cat?” Adrien spat back at the superhero.

“Um...” Marinette tried to interject, still trying to process Adrien calling her the love of his life.

“I confessed my love for her already! You have Kagami, so give up on Marinette.”

“Uh, Chat Noir-” Marinette attempted to intervene again.

“And what about your love for Ladybug?” Adrien demanded. “We both know that Marinette truly loves me, so you stick with your partner and leave Marinette for me.”

“Actually-” Marinette ventured.

“I have no love for Ladybug! Who could be more perfect than Marinette? You need to stop pulling her along, Agreste, so that she can move on to a real man!” Chat Noir stepped closer to Adrien, who didn't flinch.

“Chat Noir, that's uncalled for-” Marinette pulled a little on Chat Noir's arm to try to separate the boys.

“I'm not pulling her along! You are, with this claim that you gave up on Ladybug.” Adrien moved closer to Chat Noir, unintentionally pinning Marinette between them. “Why are you teasing her like this? I thought you were better than that!”

“Adrien!” Marinette chided. “He's not doing anything like th-”

“I thought you were better than this! Keeping her hanging on so you can feel better about yourself, knowing that at least Marinette is pining over you.”

“Seriously?” Marinette demanded as she pushed back against both boys. “Are you two insane?”

“Prove to me how much you truly love her.” Chat Noir jumped away from Marinette, took his stick off his lower back, extended it, and twirled it impressively around his hand before taking a fighting stance. “Fight me for her!”

“Excuse me?” Marinette glared at Chat Noir. “What on earth are you thinking? First of all, no one is fighting over me! How archaic! Secondly, you're a superhero, and he's a civilian. What if you hurt him?”

“I accept.” Adrien stood in full fencing gear behind Marinette, his saber in hand, already prepared to lunge.

“You what?” Marinette screeched. “No! Nope! Nuh-uh! Not. Happening. You two need to stop this. Right now!”

“I am so, so sorry, Marinette.” Tikki's soft voice leaked from inside Marinette's purse. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“Yeah, well, now what am I gonna do, Tikki?”

The two boys charged each other, batting away the other's weapon with their own. Sparks flew off the metal clashing. Adrien kept firm footing, pushing Chat Noir back easily. The superhero went more unconventionally with his attack as he leapt onto the balcony railing, then flipped over Adrien's head, and landed behind him. Adrien was too quick, though, and easily countered Chat Noir's attack.

“Stop it!” Marinette screamed at them. “You two are acting ridiculous! Stop this right now!” She whipped her Ladybug yo-yo at each of them, knocking Chat Noir's stick, and then Adrien's saber, out of their hands and over the balcony railing. She then lassoed them together.

“Marinette?” The two asked slightly off sync of each other. It had an odd echo effect to it.

“Enough! I don't want any of this. I would never want someone to literally fight for me. You both should know me better than that! My emotions are mine and I will love whom I love regardless of some idiotic battle.” She released them from her yo-yo's string; the weapon vanishing as soon as she caught it.

“Then which one of us do you love?” Adrien stepped away from Chat Noir, but kept his distance from Marinette.

“Yes. Is it truly him?” Chat Noir stood tall beside his rival, gesturing towards Adrien. “Is there no way you could love me instead?”

“I-” Marinette stared at them both. “I love-” She couldn't say. She couldn't get out the name 'Adrien,' but she couldn't reject him either. “I want-” The world vanished, and it was just a white void with the three of them trapped inside it; standing on an invisible floor.

“What?” Chat Noir stepped closer. His voice was soft and gentle. Coaxing her to continue.

“What do you want, Marinette?” Adrien chimed in, his voice just as gently imploring.

“I just want this to be simple!” Marinette stomped, arms flailing. “Why can't I have both of you? Why can't you just be the same person?”

Both boys perked up, shock on their faces. They looked at each other, and held some silent conversation. In unison, they turned back towards Marinette.

“Your wish is our command,” they said with impeccable unison; their voices matching perfectly, as if only one. They faded together, blending into one person: Adrien with is swooped to the side bangs, but wearing Chat Noir's costume, just as he had for the Clara Nightingale music video try-out. He also had Chat Noir's cheeky grin, but awkwardly rubbed his neck exactly like Adrien did whenever he was unsure or nervous about something.

“Do you think I'm purr-fect just like this, Princess?” Adrien-Noir asked.

“Yes.” Marinette took his hands, and wrapped them around her waist. She then draped her own arms around his neck. “I wouldn't want any other but you.”

“That's all I need to hear.” He leaned down towards her, pulling her closer against him.

Marinette rolled slowly onto her toes, her lips reaching for his. Her fingers snaked into his shaggy hair, and his claws delicately scratched her back. Their eyes closed as their breaths mixed. Their lips brushed. The softness of his skin sending tingles through Marinette. She moved closer to press his mouth firmly against hers-

BZZZZZT. BZZZZZT. BZZZZZT.

Marinette bolted up in bed, flailing around for her phone.

BZZZZZT. BZZZZZT. BZZZZZT. BZZZ-whoomp.

Flopping back in bed, Marinette held her cell phone to her chest. She probably should get up and get ready for school, but she could afford one snooze.

She tried to grab at every image of her dream that lingered just on the edge of her mind. She wanted to thread them all back together. She remembered just starting to kiss Adrien when her alarm went off, but he was also not-Adrien. There was something more. Chat Noir was in her dream too. She vaguely recalled the different places he took her to prove they could still go on dates. She couldn't remember if she was wearing her Ladybug costume at the time, though.

There was a familiarity as well. Chat Noir and Adrien were somehow connected. Marinette couldn't recall how or why anymore, but she knew there was something that pulled them together in her dream.

“Tikki?” Marinette addressed the cork board covered in pictures of Adrien, instead of her kwami directly.

“Hmm?” Tikki sleepily replied.

“Can you make Adrien fall in love with me?”

“No.” Tikki was blunt, but her voice stayed kind and comforting. “Love is something very special, Marinette. Us kwamis can't do anything against such a powerful force. We cannot make anyone fall in love, but we also cannot destroy it.”

“Good.” Marinette ran a hand across one of Adrien's pictures, then she brought up the Ladyblog on her phone. She quickly scrolled to a picture of Chat Noir, and zoomed in to his playful smile. “Something tells me love is complicated enough without you getting involved.”

@discoveringmiraculouswriters

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taiblogcomics · 4 years ago

Text

Mon-test of Champions

Hey there, fabric faces. Well, it's quite nearly Halloween. As such, I see no reason to spoil the nice holiday with a Red Hood comic. Instead, let's follow what's become something of a tradition for this blog the last couple years. Alas, due to pandemic, I did not return to that used bookstore and pick up more Bailey School Kids like I promised last year. But I do have another excellent treat for you. While this particular book wasn't a major part of my childhood, its author was: Bruce Coville.

I don't think this guy ever wrote a stinker of a book. Maybe some of the Space Brat series, but I think they were directed at a younger audience. But others were really good. The My Teacher is an Alien books were about humanity's place in the universe and their worth as a species. The Aliens Ate My Homework series was ultimately about the importance of being kind. The Magic Shop books were always about self-improvement. The point is, they were great books. I highly encourage you to pick up a few if you've never read any of his work. Now, as for the one we're covering today, it's not really as deep as his other works. But it does suit the season, and that's what's important~

Here's the cover, as photographed by me, because it's really hard to find a decent one on Google:

Oh boy, you can really tell by their jeans and high-tops that this is the '80s. Not to mention the audience's haircuts. And indeed, this book was published in 1989. It's actually one of his earlier books. Anyway, the Count here has something to declare, Frankenstein is supportive, and the Mummy's just happy to be here. The Wolfman, however, is looking directly into the camera like a jerk. He's also brought his dinner onstage with him, which is pretty rude. Don't get me started on this tentacle monster, who does not actually appear in the book proper. And thank god for that~

So our protagonist today is Mike McGraw. His mom runs an advertising firm, and his stepdad is a science-fiction author. Mike, however, is your typical teen, bored during the summer. His stepdad suggests he get a job, and furthermore encourages the job to be at his mom's workplace. Mike's actually into it, but his mom needs to be talked into it, so Mike excuses himself to the basement to bring up more drinks. In the basement, Mike is suddenly attacked. But it's okay, it's just his best friend, the unlikely-named Kevver Smith. Mike and Kevver have been friends since early childhood, and even share the same birthday. Kevver's also one up on Mike on their prank war now. Oh boy, just wait until Youtube happens, guys.

The boys return from the basement, and Mom has decided to give the boys a shot at being the office gofers. Kevver is included mostly so Mike doesn't get bored. The book skips a bit to get to their first day, where they meet Wendy Moon, the firm's major artist. She's also extremely dramatic, posing on the floor with an "Art is Dead" sign affixed to her chest. See, their current client wants a very boring design, and Wendy objects because, like, why do you even hire a graphic designer if you're not going to take their suggestions? Also working at the firm is Pete, who is the muscle, I guess. The book is unclear on his actual duties. It's not important.

Anyway, time passes and the pair get used to their new job. Everything seems fine until it isn't. Ed the Plumber, the client Wendy was complaining about, has decided to cancel the contract. He's been talked into it by Myrna Smud, a local activist who runs BAM: Billboards Are Monstrous. Get this: she's not against them for, like, aesthetic reasons. If she thought billboards were an eyesore, I could at least understand that. No, it's because she thinks billboards are too creative. They overstimulate children's imaginations and lead to criminal behaviour. And yes, she's serious. So the firm's in a bad mood because a blank billboard is a drain on the company.

The boys' birthday is coming up, and when asked for present ideas, Mike only has one thought in his head: he wants that billboard. It's going unused now, so why not let him do a goof with it? As usual, Stepdad Jeff talks Mom into it. Taking inspiration from Ms. Smud's ranting, Mike and Kevver collaborate with Wendy to design them a monster billboard. After a long brainstorming session, they come up with something not unlike the cover, inviting people to "Enter the Monster of the Year Contest Today!" With the design created, they reproduce it onto panels, and Pete helps them put it up on display. This has been a good third of the book already, which might be even slower pace than some Goosebumps books~

Fortunately, things do start to kick off now. With the billboard up, people begin to wonder who set it up. They contact the firm, and since the boys aren't trying to keep it a secret, they cop to it immediately. This gets them an invite to be on the radio with their favourite early morning DJ, Skip Toomaloo. And as unlikely a name as that is, you could get away with thinking it's just a radio persona. But no, when they actually go on the show, turns out Skip has a daughter named Lulu. Let me repeat that for you: Lulu Toomaloo. Saddled with a name like this, is it any wonder little Lulu turned into kind of a complete brat, planning revenge on her father at every waking moment? Worse yet, she's also a walking fat joke, since her wrath can be bought off with food. It was still the '80s, and that's what we did with fat characters. Seriously, though, nearly all her lines are her announcing she's hungry. There's probably a reason why this isn't one of Bruce Coville's more beloved books~

Anyway, the real meat of the story starts shortly after they find a cloud of bats conspicuously hanging around the billboard. A day or two later, they start to receive telegrams from Transylvania. Someone's now actively sponsoring the contest, and another someone is coming to enter. After confirming that Transylvania is, in fact, a real place, they decide to humour whoever sent the telegram, just in case it turns out to be true. They head to the airport at the stated time, though the flight ends up delayed, coming in at midnight. How appropriate~

The man who comes to meet them is a little hunchbacked fellow in a labcoat, who introduces himself as Igor. He's a bit harried, and rushes them all off to the baggage claim as quickly as possible. It's a good thing, too, since the plane crew has just unloaded an enormous crate for him. Before they can move it, though, the crate begins to shake. Suddenly a huge green fist smashes through one surface, threatening to burst out of the crate entirely. Either Igor's got a monster in the box, or his illegal Hulk Hands smuggling job is going poorly. Igor springs ahead and uses a syringe of some kind on the open hole in the crate. You can tell this is the '80s, since he managed to get that on the plane with him. The crate calms down and allows itself to be transported out to their car.

They try taking Igor to a hotel (conspicuously named the Karloff Inn), but Igor throws a fit when they won't take his Transylvanian money. Dude, I know your flight got in late, but you should've visited the currency exchange. That's on you, man. Since the hotel won't take him, they agree to put him and his crate up at their house. Igor insists on taking the crate up to the guest room with him. Fortunately, he's strong enough to make it an easy task. They all go to bed, and when they get up, there's a seven-foot green-skinned fellow at the breakfast table. Sounds like a typical Wednesday to me~

So this green fellow. He's exactly who you think he is, but what to call him? Well, this one is named Sigmund, but the brain is from a fellow named Fred. So he's called Sigmund Fred. Mostly the book just calls him Siggie, so that's what this review will do as well. But I will never, ever, ever, ever make a song about the Siggie. DJ Skip drops by, and he lets Igor and Siggie on his radio show so they can rant about how they were treated at the hotel. So at this point they're still debating how much of this is real or a publicity stunt. Even Mike's not sure--at least, until the enormous bat turns up in his room that night.

The bat, of course, quickly turns into a tall, pale man in a neat tuxedo. He introduces himself as "The Count" (and it's always just "the Count"), and assures Mike that he's not here to drink his blood. No, he's looking for hospitality. While Mike goes to clear it with his parents, the Count's coffin is delivered to the house. This is one of the funniest jokes in the whole book, because Stepdad Jeff thinks that vampires are more believable than a delivery service that operates at 3 AM. They set the Count up with a partitioned space in the basement.

At breakfast, it turns out that Siggie/Igor and the Count have a bit of a rivalry. They begin to fight at the breakfast table, both leading up to arguments of whose movies were worse. It only gets interrupted when the doorbell rings and the Creture from the Yucky Lagoon is standing there. We'll just be calling him Goony. Goony's appearance is a bit too convincing for anyone to think it's a costume anymore. (He even confesses they used to put a fake zipper on him for his movies.) And shortly after Goony moves in, someone else comes to the door. He's a perfectly ordinary-looking man, except for his large unibrow. After a comment from Igor, Mike realises he must be a werewolf. Where wolf? Here wolf.

The Mummy shows up overnight and off-screen, and Quasimodo (or "the Quaz" as the book decides to nickname him) also joins them further in the day. Skip invites the group out to dinner at a semi-formal restaurant called Chez Stadium. I see what you did there, Bruce. Anyway, as the group makes a toast to Mike and Kevver for hosting and judging the contest, and that's when Mike suddenly realises he's in deep shit. He's got to pick one of these monsters to make happy--and make the rest of them very angry. Mike tries to steer the conversation to their movies instead. This turns out to be a very bad idea.

Goony is a very sensitive sort and begins crying when teased at how bad his movies are (it's sadly true, one of them was even on Mystery Science Theater). This starts a long discussion and argument. The argument quickly turns physical, with all of the monsters rough-housing and throwing food. And of course, Myrna Smud is also at the restaurant, and she gets a faceful of it. Eventually, the police come and break it up. By the next day, Myrna has changed her BAM! campaign from "Billboards Are Monstrous" to "Ban All Monsters". Wasn't that a Godzilla film?

Hey, speaking of Godzilla, the doorbell rings again and delivers another package to Mike. Inside this one is a miniature, fire-breathing Tyrannosaurus. This is Gadzinga, star of those Japanese monster movies. Everyone knows they use miniatures in those films, right? Gadzinga talks very roughly, but fortunately not anything I would mark as stereotypical or racist. More of a Joey Wheeler Brooklyn accent, really. Which is... weird, but not questionable. They also make mention of a masked phantom in this scene, which is I think the only time it's mentioned. Anyway, to bolster their reputation, they decide to put in some appearances at the local schools.

This goes about as well as you're expecting. Actually, most of it goes pretty good. The Mummy talks to the history classes, Goony sits in on biology, and so forth. But then suddenly, all hell breaks loose. One classroom has cornered Igor, and he's not even a participant in the contest. He's more like Siggie's manager. Nevertheless, the kids are gonzo for Igor, mobbing him like a rockstar and demanding he sign stuff. I dunno, as a kid, I'd've gone for the Count myself. They manage to extricate him from the action, but the news crew catches it on film, leading Myrna Smud to talk more about "corrupting the youth" and "overstimulating the imagination".

And yet, it's finally time for the day of the contest. And of course, on the way there, there's a minor riot by Myrna Smud and her BAM squad. Lulu Toomaloo (who has been a major secondary character throughout, just not interesting enough to mention) actually grabs a megaphone and begins her own counter-protest. Essentially you have two sides shouting "we love monsters" or "ban all monsters" at each other. Eventually it boils over, and only ends up resolved when Kevver whips out their finale show-stopper: a mechanical flag that pops up and plays "The Star-Spangled Banner". Everyone's patriotism is stirred and resolves the issue. Nowadays, you'd think that'd only make things worse~

And now Mike has to make a decision. Struck with sudden inspiration, Mike begins a long speech about what it means to be a monster and how he's gotten to know each of these monsters and understand them over the course of the contest. But there's only one person present tonight to really exemplify what it means to be a monster, to have that ugliness inside and out. And that person is... Myrna Smud! Yes, who else is deserving enough of the title of Monster of the Year than someone who calls to ban a group of people from public appearances and declare they're ruining the children's minds. The other monsters look taken aback, but amusingly give their approval after a moment.

The book wraps up pretty quickly from there. Everyone decides not to sue each other. The monsters depart, keeping in touch with Mike and Kevver by mail. Turns out the whole contest did get them some publicity, and they're pulling in some new endorsement deals. Okay, boys, but if anyone tries to talk you into a "Dark Universe" series of movies, turn them down. It won't end well, I assure you. And the monsters themselves had so much fun tha they're willing to get together for a convention again each year. So watch out, because you never know if they'll host it in your town next~

This book is, honestly, pretty good. It’s one of Bruce Coville’s sillier works, which might also come from being one of his earlier works as well. And if you get down to it, it’s ultimately a story about treating folks with respect. It’s pretty much what all the monsters wanted, and why Myrna ended up worse than the lot of them. You could even argue Lulu fits a bit into that, in that no one likes her because she’s a terrible brat. I gave a very short summary of each scene because honestly it’s mostly a lot of back-and-forth dialogue, and that might be worth reading on your own~

And this Halloween, may you also open your home to the monsters that mean the most to you~

#reviews #Monster of the Year #Bruce Coville #Taiblog #Halloween

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