#I feel like I might be poking a bear with this given he's a fandom darling and all

[lesenbyan]

You know. I think I like G'raha for some of the same reasons people i know dislike him but likewise in the agreement on these facts is also why I dislike fandom G'raha. 'cause like. He isn't the same character as the Exarch. the G'raha we know and travel with in EW is not the same man as the Exarch, even with his memories, and I don't mean bc he's younger. like.

okay. I was raised on way too much sci-fi, okay? I got deep in it with paradoxes and time travel and alternate and parallel realities before i was 10. I had a lose grasp on certain quantum mechanics concepts at 13. you give me a time loop and I will immediately understand two things:

every loop is an alternate universe converging off of the same single point as there can be (are, depending) near infinite universes off of every single point in space (<- this is why AUs are called AUs after all) and thus

even if it's the same face, even if it's the same name. even if it's the exact same past up until now, even if everything is perceptibly the same, and this is crucial, they are not the same person.

(I promise, I'm getting there)

This holds true, even in a closed paradox bc you now have a chicken and the egg scenario. Like we all kind of understand the grandfather paradox, we understand that if we kill our grandfather before the respective parent is conceived we couldn't have been born and thus couldn't kill him, ad nauseum. but even if you close it. Even if, say, you're your own grandfather, every loop something's going to change, even if it's not noticeable, even if it's not in your life. something is gonna change. A fundamental fact of how i understand the theory to work (granted I'm no scholar) is every time you go back in time you're not actually going back on your linear time, you're creating an alternate universe which will then be the universe you also fast forward through when you go forward in time.

That being said, the G'raha Tia that becomes the Exarch is not the G'raha Tia that we know, this is proven the fact that the G'raha Tia we know cannot go on to become the Exarch bc the Exarch did not live these post 5.3 experiences. And from there that means the Exarch also didn't come from the G'raha we knew in Crystal Tower. CT and EW G'rahas are the same. the Exarch is from a parallel reality G'raha that yanked us bc the us from his reality died before he woke up and that is how that reality will always play out and we just so happen to be from the reality he reaches into/splinters to save a future. not his future. the people of his future are far beyond his reach and have been since he traveled to the First.

And I think all of that is incredibly fascinating. Especially bc if the G'raha we know was the base of the Exarch you'd think, now that the Exarch's memories are part of him he'd act more like him. but it still doesn't sit right on his shoulders. bc it's not him. This is someone else. this is a role he can play, a mask he can slip into, a dance he knows. but it's not who he is. it's not where he's comfortable, like he was comfortable for 100 years. You see it in Thavnair, you see him steel himself for it. he sees what's happening and he knows what needs doing bc he's got the memories of managing a panicked peoples before in the middle of tragedy. But it's not him. The Exarch is a different man. And I wonder, desperately, how G'raha feels about that man.

[nilesdaughter]

You Great Unfinished Symphony

Fandom: Critical Role Characters: Percy De Rolo, Vex'ahlia, Gwendolyn De Rolo, Pike Trickfoot Pairing: Perc'ahlia Word Count: 781 Note: This... is not my usual style, and I am both excited and nervous to be sharing this for @percahliaweek.

[Also found on A03.]

X-X-X-X-X

“Oh.”

It’s such a soft sound, he almost misses it.

Percival looks to Vex’ahlia, his gaze searching, questioning. “Is something wrong, dear?”

“I… believe we need to call the midwife, darling,” she says in a breathless tone, her dark eyes flicking up to meet his blue ones.

He stands with such celerity that his chair nearly topples to the floor behind him. “Pike, as well?” he asks.

“Yes, Pike, as well.”

The master suite of Whitestone Castle becomes a flurry of activity as Lady De Rolo is carefully transferred from the study to the bedroom and helped out of her tea gown. She is then arranged in the bed, towels and hot water prepared for the delivery. Lord De Rolo is at her side the whole while, murmuring affections and running his fingers through her hair as they wait for the contractions to begin in earnest. If nothing else, this is their fourth time in this particular situation and they like to think that they are used to it; Percy knows that Vex finds comfort in holding his hand, Vex knows the best position to lay in so that her contractions do not hurt quite as much. Pike, bless her, acts as the midwife’s assistant, just as she has for all the other births, monitoring her dear friend and passing over fresh towels as needed, reheating the water when it begins to cool.

This one takes longer, despite coming after four other children. (Four perfect children that Percy and Vex marvel over every single day.) It lasts throughout the night, the stars and the moons bearing witness to the new addition to the De Rolo family.

As the sun crests over the Alabaster Sierras, Vex lets out the loudest cry she’s released during the entire process, her hand squeezing tight around her husband’s, seeking solace in his touch. (If he feels as if she might just tear off his hand, he has the sense to not say a word about it.)

In the next breath, the new baby wails.

The midwife quickly passes the child (“A girl, my lady!”) over to Pike so that the gnomish cleric can clean her up. Percy notices, vaguely, that the child seems unusually red, but his attention returns to Vex as she gives his hand another–softer–squeeze.

“I believe that means we outnumber you, darling,” she says, amusement and mischief twinkling in her eyes even as exhaustion pulls at the rest of her features.

He laughs, kisses her knuckles. “I believe it does, dear heart.”

When Pike returns to the bed with their new daughter, washed and swaddled, it becomes much more apparent why he had seen so much red. Poking out of the dark curls on her head (she’ll certainly be taking after her mother, then, in that regard) are four tiny horn nubs.

Percy feels a wave of guilt wash over him, because he knows, he knows these are the ramifications for decisions he made nearly two decades ago.

Vex, however, does not react negatively to the revelation that she has given birth to a tiefling. She simply accepts the baby into her arms, cooing at her just as she has for all the others, whispering soft words about how she’s perfect and loved and welcome to the world, darling.

“This would explain why I seemed to be running a fever so often,” Vex then comments idly, as casual as if she were relaying her observations from a walk in the Parchwood.

That startles a laugh out of Percy and her warmth, her acceptance, keeps him from spiraling too far down. “I suppose it does.”

“You should hold her, too, darling,” she says, already lifting the bundle up to him.

He reaches down, moving in to cradle her in his arms, pulling her close to his chest. She is unexpected but she is theirs, a testament to the city–the lives–they have built together. She is so warm and small and he never wants to let her go. She begins fussing and, with practiced ease, he slowly walks circles around the bedroom, rocking her, making little shh, shh, shh noises. As he does so, he pauses at the window and looks down into the courtyard, watching as the last bit of scaffolding is finally taken down from around the clock tower, which had been finished but a week ago. (Well, ‘finished’ is a subjective word; he already has plans for adjustments and additions, small ways he can improve upon the parts of the tower that had been completed years prior.) With his new daughter in his arms and his Heart completed, he finds he continues ever-onward to a brighter, happier future.

[slusheeduck]

Fictober 2023 Day 21 - Prompt: "If you don't stop now--" Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

If we’re all being honest, Gale had…never really considered befriending warlocks before. He’d be the first to admit that it was from a place of pettiness—wizards and sorcerers were already at odds due to the learned vs innate spellcraft, but warlocks? Well, warlocks just felt like they were cheating. He’d wanted nothing to do with someone who had to be given what he’d worked for decades to perfect.

Falerin changed that. Oh, he liked Wyll plenty, too, though his pact seemed like far more trouble than it was worth, what with Mizora seeming to relish in his ever-growing do-gooder burden. But Falerin was different—he came from a place of wanting to learn, and opted for his shortcut out of necessity. Gale could understand that. And currying the favor of a god-like patron and becoming her favorite for a time? Well, Gale could definitely understand that.

Perhaps, if Astarion hadn’t been in the picture, there might have been something more there, but no use dwelling on that. Besides, there was one very poignant fact that made him realize that, perhaps, he’d dodged a missile in that respect.

His dear friend Fal was fucking weird.

He’d heard that those who spent time in the Fey Courts would sometimes come home with peculiarities, and clearly Falerin was no exception. There were little things here and there that he’d noticed: periodic staring into space, with not a single thought behind his two-toned eyes; long conversations with animals followed by “Oh, no, I don’t know Speak with Animals. I just like chatting.” Once, when they’d set up camp next to a brook, Gale had had the fright of his life seeing the half-drow’s prone, fully-clothed body in the river water—he wasn’t dead, it turned out, since he’d kept his nose and mouth just poking over the surface.

“Why in the hells did you do that?” Gale had asked once he hoisted him out of the water. Falerin had simply shrugged, an odd faraway look in his eyes.

“Felt like it.”

The eccentricities went beyond that, though, and more than once veered into dangerous territory. His donations to Astarion could be excused—who hadn’t been curious, after reading a saucy vampire novel—and the whole bear thing was…well, Halsin was a person beneath it. Prob…ably? The wiggle of fingers and laughs he gave as greeting to Vlaakith and Mizora and every single Scrying Eye they’d passed had made his own blood pressure spike, but no one had died yet.

But the licking. Dear gods, the licking.

The spider incident went without saying, but there were also the mushrooms in the Underdark, what was probably a bit of roasted dwarf in the Goblin Camp, untold amounts of questionable looking fluids, a bit of slime from their more gelatinous enemies that had left him sick for the better part of the day…you would think that last bit would have been enough to stop him, but once he was recovered enough to continue on, that damned tongue was back out.

Half the time, Gale was tempted to spray a bit of water at him, much like how he did when Tara started getting into something that would likely kill her. But he imagined it going over about as well as it did with her—and Falerin had opposable thumbs.

But Gale had a limit. And that limit was reached in the Shadowlands, post-spider-licking, when he and Fal had settled down for the evening. Gale had opted for some light reading, and Falerin was looking over one of the items they’d managed to grab in their adventures for the day—a mace, engraved with spiderwebs. It pulsed with magic; even with the orb in his chest soothed, Gale could feel the phantom pull of it. Falerin glanced up at him, as if he could feel that pull as well.

“You don’t need to eat this one?” he asked.

“For the last time, I didn’t eat them, I…” Gale sighed. “No. I’m stabilized now. It’s yours to do as you like.”

Falerin nodded, looking back at it. “What was it like?” he asked. “When you consumed them?”

Gale glanced over at him, then looked up as he thought. “Satisfying, for a moment anyway. Like a glass of water on a hot day—or a glass of brandy after a hard one. Gratifying, too—like scratching an itch, but on a much bigger scale. And, of course, an influx of magic always comes with a rush in any form. I imagine Astarion and I could comis—oh, don’t you dare.”

As Gale had spoken, Falerin’s tongue had poked out between his lips, and the mace had moved incrementally closer to his face. He stopped, eyes on Gale, but he simply froze in place. Gale stared hard at him. Neither moved—this was a stand-off.

“Put it down,” Gale finally said.

Falerin kept his eyes locked on Gale’s, and the mace moved incrementally closer to the outstretched tongue.

“Falerin. Drop it.” The cat owner voice was coming out, he knew, but desperate times…

The mace was now well-within licking distance.

“If you don’t stop now—”

What happened next took place in the course of about two seconds. Falerin’s head dove down to lick the mace, a stream of water shot from Gale’s hand, and the half-drow was knocked clean off the log he’d been sitting on.

“Gale!” he sputtered out. “What was that?”

“Probably saving your life, you’re welcome.” Gale got up to his feet, snatching the mace as he did. “And I’m confiscating this until you can learn to keep your tongue in your mouth.”

Would it stop the licking? Probably not. But it bought him a little peace of mind until the next incident. And, as the still-dripping warlock watched him balefully lock the mace in camp trunk, Gale realized…yeah, actually, Astarion could have him. After all, who knew where that tongue had been?

Fictober 2023 Drabble Master Post

[tsarisfanfiction]

(It’s the) Middle of the Night

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Scott, Gordon

When he woke, it was dark.  But he wasn’t alone.

Well, this serves two purposes - one is some nice new Military Bros content for today’s apparent Military Bros day (yay!), and the other is a little birthday present to myself (it’s gone midnight, it counts) because I wasn’t expecting to get anything else today (it’s 00:46 and already I’ve been proven wrong on that front because internet friends are amazing) so I thought I’d poke at my muses until they gave me something.  I’m still not entirely sure what this is, but it’s just nice to have written something again.

When he woke, it was to the distinct feeling of pain.  Muffled pain, clearly stifled by painkillers, but pain nonetheless.

That didn’t stop Scott from opening his eyes slowly, scowling a little at the dim lighting in the room.  It saved him a headache to go along with the rest of the pain, but it didn’t make it particularly easy to determine where he was.

Although, really, there were very few options.  Either he was in hospital, back home in the infirmary, or some third party had decided to take care of him.  Scott knew which one he was hoping for.

“Is our sleeping beauty awake?”

The words were cliché, straight out of a bad kidnapping movie, and Scott rolled his eyes.  Well, that was one option dismissed, at least. Potentially two, considering the owner of that voice’s opinion on hospitals.

“Yes,” he croaked, letting his head loll sideways until he could make out the hazy shape next to him. “Lights?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”  The shape shifted slightly, and then there was a light touch on his shoulder.  “How are you feeling?”

Scott huffed, and instantly regretted it as the action ignited the residual pain.

“Okay, stupid question.” The hand rubbed his shoulder gently. “Do you remember what happened?”

Falling rocks.

A little girl.

Scott lunged to sit up, but his brother was clearly prepared for that because hands gripped his shoulders and kept him pinned to the bed.

“She’s fine.  Couple of bruises, but you kept her safe.” Fingers dug into his shoulders almost painfully, keeping him from moving.  “You, on the other hand, have more than a couple of bruises, and Grandma and Virgil will murder both of us if I let you move just yet.”

Gordon spoke sense, but that didn’t mean Scott had to like it.  Still, his body thrummed with repressed pain and his second-youngest brother was apparently finding it entirely too easy to hold him down.  He stopped fighting for the moment, knowing that Gordon wouldn’t lie to him about the girl.  Something else sparked at his brother’s words, though.

“Virgil?”

“Out on another rescue,” Gordon told him bluntly.  “Alan went with him.”

Alan?  Scott eyed his present brother suspiciously.  “Not you?”

“Well, Alan was hardly going to keep you in line if you woke up, was he?”  The words were flippant, and Scott was admittedly still waking up from an unwilling nap, but something struck him as not right about Gordon’s attitude.

He was too tired to try and parse it out the gentle way.

“Gordon.”

“Scott,” his brother mimicked.  One hand left his shoulder, brushing lightly through his hair before returning to Gordon’s side as his brother settled back down stiffly in the chair.

Stiffly?

Scott’s eyes narrowed, as if that would help him see in the half-light.  It didn’t, but he didn’t need to see to guess what was going on.

“How’s your back?” he asked.

Gordon sighed.  “It’s fine, Scott,” he said, although the way he was shifting in place made Scott doubt they had the same definition of ‘fine’. “Just wasn’t a fan of moving boulders so I’m taking it easy tonight.”

Moving boulders. Scott closed his eyes as the implications of that washed over him, only for the other hand to leave his shoulder in favour of a finger jabbing him in the cheek.

“None of that,” Gordon said sternly.  “Virgil did most of the work.”

“Virgil’s not the one with a bad back,” Scott muttered, peeling one eye open again to glare at his brother.  He got another jab in the cheek for that and lazily shifted his head enough to snap at the offending finger.

Gordon whisked it out of range with a light laugh.  A moment later, hands rested lightly on his arm, thumbs brushing bare skin gently.

“A bad back’s not going to stop me saving my brother,” the blond said firmly, just enough steel underlying his words to be at odds with his laugh.  The thumbs didn’t stop moving, rubbing light circles onto Scott’s skin.

Scott wanted to argue. If it was anyone else, about anything else, he would have done.  But Gordon’s back was its own topic, with its own rules, and no matter how much he wanted to wrap his brother up in cotton wool to make sure he never hurt it again, they had an agreement in place.  Gordon’s back was Gordon’s business.  As long as he remained honest about how it affected him day to day, Scott wasn’t allowed to try and control what he did.

No matter how much he hated the idea of something one day going wrong.

“I know,” he sighed, swallowing back the protests.  Gordon squeezed his arm lightly, in an acknowledgement that his brother knew it hurt him every time he couldn’t stop him.  “So, what happened to me?”

Safer waters it might not be, but the subject change sucked away the rest of the lingering tension in the room.

“Boulders don’t make for a good massage, Scott,” Gordon told him airily, before his voice hardened into something more serious.  “You’ve got extensive bruising all over, and hairline fractures in three ribs.”

Scott winced.  That meant he was grounded for weeks.

He hated being grounded.

Gordon hadn’t let go of his arm.  His thumbs were still tracing circles on his skin, a pattern that was more soothing than it had any right to be.

“You should get some sleep,” his brother told him quietly.  “It’s the middle of the night, you know.”

“You said,” Scott reminded him.  “Why are you still up?”  Gordon was strict with his sleep schedule, when rescues didn’t interrupt it, and the middle of the night was an hour his brother didn’t care to see outside of occasional trips to the kitchen for water.

The huff he got in response told him Gordon thought that a stupid question.

“Someone had to watch you,” he pointed out.  “Go to sleep, Scott.”  Then I can, was left unspoken, but Scott heard it loud and clear.  Sneaky, manipulative little brother.  “The others won’t be back for hours.”

Gordon would know better than him right now.  Still, Scott didn’t want to sleep so soon after regaining consciousness, even if he was weak enough that Gordon could overpower him with ease.

“I don’t need watching,” he protested.  Gordon made a sound that was entirely disbelieving in response and he scowled.  “You need to sleep.”  As if on cue, his brother yawned before letting out a disgruntled noise.

“I can stay awake a while longer,” he insisted, but Scott rolled his eyes.

“Bed, Gordon,” he insisted, trying to pull his arm away.  Gordon didn’t loosen his grip.  “Gordon.”

He half-expected to have his name mimicked back at him again, but this time that didn’t happen. Instead, his brother sighed, a little sadly.  Scott didn’t like that sound at all.

“I’m not leaving you,” his brother said, quiet but determined.  “You can’t make me.”  His grip on Scott’s arm tightened, enough to puncture through the painkillers and get his arm complaining again in real time.  “Not tonight, Scott.”

Despite being fully capable of tight, crushing, squid hugs, Gordon wasn’t particularly clingy all of the time.  Alan would cling, Virgil would hover with the promise of bear hugs the moment he sensed something awry, and even John lurked in his own way, but Gordon was content to keep his own personal space unless he was particularly worried – or mischievous.

Gordon didn’t get clingy like this unless there was something else going on in his head, and Scott knew from experience that there really wasn’t any way of getting the squid to let go once his tentacles had grasped on.  With Virgil and Alan both out on another rescue, and John as ever up in orbit, there was no way Scott could shake him.

If he was honest, he didn’t want to, either.

“Fine,” he accepted.  “But you need to sleep.”

“Scott-”

He didn’t wait for the complaints, twisting his arm around until he had hold of his brother’s wrist. It hurt, but it did its job of silencing his brother.  If there was more light, Scott suspected he’d see sharp amber eyes watching him with a mix of confusion and calculation.

“Sleep here,” he said, giving a light tug.  The infirmary bed was big enough for both of them, a necessity given the entire family’s tendency to crawl into each other’s beds at the first sign of a nightmare. Bruising and hairline fractures would survive a bedfellow.

It wouldn’t be the first time.  Injuries and nightmares came hand-in-hand.

The grip on his arm slackened, then fell away entirely.  Gordon didn’t pull away from him, though, and Scott kept his grip as his brother moved.

Sheets rustled and shifted, exposing him to a rush of cooler air that raised goosebumps all over his body before the mattress dipped and a warm body pressed up against his.

While there was space for two, in theory, Scott had been placed in the middle of the bed, leaving Gordon to squish himself in the smaller gap between his body and the edge of the bed.  Instinctively, Scott tried to shift over, but arms and legs wrapped around him loosely enough not to agitate his bruising, but firmly enough to keep him pinned in place.

“I’m fine,” Gordon said, breath tickling Scott’s neck.  Hair brushed against his jaw, smelling faintly of chlorine as always.  “Plenty of room.”  Scott doubted that, but his brother’s hold on him was firm enough that he couldn’t move anyway.  “Don’t forget to get some sleep, Scott.”  There was a yawn near his ear, punctuating Gordon’s words.  “Night.”

Gordon was good at falling asleep.  Not like Alan – teenagerhood and adrenaline crashing the youngest Tracy where he stood on multiple occasions – but more befitting the military lifestyle he’d once led.  There, sleep was precious, and being able to nod off at the drop of a hat was a vital skill.  Scott had long since lost that to sleepless nights of paperwork and what-ifs, but somehow, despite everything, Gordon could still do it.  The breath tickling his neck sank into something slow and even almost immediately.

His own personal lullaby.

Scott had no intentions of falling back asleep again, but Gordon hadn’t left him with a lot of options. The warmth of his brother soothed the pain, and the breathing against his neck soothed his mind.

It didn’t take long for his eyelids to slide shut again.

[honey-dewey]

Kisses

Pairing: Marcus Moreno/Reader

Word Count: 1,246

Warnings: Mostly fluff, but has some mentions of spice and some really bad insecure thoughts. 

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Whenever you’re insecure about your body, Marcus will kiss wherever you’re insecure about to remind you that he loves all of you. So what happens when you hate how your entire reflection looks?

A/N: A short author’s note before we get onto the fluff. I know that people will always be jerks, and this fandom is typically very accepting, but I’m starting to get nervous when I post, and that is never something I wanted from this writing. This isn’t to say I’m quitting writing for the Pedro Boys, but I might take a break to write without pressure to post and get myself right in the head again. Plus, my personal life is upside down right now and honestly, I need a break. If I do take one, rest assured I will not stop writing, and I will be back with all new content for you guys! Sorry this ended up being longer than I thought, and enjoy the fic!

Marcus really liked to kiss you. 

This love of kissing wasn’t an odd thing or anything you bothered to question. In fact, it was kind of endearing. Marcus would kiss you whenever he could and wherever he could, and it typically made you giggle when his facial hair tickled your skin. You suspected he did it because he was worried you’d forget he loved you otherwise. Or maybe because he lost his wife, and he never knew when he would get his last kiss. No matter what the reason was, you loved it when he kissed you. 

But his favorite time to kiss you was when you felt bad about yourself. Like right now, for example. 

You sighed, turning in the mirror and groaning. “This doesn’t fit!” 

Marcus poked his head back into the room. “What? That shirt fit two days ago when you tried it on.” 

“It doesn’t fit now,” you mumbled sadly, wrapping your arms around your chest. You were really disappointed. Marcus had bought you the shirt for this party, and now it made your stomach sink. Two days ago, it had been a beautifully flattering shirt, but now you noticed how it stretched across your arms and made them look weird. The self depreciation about your arms spread, and suddenly, you were noticing how your thighs looked off in your pants, and was your stomach always like that?

“Baby,” Marcus murmured, coming up behind you and putting his hands on your stomach, breaking you from your thoughts. “Where doesn’t it fit?” 

You blinked away tears. “Here!” You cried, oddly hysteric. “It makes my arms look fat.” 

Marcus’s face turned to stone. “My house doesn’t have many rules,” he said firmly. “But one of those rules is that we don’t use that word, at all, ever.” 

“Fat?” 

“Yes.” 

You turned back to the mirror, the horrible sinking feeling still overtaking your body, making your eyes water and your throat constrict. “Marcus.” 

“My love,” Marcus replied. “I guess this isn’t just about the shirt, is it?” 

“No,” you said in a small whisper. “It isn’t.” 

Marcus put his head against your shoulder, so you could only see the top of his head in the mirror. “One of those days?”

You nodded slowly. 

A grin bloomed on Marcus’s face as he pulled himself off you. “Well then,” he said, taking your hands and spinning you around, so you were no longer facing the mirror. “Shall we?” 

You were confused. “Marcus?” You said, following Marcus to the bed. “What are you doing?” 

Marcus nudged you until you were seated, looking up at him. “I’m proving I love you,” he said, stroking a hand over your hair. “Even if you don’t love yourself.” 

That didn’t clear much up, so you remained confused until Marcus stepped closer, so he was standing between your legs. He pressed a feather light kiss to the top of your head, smiling as he did so. “Clove?” 

“Yeah,” you said without moving. “I thought I’d give the clove shampoo a try.” 

“I like it,” Marcus decided, moving so he could kiss your forehead, where your hairline lay. “Your hair is really nice.” 

The comment made you giggle. “You sound like a stalker.” 

Marcus gasped dramatically, smiling. “I can’t compliment your hair?” 

“Not like that!” You said, overcome by laughter. “You sound super creepy.” 

“I sound romantic as hell,” Marcus said, kissing the tip of your nose. “Would it be creepy to compliment your face?” He kissed each of your cheeks, resting his hands on either side of you so he could lean forward without losing his balance. 

You hummed, face turning red. “Does it deserve compliments?” You asked softly. 

Marcus nodded, catching your lips for a soft kiss. “Of course,” he murmured against your mouth. “All of you is deserving of praise.” 

He moved downward, planting kisses to the pulse points below your jaw, tipping your head up as he did so. His lips found your collarbones, causing your heart to flutter and your face to curl into a smile when his facial hair tickled your skin. 

Marcus silently leaned back, drawing one of your arms with him. He held it, bearing all the weight as he kissed the sensitive inner skin of your elbow. “Such strong arms,” he said, trailing his kisses to your wrist. He turned your hand over and kissed it too, smiling. “And I love holding your hand. It fits perfectly in mine.” 

Now you were full on blushing, your grin never wavering as Marcus edged you back, so you were laying down on the bed. He was above you, shoving the shirt you hated away so he could kiss your sternum, trailing his kisses down your belly. “My sweetheart,” he said, kissing just above your belly button. “So beautiful.” 

“Marcus,” you whined, squirming and giggling as his kisses tickled your sensitive skin. “Marcus!” 

“Yes?” Marcus said, raising his head and looking up your body at you. “Am I doing something wrong?” 

You shook your head. “It tickles,” you said, reaching down to run your hands through Marcus’s hair, effectively ruining the neat style he had put it in. 

Marcus smiled. “You mean this?” He asked, kissing over your belly again. As his lips made contact, you felt your muscles contract as you resisted the urge to kick. It was incredibly hard, but you were given a reprieve when Marcus tugged the waistband of your pants down to kiss each side of your hips. “You can sit back up,” he said, smoothing a hand down your leg. 

You sat up, flushed. Marcus was waiting for you, leaning back on his heels. He gently nudged your legs apart, waiting for permission to pull your pants around your ankles. When you lifted your hips to grant him access, he smiled. “I love you,” he murmured, pulling your pants down and off. 

“Marcus, are we still going to that thing,” you said, watching Marcus press a warm kiss to the inside of your left knee. “Because if we were, we were supposed to leave five minutes ago, and- Jesus,” your initial sentence cut off as you all but moaned the last word when he found a sensitive spot, pressing your hand over your mouth so you wouldn’t make any more obscene noises. 

Marcus smiled, continuing to alternate left and right leg as he worked his way up, kissing whenever he changed sides. When he made it up to the top of your thigh, he gently pulled your hand off your mouth. “Let me hear you,” he said, pupils wide. 

You shook your head, desperately grabbing Marcus’s hair. “Missy’s still in the house,” you reminded him weakly. 

“To hell with Missy,” Marcus said, kissing the inside of your thigh again. 

“I am not subjecting that poor girl to hearing you pound me into the mattress,” you said, pulling Marcus up so you could kiss him. “Later, when she’s at her friend’s sleepover.” 

Marcus sighed, but nodded, kissing your forehead. “Do you believe me?” He asked as he helped you up, handing you a new shirt and turning to fix his hair. 

“Hm?” 

“Every part of you is beautiful,” Marcus said. “And worth my love.” 

You smiled, taking another look at yourself in the mirror. You still weren’t happy with your reflection, but when you looked at your body, all you could feel were Marcus’s kisses against your skin, and you suddenly felt warm inside. “Yeah. I agree. Now c’mon, we shouldn’t be late.”

[screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse]

Like A Ghost In This Burning Sea

Fandom: 007 — James Bond (Craig Movies)   Relationships: James Bond/Felix Leiter, past James Bond/Vesper Lynd Rating: T Tags (excerpt): Emotional Baggage, Grief/Mourning, Pre-Slash, Friends to Lovers, Gentle Kissing

I see you in disguise sometime But the feeling never dies in your eyes I wish that you could be here with me I'm lost like a ghost in this burning sea

When he got back to their ramshackle office whose cover apparently served no purpose at all, Beam sat exactly where he’d left him.

Felix let himself sink heavily into the chair at the desk.

“Where you been?” Beam asked.

“Took a walk around the block,” Leiter returned. “Clear my head.”

“Oh yeah?” Beam asked with the inflection of someone carefully angling to be mistaken for a bumbling idiot. Not that Beam wasn’t that, but he was the dangerous kind: white, coming up on middle age, with friends in high places.

Felix didn’t reply and lit another cigar instead.

“You wanna explain something to me?” Beam asked, and this time there was that high note of calculated distrust. He fancied himself laying a trap.

Felix waited him out.

But Beam didn’t say anything else — didn’t have to; because what he tossed onto the table in front of Leiter was a photograph. A little grainy due to it being night and the picture taken from a distance, but it was clear enough to send a frisson down Felix’ spine.

It was him, and Bond, just before he’d told the guy to move his ass. Just as James had leaned over to press a quick kiss to Felix’ cheek in thanks — for the information, and the warning.

What the camera hadn’t been able to capture was the smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. Thank fuck for small mercies.

Felix let his eyes trace the curve of Bond’s shoulders for just a moment before pointedly looking up at Beam. He took a deep drag off the cigar. He puffed out the smoke, nasty trill of satisfaction when Beam blinked as it irritated his already bloodshot eyes.

“He’s just like that,” Leiter said.

“In love with you?”

“Affectionate,” Felix returned, taking care not to turn the word too sharp on his tongue. “Pretends he isn’t. Not very good at it.”

Beam eyed him. Leiter held his gaze and said nothing else.

“Where is he going?” This was his last-chance question, Felix knew it well enough.

“I have no idea,” he said. He hadn’t made it this far by mistaking the vicelike grip of mutual dishonesty, for loyalty.

“Pity,” Beam sighed on an exhale. He picked up his flyswatter again. “I was starting to like you.”

Felix turned his attention back to his cigar.

***

"I thought you didn't have any friends left," Camille remarked quietly when Bond relayed what Felix had told him.

He made an uncertain noise. "Well. Maybe one or two."

It was a feeling he didn't like to dwell on, after... everything.

He recalled M's careful questions, never quite poking the bear but reminding him that no man was an island all the same. Part monk, part hitman, so he'd thought she wanted him — but she'd never given him a straight answer on that one, had she? No strings, was the rule, and he had failed ever so spectacularly: any new double-0 let off the leash carried a six-foot warning sign, 'Get out of the way.' Occasionally, they were buried with it.

It should have been him they'd buried after Rome.

Dead and gone, just like her, Mathis growled in his ear. Fool.

Brought back to the present by Camille's grounding touch on his arm, there was another voice.

'James. Move your ass.'

Bond glanced over at Camille to acknowledge both the rabbit hole and his return to the present, and she nodded.

Felix was... a friend. Bond did not believe in the romanticism of walking in each other's shoes or eating the same crap every day. Plenty of people did who had proven themselves to be untrustworthy — too many just in the past month. Sure, Felix knew the work. He might even understand the work of loss, and losing. But that was not why James had gone to him.

He'd called him because he was out in the cold, his own connections severed save for a sliver of M's smirk and the pride she could never quite hide; and because the last time he'd been about to do something monumentally stupid, Felix had been there to stay his hand.

This time, he'd handed him a bigger knife.

Bond had leaned in rather without thinking, adrenaline already pumping to let him make that jump across the bar, and had pressed his lips, dry and chapped, to the corner of Felix' mouth.

'Thank you, Felix.'

Leiter had smiled.

*

"Looks like Mr Leiter has been promoted," M informed him; snow slowly drifting all around them.

"Then all the right people kept their jobs." He tugged the collar of his coat a little closer.

"Something like that." She cast him a sidelong glance. Still waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Bond. I need you back."

He forced down a shrug. A movement she knew too well how to read.

"I never left." He said it with the confidence of a man who was as transparent as he was a consummate actor: let the audience make up its mind. It was what Vesper had taught him, at long last. The better value of a cover was to let your target fool themselves into becoming the hunter or the prey. Whichever role they chose would be their downfall.

He turned away and felt eyes on his back. In his jacket pockets, his hands closed around the links and loops of the necklace. Uncaring that M could see, he flung it into the snow. Let it be swept up in a drift. He didn't need it anymore.

Lesson learnt.

*

At least he wasn't sweating himself to death this time, Leiter thought as he cast his gaze along the walls of the tiny office his contact from the consulate had sent him directions to. It would do.

He'd spent perhaps five minutes getting situated when there was a knock on the door and, without waiting for a bid to enter, Felix' doorway was darkened, inevitably, by an insufferable Englishman with no manners.

"Ugh," he scoffed — convincingly enough, he thought, only Bond did what he did best and smirked at him. Rather menacingly, Felix thought while he was of a mind to complain about his welcome. "Seriously," he gestured at the room at large. "This?"

"Come on, Felix," Bond said, closing the door behind him without taking his eyes off Leiter. "You'll barely be in here, anyway."

"Oh? Then where will I be?"

At this, Bond's expression broke into a grin. It took years off his face, yada yada yada, Felix mocked himself in his head; but it really was unfair how he could just turn on the boyish charm. Felix knew well enough how effective it was. On anyone.

As James advanced on him now (and he'd hate to call it prowling, but the man was tall), Felix planted his feet and cocked a brow.

"In my office," Bond murmured as he arrived in Felix' space, close enough to touch but not following through. "It's much nicer."

"Uh-huh," Felix intoned flatly.

"Much bigger," James continued with a flickering glance.

Felix pressed his lips into a thin line.

"And besides, you like me better than Tanner," James finished with an odd warmth in his eyes that one might mistake for smugness; if Felix didn't know how deeply men like that yearned for praise. And basked in it, when they had it.

"I like Bill fine," Felix returned.

A spark of challenge lit in Bond's eyes.

“Sure,” he said easily, and just as easily he tilted his head, leaning in closer. He made no secret of his intentions; as much honest yearning his expression as there was disdain in the way he inhabited his covers.

Felix huffed and raised a hand to hook a finger, then two, under the lapels of James’ immaculate suit. Between the years, they’d come to know each other.

As they found each other now, in a kiss more tender than one might have expected of two men who launched themselves into danger and called it employment, it felt familiar and new.

Bond’s hand curled around Felix’ waist. Distantly, a phone rang.

Paperwork could wait.

[legendarywhump]

Heartless

Fandom: Sanctuary

Pairing: Abby/Tesla

Summary: Post Vigilante, an injured Abby Corrigan shows up on the Sanctuary doorsteps. 

Whump: Attacked by an animal, poison 

-

She’s nearly unconscious when she shows up at their door, deep scratches shredding her left sleeve and apparently her arm as well. It’s Tesla who answers, grumbling about not being anyone’s doorman, but his complaints quickly give way to…. Something.

It’s not concern, of course. He hardly knows the woman, and anyway, caring isn’t his vice of choice. He has many, certainly, but unlike Helen, he’s never been a fan of torturing himself by caring for mortals. Too messy, certainly doomed, and all in all, exhausting.

So he isn’t concerned, isn’t the least bit worried. If his voice comes just a bit louder than it should when he tells Henry to get Helen, it’s only because he doesn’t care to repeat himself.

That’s it.

He scoops her up-no one else is nearby, and she certainly isn’t walking anywhere in her condition-and she blinks up at him, brows furrowing.

“Tesla, right?” She asks, and her words are concerningly slow. Slurred. (Someone else, at least, might be concerned for her. He isn’t.) “Like the… Scientist.”

“Remarkably,” he says, voice low, starting toward Helen’s lab. “And you’re… Amber? Amy? Allie?” 

He remembers her name, of course; he forgets little, once it’s been committed to memory, and judging by the way this girl and the protege looked at each other, he suspected from the first meeting that he’d be seeing her again. But if he can keep her annoyed, maybe he can keep her awake. 

She sighs, not irritated but accepting, resigned. “You don’t…. Remember me… Either.”

He’s long thought Will an idiot (if one he’s come to develop a grudging respect for over his actions since Helen’s grown ill), but the fact that he could forget this woman when she was obviously interested in him was a new level of this. “Don’t be ridiculous, Abby.” The name slips out without his permission. “FBI girl. Sweet. Carrying a torch for your old schoolmate Will, and by all accounts smart, although given your taste in men, I might have to question that.” 

The look she gives him here is a little more annoyed, and he files that away in his memory. Then, before she can protest, he moves onto the question and answer portion of their little visit. 

“What happened to you?” 

She follows his gaze to her arm, and for a second, he thinks she might not remember at all. Her brows furrow, and she flexes her arm experimentally before wincing. Then, her expression clears. “Looked like… A bear.” She closes her eyes, and he shifts her abruptly, making her gasp.

“Sorry, but you have to stay awake. What kind of bear?”

“Small one. Not a baby, just… Small. Mean. But its claws were… Split. Little spikes sticking out. And the bear was blue. Was trying to help it, and it just… Attacked me.” 

“Attacked its helper, huh?” Whether ‘small blue bear’ is an accurate description or simply her hazy mind’s interpretation, he can’t say for sure, but either way, at least he knows why she came to the Sanctuary instead of the hospital. Smart girl, this one. He’s not sure how much the others told her when she saw the Big Guy shot, but he doubts it was anything close to everything. Still, she knew to come here. “And they call me heartless.”

Her brows furrow, but she doesn’t reply.

Helen meets him halfway to the lab, and immediately sets to work, poking and prodding Abby with her arsenal of tools. She asks what happened, and Abby looks up at him, questioning, clearly lacking the strength to repeat herself.

Quickly, he relays everything he knows.

Helen pales in response, and Tesla’s stomach drops. Not a hallucination, then, and whatever it was, this definitely isn’t good. 

By the time they reach the lab, Abby’s fading in and out of consciousness, groaning weakly. Her cheeks are unnervingly red, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. He lays her on a stretcher, and Helen moves to the closest cabinet, rifling through, gathering her equipment. 

“Abby?” Will’s voice comes from behind Tesla, and Tesla blinks. When did he get here? “Oh, no…” 

He sounds well and truly concerned, even if some petty part of Tesla wants to mock him. ‘At least you finally remember her,’ he thinks, but he bites it back, not out of any real regard for Will’s feelings, but because he’s not in the mood for Helen to glare at him.

“This is your friend, then?” Helen asks, filling a syringe with a strikingly blue liquid. “The one who helped Biggie?” 

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“Then I owe her a great debt. I’ll do everything I can to help her.” As if she wouldn’t anyway. As if Helen’s entire life did not start and stop with seeing to the safety and wellness of these mortals, even at the expense of her own. 

“Thank you.”

Tesla keeps silent through the exchange, watching her carefully. She’s starting to twitch and jerk on the bed, and Will rushes to her side, holding her in place as Helen injects her with whatever’s in the syringe. 

Suddenly, her eyes open, and she turns her head to face him. “Tesla?” She holds out a hand, and his mind goes blank. She’s not-? What is she doing? 

She seems urgent, though, and Helen gives him an impatient look. Fine then. He makes his way to Abby’s side. “What?” 

Will’s looking at him in utter disbelief, which is more than a little enjoyable.

Abby frowns, reaching out once more, gaze fixed on his hand. Curious enough to play along, he reaches for her. Instead of holding his hand, as such, she catches it, pressing two fingers against his wrist with impressive concentration for a woman that seems to be struggling with keeping her eyes open. 

All at once, her expression brightens. “Knew it,” she murmurs, releasing his hand. 

“Knew what?”

She turns away, eyes fluttering shut, exhaustion and whatever Helen gave her obviously pulling her under. Words so impossibly slow he almost can’t make them out, she replies, “Not…. Heartless.”

And it’s such a simple phrase, just two words, wrapped in the innocence and optimism of a woman who doesn’t know him at all. If she had any idea of the things he’s done, of the choices he’s made and the blood on his hands, she wouldn’t say that for a moment. Not her. Not someone so good and right that she risks her own life to save creatures she does not understand.

Still, though. Still.

He can feel Helen’s eyes on him, and he looks up to see her absolutely smug expression, as if she can read every thought in his head. As if she can hear the way his mind skipped a beat, if only for a moment, at the simple reassurance. 

Not that it did, of course. He’s stronger than that. “Not a word,” he warns, stepping back to let them work. “Not a word.”

-

(He’s still there when she wakes up. If anyone asks, it’s practical; this Sanctuary’s getting so crowded that he can hardly go anywhere without bumping into someone, and she’s much less capable of annoying him in her unconscious state. 

Maybe, for the moment, he can even fool himself.)

[gypsydanger01]

THE STORM - Part ten

Fandom: The Boys (Amazon prime tv series)

Pairing: Black Noir x OC

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Boys, only my OC characters and certain pieces of au plot.

Comments, reviews, constructive criticism, and other requests are always more than welcome!

  Posting new chapters on Wednesday and Friday!

Die Hard and stolen glances

After making sure Sarah ate a hearty lunch, Martha took her leave, worry still lingering in her eyes. She’d made her friend promise to call Mallory as soon as possible. Sarah decided she’d contact her tomorrow at their usual time. And while she always looked forward to talking with the woman who’d raised her through her teen years, she felt dread creep up at the thought of having to either lie or tell her the truth and deal with the consequences. Telling Mallory her abilities had resurfaced would be equivalent to purchasing a ticket back home. And that was the one thing she could not do. Not until this situation with Vought was resolved.

Putting those thoughts to rest, her mind moved onto the other pressing concern: her upcoming movie night with Black Noir. It felt silly to think—even more when said out lout, but they bonded over their love for action movies. She shrugged her coat on and wrapped a scarf loosely around her neck before heading out of the house. The neighborhood she lived in wasn’t extremely well kept and trash often littered the sidewalks, clustering in the corners. She’d been skeptical when the previous owner had given her a tour. However, she soon realized she didn’t mind, and the affordable price and relatively quiet environment ultimately won her over. Being right outside of the city, the housing complexes were low rise, about two floors high, some three. She had a view on the city and could easily access the university on her bike. Sure, it took about fifteen minutes, but the peace and absence of the city’s obnoxious traffic in that small, rundown neighborhood made it worth it.

She soon reached her destination: the nearest small shop, “Dave’s Grocers.” Immediately, she headed for the party necessities section, searching for straws amid the colorful shelves. She soon grew impatient, scanning the items multiple times.

“Hello, welcome to Dave’s Grocers,” a young employee greeted her. “Is there anything I can I help you with?”

“Hi, yeah actually I’m looking for straws,” she glanced back at the shelves, “but I can’t seem to find any.”

The young man—whose name tag read Bernard in a squiggly handwriting—looked through the shelves himself before confirming her suspicions.

“I can check in the back if we had anything come in,” he offered.

“Yeah that would be great, thank you.”

With that she followed him and waited at the front counter as he disappeared into the back. He soon returned with a box in his arms.

“I found a box of them,” he smiled genuinely. He set the box down and opened it up.

The first thing that registered in Sarah’s mind was, “They’re pink.” She looked to him for confirmation.

“Magenta to be precise.”

She pushed some of her hair behind her ears. Black Noir had refused a drink last time because he wouldn’t take his mask off. She figured that by offering him a strawed drink, he’d accept it. She was sure she’d seen him drinking from a straw before, either in passing at Vought or on television. She wanted it to be a thoughtful act, and here she was thinking of offering him a pink straw.

Sure, it was just a color, right? Their generation was past binary color preferences—pink for girls, blue for boys. They were over it, right? A lot of men see no issue in wearing pink or purple these days. But Black Noir was no ordinary man. 

What was initial horror, soon morphed into amusement. She became curious of  his reaction. 

“How much” she questioned, eyes glued to the intensely colored straws.

“Uh,” he checked the side of the cardboard to be sure, “a dollar and fifty cents for a pack of twenty.”

She nodded, making up her mind, “I’ll take one.”

After paying he asked her to hold up, scratching the back of his neck.

“Could I get your number?”

She eyed him in suspicion, the man from the previous night flashing in front of her eyes. But then she quickly softened. He’d been helpful and seemed like a sweet guy.

“Look, I’m sorry but I’m seeing someone,” she slightly twisted the truth.

“Ahh, should’ve known,” he looked down with a disappointed smile. “He a good guy,” he asked.

Sarah wanted to choke right there. He’s Edgar’s damn hitman and has probably killed more people than she could count.

She simplified her answer with, “Yeah, he’s great,” she held up the straws, “these are actually for him.”

Bernard laughed lightly, “Bold. That’s why you looked worried when you first saw them, huh?”

She chuckled, “Yeah, he’s in for a surprise.”

After waving goodbye, she took her leave and headed back home.

.

When eight o’clock rolled around, Sarah was ready. She’d fixed her hair, her dark brown coils forming a soft cloud over her shoulders. A light coat of mascara was what she settled for, deciding to forego any other makeup. This was a casual meeting between two people who were barely acquaintances, she reminded herself. She changed into comfy clothes, slipping on her best pair of black sweatpants with a matching sweatshirt. Soft socks were a must.

Finally, she made sure her necklace poked out of her top. It had been her mother’s, who’d passed it down to her when she’d first been hospitalized. It was meant as a reminder that her parents were always with her and that they’d fight her disease together. It was a symbol of hope. Now, it was a small piece of her parents she kept on her always. Sometimes, it gave her a sense of peace as she recalled memories of family dinners or the playground. Other times, it fueled the guilt and deep-seated hate she felt towards the institution that made her into the monster she is. She fiddled with the black pearl, crowned by a gold fringe.

Heading back into the living room, she planned to wait for him on the couch. And there he was, standing in the middle of her living room.

This time she didn’t jump or freeze, already growing accustomed to his sudden appearances. She was grounded, she refused to be afraid. She thought it was foolish to not fear such a dangerous threat. So, she acknowledged it, but left it in a corner of her mind where she could see it but deny it control of her actions or reactions.

“Hey,” she greeted nodding at him, “how are you,” she asked.

He nodded at her and she quickly handed over their black notebook for him to reply.

Fine. You

She smiled, “I’m doing okay.”

He watched her movements, fluid and more controlled than last time. What he’d witnessed the night before had given him a new perspective, and he desperately wanted to question her about what happened. But at that point, he’d be admitting himself as a stalker. He stayed silent.

She nodded towards the couch, “You can sit, the movie’s already in,” she said turning her television on. “I made some popcorn, I’m not sure if you wanted to eat anything.”

He sat and simply watched her. Sarah ducked into the kitchen before she ended up losing her confidence. She emerged with a big bowl of popcorn, inhaling the smell, and humming a tune. She set the bowl on the coffee table, glancing at the massive man before heading back into the kitchen to get their drinks.

“So please bear with me,” she said moving towards him with the two drinks behind her back. “I know you aren’t comfortable with pulling your mask, so I went and got something to help with that…” she trailed off.

He tilted his head slightly, and she imagined an inquisitive expression had formed on his face.

She moved the drinks to the front, careful to not spill any.

“I know the straws are bold…” she stated the obvious. “Would you like some?”

He assessed the situation—the straws, the soft blush on her cheeks, her frame engulfed by her sweatshirt. And he found himself nodding, if only to put her at ease. He was unexpectedly moved by her thoughtfulness, a tightness forming in his chest.

She exhaled the breath she’d been holding, “Great, here you go,” she said brightly.

She grabbed a throw blanket to wrap herself in and moved towards the other couch chair in the room. He frowned. She was cold? She looked so much smaller in her home clothes, and he felt an itch to gather her in his arms. He ran at a higher temperature anyway, he’d probably feel like a thermostat to her.

“Do you want a blanket?”

He blinked at her, and she too found it amusing that this massive dark man might want one of her small light blue covers.

He shook his head. I’m fine and followed it with a thumbs up.

She nodded and snuggled into the chair, diagonally to his right.

She grabbed the remote and pointed it to the screen, pressing play.

And so, they watched the movie, constantly exchanging hurried, shy glances. Once, she was watching him out of the corner of her eye, and she saw him discreetly lift his mask, pick some popcorn and drop them in his mouth. He immediately covered his face again and chewed without making a sound. She was disappointed that in the dark she missed it. At one point, Sarah was surprised to see his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. She too laughed, and often commented her favorite scenes. She hoped he didn’t mind. She just couldn’t seem to help herself. And he secretly loved it. He enjoyed her voice, especially when she was talking to him.

He watched her snuggle deep under the blanket, her sweatshirt sleeves pulled over her hands. He watched her laugh and comment the scenes they both knew by heart. In the dark room, he watched her more than the movie itself. The colored light projecting from the screen flitted across her cheeks, her attention captured by John McClane as he took down Gruber’s team in the Nakatomi Tower.

Black Noir was rather disappointed when the credits rolled and she rose to switch the lights back on. He perked up when she spoke, “Always a classic, huh?”

He nodded with enthusiasm.

She recited with a deeper voice, “Nine million terrorists in the world and I gotta kill one with feet smaller than my sister.”

Sarah was pleasantly surprised when he clapped his hands and wrote Bravo.

She curtsied, “Why thank you.”

She must be losing her mind, joking around with one of the most dangerous men in the world. And yet, right then she couldn’t bring herself to fear him. Black Noir was still holding his drink, hot pink straw sticking out like a sore thumb.

She took the last sip of her own drink, and embarrassedly stopped when she began to slurp loudly.

“Oh god, sorry. My friend absolutely hates it when I do that.”

He looked over as she brought her legs up into a cross-legged position. And then he did something that surprised them both.

He gave her a thumbs up and loudly sucked on his straw, emitting the same sounds she’d just made. Sarah stared wide-eyed and began to laugh.

He wrote. Sorry :)

“We’re both scandalous—just scandalous,” she smiled.

She gathered their empty cups, but he stopped her before she could get up. She looked so comfortable and he swiftly stood and placed a hand on her shoulder, indicating she should stay seated. Sarah looked up at him shocked and suddenly reminded of his murderous tendencies. He gently took the cups from her hands and immediately went to wash them in her kitchen sink. He felt rather than saw her enter the small kitchen leaning her back against the counter beside him, watching him work. He stilled and she quickly realized why, his big, dark gloves left on the counter.

She felt like they had entered a bubble, a very unstable bubble that could burst at any second.

She whispered softly, “It’s okay, you don’t have to hide here.”

He stared down in the now empty sink. He finally brought his hands up and over the edge, slowly reaching for the gloves. His skin was a toffee brown, his long fingers rough and calloused. She felt the sudden urge to reach out and touch him, assure herself that indeed there is a man under the suit. She quickly swallowed the thought and filed it away.

He looked at her and she held his concealed gaze for a few, long seconds. She wondered what thoughts were whizzing across his brain.

“Who knows what you look like?”

He merely stared at her. She tried, “Anyone?”

He shook his head no.

She continued speaking softly, finally looking away. “But isn’t that lonely? I mean not being comfortable enough in another’s presence to be seen as you are?”

She knew this was a sensitive topic for him and feared she’d taken it a step too far. But fortune favored the bold, and she wanted to understand the silent man in front of her.

He promptly left the room, and she sagged against the counter. She thought he’d left, and instead there he was returning black notebook in hand. He came to stand next to her, so close her head reached his shoulders. He too leaned back against the counter mirroring her stance. He scribbled against the paper.

Are we friends?

She smiled confused, “Uhm I’d like to think so, but it's not something you just decide, it just happens when you enjoy being around a person. Do you see me as a friend?”

He stared at her for the longest, and she found herself glancing behind him at the knives stand further down on the counter. She could feel her heart beating loudly and grew worried that she’d truly overstepped his boundaries.

Relief flooded her when he finally nodded.

When can I see you again?

He found he needed to leave, he needed to think somewhere he could focus. Those dark chocolate eyes of hers disarmed him, and he felt vulnerable under her gaze. The fact she’d seen his hands had shaken him. But she hadn’t recoiled, he reminded himself.

Sarah thought about it, “How does Wednesday evening sound? Same time?”

He nodded. 

He wasn’t sure what friends did when parting. He’d observed that some hug, some shake hands, some wave... What stage were they at? He wasn’t sure what would be appropriate in this situation.

He drew his characteristic smiley face on the notebook for her to find, and flipped it closed. He felt shaky under his collected exterior, and her perfume sent him over the edge. He twisted and pulled her close into his chest, an arm around her back as he pressed a chaste kiss to the top of her head, inhaling her vanilla leave-in conditioner. Just as quick, he pulled away, straightened his posture and walked out of the room, leaving the notebook on the table.

Sarah was bewildered. Her heart was racing, her thoughts jumbled into an incoherent mess. She stood there for a couple minutes. But what truly surprised her, was that she felt a fluttering sensation in her stomach, a blush creeping up her neck. You have got to be kidding me, she thought to herself.

What was absent, instead, was the enveloping warmth she felt before a breakout. Maybe she wasn’t in danger around him, after all.

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @ateliefloresdaprimavera @ellejo @dust-bun @coco724 ​  @proximio-5 @damiminator @omegahighendpro @rpgluvr95 @sweetrabbitteamx

[thedreadvampy]

Ok so like I don't really want to kick off another round of Mondays argument but

having had a bit of time to step back I feel pretty confident in saying that there's a real struggle in a lot of communities to understand and accept the concept of conflicting access needs

Like it isn't fundamentally an act of bigotry against Person A when Person B says 'this thing that helps you harms others', nor is it implying that A or B is 'less oppressed' or that their oppression doesn't matter. But these kinds of access conflicts need to be talked about in order to be addressed.

Like in a sphere I spend more time taking about, disability and neurodivergence, where this comes up a Lot - say wheelchair users need the entrance to be a ramp, but somebody with balance issues finds walking up a ramp difficult and often fall. Saying 'it's a problem for me that there are only ramps in this building' doesn't mean you think that it's unimportant that wheelchair users can get in, or that your needs matter more.

Or like, here's an example that's come up a lot for me lately - automated subtitles. Some people find automated subtitles on Zoom calls make meetings possible (people with hearing or audio processing issues particularly) but others find them distracting and find it impossible to focus. Those two things are incompatible needs - you can't both have subtitles and not have subtitles in this context - but that doesn't mean one of them is Real and Important and the other is Fake and Irrelevant just because that would make it easier.

One last example of this in material terms - I am autistic and have real problems with audio processing when I'm tired. I went to a workshop in a smallish space, so the workshop was quite near the crèche. Having a crèche is a vital access need for a lot of people; lone parents and working class mothers in general are often very left out of activist and social spaces because of a lack of childcare. But for me, it created an insurmountable problem - the noise from the crèche meant I couldn't take in any information, I was exhausted and stressed and in pain the whole time, you know? It wouldn't be fair to ask the crèche to shut or to silence the children, who need and deserve the right to play, but equally it wouldn't be fair to tell me I'm selfish or lying for having trouble following the session.

Anyway so that's access clash. Different people have different needs that may be fundamentally incompatible, but they're equally valid needs.

But access clash isn't just personal, it's also political, social and linguistic. And this kind of feeds into a recurrent issue in groups of marginalised people where there's a persistent desire to decide in any given argument Whose Marginalisation Matters More and to accuse the other of lying/arguing in bad faith/ignoring erasing The Struggle.

Some recent examples of that phenomenon in the TMA fandom (pokes bear pokes bear) might be:

1. It's aphobic to say that there's any problem at all with framing fat, traumatised MLM as virginal or naive or inexperienced or non-sexual, because he could be ace and that's important to ace people. But fat, traumatised and gay people have a history of being desexualised, given less sexual and romantic agency, and infantilised or objectified as cute and pure in a way that thin, non-survivor or straight people don't. One way to approach this is to say One Of These Issues Is Important And Valid And That Means The Other Is Being Homophobic/Fatphobic/Ableist/Aphobic and Targeting Marginalised People With Invalid Criticism. That's a very easy task to fall into but it's important imo to make space for the access clash.

2. Bisexual people want an event that focuses on bisexuality. Non-bisexual people want an event that focuses on their own sexuality. Everyone's desire in this situation is to see their own experience reflected.

There's this kind of hierarchy of truth idea where anything that conflicts with what you know to be true must necessarily be false, but the fact is that human experience is infinitely complex and variable so actually something that's undeniably true for some people will always run into some friction with what's undeniably true for others.

And there's such a strong impulse towards assuming that the other is lying or arguing in bad faith, because you KNOW your need is real and important and it conflicts with their needs and that MUST mean they're doing it At You, or in the extreme that they're actively lying to hurt and belittle you. And that's a really natural and understandable impulse, especially among marginalised people who ARE often hurt, manipulated and belittled in bad faith. But I really think that as a community we need to actively work to undercut the idea that oppression is a zero sum game; that if you having the space you need treads on my toes, I can say "you're on my foot and it hurts" without Secretly Meaning "you don't deserve space and shouldn't be given it." Like I do authentically need an untrodden-on foot and you do authentically need enough space to stand in and it's not undermining the truth of either of those statements to acknowledge the other.

idk I just think. Understanding that the other person may have an authentic need being intent/overridden (even though the need may not be what they think it is!) is a pretty important part of conflict management. and believing that if I say "ow you trod on my foot" means I'm actively trying to undermine your need for space is a pretty important part of how conflict escalates into oblivion until I'm yelling YOU DON'T DESERVE STANDING SPACE GO GET CRUSHED and you're yelling I'M GOING TO STAMP ON YOUR FOOT UNTIL IT BREAKS

idk if that makes sense but 🤷‍♀️

[little-ligi]

Whumptober - No. 30

No. 30 - Wound Reveal | Ignoring an Injury Fandom - BBC Merlin Wordcount - 1565

Gwaine knew he had a large gash on his right thigh, just above his knee. The slow dribble of hotness down his shin was proof enough, even if the pain wasn’t. Gwaine looked down at his leg, considering whether he could get away with it or not.

If Merlin found out, he’d be subjected to some kind of horrible smelly, sticky poultice. But if he could just last until they got back to Camelot, he could hide in his chambers and clean it out with nice fresh water by himself.

The bandit’s blade that cut him had obviously been nice and sharp. The slice through his breeches was thin and not frayed at all, you wouldn’t even notice it if you weren’t looking closely. As long as he kept to the right side and slightly behind Merlin, he should be fine. He could ignore the pain.

“Keep up, Gwaine,” Lancelot called, looking over his shoulder with a smile.

“Yup, coming.” Gwaine trotted forwards to catch up with the other three, his jaw rigid to stop himself flinching as pain shot up his leg.

He tried to think of something else to take his mind off the pain. He’d much rather be at the tavern right now. Not trudging back to Camelot, without their horses who’d spooked when the bandits jumped from the trees and attacked them.

“I’m thirsty,” he complained after a while.

“You’re always thirsty,” Arthur muttered.

“We got any ale? Merlin, you got any ale?”

Merlin turned and grinned at him. “Yes, of course, here.” He pulled his waterskin from the loop on his belt and chucked it to Gwaine.

“Really?” Gwaine unstoppered the waterskin and tipped it to his lips. It was, of course, just water. He frowned. “Oh yes, very funny.” He lobbed the waterskin back, without bothering to put the stopper in. It sprayed a shower of water over Merlin and Arthur as Merlin caught it.

“Here.” Lancelot tossed him an apple. It might not be ale but it was a fairly good second choice. He could always count on Lancelot.

He crunched it as they walked on. Merlin and Lancelot started talking, Merlin pointing at the plants growing under the trees. Trust those two to be discussing wildflowers. Gwaine rolled his eyes. Which he regretted when he missed the root sticking up from the ground in front of him and nearly tripped over it. Pain exploded in his leg again, burning and aching. He gasped. Luckily no one seemed to have noticed.

Arthur had dropped slightly back from Merlin and Lancelot now, his head down as he trudged silently along. Gwaine was about to throw his apple core at him, just to see if his reflexes were quick enough to catch it, when Arthur winced and wrapped a hand around his arm, squeezing it and clenching his teeth. He held it for a minute or so then pulled his hand away. Gwaine noticed blood on his palm. Arthur frowned and balled his hand into a fist, glancing guiltily over at Merlin then continuing on like he’d never done anything.

He was clearly trying to hide his injury from Merlin too. Probably for the same reason as Gwaine, Gwaine knew Arthur hated the poultices. Well, he wasn’t going to rat him out. Even if it would be funny to watch him squirm. A bit hypocritical though.

Instead he threw his apple core into the trees. The rustle and thud of it falling to the floor through a plant made Merlin jump. Lancelot’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. Realising what the noise had been they both turned to look at Gwaine. He gave them one of his blinding grins. Merlin rolled his eyes, turned and carried on walking. Lancelot glanced at Arthur.

“Arthur?” he said suddenly. Arthur let go of his arm guiltily. “Are you hurt?”

Merlin whipped around and fixed Arthur with his steely physician’s scowl. Gwaine was sure Gaius must have given him lessons on that look. The resemblance to the old physician was uncanny. Except Merlin’s eyebrow didn’t arch quite so impressively.

“It’s nothing,” Arthur said forcefully. “Just a scratch.”

He made the mistake of waving his hand casually. The hand with the blood on the palm. Gwaine snorted.

Merlin marched over and rolled up the chainmail sleeve. Arthur pushed him away. Merlin, being Merlin, tripped backwards and fell on his arse. Gwaine leant against a tree to stop himself falling as his body shook with repressed laughter.

“Let me look at it, you prat,” Merlin snapped, bouncing back up to his feet and grabbing Arthur’s arm.

Arthur winced. His face had the put out pout of a prince not getting his own way. The expression he got pretty much whenever Merlin was around. Gwaine caught Lancelot’s eye and they both tried not to laugh.

Merlin rolled Arthur’s chainmail up, removing his vambrace and pushing his gambeson sleeve up. There was an ugly gash across his upper arm, his bicep, elbow and forearm covered in blood.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Merlin yelled.

“Didn’t want to make a fuss, did you, Princess?” Gwaine said with a laugh and a slap to Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur glared at him, but it was nothing compared to the glare Arthur was getting from Merlin. Lancelot sniggered.

“Well, I’m not using my bloody neckerchief again,” Merlin complained.

He reached for the front of Arthur’s chainmail, hiking it up and snatching at his shirt underneath. He ripped a strip from the hem.

“Hey!” Arthur shouted. “That was new.”

“Well, now it’s not. That’ll teach you for ignoring an injury like this.”

Merlin pulled some leaves from a little pouch in his pocket, grinding them between the ball of one palm and the heel of the other. Once they’d started releasing their oils – and funny smell – he placed them over the wound and tied the strip of shirt tightly around Arthur’s arm, tugging the knot to make Arthur flinch.

“Never get on the bad side of a physician,” Lancelot whispered exaggeratedly loud to Gwaine. “They know exactly how to hurt you.”

“And take great delight in it,” Merlin growled fiercely. Or as fiercely as Merlin could manage, which was about as scary as a bunny rabbit.

Arthur smacked Merlin around the back of the head. Merlin yelped.

“Come on, get moving!” Arthur ordered. His face was rather red.

Gwaine chuckled as he pushed off the tree he’d been leaning on. His leg gave another protest, shaking as he put weight on it. He gritted his teeth, focussing on the ache in his jaw and ignoring the pain in his leg. He could do it, they weren’t far from Camelot now.

Merlin and Lancelot kept shooting covert glances at Arthur as he marched ahead of them. At least that meant they weren’t looking at Gwaine. He let himself limp.

They got a fair way without any incident, all of the silent so as not to provoke Arthur’s annoyance. If Gwaine hadn’t been concentrating on not letting it look too obvious he was limping he would have poked the sleeping bear. Teasing Arthur was one of his favourite things to do after all. Instead he focussed on not hurting himself.

Another bloody tree root turned out to be his downfall. It caught his left foot, and as he staggered forward to stop himself falling flat on his face, all of his weight landed on his injured right leg. He crumpled with a shout.

Oh no. Merlin was onto him. Kneeling at his side he ran his hands up and down both of Gwaine’s legs until he found the rip in his breeches and the blood underneath. He yanked at the hole, tugging the fabric away to look at the wound.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“That’s a cut, Merlin. You’d think a physician would recognise one of those,” he said conspiratorially to Lancelot. Lancelot raised his hands and shook his head, not letting himself be pulled into Gwaine’s joke.

“And you didn’t tell me because?”

“I… didn’t think you needed to look at it,” Gwaine tried, shrugging and pulling a face.

“You’re joking?” Merlin spluttered, incredulously. “I’m travelling with idiots!”

He pulled more leaves from his pouch.

“Oh, do you have to?” Gwaine whined, wrinkling his nose at the horrid herby smell.

“Yes!” Merlin shouted at him. Physician Merlin wasn’t as fun as plain old servant Merlin.

Gwaine received the same angry treatment as Arthur had, complete with a strip torn from his shirt. He sighed. He’d liked that shirt. Arthur looked slightly sympathetically down at him, giving him his uninjured arm to pull him up. He wobbled slightly but had to admit his leg did feel a bit better with the pressure of the bandage around it.

Merlin got to his feet, brushed his hands on his breeches and frowned at the other three. He turned on Lancelot, poking a finger accusingly into his chest.

“What about you? Are you hurt too?”

“Fit as a fiddle, Merlin, I promise,” Lancelot said with his striking smile. Merlin’s frown melted. Gwaine scowled at Lancelot. Charming smug git.

And being the charming git that he was he came over and pulled Gwaine’s arm over his shoulders so he could support him as he limped.

Gwaine grunted and Lancelot smiled at him.

“You’re welcome,” he said pleasantly.

Gwaine squeezed his shoulder. He could always count on Lancelot.

[pocket-luv101]

Happiness || Chapter 8

Fandom: Servamp Characters: Mahiru, Kuro, Licht, Hyde Pairings: KuroMahi (main), LawLicht (side)

Summary:  Mahiru found a baby in front of his orphanage and he thought that it belonged to Kuro. But the infant could be the key to finding his lost mother. {Historical Romance// Family AU}

Ch.1 || Ch.2 || Ch.3 || Ch.4 || Ch.5 || Ch.6 || Ch.7 || (Ch.8) ||

“Someone, please save me.” Hyde groaned the plea as he collapsed onto the couch. He was woken early in the morning by the children and he hadn’t been able to catch his breath since. Licht was busy cooking breakfast for twenty children so Hyde was left to watch over the orphans. They would pull on his arm and demand him to play eight games at once. He was exhausted and he wondered if he and his siblings were as energetic. He understood why his brother slept in so often when they were kids.

Hyde felt a light tug on his hair and he reluctantly opened his eyes. A young girl stood next to the couch with a book in her arms. She appeared to be four years old. She had large, expressive eyes so he knew that she wanted him to read the book to her even before she asked. He was taken aback by the way she phased her request. She dropped the thick book onto his nose and cause him to roll over in pain.

“What the fuc—” He stopped himself from swearing when he remembered that there were children nearby. Hyde was certain that Licht would be angry with him if he accidentally taught them swear words. He sat up and picked up the book where it fell onto the floor. He found that it was a collection of fairy tales and flipped through the stories. “Which one do you want to hear? Beauty and the Beast was my favourite when I was your age. It has magic and drama.”

“Licht always read that one to us. Can you read us another one?” She climbed onto the couch and sat next to him. He slowly flipped through the stories and waited for her to choose one. She placed her hand on a page and pointed to an illustration. “Flying princess! She must be an angel. Licht says I’m an angel too and I’ll be adopted soon.”

Hyde didn’t know how to respond to her confident statement. Most orphans weren’t able to find an adoptive family and they would have to go out to the world alone. For the children to have such hopeful eyes, he knew that Licht raised them well.

While he was born into privilege, he travelled often and saw orphans at the docks. He thought of the broken eyes they had as they begged for money. He would give money to them but he wished he could do more. Since his mother left and his father died, he understood the feeling of being lost in the world without guidance. His siblings were all struggling with grief and loss so he couldn’t turn to them.

“When you get adopted, I hope you remember the family you have here.” He said in a soft voice and patted her head.

“Licht says that a lot too.” She looked to where Licht was cooking in the kitchen. “Are you an angel too, Mr. Servamp?”

“I’m sure Lichtan have told you that I’m not. I’m just a regular human.” His answer was mixed with a small chuckle. Hyde started to read the fairy tale to her. The other orphans noticed him with the large book and gathered around him to listen to the story as well. He showed her the picture and then flipped the book around so the other children could see the imagine.

Once Licht was finished cooking, he walked out of the hot kitchen to tell the children to wash the kitchen. He was slightly surprised to find Hyde reading to the children. Licht had never seen the kids so engaged with a story. Hyde didn’t notice him enter the room and continued the tale with different voices and wide gestures. “The witch told the Prince that the only way to break the Princess’s curse was to catch a falling star. He didn’t know how he would do this. What do you think he should do?”

“A giant net!” One suggested.

“Maybe a magic spell?”

“You will have to wait to find that out until after dinner.” Licht’s voice interrupted the story. The children appeared disappointed but he didn’t want the food to become cold while they finished the tale. He steeled himself against their pleading eyes and gestured for them to stand. “Wash your hands and set the table for breakfast. The quicker you’re finished eating, the sooner you can hear ending.”

They followed his instructions and dashed into the kitchen to wash their hands and grab the dishes. As Hyde replaced the book on the bookshelf, Licht walked to him. “You can leave that on the couch. The children will ask you to read it as soon as we finish eating. Now, go prepare for breakfast. You’re a role model to those kids so you have to be on your best behaviour.”

“You made me breakfast as well?” Hyde couldn’t hide his surprise. His reaction caused Licht to roll his eyes. He took the book from him and lightly tapped it against his chest. Pride hardened his blue eyes and Hyde thought of how attractive he was.

“Your brother guilted you into staying to help take care of the children. I don’t want to accept charity given out of guilt. Breakfast should be a good payment. I’m not a good cook like Mahiru but it’s edible.” Licht told him and set the book down on the couch. “The kids seem to like but be careful if they get too attached to you. I don’t want them to be hurt.”

“I think they’re great kids, even if they’re a little tiring. I won’t do anything to hurt them.” He wanted to reassure him yet doubt clouded Licht’s expression.

“You might do that even if you don’t mean to. Every time someone comes in, they get hopeful for the future. They can’t help themselves.” Despite Licht’s hard eyes, it was clear to see how much he cared for the orphans. He didn’t want to see them hurt by hope but having them become disillusion would be worse. They might never be adopted but Licht did his best to give them a fulfilling childhood.

“If I hurt them unintentionally, you’re free to kick me.” Hyde said and a small chuckle escaped Licht. He hadn’t heard him laugh before and he thought it was charming.

Licht walked ahead of him to where the children ate. He didn’t sit down but took care of them as they ate. He handed a napkin to a boy to wipe his face and then fixed a girl’s hair so the strands wouldn’t fall into her food. Without looking, he gestured to an empty seat he had set out. “That’s your breakfast, Shit Rat. Finish it before it gets cold.”

“Yes, Angel Cakes.” He gave him a sarcastic smile and sat in the seat. He looked down at the plate of eggs and bacon yet he doubted either was edible like Licht claimed. Hyde poked at the food and glanced around the table. They all ate the food happily. He felt someone poke his side and he turned to the child next to him.

She smiled up at him and said, “Eat. It’s not the best in the world but it’s still good. Licht works hard to cook for us each morning so we pretend to like it. His eggs are better than the bacon.”

“I love bacon.” Hyde lied. He scooped his eggs into his fork and gave it to her. He stole the charred bacon from her plate and said, “I’ll trade you eggs for them.”

“You can have my bacon too!” The child on his right said and gave him a portion of his food. Others quickly followed and Hyde found a pile of bacon on his plate. He was certain that they wanted to avoid eating the bacon by giving it to him. He only chuckled and bit into the burnt meat. Licht watched him interact with the orphans and a smile softened his face.

“I’m back!” Hyde entered the apartment but he was quickly stopped by Kuro. He stepped into the foyer and gestured for him to be quiet. He pointed through the living room’s door to where Mahiru and Machi were asleep in a rocking chair. Even as he slept, he held her safe and secure in his arms. There was a jacket over Mahiru’s lap that he recognized as Kuro’s. He likely placed it on him after he fell asleep.

“Mahiru just got Machi to take her afternoon nap. He was tired and he fell asleep too. Let’s not wake them up.” Kuro said and then nodded towards the dining room. “The tea is still hot so my butler can pour you some if you want. There’s something I need to tell you and you should sit down.”

“Shouldn’t we put Machi in her crib? It’s dangerous if he accidentally drops her in his sleep.” Hyde asked and walked to the rocking chair. He was still doubtful that his mother was still alive and that she had another child. He didn’t want the baby to be hurt though. It was clear that Mahiru cared for children so he was surprised that he would be so careless with Machi.

Before Kuro could stop him, Hyde placed his hand on Machi’s swaddle. He was taken aback when Mahiru suddenly lifted his hand and struck him. Hyde stepped back with a groan and placed his hand on his nose. “Fuck. This is the second time today someone hurt me like that.”

“Sorry, Hyde, I should’ve warned you. Mahiru has the instincts of a mother bear even while he’s asleep. He’ll punch you if you try to take Machi.” He said in a small whisper. “He’s tired so he goes back to sleep immediately. With Machi, we get half the amount of sleep we usually do.”

“I’ve only worked at the orphanage for a night but I understand the struggle of raising a kid.” He said. He saw the way Kuro carefully adjusted the jacket on his lap that had fallen off.

Their voices woke Mahiru and he opened his eyes to find Kuro’s face inches from him. They both blush and Mahiru leaned back in the rocking chair. The chair swung back and his lips accidentally brushed against Kuro’s cheek. For a breathless moment, neither of them moved. His skin was warm like he remembered and the familiar heat drew him closer.

Mahiru felt a small tug on his shirt and he looked down. Machi had woken as well and she made soft whimpers. He lightly placed his finger over her palm and she held it in return. She started to suck on her other hand so he knew that she was hungry. He slid under Kuro’s arm and stood up. “Machi’s hungry. I’m going to prepare a bottle for her. Do you want to talk to your brother about Reika’s visit while I do that?”

“Our old nanny visited?” He asked. They walked to the kitchen and Mahiru handed Machi to Kuro so he could get a bottle for her. At first, she turned in his arms but she calmed down after he comforted her by patting her stomach. He sat at the table and faced his brother.

“Reika came this morning and she hasn’t changed since we were children. The visit was… a little overwhelming.” Kuro told him and then let out a heavy groan. “Sit down, Hyde.”

“In my letter, I requested that they send me information through a letter since I would be too busy to speak with them in person.” His brows drew together. “The reason I wanted a letter was to have everything in writing. In the past, people would tell me one thing but then change the story. A letter would be the best way to hold them accountable to their lies about mother. What did she say?”

“Reika claims that mother had a lover and they went to France the night she disappeared. I questioned her about this and she seemed very confident that this is what happened. She didn’t tell us earlier because Mother asked her to keep it a secret.” Kuro spoke in a gentle voice because he didn’t want to overwhelm Hyde. He knew that Hyde cared for their mother and didn’t want to think she left them willingly.

After a long moment, Hyde asked: “Did she tell you the name of the lord?”

“No.” Kuro didn’t expect for him to be so calm.

“It has been a popular rumour that mother had a secret lover and that’s the reason she disappeared. There are as many whispers about her being kidnapped. Reika’s word isn’t enough for me. She might’ve put on a convincing act for you but I’ve been told too many lies to believe her word alone.” Hyde leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

“How should we investigate what she told us?” Kuro trusted his brother’s opinion. He looked down at Machi and lightly tickled her cheek. They were both skeptical people but her presence was the best lead they had to find his mother. She didn’t understand the conversation and only babbled incoherently. Her bright eyes told him that she wanted to communicate with them.

“Mahiru, I think Machi is getting impatient for milk.” Kuro told Mahiru and she nodded.

“I’ll feed her in the living room so we won’t interrupt your discussion. We don’t want to bother you.” He set down a pot of tea between the brothers before he lifted Machi into his arms. “If you need me, call my name and I’ll come.”

“You can stay.” Kuro stopped him from leaving by placing his hand on his arm. “I would like for you to listen and give your thoughts. You’re smart and you see things most people miss. Machi won’t bother us if she’s distracted by her food.”

“If you’re sure.” Mahiru said and sat in a chair next to him.

[rwby-redux]

Deconstruction

Worldbuilding: Dust II

If Part 1 was the nuclear response, then Part 2 is death by a thousand paper cuts. Rather than focusing on just one massive problem with Dust, this time we’ll be discussing the smaller, albeit more numerous problems. Tempting as it is to keep our crosshairs on the obvious target, it’s important to remember that all of the subtle discrepancies—a throwaway line here, a contradiction there—eventually add up.

Today is all about what happens when those small problems get out of control.

Second verse, same as the first. Before we get started, I want to briefly revisit that list of traits so we’re all on the same page.

There are four basic types of Dust. They can be combined either naturally or artificially to produce new types that have their own specific characteristics.

Dust can be triggered by the Aura of humans and Faunus.

The default state of Dust is crystalline. The powdered form sold in shops is the result of processing and refinement.

The color of the Dust denotes what type it is.

Dust becomes functionally inert outside of Remnant’s atmosphere and no longer exhibits its inherent elemental properties.

Dust can be injected into the body in order for the wielder to use its effects more directly. Doing so requires a certain amount of discipline, and can be extremely painful without taking the necessary precautions.

Dust can be imbued into weapons like swords, or woven into clothes.

Dust can be used as a fuel source, to the end that Remnant’s technology is almost exclusively powered by it.

Semblances can interact with Dust in such a way that their skills are augmented, resulting in the temporary acquisition of new subskills or secondary characteristics.

Dust is volatile and prone to explode when subjected to certain stimuli.

Seeing as we’ve got a lot of ground to cover, I’m gonna keep my main talking points under neat little headings, so everything stays nice and organized.

Treating Dust as a Fossil Fuel Analog, and How It Relates to Technology

To say that Dust is a parallel for coal, natural gas, or petroleum is to miss the point entirely. Dust isn’t like these things—Dust is these things. For everyone who’s been watching the show since it first aired, this isn’t anything new. RWBY hasn’t exactly been subtle about establishing those comparisons. Dust is a natural resource that’s scarce, finite in quantity, found in underground deposits, reliant on minority labor in order to be mined, monopolized by a single supplier, and environmentally hazardous due to the extraction process.

A Dust drilling rig and refinement factory owned by the SDC. Excavating Dust resulted in anthropogenic pollution that destroyed Vacuo’s ecosystems, and depleted its natural resources. | Source: World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 4: “Vacuo.”

Like I said, it’s not exactly subtle.

The reason why I bring this up is because, to the best of my knowledge, the show has never concisely explained how Dust works as a fuel. When coal is burned, for example, it produces heat, and releases nitrogen oxide and sulfur dioxide into the air. Like, the coal doesn’t just stay coal when it’s being used up—as it’s being burned the coal is physically being reduced into the form of byproducts, like fly ash and slag. Similarly, when you operate a vehicle with gasoline, the fuel gets converted into exhaust gas by the 4-stroke engine. The compressed air-and-fuel mixture partakes in a combustion reaction when the spark plug ignites it. The byproducts of this process are carbon dioxide, nitrogen, and water.

See where I’m going with this?

If Dust is a fuel source, then we need to understand what physical changes are taking place when it’s reacting/being consumed by various technology.

And the series…really, really doesn’t show us that.

Does the Dust get broken down when used? Is the elemental energy inside only released when the Dust is subjected to mechanical stress? Is that why Dust is sensitive to small amounts of energy and explodes when someone so much as sneezes at it? [1] Are all Dust types equally as volatile? Is there a threshold for the amount of energy Dust can be exposed to before it explodes?

Let’s assume, for the moment, that all of the aforementioned are true. Physically breaking a Dust crystal is analogous to burning a chunk of coal, in that mechanical stress is the catalyst for releasing its elemental energy. If we follow that thread of logic, then it means that Dust powder is the result of breaking down Dust crystals into finer particulate matter.

Keeping the analogy in mind, this means that Dust crystals are to coal what Dust powder is to fly ash. A byproduct. Leftovers from the initial fuel consumption process.

So why is powder Dust considered a “refined” form of fuel? How is a byproduct energetically more efficient than the initial source that it’s derived from?

If I had to hazard a guess, I’d argue that Dust as a fuel source is more like a combination between burning coal and splitting an atom. Maybe when Dust companies “refine” Dust, what they’re doing is preemptively grinding the Dust down into a powder, and then—what, flash-freezing it somehow in the middle of it releasing its energy during the breakdown process? And then the flash-frozen powder Dust is stored in some sort of canister, or cartridge, or battery that can indefinitely suspend Dust in its energy-release state until it’s ready to be used? That way the refined version (the powder) cuts out the step that requires a person to physically destroy the crystal in order to release its energy.

It’s not an unsound proposition, and with enough well-presented pseudoscience, I’m sure viewers would be willing to give it a pass. The problem is that the canon ostensibly refuses to tell us any of this. Having your fandom do your homework for you so you don’t have to explain your magical fuel isn’t good storytelling. And the more RWBY continues to withhold its lore—or worse, refuse to develop it entirely—the less credible the setting feels. There’s only so much an audience is willing to suspend its disbelief before pedants like me come along and start poking holes in it.

While we’re still on the topic, I want to quickly touch upon the second issue I have with Dust being Remnant’s de facto fuel source.

Although the show did its best to visually emphasize Remnant’s reliance on Dust, it wasn’t until World of Remnant, Volume 2, Episode 1: “Dust” that we got our first concrete evidence of just how extensively it was integrated into everyday life:

“Since its discovery, man has concocted a multitude of ways in which to harness these mysterious crystals. From airships to androids, Dust has made its way into practically every facet of technology. […] Dust ammunition serves as a more practical application in today's modern society. With the technological advancements in weapon design, warriors need merely choose the right cartridge for the job and pull the trigger.”

We don’t have to question the validity of this under the assumption that Salem is an unreliable narrator, because Qrow says more or less the same thing in later episodes.

“The cold climate of Solitas forced its settlers to adapt. It developed a more advanced technology—and they did it faster than the rest of the world—because they had to, to survive. But it was the Great War that really kicked things off. New forms of Dust application and weaponry allowed Mantle to expand. More and more territory was set aside for Dust mining and research. The territory beside the Kingdom's combat school, Alsius, was the most opportune area to construct a new R&D facility.” | Source: World of Remnant, Volume 4, Episode 3: “Atlas.”

While this conclusively established Dust as the predominant fuel source, there was still some lingering ambiguity of whether or not other sources of energy—petroleum, natural gas, coal, solar, wind, geothermal, hydro—were as developed, or whether they existed at all.

Our first tentative answer to this question came up during Rooster Teeth’s 2015 Extra Life livestream: [2]

Gray Haddock: Is all technology, including scrolls, everything in the world of Remnant powered by Dust? Is all technology Dust-based?

Kerry Shawcross: You’re making me commit to this right now?

Gray Haddock: No, no, no.

Kerry Shawcross: Okay.

Gray Haddock: Most? Some? A lot?

Kerry Shawcross: I would say that a lot is.

Gray Haddock: But there might be some alternate stuff out there. Maybe. Ish.

Kerry Shawcross: Yes. Unless I change my mind later.

Take a moment to let that sink in. At the time this aired, Volume 3 had already been written and animated, and the third episode had just been released on the website. This is one of RWBY’s lead writers admitting that they didn’t have a definitive answer, and the answer that he gave could be subjected to change later down the road. 

Words cannot begin to describe how insane that sounds. That’s like J. K. Rowling deciding after Prisoner of Azkaban, you know what, I’m tired of wizards using wands to cast spells. From now on, everyone’s going to use human femurs!

You can’t just change the show’s rules on a whim. A lack of consistency and adherence to worldbuilding kills any believability your story might’ve had. And more importantly, why didn’t you figure this shit out before the series first began?

Sorry. I’m getting sidetracked.

Instead, let’s look at how well the answer he gave held up. Did RWBY give us any evidence of other fuel sources existing apart from Dust?

Short answer: No.

Long answer: Yes, but I have to qualify that statement, so bear with me for a moment.

The next time we’re given another direct answer, it comes to us from The World of RWBY: The Official Companion.

From Part 1: Origins of Remnant - Types of Dust:

“This technology doesn’t use our fuel,” explains Patrick Rodriguez. “Dust makes everything work. We take tech, put Dust into it, and go with that aesthetic. When I was creating cars for Volume 1, Monty told me to design the motor for how they’d work. I diagrammed a whole engine that ran on Dust, and we never even showed it!” [3]

And then again in Part 2: The Characters - Yang Xiao Long:

“There’s no gas [in Remnant], just Dust,” says art director Patrick Rodriguez, “and Yang’s motorcycle works using combustion Dust.” [4]

It looks like we have our answer at last. An answer that’s infuriating and rife with contradiction, but there it is, plain as day: not only is Dust Remnant’s sole fuel, but alternatives don’t exist. Period.

If that’s the case, then why did I say earlier that they did?

Because throughout the entire course of the series, from Volume 1 onward, the artists have included one very important thing: Plastic. Polyamides used in toothbrushes, polycarbonates used in eyeglasses, polystyrenes used in plastic cups—every one of these things exists in the show. And do you know what plastic is made from?

NATURAL GAS AND FUCKING CRUDE OIL.

So unless RWBY wants to introduce yet another fictional substance to the show, then it needs to reconcile with the fact that yes, oil and petroleum exist, and yes, they’re potential alternatives to Dust.

Look, if the show insists on having plastic products, but not have oil or gas be fuel sources, then there’s a very easy way to get around that. The show has already gone to lengths to establish the SDC as Remnant’s version of BP, right down to both companies using acronyms instead of their full names. Just like real-life oil tycoons, you could have the SDC use resources like lobbyists, lien, and government influence to stymie the alternative fuel industry. Like any morally-bankrupt monopoly, the SDC would be threatened by competitors in the energy sector, especially if those competitors were developing technology based on renewable resources, like solar or wind. In a world where a limited resource like Dust has a stranglehold on the kingdoms, Jacques Schnee would do his damndest to ensure those alternatives never saw the light of day.

See? Problem solved.

Treating Dust as a Gemstone Analog (and Some Other Minor Nitpicks)

Okay, this complaint isn’t as important in the grand scheme of things, but I have to ask: why are Dust crystals treated like gemstones? No, seriously. Look at how the gems on display in this shop

A display case full of various crystal Dust types in From Dust Till Dawn. | Source: Volume 1, Episode 1: “Ruby Rose.”

differ from the ones seen in unharvested deposits.

Large, jagged deposits of unmined Fire Dust embedded in the ceiling of a cave. | Source: Volume 7, Episode 3: “Ace Operatives.”

The Dust for sale was likely cut, as evidenced by the additional facets not present on the unmined deposits. Then again, if you look at the Gravity Dust found at Lake Matsu, Dust might actually belong to the hexagonal crystal system (with and without pyramidal terminations), so a few of those facets could be natural. Regardless, the implication seems to be that on some level, the Dust was treated post-production.

An unmined Gravity Dust deposit found on one of Lake Matsu’s floating islands. | Source: Volume 5, Episode 2: “Dread in the Air.”

Why I bring this up at all is because if Dust crystals are only going to get broken down while being used as a consumable fuel source, then why waste time cutting and polishing them? It doesn’t really make any sense.

While we’re on that subject, how the hell does a person cut a Dust crystal without blowing their fingers off? Seriously. This shit’s like azidoazide azide. You could fart at it from halfway across a room and it would still somehow find a way to explode.

Which also begs the question of how Hazel isn’t dead from repeatedly jabbing what is basically a stick of dynamite into his arms every time he goes berserk. At the very least, shouldn’t he be suffering from severe health complications? His Semblance nullifies pain, but there’s no way it can skirt around the ramifications of what would basically be acute chronic Dust poisoning.

Dust, and How It Relates to Aura

Like any hardcore fantasy enthusiast, I’m a sucker for floating islands. I don’t care if they’re overused and cliché. That is peak aesthetic, and nothing you say will ever convince me otherwise.

That being said…

Remember how the show repeatedly tells us that Dust can only be triggered by humans and Faunus? Meaning that its effects can only be activated in the presence of Aura?

If that’s the case, then how are any of Matsu’s islands floating? If Aura (or mechanical stress, I suppose) is a prerequisite for activating the elemental properties of Dust, then shouldn’t the islands all have fallen into the lake? It’s not like there are people hanging around out there to keep them passively airborne.

I have a sneaking suspicion that Remnant is some sort of genius loci à la Gaia hypothesis, and the planet generates its own Aura (which would explain why Dust becomes inert when leaving the atmosphere—it’s no longer within range of an Aura). But without more information to go on, we’re left scratching our heads at how this contradiction of nature can exist.

At the very least, consider this: If this ambiguity managed to generate a discussion in the fandom on what the hell is up with Lake Matsu, then shouldn’t that have also generated an in-world discussion between the characters? Fantasy setting or not, people are people, and we are an inherently curious bunch that love to ask questions about the unknown. Given that we had three volumes dedicated to the cast going to school, it always struck me as a weirdly wasted opportunity. An academic setting is the perfect place to script conversations like that, simply because it organically allows the story to teach the audience alongside its characters without everything feeling contrived.

But I digress. At the end of the day, this is far from my biggest grievance with Dust, but I felt it was still important enough to warrant being mentioned.

Cultural Aspects of Dust

There were a lot of ideas I wanted to talk about concerning Dust and its impact on culture—like if there was specific terminology for people who worked with Dust (like a Dust-cutter being called a “lapidary,” or “collier” being used as a slur for Faunus). Or if there were Dust-specific idioms or sayings. Or if there were superstitions and folk stories about Dust that still get passed along.

But we’re almost 3,000 words in and I want to try and keep things concise. For now, I’m choosing to focus on just one of those ideas instead, one which has always weirdly fascinated me: weaving Dust into clothing.

Fun fact: Did you know that in the 1700s, people used to wear clothing made with a green pigment that was derived from arsenic? Contact with the skin would give the wearer extreme chemical burns. Similarly, in the 1850s, aniline (a poisonous compound from the indigo plant) was used to create a dye that, when it was absorbed through the skin, would cause skin irritation, nausea, and dizziness. And well before we figured out that asbestos was carcinogenic, fibers made from it were often used for uniforms in professions that dealt with fire. Apparently, it’s really heat-resistant. And let’s not forget lead face paint, the skin-melting makeup that was all the rage in sixteenth-century Europe. [5]

The reason why I bring up all of these comically awful fashion trends is because, to reiterate, Dust is really explosive.

And people on Remnant used to just casually sew it into their clothes. Like, no big deal, I’m just going to wear my jacket with the custom Fire Dust sequins on the lapels and pray to god that no one bumps into me while I’m at the market. Maybe tomorrow night I’ll wear my hat with the Ice Dust embroidery to the banquet. I just hope I can avoid physical contact with another human being so my head doesn’t get encased in a block of ice.

Believe it or not, none of this is meant as a criticism, strictly speaking. On the contrary, I wish the show had taken the time to explore this neat little bit of lore, rather than consign it to a throwaway line. Because I think it would be fucking hilarious if Dust-woven clothing was the equivalent of radioactive and carcinogenic fashion trends. Not only would it enrich the history of Remnant and expand upon its worldbuilding (which it sorely needs), but it would be an organic way to explain to the audience one of the inherent dangers of unmanufactured Dust.

And just like that, we’ve finished covering Dust. Mostly, anyway. I have a few minor gripes, but nothing that can’t wait. Next time we’ll be discussing the topic near and dear to my heart, the thing I’ve been waiting for weeks to talk about: the Grimm.

-

[1] Volume 1, Episode 2: “The Shining Beacon - Part 1.”

[2] “Rooster Teeth's Extra Life Stream 2015 Hour 3-RWBY Crew & Matt/Jeremy Kiss.” YouTube video, uploaded by John Green. November 09, 2015. 51:44 - 52:09. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFCK-OwGoLA&t=51m44s]

[3] Wallace, Daniel. The World of RWBY: The Official Companion. VIZ Media LLC, 2019, page 36.

[4] Wallace, Daniel. The World of RWBY: The Official Companion. VIZ Media LLC, 2019, page 71.

[5] SciShow. “10 Dangerous Fashion Trends.” YouTube video. March 20, 2016. [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hhXeUQOuRaw]

[vannahfanfics]

Moonlight Sonata

Category: Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Gintama

Characters: Gintoki Sakata, Tae Shimura

Requested By: Anonymous User

“Bye, everyone! I’ll see you tomorrow night!” Tae called cheerfully over her shoulder as she walked out of the doors of the cabaret club. There was a chorus of polite farewells from her coworkers, as well as quite a few lamented wails from her drunken customers, as her sweet smile disappeared with the swing of the door. As soon as she stepped outside, however, Tae had half a mind to jump right back into the building, as a chilly wind swept across the dirt street to leap through the folds of her kimono and nip at her vulnerable skin with far too much glee. She lingered in the entryway for a few minutes, as its wooden bearings provided at least marginal protection from the biting cold, while she pondered what to do. The walk home was appreciable and she had no care to fall ill on account of simple pride and forgetting to check the weather forecast for the night. She also had no desire to linger in the cabaret club for the wee hours of the night until the sun came up to bless the world with its warming ways, either.

“Oh, dear… What a mess I’ve gotten myself into,” she tutted aloud as she pouted and tapped her index finger against her cheek. It was a pity that her gorilla-like stalker was seemingly absent today, for he would have undoubtedly noticed her plight and would be bundling her up in a coat by now. Stalkerish and annoying as he was, she did acknowledge that he cared for her and at least tried to, in his brutish, stupid way, look out for her… If he wasn’t a blatant stalker, I might even appreciate it! she thought with a dour look. Just thinking of his ridiculous antics soured her mood a little.

“Well, there’s nothing for it. It’ll only get colder,” she decided finally and pushed away from the post she had been leaning on to begin shuffling down the street towards her home. She kept her arms tucked to her midriff and her steps quick and light to avoid chilling her extremities too much, but it honestly didn’t help; after only a few yards or so she was shuddering and rubbing the pale, goosepimply skin of her arms in feeble attempts to reclaim the minimal warmth she had possessed a few moments before. She tossed a longing glance over her shoulder at the cabaret club. I could always nick a coat from one of those drunkards… She fancied it but would never follow through. She had no desire to be fired over stealing from a customer.

“What the hell are you doing out this time of night in just a kimono?”

While such gruff, aggressive speech would normally frighten a young lady alone in the dark of night, Tae thankfully knew the silver-haired man such rudeness belonged to. She pursed her lips as she turned back around to see Gintoki Sakata standing in the middle of the street, hands tucked into the pockets of his overcoat and that same bored look in his eyes that he always wore. Even this dense man had the sense to bring a jacket tonight, she thought with a small sigh. It’s not like it was surprising, since Gintoki watched the weather religiously due to his worship of Ketsuno Ana, but one would think that a samurai would bravely proclaim “I’m a man! I’m immune to the cold!” Yet here he was, bundled up like it was below freezing. With this wind, it probably is, Tae grimaced as she rubbed her arms again. She could swear that the tips of her fingers were going numb.

“I’m going home from work. I forgot to bring a jacket today,” she answered simply. Standing around conversing with him was only leaving her subject to freezing there on the spot, so she decided to resume walking because at least the activity would get her blood flowing and stave off some of the icy chill… theoretically, but it didn’t seem to help much. She only made it a few feet, right to where Gintoki was idling there just watching her with that same blank, disinterested stare, before she had to stop in her tracks again to let out a very loud, not-very-ladylike sneeze. Whining miserably, rubbing her nose, and lamenting the cold she was most definitely going to be bedridden with tomorrow, she cursed her own carelessness.

“It’s unlike you to look so in distress,” Gin chided at her, and she didn’t even have to look at him; she could hear the smirk on his face. Her head snapped up to deliver some stunning retort, but it died in her throat as soon as she saw what he was doing. There was a quick, shrill whine from the zipper of his jacket as he casually pulled it down, followed by rustling fabric as he shouldered out of the overcoat. Tae’s eyes widened as he thrusted it out to her with one hand (and picked his nose with the other, the gross bastard, ruining what could be a perfectly romantic moment in the only way that Gintoki could). “Here. Take it. I’ll never hear the end of it from Shinpachi if I let his sister freeze to death and not offer her my jacket.” He said so, but from the way that his eyes were trailed off somewhere over her shoulder rather than directly on her implied that perhaps even his seemingly callous heart was a little moved from seeing Tae in such obvious duress. A faint haze of pink bloomed on her cheeks as she reached out to gently take the offered coat, and she almost sighed in overwhelming relief from the sheer amount of heat that bloomed just on her hands.

“Thank you.” One wouldn’t think putting on a jacket had any erotic implications, but Tae literally had to suppress a very small, light moan as she slipped her arms into the large sleeves of Gintoki’s coat. His lingering body heat radiated into her every cell and made it feel like she was ice melting into deliciously warm water. It was slightly too big for her, requiring that she shake the ends of the sleeves slightly to allow her hands to poke through so that she could zip the jacket back up, and she did, right to the tip of her chin to trap as much of that heat in the fibers of the coat as possible. Gintoki, poor vagabond that he was, somehow had acquired a luxurious coat lined with furls of cotton on the inside, and very soon Tae had forgotten what the cold even felt like. Her smile was radiant as she once again expressed her gratitude to him, “Really! I feel much better now.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tae knew for sure that he must have been freezing, but Gintoki had not a shiver about him as he ran his hand through his moonlight silver hair. Had he glanced at her even once this entire exchange? He was still gazing off lazily into the wild midnight blue of the starry night sky above them. Gintoki was a serious person and not shy in the slightest, so this behavior was definitely interesting. Tae blinked and leaned forward slightly to peer up into his face, and she was damned if there wasn’t the faintest dust of a rosy blush gracing his cheeks. He really does care, doesn’t he? “What the hell you starin’ at?” he snapped at her. He may have intended to place some bite behind those words, but it almost came out fearful; by the way that his face continued to redden, he caught the weakness in his voice and was not too pleased about it. She giggled lightly and flashed him another small smile.

“Care to walk a lady home? In exchange for letting me borrow the coat, I’ll make you a snack when we get there.”

“Tae, I will die before eating any of your cooking.” She stuck out her bottom lip at the terse reply, but, there was no denying she was a terrible cook. Still, there were things that even she couldn’t mess up.

“How about some hot tea, then, with lots of sugar?”

“Now you’re talkin’,” he grinned, and for the first time, his dark irises flickered to meet hers with an excited glitter. There were few things more powerful than Gintoki Sakata’s sweet tooth.

Placing his hands behind his head, he whirled on his heel to fall in step with her as she continued her trek through the streets to her distant abode. For a long time, the only sound was the alternating scrapes of their sandals in the cool sand of the unpaved streets; Gintoki once more had his eyes trained on the heavens as if he were involved in rather deep discussion with the moon and stars, which was apparently more riveting than a conversation with the woman right next to him; Tae didn’t mind, exactly. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure what they would even talk about.

She snuck a sordid glance at him out of the corners of her eyes, and with the silence, she could honestly appreciate the magic that the pale glow of the heavens was working on the otherwise undesirable samurai. Gintoki really didn’t have a bad face at all, and the white light accentuated that, defining his sharp jawline even further such that it mirrored the slicing edge of a katana. Its glow seemed to deposit the stars themselves in his dark eyes, glittering faintly only to Tae’s eyes. Then, of course, his white hair absorbed it like a sponge soaked up water, making the fine threads glow with an almost ephemeral quality that left Tae with the overwhelming urge to run her fingers through it because it looked like supple threads of silk. She was considering this as his gaze once more flickered to hers, and she went red because there was no arguing that she had been staring at him. “What?”

“I was just thinking that you’d be a pretty handsome guy if you weren’t the way you were.” His face immediately screwed up into a very unflattering grimace at her shameless, brutal honesty.

“Damn, Tae, just go and insult my entire being, why don’t you…” he grumbled under his breath and looked away in either embarrassment or annoyance. His arms dropped to his sides to slip one of his hands into the folds of his clothes, while the other fell against the end of his wooden sword, probably the result of muscle memory. From Tae’s vantage point, it almost looked as if his face did not know what expression to form. His reaction had been altogether peculiar too because if anyone else had been with them, he would’ve whipped around and sure given her a verbal lashing. Is he acting differently because we’re alone? she wondered, and she wasn’t quite sure what she would make of that if it were true.

Tae respected Gintoki a lot, despite his overall nature; he clearly loved Shinpachi a lot and he was an honorable man when it came down to the wire. Now that she considered that they were indeed walking side-by-side, under the moonlight, and she was wearing his coat and was going to prepare tea for him, there sure were a lot of implications. Tae found herself looking down at her feet as her face grew warm. It must be the cold muddling my head, she reasoned and slapped at her cheeks. Tae couldn’t possibly have a crush on such an uncultured sleaze like Gintoki Sakata! The brusque strike against her soft flesh left them stinging and faintly red.

“Is your face cold now or something?”

“Wh-what? Um, it was a little, but I just warmed it up a little!” she laughed nervously at his weary sigh. Suddenly she was the one who was nervous and couldn’t look at him. She focused on their surroundings, finding with relief that they were in her neighborhood; sure enough, when she glanced up, she could see her house. Eager to save herself from the awkwardness of the conversation, she scampered quickly over to ascend her steps and unlock the door, with a slightly frowning Gintoki ambling on behind her. “So, about that tea—" she started as she whirled around, her slightly hitched breathing producing a puff of fog before her mouth.

“It’s not that big of a deal. It’s late; I can really just take my jacket and head home,” Gintoki shrugged as he rubbed at the back of his neck. His expression had gone all stiff and complicated again, and Tae suddenly found herself terrified that she had annoyed him some way and disappointed that he didn’t in fact want to stay for tea. She wasn’t going to pester him, though, because she was actually kind of appalled she was disappointed; why on Earth would she want to be alone with Gintoki, and even worse, excited at the prospect? Mind whirling from all the very confusing emotions coming on her at once, she began removing the jacket as she hopped back down the steps. She was just wriggling her arms out of the sleeves at the halfway point when she very ungracefully fumbled over her own feet and tumbled into the open air. She let out a surprised yelp, hands grasping at the empty air in an instinctual attempt to find a hold, while the soles of her sandals slid uselessly across the wood of the steps.

“Whoa!” Gintoki cried and surged forward.

“Oh!” Tae cried as she landed against him. His arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace, and she was very aware of the shape and form of every muscle of his she was in contact with at the moment. Her face was buried right in the middle of his pectorals (which were actually softer than one would think) and just beneath the intense blazing heat grazing her cheeks she could feel the intense pounding of Gintoki’s heart. “I’m sorry!” she cried as she looked up at him; whatever she was going to sputter out next abruptly fizzled out on her tongue, because his face was a mere inch or so from her own. His mouth was similarly hanging open, in the process of asking her if she was all right, but what came out was more of a choked croak. His pupils met hers for only the briefest of moments before once again sliding to the corners of his eyes. “Why won’t you look at me, Gin?” Her voice was a mere breath, light in sound but heavy with desire and want.

Maybe it’s a small crush, quipped a little meek voice in the back of her mind. Her gaze flickered down to his mouth as she saw the corner of it twitch.

“Because I keep thinking you would be a pretty cute girl if I hadn’t seen you pound grown men into dust,” came the eventual reply laced with snark and a fair hint of hesitation. Tae’s eyes flickered back upwards to find that he finally was looking at her… and the way he was looking at her made every hair on her body stand at attention as an electric shiver pulsed across her nerves. Tae couldn’t even bring herself to be angry at the insult borne in his words because the connotation behind them, and that smoldering fire in his dark eyes, had dominated her mind. Tae’s mind was jelly but at least her body knew how to proceed; hands curling into the fabric of his clothes, her back arched slightly as she pressed against him, inhaling deeply with each square inch of skin that met his. The tip of his index finger ghosted across her cheek in the slightest of touches, but Tae could feel the nerves singing even long after he had pulled his hand away to bury it into her tresses of hair, tousling it out of the simple up-do with ease as it settled against the back of her head. After all that time short-circuiting in her mouth, her tongue finally managed to work so she could say something.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for tea?”

“Fuck yes,” Gintoki growled in response, and no sooner did that rumbling reply send another wave of intense electricity over Tae did he jump forward to claim her lips in a feverish, passionate kiss. Tae’s hands flew to his shoulders to brace herself against him as his broad body pushed against hers to make her back arch slightly to compensate for her head craning back; one of them soon began to migrate, sliding over his shoulder up his neck to bury her fingers into his luscious messy tufts of moonlight-white hair. Her eyes drifted closed of their own accord, and as blackness overtook her vision it seemed like every other sense of hers went on high alert; the sweetness of his lips was almost intoxicating, and sparks were jumping over her body with every igniting touch between them. Tae was barely able to stand under the assault of feeling, but when Gintoki pressed the kiss deeper, running his tongue over her bottom lip to silently plead entry, whatever starch keeping her knees steady melted away.

As she complied, parting her lips so his tongue could slither forward and eagerly entangle with her own, she slumped completely against him. He wound his arm around her waist to hold her up as every swirl of their tongues weakened Tae further. Warm waves of pulsating energy hummed in every one of Tae’s cells in tune with the singing of her frantic heart, pounding in a rising crescendo. Just as she was becoming deafened by the symphony of the moment, Gintoki pulled back, and suddenly the music fell into a deep but comfortable silence. Exhaling shakily, Tae’s eyes fluttered open and she found that Gintoki could look nowhere but at her all of a sudden. He chuckled as this fact brought a faint blush to her already flushed cheeks. “What? Now you don’t want me to look at you?”

“I didn’t say that!” she huffed at him while puffing out her cheeks. He laughed under his breath again as he pulled her against his chest, pressing his cheek against the side of her head while he played with the ends of her hair absentmindedly. It may be more than a small crush, she thought in faint amusement as she closed her eyes and just enjoyed the feeling of him holding her. Shinpachi sure won’t be happy about this…

One thing was for sure— Tae was the furthest thing from cold.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[homeboundrunnerfive]

Zombies Run Secret Santa 2019!

@notforconsumption​ HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM YOUR SECRET SANTA! I HOPE YOU LIKE IT! I had this idea about a “5 times...” including Five, Sara and Sam at about 5000 words similar to what I did for Secret Santa last year. But this was too much fun to write, and I couldn’t bear to end it before I felt that it was properly finished, and this piece wanted to be more than 5000 words. So therefore, I make this pledge to you: have this smaller preview of my ZR/pokémon crossover as your present for this Christmas Eve, and send me a scenario that you would like to see added in the final version of this piece and your Secret Santa will make it so! And lastly: big thanks to both you and @runnerzero for organising this wonderful Secret Santa exchange! 

Fandom: Zombies, Run! Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply  Relationships: Runner Five/Sara Smith Characters: Sam Yao, Sara Smith, Runner Five, Simon Lauchlan, Janine DeLuca, Maxine Myers Additional Tags: Female Runner Five, Spoilers for Season 1, Mild Language, AU - Pokémon, Preview (or: remember that time probably at least a year ago when the fandom discussed the ZR/pokémon crossover?) Summary: Only by the very skin of her fucking teeth does Five make it in through the gates unscathed. Had guards on the wall not opened fire on the faster zoms directly behind her, she might not have made it inside at all. The second the gates close behind her, she actually lays down flat on her stomach to stop herself from vomiting. She has never run that fast before in her entire life, and her vision is flickering a little. The Cubone crawls out of her backpack as she pants heavily into the dirt, and jumps off of her to look around. After a few moments it gives her a sour look, seemingly deeming its new surroundings to be nothing all that special. ”If I had dropped you, this would have been a lot easier for me,” Five mutters to the Cubone. It returns her snarky remark by pulling out the bone and whacking her square in the head.

— S1M01 The transfer from Mullins Military Base to the smaller settlement of Abel Township is not starting out well. Five is a little disappointed in herself for actually being just the tiniest bit surprised by the fact that every single thing that could have gone wrong today has.

To be fair though, being shot down from the sky with a rocket launcher is a rather uncommon occurrence, so maybe she can’t take the blame for not predicting that one.

Which is a right shame, because what she can predict, Five will prepare for. For example, she knew that that arriving without a pokémon would elicit reactions and she had prepared herself for it. Pity and commiseration from some, assuming it was lost or killed in the chaos of Day Zero. Distain or suspicion from others, trying to rationalise how someone able to secure a spot at Mullins for themselves could be so negligent as to not provide for their pokémon. 

Others are just confused at the sight of someone without a pokémon in these trying times. Who wouldn’t want an immune companion to not only protect you, but to also love you and keep your spirits high?

Five had prepared for that eventuality. She had not prepared for parachuting out of a helicopter, nor arriving to Abel in a mad dash chased by one of the faster zoms she’s encountered so far.

Inside the gates she’s greeted proper by three individuals, though a lot of people attempt to quickly wheedle information or supplies off of her the moment she stumbles through the gates

“Hey! Good to see you in the flesh… the totally-unbroken, skin-not-bitten-by-zombies flesh, right? Step back, step back everyone, don’t crowd! Give Runner Five some space!“ She recognises the voice as the man guiding her from the crash to the gates, radio operator Sam Yao. ”You alright there?”

He’s a younger Asian man in his mid-twenties or so, with dark hair and friendly eyes. The vibrant orange colour of his hoodie sticks out in a very striking manner, and a Flaaffy and Minccino is peeking out from behind him. Five feels like he fits the image of what she had imagined someone with his voice would look like. Rather soft, unpretentious and… boyish. The chinchilla-like pokemón looks rather downcast, sitting on top of the Flaaffys woolly head.

Next is an African-American woman in a white lab coat, immediately relieving Five of the CDC files and giving her a bite check before welcoming her to Abel Township. Five catches a glimpse of pale gemstones and notices that the woman, Dr. Myers as she introduces herself, has a rather small Sableye clinging to her hip underneath the lab coat. The pokémon is watching Five cautiously, showing the slightest hint of teeth.

Last is a serious-looking woman with a stern face, dressed in practical clothing. While the doctor is performing Five’s bite check, the woman is speaking quietly with another equally impressive woman, seemingly a bit older, who is accompanied by a weathered Lucario. The older woman is carrying a firearm, discreetly hidden by her loose shirt in a holster strapped to her belt. Five only notices because she has gotten into the habit of looking for threats, no matter the surroundings.

”Welcome to Abel Township. My name is Janine De Luca,” says the serious-looking woman. At her feet, an Umbreon is standing at attention like a guard dog, staring Five down. ”We have much to discuss.”

Five knows better than to hope for good things by now. But so far, so good, she thinks.

— S1M07

Only a few weeks into her transfer, disaster strikes.

Janine De Luca, one of the authorities of Abel Township, had sent her out on a mission to make contact with a member of a supposed rebel group within the neighbouring settlement of New Canton under the guise of picking up a cache of electrical supplies. Unsurprisingly to at least Five,  who has learned to expect the worst of every situation given the state of the post-apocalyptic world, the rendezvous ends up with her having to flee for her life in the completely opposite direction of Abel Township while dodging automatic gunfire.

It takes a solid hour of running through extremely taxing natural terrain before Five feels confident that she is out of the woods, and by that point she is out of the scanner range Sam was talking about. Her headset took a hit when she smacked into a low-hanging branch in her hurry, and it seems to have been damaging enough to disable her transmitter. To further emphasise the vulnerability of her situation, the sun has now fully set beyond the western horizon and midnight is closing in. The moon working its way across the starry sky provides some light, but not enough by far.

”Runner Five… I don’t know if you can hear me. Our scanner’s down,” Sams voice starts again over the headset. He’s been checking in periodically, voice growing more and more despondent each time he goes without a response. Something bleats weakly in the background, and Five imagines Sam stroking the soft coat of his Flaaffy as he flips between monitors. ”It never works that well at night anyway, and a couple of bits of equipment have broken down, so… so there’s no way to see where you are. Truth is, I… I don’t even know if you’re alive. Odds aren’t good, right?”

He would have lost sight of her the moment she fled into the dense forest, Five thinks, so for all he knows she could have been shot dead the second she exited his camera coverage. The odds for her survival, as he said, were certainly not optimal.

Mustering what little strength she has left, she forces herself into a slow jog towards a more defensible position to take a much needed rest to catch her breath. On a hill, about half a kilometre away, under the roots of a large tree growing on the incline Five can see something similar to a makeshift burrow. It isn’t ideal, but the surrounding trees are much too bare for her to climb without some sort of equipment, so a dirty hole in the ground to keep her back free will have to do for now. After listening intently for a moment, she feels certain there are no zombies nearby. No groaning moans, no shuffling steps and no crinkling leaves.

”You’re not even my second Runner Five, you know that? You’re my fourth. I guess there’s no better reason you’d make it back than any of the others,” Sam sighs, and Five thinks that even if her transmitter wasn’t smashed, she wouldn’t respond to that. It’s true. She’s no more likely to survive the night that anyone else in her position.

Doesn’t mean she isn’t going to try.

Five pulls the axe from her back, keeping her pack on, before sitting down on the ground and leaning back against one of the thick roots. Her legs are almost numb, and her breaths are still coming out ragged. For the moment she feels very warm, but Five knows the sweat on her skin will soon cool and bring her body temperature down. She can’t allow herself to stay still for more than a few minutes, but that will be all she needs. In her head, she’s already mapping out the route back to Abel.

Something hard hesitantly pokes her lower thigh. Her muscles tense instantly and she chokes up  the grip on her axe, bouncing into a defensive crouch.

In the dark, she can only make out two narrowed eyes staring suspiciously at her and a small silhouette sitting further inside the burrow. Whatever poked her has been retracted back into the shadows. Then, a white stick strikes out with lightning speed and hits against the metal head of her axe, sending the smallest of vibrations down into her hands.

The noise isn’t too bad, but it breaks the absolute silence of the woods in a way that puts Five on edge.

She backs up a few steps, standing up as she does, and slowly raises her axe into a batting position. The small figure, interestingly enough, mirrors her movements perfectly.

Chancing a quick look around, Five can’t see anything shambling towards her position, which is good. Whatever tiny little creature drove her out of the burrow seems almost as guarded as she is, holding their little stick poised for another strike. She takes a few moments to carefully study the shape. The very top of the creature would barely reach up to her knees. Humanoid in form, bipedal, gripping what looks like a small bat, and a rather lumpy head with small horns. Too small to be a zombie, and too clever to be an animal.

Five tries to cycle through her passable knowledge of different Pokémon species native to England, and she doesn’t have to think very long before the answer comes to her. She’s invaded the little underground home of a Cubone. From what she can remember, they aren’t very social and prefer to keep to themselves. What she thought was a stick poking her was most likely a bone, then.

”So… I’m just going to keep talking for a while. I mean, for all I know, I could be talking into the ear of a zombie. But, hey —” Sam starts again, and Five slowly reaches up to mute the signal for just a moment to keep her concentration on the situation at hand.

Sinking down to her knees, Five exaggeratedly places the axe down to rest on the leafy ground before raising both hands in a placating manner towards the Cubone. The universal sign for ’I don’t want any trouble.’ Not because she is in the slightest intimidated by this tiny thing, armed as she is, but because any loud noises will draw zombies in and force her to start running before she’s had a chance to catch her breath.

The pokémon doesn’t lower the bone its holding, but takes a few steps forward to the mouth of the burrow. In the moonlight, Five can spot a rather large gash on the left arm stretching all the way down to the hand. Not too deep a cut, but most likely infected by the look of it, and probably rather painful.

It tugs at her heartstrings. The only way for her to survive the night is to make it back home to Abel before they bar the gates, so there is really no reason to be stingy with her rations. Starvation or exposure is not what will kill her. Slowly, as to not startle the Cubone, she combs through her pack until she finds what she’s looking for. A protein bar, the first and only one she's gotten since she was made a runner and therefore prioritised concerning nutrition compared to other assignments in the township.

She unmutes her headset at the reminder of Abel.

Disinfectant or bandages would be better, but snacks is all that she has to offer. The process of opening the wrapper quietly is tedious, but after half a minute she has the bar uncovered in her hand. Most likely expired, since the chocolate coating is cracked and flaking away with every slight jostle, but a treasure all the same. Keeping her palm flat, she holds it out as far as she can from herself and waits for almost a full minute.

The Cubone only stares defiantly, staying firmly put.

”I called you my friend just before, didn’t I?” Sam says through some slight static, sounding a touch less relaxed than he normally does, seemingly about to go off on a more rambling kind of tangent. ”Is that cool with you? I mean… well, I’m definitely not your friend if you’ve gone gray. But I feel like we have a kind of… simpatico… something? Not that we’ve ever really talked. I guess we’re talking now. So… yeah, well, let’s just talk like normal people, like… buddies, or something,”  

At least someone wants to be my friends, she thinks sullenly as the pokémon continues giving her the evil eye. Sighing, Five tosses the protein bar towards the Cubone, only slightly wincing at the fact that she threw actual good food on the forest floor before sitting back down. If the pokémon dislikes intruders this much, its behaviour should alert her to any incoming zombies. She figures she’ll be better off taking that little rest here than spending precious time finding another spot, even if she no longer has her back free.

It takes a few moments of apprehensive investigation, but eventually the Cubone starts nibbling on the protein bar while still keeping a watchful eye on her. She mostly ignores it and turns her back to keep lookout of her surroundings, fairly certain the pokémon won’t be bothering her further for the short time she intends to stay.

Unsurprisingly, the minutes pass by much too quickly, and her muscles still scream with complaints as she gets to her feet. The Cubone has finished its snack, and seems to have been emboldened by her tribute. Waddling forward, it sticks its hands down her backpack and starts searching for more treats.

”Get off,” Five mumbles and makes shooing motions. The Cubone pauses to nail her with the most unimpressed look she has ever seen a pokémon make, and continues rooting around. Five’s pretty certain the only thing she has left in there by now is her half-empty bottle of water, but it’s the principle of the thing. She was issued that equipment by Janine, and Five is still very determined to make a good impression on that woman.  

She hadn’t tried hard enough back at Mullins. Five will not make the same mistake twice.

”That’s mine, and I’m going,” she says, more firm this time, and grabs the closest strap to pull the backpack away from the Cubone. Before she can even attempt to stop it, the pokémon has not only tugged the pack from her, it has decisively climbed into it and given her an indignant harrumph. It reminds her of a stubborn toddler, which is unfortunate. She doesn’t have very much experience dealing with those kinds of tantrums. Five resists rubbing her temples in frustration.

”It’s mine, and it’s coming with me. Get out.”

They lock eyes, and a silent battle of willpower ensues.

The absolute absurdity of the situation is that Five doesn’t actually have the upper hand here. She needs to get back to Abel before they bar the gates, and it’ll take her a good hour of running in the dark as it is.

Moments pass.

Nothing happens.

”Fine then.” With a forceful yank, she expeditiously tugs the pack onto her back, passenger and all, and secures the hip belt around her waist to balance her centre of gravity with the added weight. It’s not too heavy, but definitely enough to make a difference while running. The head is poking out of the top, giving her a fierce glare. ”You’ll come to see it my way.”

The next hour is a little strange, to say the least. Occasionally, the Cubone will grunt in annoyance and rap at her shoulders with its held bone, but it makes no attempt to get out of the backpack. She fortunately only has to reroute twice after spotting smaller packs of zoms in the distance, and during those tenser moments the pokémon is surprisingly quiet. Sam continues checking in, making either morbid or hilarious monologues in her headset. For some bizarre reason, it does keep her spirits up. If he’s still talking to her, it means the gates haven’t been barred yet. Even if his chosen topics for conversation are disheartening for the most part.

When she gets close enough to Abel to see the light on top the tower guiding her back home, she’s picked up quite a trail of zombies, despite her attempts to circumvent any encounters.

”— but I’ve gotta be honest… we’re losing hope here.” Five is now only registering bits and pieces of what Sam is talking about, mostly concerned about keeping a safe distance ahead of her groaning pursuers. ”A couple of zoms have arrived at the gates, and that usually means the bigger horde is on its way. Maybe only a few minutes ‘til we bar the gate.”

That, however, she does hear loud and clear.

It means she’s still got a chance. All she has to do to make it is run fast enough.

Only by the very skin of her fucking teeth does Five make it in through the gates unscathed. Had guards on the wall not opened fire on the faster zoms directly behind her, she might not have made it inside at all. The second the gates close behind her, she actually lays down flat on her stomach to stop herself from vomiting. She has never run that fast before in her entire life, and her vision is flickering a little.

The Cubone crawls out of her backpack as she pants heavily into the dirt, and jumps off of her to look around. After a few moments it gives her a sour look, seemingly deeming its new surroundings to be nothing all that special.

”If I had dropped you, this would have been a lot easier for me,” Five mutters to the Cubone. It returns her snarky remark by pulling out the bone and whacking her square in the head.

— S1M10

Five is having a tough time figuring the new Cubone out, and the pokémon seems to actively be trying to infuriate her.

While bringing it into the township had been no issue with Janine, the question of ownership and training was apparently of more import. No rogue inhabitants in her township, she had said. Five had not been particularly adamant about claiming the Cubone for herself, given the apparent distaste of her the pokémon seemed to harbour. It almost seemed like whenever an opportunity to obstruct her presented itself, the Cubone would take it and then give her a smug look afterwards. So it seemed the safer bet to place it in the communal building rather than with her.

But after a few days, it was perfectly clear the Cubone was not fine with living in the communal building, nor socialising with the other collectively owned pokémon. The sharp, angry cries throughout the nights attracted zombies to such a degree that they actually had to send runners on emergency missions for ammunition to keep up.

A few people did try to befriend the Cubone, but to no avail. All attempts were rebuffed, with varying degrees of violence and threatening behaviour. Simon suffered a rather unfortunate injury to his groin trying to charm the pokémon, both scaring and upsetting his own tenderhearted Sylveon. After that incident, there weren’t many volunteers.

So now the responsibility has once again circled around to Five.

Things are not going well. The only two things she has managed to understand is that the Cubone is a male, and that it seems to dislike everything and everyone. It seems content to follow her around at a distance, but makes a scene when she tries to get close. Strangely enough, it seems to have no problem climbing onto her back whenever the pokémon feels like it. Touching that is not initiated by the Cubone, though, is out of the question, prompting wild swings with the bone. Any conversation or commands are met with glowering or growling. In short, the Cubone is completely dominating her, her life and all their interactions at his own very unpredictable whims.

Many people offered her tips, all delivered in a rather delicate manner as to not imply any incompetence on her part which Five feels is more or less unnecessary at this point. Chris McShell had given her a long and detailed lecture on abstract pokémon psychology. Evan gave her different training exercises to establish respect and dominance, demonstrating them to her with his impressively obedient Growlithe Bonnie. Jody and Sam offered a plethora of bonding exercises, most of which just seemed to be different forms of cuddling. Five did not point out that neither of their pokémon come equipped with their very own weapons, and simply enjoyed watching Jody hugging her soft and sweet Audino.

In the end though, all suggestions proved to be equally useless.

Presently, Five is sitting on the ground with her back against the wall of the mess hall. Cubone is sitting a few meters away, and a silent battle of wills is raging.

They’ve been at it for days. The pokémon is as stubborn — possibly even more so — than Five.

”I don’t want to do this,” Five says, fingers playing with the laces of her trainers. ”I’m tired. If you don’t like me, leave. If you don’t like this place, leave.”

She’s ignored very pointedly by Cubone, who is drawing something in the dirt with its bone. From Five’s poor perspective on the ground it looks like nothing but squiggly lines.

”Things are a certain way in Abel. You’ll have to find a place. You can’t have things your way here.”

Narrowed eyes glare at her from beneath the large skull adorning its head, and if looks could kill, she’d be more dead than the corpses shambling outside the walls. At least she knows Cubone understands her, even if all that she receives in return for her words are defiance. The pokémon resolutely turns its back on her with a familiar harrumph, continuing to draw in the dirt.  

”I would have thought you’d be better at this than you are. I’m surprised, Five. And that doesn’t happen too often, you know,” Sara grins, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms. By her side her companion Lucario does the same, and the two of them just radiate an aura of smugness.

Five scrambles to her feet and locks her arms behind her back in a courteous manner, feeling incredibly stiff and awkward about the forced formality. It’s still a little early to act too casual with superiors in Five’s opinion, even though her military ID has been recovered and Sara herself has expressed in so many words how laughable this kind of ”boot-licking” behaviour looked on someone as physically imposing as Five. Yet, she snaps into place on instinct. Cubone flinches violently as she moves suddenly to break their staring match, and turns to glare suspiciously at the newcomers with narrowed eyes.

”I apologise,” replies Five, keeping her eyes on her trainers. ”I am having more difficulty that I would have thought.”

”The difference really is night and day, wouldn’t you agree, Donal? Like a roaring lion and a cowering house cat. It really is frustrating,” Sara says offhandedly to her companion, before pointedly leaning her head to catch Five’s gaze as she does so. ”We do things differently here, Five, and I don’t want to have to go through this little song and dance every time I see you inside the gates. This is not Mullins. Act like a normal human being. No one is going to have you shot in your sleep for mouthing off or slouching. So please, honey, at ease, now.”

Chancing a quick glance, Five catches Sara’s eyes. They are brown, filled with mirth and just deep enough to hide something seriously menacing behind those twinkles of amusement. There’s a layer of subtext that Five has become quite adept at understanding at this point, even though there are few women Five has met that are quite as contradictory as Sara Smith.

Two sides of the same coin show their faces whenever she speaks. The gentle but stern reminder that Five won’t be shot in her sleep for mouthing off also serves as a warning to remind her that other things might be enough to earn her a bullet in the back of the head. The complimentary comparison to the king of the jungle during missions is also a barbed statement about her positively spineless behaviour within the walls of Abel Township.

”I understand.”

Sara lets out a small chuckle. ”Slow learner, and stubborn to boot. That’s fine, Five. Not entirely unlike this Cubone here, judging by the way things are going,” she says, turning to her Lucario to share a look. ”Donal and I never had these problems, did we?”

It’s difficult to pinpoint why, but the comment strikes a raw nerve within Five. Perhaps its her lifelong habit of people-pleasing that takes offence at her obvious failure, or her very frail yet still very much alive ego taking a targeted hit from someone she very much admires, or perhaps it is simply the drop that makes the cup run over for whatever reason. Either way, Sara’s words have found purchase beneath Five’s armor and like a frightened animal she strikes out on instinct, barely registering the words as they pass her lips.

”Military issue espionage pokémon are trained from birth in obedience, I’ve read. Must make training a breeze. But that has nothing to do with you, I’m sure,” Five bites out while keeping her eyes to the ground. Later, she will regret giving lip to one of the more influential and possibly lethal figures of the township, but for now Five is wallowing in self-pity and unable to care about the intricate policies of the apocalypse. Even though she has technically been officially encouraged several times to be slightly less deferential in public as to not attract attention to Project Greenshoot.

Sara gives her a sly smile, eyes twinkling. ”None of your concern, now is it? What I will say is that you are going about this the wrong way. Of course, I could give you a few pointers. Unless you prefer to continue this hopeless exercise in frustration. Up to you.”

Five reigns herself in, says nothing this time. Every single time she has opens her dumb mouth things turn sour, sooner or later.

”Lucario are an extremely capable and skilled pokémon species, and exceptionally rare at that. They are omnivores, though meat is very much preferable. Usually they live in smaller packs in the deep mountains away from the hustle and bustle of civilisation, and their unique ability to read and manipulate auras is unparalleled. Highly intelligent, my darling Donal more so than most I would say, able to understand and even communicate complex, abstract concepts. Most Lucario seem to have a natural sense of justice, and will react badly when training is not mutually beneficial to trainer and pokémon.” The Lucario has left her side to circle around the hesitant Cubone with a calculating look on its face as Sara speaks. ”This is just the smallest piece of knowledge that I have about the species of my pokémon. Useless information for you, of course. And yet, I keep droning on and on about all the things that I know, and you don’t. Seems like quite a dull thing to do in this kind of sticky situation, no?”

Five quickly schools her face into a more neutral expression, having unconsciously tightened her lips into the slightest scowl during Sara’s monologue.

”You don’t know anything about the Cubone species, so let’s skip that entire lecture for now. I’m sure a capable runner like yourself will be able to get your hands on that kind of information without having to bruise your ego asking me for it. So let’s look at what you do know instead, hm?” Sara continues, ignoring the low growl coming from Cubone as Lucario stops to study it. ”You intruded on an injured Cubone’s territory after nightfall, where he was all alone in a ditch far from both people and pokémon. You fed him scraps, and he climbed into your backpack and refused to be left behind. Strange thing, I’ll give you that. Here at Abel, he seems��� let’s just call it displeased for lack of more polite terms, to be in the communal building. In other words, he doesn’t mingle well with strangers. Other people that have tried to gain his favour and trust have gotten nothing but sullen stares and the occasional light beating. Wherever you go, he follows at a distance, and grows defensive when you try to get close.”

It is becoming increasingly obvious where Sara is going with this guessing game to Five, and the impending conclusion is not something she is inclined to take to heart at this point in time. Maybe at all. In the zombie apocalypse, people can die whenever, so if Five’s lucky she’ll be grey before she’ll have to face her own flaws.

”I could give you my take on things, of course. Standing by my side is a disciplined and loyal pokémon, and you’ve got an armoured little gremlin following you around like a shadow, beating you with a stick whenever he damn well feels like it. You have to admit that’s funny.”

There’s a long pause, and it is almost enough to make sweat start beading at Five’s forehead but her lips won’t move. What admission Sara wants her to come to is not difficult to understand, but the strings of correct words dancing through her brain don’t seem to make their way down to her mouth.

Pride and shame battle fiercely within her. Five is locked between feeling completely unable to admit to any kind of vulnerability, while also simultaneously terrified to portray herself as devoid of empathy. Her tongue feels heavy and swollen resting behind flat teeth that aren’t sharp enough to tear through flesh and bone.

A few seconds pass that are long enough to draw every single breath of air from her lungs.

The result is pathetic. Absolute silence.

”It’s referred to as the lonely pokémon, did you know? Curious thing, in my opinion.” Sara inspects her fingernails in a very pointed manner, before catching Five’s eyes in a way that makes it clear she is not to look away.

It makes her squirm, and a knot is growing in her stomach.

”Alarmed at the thought of having a companion that is similar enough to you that it might actually  understand and know you?” Sara’s voice is teasing at the surface, but sharp and calculating beneath it. ”Or maybe you simply don’t want a pokémon that is like you because you think you, and by extension it, is broken and bad?”

The knot settles firmly in the centre of Five’s stomach, making her feel ill.

Suddenly, a loud horn blares through the silence for one short signal, followed by Janine’s voice booming over the intercoms accompanied by gunshots in the distance. ”Calling Runner Five! Or Runner Eight! Or both. Runner Five and Runner Eight, report to the gates!”

Only seconds after that, Janine’s voice starts filtering through her headset, which Five quickly pulls up over her ears to listen properly. Sara has already done the same, and motions for Five to follow over her shoulder as she and her pokémon turn to jog towards the gates. ”Runner Five and Runner Eight, urgent assignment! Sam’s on a rest period, but we’ve discovered a traitor in the camp. We need you to chase her down before she gets away!”

”Copy that, Janine. On my way,” Sara answers, and turns to shout at Five over her shoulder. ”Come on, Five, let’s get going. And don’t you worry, we’ll save this little game of ours for a later date.”

Five takes off after her, only stumbling on the first step.

From this perspective up above as she passes them by, the scribbles Cubone made in the dirt  earlier looks like a pair of vaguely humanoid, thick figures, one larger and one smaller, both wearing bulky helmets.

After a few seconds, a quick pattering behind Five gives her a moment to prepare before a heavy weight lands on her back and small hands claw into her shoulders like vices. She steadies herself and starts running.

— S1M19

The ceremony for Chris McShell is held on a foggy day, and the dim skies accurately reflect the mood of the runners returning from the forest walking through the gates. Most are met by their pokémon at the gates, thankful for whatever comfort they are given.

Five is silently thankful that Chris was one of the few in the township to not have a pokémon. She is feeling raw as it is, and the thought of watching a confused companion looking for someone that’s not coming back cuts like a knife. Without words, her Cubone crawls into her arms and settles in, filling her with warmth. It’s not enough to thaw the small pinprick of cold somewhere deep inside her chest, but it feels marginally better.  

She listened to him die. Sam didn’t cut the feed.

Somewhere in the world, he might have had a daughter waiting for him. More likely is that he will be joining her amongst the dead.

Five showers without really taking notice of the icy temperature. The stiff sensations in her limbs actually makes it easier to remember that she does inhabit a body, and that she is here. Every time her boots hit the ground she becomes more heavy and solid, grounding her in reality. Her Cubone is shadowing her every step, for once not climbing over her frame to take a seat on her shoulders like he usually does. Strangely enough, Five thinks, the weight on her shoulders feels heavier than usual even so.

The bell rings, and Five follows routinely. A haze has settled over her mind, and it’s enough to dull her senses to the person quickly approaching her from the left. Sara catches her by the arm as she walks mindlessly to the mess hall, holding her firmly enough to not be easily brushed off. Her Lucario walks up behind Sara, and the usual silent staring contest ensues between their two pokémon.

”Hey there, Five,” Sara greets her, and the little sparkle in her eye is familiar enough to let Five know that she’s got a mission. ”I won’t keep you for too long. We’re expected, after all.”

Squinting at the last rays of the evening sun, Sara takes her sweet time before continuing as the light illuminates her rugged features. A breeze moves past the four of them, and Five feels like an ancient statue. Like someone that has been rooted in place for millennia, muscles of heavy stone, growing moss and collecting dirt.

”It feels good not to be the only one left who knows my boys’ faces. We remember them, don’t we Donal?” Sara says fondly, and her Lucario looks away from Cubone to respond with a short nod. There’s a faraway look in her eyes, and it takes Five a moment to actually register the words. It’s not every day that Sara speaks of her family, let alone her sons. ”Someone must, I should think.”

There’s a beat, and Five waits. She has learned that Sara usually takes her time setting the mood before getting to her point when she doles out her wisdom.

Sara exhales evenly, letting her hand fall from Five’s arm after clapping her on the shoulder. ”If you’re the only one thinking about them sitting all alone in your room, it’s mourning. But if you’ve got someone to share the memories with, you’re celebrating them. That’s my take on it, anyway.”

Furrowing her brow just the tiniest bit, Five tries to put the pieces together. It could be that she is being admonished for isolating herself with her grief, but that is an unfair assumption. Sara can’t have missed that she caught Five as she was going to the mess hall, where the atmosphere of loss is the thickest. She pulls her arms closer to her sides, jaw clenching slightly with tension.

Sara tilts her head, and gives her a look that Five can’t discern the intent behind, before nodding towards the ramshackle building. ”Don’t just be there, Five. Be present. It’s bad at first, I’ll give you that much. But it’s better in the long run.”

Turning on her heel with her Lucario following close behind, Sara leaves Five in the dust as she casually strolls through the doorway. Five stares intently at the ground, unwilling to risk meeting Sara’s eyes should she glance back for one last look.

Her advice is not lost on Five, and in most circumstances it would be marvellous and healthy advice. But for Five, it’s only words in the wind. She’s not strong enough to be present in the face of this kind of grief. There’s barely enough left of her inside to keep her going through the days as it is. There is no energy nor will left to spare on mental health after the taxing realities of the zombie apocalypse.

Looking down at her solid feet, planted on the ground, there is Cubone looking back up at her with solemn eyes.

She won’t do be able to do what Sara is asking, she thinks as she bends down to scoop her pokémon up into her arms. It’s not even worth trying.

Five still walks into the mess hall, though. Her chest is warmer, and the Cubone clings to her shirt.

[ganglylimbs]

The Wolves Shall Eat

Fandom: RT/AH

Pairing: Burnie/Jack/Joe, Matt/Ryan/Gus

Summary: Geoff leaves the Fathers to their toys. 

Warnings: Noncon, noncon to dubcon, fisting, double penetration, Joel. 

Notes: Commissioned again from a very lovely anon. Also, I started this before the whole Joel situation came about. So he is in here but this will probably be the last time I write him. Also, this is a part 3 of a series. Could probably be read alone but makes more sense if you read the others. 

(I Huff and I Puff series) (Commission Info)

The door closes behind Geoff. 

Jack and Ryan are left with the Fathers. All alone. 

Jack is pulled off Burnie’s cock, panting, mouth open and tongue hanging out. A line of split connects his mouth with Burnie’s cock, drool dripping down his chin. 

Burnie gives him a wide smile, sharp and lusty. His eyes are dark behind his glasses as he stares down at him. “Such a good boy. You’re going to be the perfect cocksleeve for me, won’t you?” 

Jack swallows, lips swollen and throat dry, and nods. 

Joel, who is still massaging his ass, watching the way Jack’s hole opens and closes for him, he looks up and frowns. “I told you I was going to fuck him first.” 

Burnie turns his smirk towards the other man. “Oh really? And you think I was just going to let you?” 

Joel squeezes Jack’s ass, the flesh plump in his hands. “I want him first.” 

“And I’m going to have him first,” Burnie says. 

“I deserve it more.” 

“And I’m the boss,” Burnie says, hands tight in Jack’s hair, making Jack whine. “So I get it first.” 

“Boys,” Gus drawls and the two look over at him, Jack following. 

Ryan is standing, sobbing into Matt’s chest as Gus roughly fingers him, already up to three. They can see the way his asshole spreads around the fingers, the insane amount of lube Gus is using. Ryan’s cheeks are bright red, flushed, eyes hazy as he begs. 

Begs for them to stop. 

Begs them for more. 

Matt holds him up, smiling, almost gently down at him, and holds him close, kissing marks into any skin he can reach. With every nip to him, Ryan shudders and they can see the way his cock twitches. 

“Why don’t you both just fuck him?” Gus continues, face neutral, like he’s not about to fist the blond hair man. 

Jack’s eyes go wide as Joel and Burnie look at each other. 

Joel licks his lips. “I like the thought of that.” 

“Yeah,” Burnie says, a little breathless. “Yeah, I like that.” 

They yank Jack up, pressing him in between them. Burnie’s thick arms wrap around him, hard body pressed against his, their dicks pressing against each other in a way that has Jack moaning, though he tries to stifle it. 

Joel’s hands go back to massaging his ass, drifting down to play with his hole, thumb popping in and out. Jack shudders, his hole clenching at the sensation. Joel’s thumb is not the biggest, he thinks eyeing Burnie’s hands, but it still does it’s job of spreading him open. 

“Oh,” Joel croons. “He’s so nice and pink here. I can’t wait to make him soft and wet.” With that, he pops one of his fingers in, and Jack can’t help but moan at the feeling. 

Burnie smirks, grabbing his chin and forcing Jack to look up at him. “You like that, slut? You like having something in you?” 

Jack wants to deny it, but he can’t. Not when Joel is quick to push a second and third finger in. Not when the slight burn makes his dick twitch against Burnie’s. Not when his moan is low, deep from within his gut. 

Burnie chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

“Do you think I can fist him?” Gus’ voice drifts over and Jack glances in time to see him do it anyways. 

Gus squeezes his thumb in alongside his other four fingers and suddenly Ryan is tremembling through an orgasim. White cum drips down Matt’s pants. The older man only hums, using a finger to scrape it off before forcing it into Ryan’s mouth. “Good pets clean up after themselves, don’t they?” 

Ryan shakily nods his head and Matt grins. He runs his hand through Ryan’s thick blond hair before tightening his grip. Taking a step back, Matt forces Ryan to double over, pushing Ryan’s face into the cloth of his clothes. “Then get to cleaning.” 

Jack can see Ryan’s pink tongue poke out, licking up his own cum. Gus still has his fist inside Ryan’s asshole, and it looks like he’s pushing, like he’s trying to see how much he could fit inside Ryan. 

Ryan moans and then Jack echoes when he catches sight of the slight bulge of his stomach. 

His attention is drawn back to Burnie and Joel, the two men seeming to notice what he’s staring at. 

“You like the sight of that, pet?” Burnie asks, hissing as he reaches down to grab Jack and his cock into one big hand. Jack is big, abnormally so, always has been but fuck if it doesn’t turn him on more to see that Burnie is bigger. Burnie starts to jerk the both of them off, using their combined precum to slick the way.  Using his other hand, Burnie tilts his head back to lick at his neck. 

Then he bites down. 

The pain is enough to distract him as Joel forces a fourth finger in. It’s a tight fit, but Joel doesn’t seem to care as he starts to thrust them, lube squelching over his fingers and out of Jack’s hole. It runs down his thighs, messy and wet and Jack sobs at the feeling. 

It feels good. 

He doesn’t know why, but this feels so good and he’s so close to begging for more. 

And then Joel brushes against his prostate and that’s it. Jack cums against Burnie, eyes unseeing as he shouts. 

When he can finally see again, it’s to see Burnie’s smirking face. “Well, what a pretty sight that was. Let’s see if we can get another in.” 

Jack can only blink at that, before he’s being pulled forward as Burni sits back down in his chair. He forces Jack to straddle him and a blush burns brightly down Jack’s neck at that. It’s Burnie’s turn to get a feel for his ass, a few fingers brushing over his hole. 

Burnie only plays with him for a few seconds before he’s grabbing his ass and spreading it, getting Jack as open as he can. Jack whimpers, looking over his shoulder to watch as Joel steps closer, cock in hand. 

He leans against Jack’s back, bringing him into a kiss as he presses his cock against Jack’s entrance. 

And then he pushes forward. The breath leaves Jack’s body as that long, skinny cock slides in, inch by inch. He finally settles in with sigh, balls pressed against Jack’s ass. “This is nice and cozy,” he says before looking over Jack’s shoulder at Burnie. “I think it’s your turn to push in.” 

Jack takes a deep breath, reading himself. He’s already so stretched, he can’t imagine double of this. 

He has no choice though as Burnie lines up, using Jack’s hips to push down and lifting his own hips up at the same time. His cock pushes him and Jack gasps, eyes going wide. Burnie grunts, pushing more, making himself fit into the tight space. There’s pain, of course, a burning sensation as the two try to fit as well as they can into him. 

Joel’s and Burnie’s strong grips make it so he can’t pull away as Burnie keeps pushing till he too, is all in, shaft completely engulfed by Jack’s tight heat. 

The two only take a moment to pause, to get their bearings. And then, almost like a secret signal had been given, they start to move. 

Neither is gentle, too caught up in their own pleasure to care about what Jack might need or want. They just thrust, pulling almost all the way out, thick tips playing around his hole, before slamming right back in. 

For a time, there is no rhythm, they just take their own pleasure. Thrusting when they want to, pausing when they need to catch their breath. Jack is leaning against Burnie’s chest, mouth open, tongue hanging out and eyes rolling into the back of his head. He’s stuffed so full, beyond anything he’s ever felt before. Never, never had he ever been fucked like this. 

Eventually, the two do fall into some kind of pattern, where one pulls out as the other pushes in. They keep jamming their cockheads against his prostate and Jack whines, whines, whines-

His cock throbs again. There’s a chance he might come dry from this. His dick is certainly trying. 

Burnie groans, fingers digging into Jack’s ass, sure to leave bright red marks. Joel is muttering, praise or humiliating words, Jack can’t make out. But he can tell that they are thrusting faster, harder. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that they’re about to cum. 

Sure enough, a few more thrusts and Jack can feel warmth fill him, the two men grunting as they continue to grind out their orgasm within his body. 

Almost sleepy, Jack turns his head and sees that Matt is fucking Ryan’s ass as Gus fucks his mouth. 

Burnie pets through Jack’s hair. “Such a good pet for us. I think we can find a nice place for you inside our crew.” 

Those words don’t scare Jack like he thinks they should.

~

Jack can barely cum again but he has no choice. He’s sat back against Burnie’s chest. Ryan is against Matt’s. Both of them are being stroke, the founders betting on who can cum the furthest. 

The floor is stained with previous attempts. 

They pause as the door opens and Geoff strolls back in. “Looks like you like your new toys.” 

“I love them,” Burnie says, pressing a kiss against Jack’s cheek. “I can’t wait to keep playing with them. Forever and ever.”

[cami-chats]

Gotta be damned because I want it all

Fandom: Check Please

Pairing: Kent Parson/Connor “Whiskey” Whisk

Warnings: In later chapters, some homophobia and involuntary outing, falling out with family

Chapter 1 (Haven’t come out of my cage and I’ve been doing just fine) of 5 Read below or on AO3

Whiskey knew about pressure and expectations. When he got to the Aces, everyone acted like he was just starting to feel it. 

When he told his parents he wanted to play pro hockey, they'd... tried. They'd tried to be supportive. There had been a month long period between him telling them and them agreeing to it, when they tried to change his mind. 'We live so far west, Connor. Any chance you have will be if you claw your way up, fighting tooth and nail for every inch. You'll have to prove that you're twice as good as they're expecting.' He knew it was because they wanted him to be sure. It wasn't going to be easy, like taking P.E. or joining the baseball team at school. He was going to have to travel, practice every free moment; he was going to be tired year round. 

'Hockey is expensive. If you change your mind, we won't be able to pay for a different extracurricular for you,' Mom said, and she was so worried about the possibility of him changing his mind that she didn't stop to think about how Connor knew what he wanted-- he wasn't exactly what someone would call fickle. His parents made sure, right from the start, that he knew the kind of commitment he was getting into, and he dove into it headfirst. He couldn't explain the exhilaration that came from being on ice, from racing around on his skates and keeping an eye on the puck and other players. 

To be fair, it didn't start to feel like pressure until he was sixteen and everyone was talking about him. Who was his high school sweetheart? How good were his chances in the draft? Would he crack under the pressure like Jack Zimmermann had? (Zimmermann, who everyone constantly compared him to. Apparently the way they moved on the ice was similar; their focus on the ice was similar, and Connor didn't give two shits.) Was he at a disadvantage living where he was instead of in Canada or along the east coast? He'd talked to reporters before and watched what was said about him to see how it was coming along, but now it felt like it was everywhere. Reporters fucking everywhere, picking him apart. He was struggling to keep his grades up as it was without worrying about the latest article that said they didn't think he was going to make it to the next draft. His parents told him how proud they were of him, his friends said they expected for him to be the best, and more than all of that was the burning need inside to prove himself. 

He'd started pushing himself when he was twelve and telling his parents that he wanted to play hockey for the rest of his life, and he was still pushing himself when he made it first in the draft and got to be with the Aces. Las Vegas Aces. It was like the name was hovering in bold at the forefront of his mind, occasionally giving itself a shake when it thought he hadn't freaked out about it recently enough. 

Las Vegas Aces, Captain Kent Parson. 

This... was a dream come true. Nothing less. Kent Parson had won a Cup his rookie year. Kent Parson was his Captain, and Whiskey had always loved watching the way he moved on his skates-- like he'd been born to it. 

Scraps was housing him for this first year, and apparently him and Kent were tight. So Kent Parson, living legend, was there when Whiskey was moving in. Not that he had much to move in. His parents had been reluctant to admit that this was a permanent move (hopefully he wouldn't get traded, the Aces were exactly where he wanted to be), so he didn't bring much with him. But he didn't want to bring much anyways. He didn't need school shit; he didn't want to poke holes in Scraps's wall with posters, and he didn't have any books or movies that he couldn't bear to part with. He brought clothes. Music. One framed picture of him and Jenny because she'd given it to him as a going away present, and she was his best friend. 

All of this was to say that his first conversation with Kent was about pressure. That wasn't what he'd been hoping for, but maybe it was better than a nondescript 'welcome to the team, don't party too hard' speech. Kent was leaning against the doorway to his room, watching nonjudgmentally as he unpacked. There was a backwards snapback atop golden curls, and Whiskey had plenty of practice in not staring. "How do you like Vegas?" he asked as an opener. 

Whiskey shrugged. The climate was familiar, but he didn't care to explore the city. He was here for hockey, not to get wasted and gamble his signing bonus away (he'd paid for Jenny's meal plan at college, because they had both been planning to go to Samwell if the draft didn't work out). 

"Look kid-" 

"I'm not a kid." He knew that he was compared to everyone else, but he didn't want for them to think of him that way. He was younger, yes, but not a kid. 

"Sure," Kent said with an easy going smirk that, while appearing sincere, Whiskey thought was appeasing. "What I mean is, there's a lot of eyes on you for getting first in the draft and picking a team out here." 'Out here'. So far west. Whiskey didn't get why everyone had such a stick up their ass about it. 

All he said about it was, "You did it." 

"Yeah, and it felt like everyone was waiting for me to fail. You're gonna get a lot of questions about how you're dealing with the pressure dude, and I want you to know that it's not big deal. We're not dropping you if we don't win a Stanley Cup this year." 

"You won the Cup your first year," Whiskey said. 

The smirk was back. "See? Shit like that is why I don't want you to worry. It's no big deal, man. If we get it this year, awesome. If not, whatever, there's always next year. Especially for you, there's always next year." 

It was obvious that Kent was waiting for a response, so Whiskey nodded. He didn't agree, but he nodded. 

"Now that that shit's outta the way, I'm looking forward to having you on the team. Like the way you shred the ice, man." He pushed himself off from the door frame. "See you at practice." 

Whiskey nodded, and Kent left. He didn't realize that he'd been holding his breath until he was alone again. Kent could say all day long that it would be fine if he fucked up, but Whiskey knew the truth of the matter: you get one shot. Maybe not one shot at the Cup, but one shot at the big leagues to prove yourself. 

*

Whiskey didn't know how rookie years were supposed to go, but he was pretty sure you didn't get bumped up to first line after a week and a half of practice. He was pretty sure the coaches didn't tell the captain that they should take an extra hour after practice for the next few days, just the two of them. He was more than sure that the captain of the team didn't usually have the extra time to spend an hour with every rookie. The coaches said it was going to be a few days, but Whiskey knew that that was a first estimate, not a solid timeline. They wanted to see how well this practices went-- wanted to see if the way they clicked would turn into them being a pair. If it didn't work out, Whiskey might stay on first line, but the extra practices would stop. If they started to do well, they'd probably be encouraged-- that's the way they always phrased it; 'you're encouraged to take these extra practices and push yourself harder but you don't have to'-- to spend as much time on the ice as they needed until they had a sixth sense for where the other one was on the ice. They'd get the second option, that much was obvious from how they started performing during practice. 

He didn't need anyone to say the words to his face for him to know that they were thinking about Zimmermann when they saw him and Parse skating together. Parse and Zimms, that's the dynamic everyone wanted. And they always said it together, like it was one word. Whiskey didn't give a shit because he was here and Zimmermann was at college. It would be another two years before he signed on with anyone, and by that point, Whiskey wouldn't be dispensable; he'd make sure of it. 

And all the while, Parse was telling him not to stress. Focus, but don't worry. Take it one practice at a time, don't worry about playoffs because they didn't even know if they'd be in them yet. (The Aces had gotten to the playoffs every years since Parse signed on, but sure, this year-- the year that Parse and Whiskey were tearing up the ice together-- was going to be the year that they didn't make it.) 

They were in the middle of one of those hour-after practices when Whiskey got a phone call. He'd dragged his bag out of the locker room after official practice, so he skated over, peeled off a glove, and fished his phone out. Jenny. He couldn't just ignore a call from her. "One second," he told Parse, who nodded, seemingly unbothered by the interruption. He slid it to answer and held it up to his ear. "What's up?" 

"Uh, we had plans to watch Resident Evil, remember? You weren't online. And really? Ignoring my texts is a dick move, Whisk." On anyone else, those words would've sounded frustrated, but Jenny was just teasing. 

"I forgot." 

"Dude, it was your pick for movie night." He never forgot movie night. If he needed to cancel, he always told her as soon as he knew he wouldn't make it. "You okay?" 

"I'm at practice." 

"I thought practice ended at four for you. Did I mess up time zones? I googled it, I can't believe I messed it up. Shit dude, hang up before your team gets mad at you!" 

"You're fine, it's an extra practice, just me and Parse." 

"Parse. Parson? Like Kent Parson??" she asked, voice climbing higher. Everything that came out after that sounded like it had been said with a single breath. "Dude! Connor! Oh my god!!! Woah woah, wait this isn't, like, a remedial thing, is it? I know you like to be all stoic, but if you're having a breakdown and it's fucking up your playing, it's okay to tell me. I won't tell your parents, and I can try to skype you more often if you think it'll help. Or- god, I should let you get back to practice and you can tell me about it later if you want to." Jenny was the best. Nervous at times, but the best. 

"I'm fine. Sorry I forgot. I should be home in an hour, I'll text you." 

"Okay. Love you! Kick ass out there, Whiskey." 

"Love you." He hung up and tossed his phone back on top of the bag. "Sorry," he said, skating back towards Parse-- who was doing slow circles near the middle of the rink to give Whiskey some privacy. 

"It's fine. Who was it?" 

"Girlfriend," he said, because that was the story they were going with. 

People normally pushed. Not a lot, but they always wanted to know her name or ask how long they'd been together and what she thought about hockey. At the very least, they said some sort of joke to let Whiskey know they were cool with it-- or something like that. But Parse just nodded and said, "Ready for more dumbass drills that we don't need?" 

*

Jenny sent him a well wishes text before his game. So did both of his parents. So did each of his four siblings. So did all of his friends from high school. Whiskey didn't bother reading all of them. He barely even read Jenny's. 

Parse was a good captain when he wasn't trying to convince Whiskey not to worry. The pre-game talk boiled down to: we're awesome and they suck so let's kick ass. 

Whiskey knew what kind of attention was on him as he skated onto the ice: is he going to live up to the hype? did he deserve this? He was going to make them regret even thinking those questions. As Jenny liked to say, he was worth all this and more, and it was about time the rest of the world saw that too. 

One goal and one assist when they won the game 2-1. Not bad. He could've done better, but apparently that wasn't a universal opinion based on all the knocks to the helmet and pats on the back the team gave him. 

He checked his phone by rote at the end of the press and showers, but it was more of the same. All the people that sent him well wishes for a good game sent him congratulations. Jenny's text in particular was exuberant, lots of keysmashing, exclamation points, and all caps messages. 

Most of the guys congratulated him on the goal before they left for the night, but fucking Parse had to make it awkward. "Nice game." 

Whiskey nodded, digging his thumb into the arch of his left foot so it wouldn't cramp up on him in the middle of the night. It was always the left foot, and it was always directly after a game and never practice; he didn't know why, but it was annoying. When Parse didn't immediately keep moving, Whiskey said, "That was a sweet shot you made." 

Kent snorted. "Thanks. Looks like it was a damn good decision to put us on a line together." 

"Yeah." 

It was silent for a minute as they went about getting dressed. Their stalls were right next to each other, which meant that Whiskey caught glimpses of tan, muscled skin even though he wasn't looking. His foot was really pissing him off right now because it still didn't feel better. "It's not a big deal if you fuck up at the next game, y'know." 

Whiskey's hands stuttered over his shoelace for a moment, but Parse probably didn't notice. 

"I know it feels like the end of the fucking world if you don't do well, but it's not a big deal. Most rookies don't make it on the team of their choice or make a goal in the first half of the season let alone their first game. Even if you start sucking, no one here's going to care." 

Whiskey got the feeling that Parse was going to keep going unless he agreed with him, so he said, "Yeah." He could feel Parse's eyes on him, and it was clear that he didn't believe Whiskey. It would've been annoying, but he dropped it instead of pushing, and it felt like Whiskey could breathe again. 

*

He had a point streak going. No one that he only heard from over the phone noticed. After his first game, the supportive texts had tapered off. His parents still sent them, when they remembered when his games were. They tried, but they didn't follow hockey-- they followed their son. Jenny, on the other hand, knew about all of his games and watched them when she could. Between her school work and getting used to a new state though, Whiskey didn't expect for her to be on top of it. Besides, he didn't need people telling him 'good luck' like it would actually help how he played. 

The other Aces knew about the point streak, and they joked that they'd be making him take vodka shots after each game that he kept it going if he were legal. Parse knew about the point streak, and he was still worried about the stress that Whiskey was supposedly going to crack under. No matter how many times he told Parse that he was fine, he didn't look convinced. He just... he would always fucking smirk and knock his knuckles against Connor's shoulder and say something like, "Whatever you say, man. Wanna grab some coffee?" And Whiskey always wanted to even though he kind of didn't like coffee, but he declined. Parse didn't mean anything by it other than they were becoming a popular duo on the ice and he was Whiskey's captain, but Whiskey didn't do one-on-one outings unless it was with Jenny. 

He shouldn't have been surprised that Kent would keep offering when his streak inevitably ended. The only reason he said yes this time, was because he didn't open with sympathy. They were getting dressed after showers, and he said, "Wanna grab some coffee? We're gonna be on the red-eye flying back, and I don't think I've ever seen you sleep on the plane. Don't worry about it, dude, you'll get used to it after a year or two." 

Whiskey should say no. He didn't want to. Not making a goal this game wasn't a tragedy. They still won the game, and he'd gotten two assists. He'd played his best game, and that was what mattered. "Yeah." He'd figure out what to get once they actually got there. 

It was pretty damn obvious Parse was surprised by him agreeing, but he didn't let it show other than an extra smug smirk on his face as they left. Parse kept up a bit of chatter as they took a cab to the coffeehouse he recommended, but it was about the game they'd just finished, so Whiskey didn't have to pay too much attention. Mostly he looked out the window and didn't shift to accommodate the restlessness his body kept insisting on feeling. 

Whiskey felt like a kid trailing after Parse as they got out of the cab and walked into the coffee shop. He looked at the menu and felt his stomach curl at the idea of drinking anything with espresso in it. There were blended drinks, and those were basically milkshakes, right? Not that he'd had a lot of milkshakes that he could remember since he'd been trying so hard to stay in shape for hockey, but he had vaguely good memories of them. And then he remembered that it wasn't allowed in the current diet plan. 

Parse ordered, then looked over at him expectantly. 

"What?" 

"C'mon and order." 

"I can pay for myself." 

Parse raised an eyebrow-- with that fucking smirk on his face-- and nodded towards the register. 

Whiskey could either deny it again and get embarrassed when Parse insisted, or he could give in. He grit his teeth, then muttered, "Small lemonade, please," to the cashier. He knew that Parse thought he was overreacting. It was a lemonade. It cost, at most, three dollars. Even before Whiskey had gotten his signing bonus, he would've been able to pay for someone else's drink at that price, and Parse had been in the NHL for years now. It wasn't a big deal. He couldn't unclench his jaw. 

Parse didn't make it A Thing, and Whiskey let himself be grateful that he didn't always push. Parse commented on the song playing over the speakers as they waited for their drinks. Something inane about coffee shops playing indie songs instead of pop. "Want to walk back to the hotel?" 

"Sure." 

Parse didn't say anything for a while, and Whiskey hoped that he knew where their hotel was, because he had no idea. You'd think that cities would be the same no matter which side of the country you're from, but apparently not. He might as well have been walking around in Britain for how little he knew what was going on. When he did start talking, Whiskey wished he would've kept his damn mouth shut. "I know this isn't something you want to hear, but you remind me of Jack." 

Whiskey was about to take his chances finding the way back to the hotel by himself, but Kent continued before he could turn the other direction and leave. 

"Not the way you play, but you have this look like you're one bad game away from freaking the fuck out. He nearly died when it got to be too much for him, and I don't want that to happen to you." 

This was not a conversation he ever wanted to have. Pressure wasn't new. He'd lost games before, and he'd been fine. He figured out what he needed to work on, and then he practiced until it wasn't a problem anymore. The stakes were higher now that he was playing pro, but he knew how to deal with it. Some of the guys out there had been playing almost as long as he'd been alive, and he was supposed to be able to match that. If he let himself get too comfortable, he wouldn't be game-ready. He wasn't pushing himself more than he could take and all he wanted was for everyone to shut the fuck up about it. "I'm not suicidal," he said, having to shove the words past his teeth. His jaw felt like it had been welded shut, and he couldn't figure out how to unstick it. 

"Zimms wasn't either. He OD'd on his fucking anxiety meds that he got from the doctor his parents sent him to. It was all legit and that didn't do him any fucking good. He was so out of it that he couldn't think through taking twenty of them wouldn't make him twenty times less anxious. You're doing great out there. You don't need to win every single game to be worth something." It made him feel a little better to see that Kent didn't want to be having this conversation either. It also helped to know that this wasn't about Whiskey. It was about Parse feeling guilty for not helping his friend earlier. One little glimmer from Whiskey made him think of Zimms, and now he was wigging out over it. 

"I don't have anxiety." 

Parse snorted. "Yeah okay." 

It would sound defensive if he repeated it, so he took a sip of the lemonade. He didn't know if it was supposed to taste this sugary or if it was a bad choice by that shop. 

"Look, you don't want to talk about it, and I'm tired of feeling like I'm looking over your shoulder all the damn time." 

"Is there a trick to telling you how to drop it?" Whiskey asked, mostly not joking, but if Parse got upset, he was going to pretend that it was. 

"Just promise me that if it ever gets bad, you'll ask for help. Me, one of the guys, a friend, your parents, I don't care. Just- someone." 

Whiskey could've insisted that he wasn't in a position of needing help-- not now or anytime soon-- but that would've taken longer and Parse would've kept worrying about him to the point that he wanted to avoid him. Avoiding Parse wasn't anything he ever wanted to try and do, so he said, "Fine." Then, when that sounded insincere, he added, "I will." 

Parse nodded, then took a drink of his coffee. "Now that that bullshit's out of the way, do you think that Harvey can keep up with..." he continued on, and they fell back on the safe topic: the other team's stats. They weren't on the home stretch for a playoff's spot yet, but Whiskey had to think ahead to make sure the timeline was solid in his head. 

*

They made it to the playoffs, but all Whiskey could think about was the fucking stupid mistake he'd made in the last game. He hadn't missed a good pass that completely since he was fourteen fucking years old. And he'd missed it from Parse of all people. 

The media scrum after that felt like so many layers of bullshit, but he kept on his media smile and answered all of the questions like he was supposed to. 

Parse didn't ask him how he was afterwards, and Whiskey almost wished that he drank alcohol because that would make getting to sleep easier. Parse clapped him on the back like he did every time they parted ways, and that was that. 

He'd fucked up at a game-- over something so goddamn simple he felt like clawing his hair out-- and other than two questions from the media, there hadn't been a reaction. The coaches might ask if he and Parse needed more one-on-one time, but that was going to be the extent of it. 

Jenny didn't even mention it when she said that he had a great game. He didn't know if that's because she hadn't noticed or if it was a conscious decision on her part not to bring it up. Either way, he was happy not to talk about it. 

*

For all that Whiskey and Parse had talked about playoffs and the Cup, he was still shocked when they made it to the final round. Aces versus Penguins. It felt like his mind was a static screen on an old television. Crackling loud enough to be annoying but nonsensical enough that it could be tuned out if you tried. There was the occasional jump like a mental exclamation point just to keep things interesting. 

This didn't happen. Rookies didn't win the Cup their first year when they were playing on first line unless they were Kent goddamn Parson. Whiskey knew himself; he was no Kent Parson. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Jesus christ this was a bad time to have that mental break Kent had been worried about. It was the first game, he needed to be in the right head space to bring his A game because anything else wouldn't cut it, not at this point in the finals. 

As fate would have it, Kent was the one to get him out of his head. He kicked Whiskey's leg as they were getting suited up, more of a nudge than anything else. 

Whiskey looked over at him. Any hope he had that nobody noticed how much he was freaking out was dashed when he saw the expression on Kent's face. Always smiling, the bastard, but it was less teasing than usual. "If we lose, we lose." 

Whiskey snorted. "You don't tell anyone else on the team that." 

"Nobody else on the team needs to hear it. Getting this far your rookie year? That's some gold star level shit. You've got the rest of your career made, whether we lose or not. We've got at least four games before it's all down the gutter anyways. Have you ever had four piss poor games in a row?" 

"There's a first time for everything," Whiskey muttered. 

"Win or lose, you and me are going to celebrate. You'll finally get a proper introduction to the queen of my life, Kit Purrson." 

"Did you name her that yourself?" 

"I am my own biggest fan," he said with a wink. 

"Not true," Whiskey said, shaking head. The words slipped out before he could stop them, but Kent wouldn't think anything of it, right? He was one of the most popular players in the entire league, plenty of people admired him. 

"Does that mean that if we win, you'll be my biggest fan?" Kent said, and there was a lilt there, almost flirtatious. But no, that was just in Whiskey's head. 

"If we win, I'll be your new best friend." 

"That makes it sound like we're not best friends already." 

Whiskey was about to refute that, but he paused before anything came out. Shit. When did that happen? "I'll fight Kit for the position." 

"Saying that my best friend is my cat?" Kent let out a low whistle. "Harsh, Whisk. Real harsh." 

Inexplicably, the tightness in his chest was gone. 

*

They won. They won. Holy shit, they won. Connor was smiling so widely it felt like his face was going to get split in half. When the Cup made it around to him, he felt like he was fucking glowing as he lifted it over his head and cheered. Kent and Connor had both gotten a goal in the final game, and the one before this, the Aces had gotten a shut-out. The time before last, they'd won in overtime. They'd lost two games, but he'd felt pretty good about it, and now they had won. 

Whiskey was feeling the high of victory, and he'd like to be able to say that it was an impulse decision after the dust settled, but it wasn't. The reason he'd had the courage for it was because he was a fucking rookie and he'd gotten a goal in the game that won them the Stanley Cup, but no, it wasn't an impulse. If it had been an impulse, he wouldn't have waited until after the game when it was just the two of them heading back to the hotel so they could change for the team's victory outing. (Scraps had decided that the second best player on their team didn't need a babysitter. "If you can get a hattie, you can find your way back to the hotel," he'd said with a snort, knocking a fist on Whiskey's helmet after he'd brought it up after a game.) 

Kent watched Whiskey rummage through his bag, amused. "I know you packed victory clothes." 

"Scraps made me," he muttered. This was a pretty small bag, he didn't understand how he was missing it. 

"That's how I know you packed 'em." 

He finally found the button-down-- dark red and tighter than he normally would have have gotten for himself because Jenny had bought it for him and said it made him look hot-- and yanked it out victoriously. And, of course, dark jeans for the other half of his outfit, but he'd found those as soon as he opened the bag. 

"That's what you're wearing?" 

Whiskey gave him a flat look-- or as flat a look as he could managed when he was still smiling from the win. "Are you doing more plaid?" 

"Hey, I wasn't judging," Kent said, holding his hands up in surrender. "I was surprised you even have a shirt with buttons." 

Connor flipped him off, but he was grinning. 

"All my plaid has buttons, don't give me that. All you ever wear is t-shirts." 

"They're comfortable," he defended, getting to his feet. He pulled off the compression shirt he'd been wearing after the game and slid his arms through the sleeves of the button-down. 

Kent snorted. "You say that like my clothes aren't comfortable." 

"How would I know?" Connor asked, starting at the bottom and working his way up as he fastened the buttons. "I don't get why you're all dragging me out, anyways." 

"You don't know?" Kent repeated incredulously. "Dude! We just won the Stanley Cup! This is a once in your career sort of event, you need to get wasted and play shitty drinking games." 

"I'm underage, I won't be able to drink anywhere we go." 

"Connor," Kent said, laying his hands on his shoulders and affecting severity. Connor's hands froze halfway up his shirt to look Kent in the eye. He had this fucking gleam like they owned the goddamn world and they were going to make the most of it. "We won the Cup. Nobody's going to fucking card you. And even if they want to, you don't question the guy that comes in with a bunch of obviously over-age professional hockey players." He started to get his normal smirk back, and all Connor could think was that he wanted to kiss it off of him. So he did. 

He leaned forward, hands going from his own shirt to fist in Kent's. 

It was only a fraction of a second before Kent was kissing him back, hands sliding up to his neck as they both shifted closer to get to a better angle. Kent met him for every kiss, both of them pressing harder and harder until both their lips were swollen and Connor was about to have to move his hands so he could see if Kent was as effected by this as he was, but a loud knock on the door stopped them. 

"Yo, Whiskey! Stop primping we gotta go celebrate!" Swoops shouted. 

Connor cleared his throat quietly, then yelled back, "I'm almost done!" 

"You seen Parse? Bro's not in his room!" 

"We were talking shit about all of you that didn't win the Cup your rookie year," Kent called in the direction of the door. He took half a step back, and Connor reluctantly let go of his shirt; there were wrinkles where he'd gripped the fabric so tightly that it wasn't bouncing like it normally would have. 

"We're all champions today, asshole!" There was a loud thump that sounded like he'd kicked the door. "Get downstairs in the next five minutes or we're not waiting for you!" Swoops was never one for keeping his mouth shut, so when nothing else was forthcoming, it was obvious that he'd left to go wait downstairs like he said. 

"We should probably go," Kent said, ruffling his hair. It's not like Connor had had his hands in it, but it looked a little messy, regardless. 

"We could stay here," Connor offered tentatively. 

Kent's eyes shot to the side, and Connor's stomach dropped. "That's uh-" The hand that was in his hair clenched, and it looked painful. He let go after a second. "I'm your captain," he said quietly. "If anyone found out, I could get kicked off the team. Nobody else would sign me, and-" 

"It's fine," Whiskey said, offering a lopsided smile. He combed his fingers through his hair then buttoned his shirt the rest of the way. "I wasn't thinking about any of that, you know? Felt good, so I just kinda..." he trailed off, not knowing where he was going with it. Anything he said would be a lie, anyways. Kent would probably be able to tell. 

"Yeah, it's fine," Kent said with a responding smile that looked a little less awkward than Whiskey's own. "I don't wanna- um-" he cut off, messing with his hair reflexively. "It probably wouldn't be a good idea to hook up with any guys unless you're planning on coming out." 

Whiskey shook his head, because that was something he never planned on doing, right alongside this conversation that he never wanted to have. All the guys-- Parse included-- thought that he had a girlfriend, and it would be for the best if he continued to let everyone think that; it's why him and Jenny had gotten together in the first place. "Go on," he said, slapping Parse companionably on the shoulder, "you should get changed before Swoops follows up on his threat." 

Parse snorted. "He wouldn't do that." 

Whiskey raised an eyebrow. 

"The captain pays for the first round," he explained, and Whiskey laughed, shaking his head.