#and some obvious easy phrases but like. barely anything. i can understand quite a bit but not speak

[firstaidspray]

Luis Serra got me screaming shit like ¡Oye! at my dogs and in my head

[jostepherjoestar]

Maybe Jotaro, Risotto, Prosciutto, Bruno and Leone friendship HCs with a fem friend thats llike your generic dumbass but they are just like a soft dumbass, she is just too cute to get mad at no matter how stupid she is. So basically a smol sweet dumbass that just radiate baby energy. Like she just runs up to them saying she want to show them something cool and its just a pretty rock but she looks so happy xjsbkss 💖

Pure of heart, dumb of ass fem!friend with Jotaro, Risotto, Prosciutto, Bruno and Abbacchio HC’s

sfw // fem reader

lemme just say, reader is baby and that’s valid 🥰this is so adorably pure ugh ya done killed me anon 🥺💖✨(can very much relate tho, glad my friends put up with my dumb antics)

Jotaro:

“Why am I friends with you again? Yare yare...” A phrase you’ll hear every time you’re hanging out with this tall bastard. He’ll tease you for being a bit of a dumbass but is incredibly drawn to how kind, sweet and absolutely thoughtful you are.

You remind him of Josuke and Okuyasu which only makes him like you even more. And the added cuteness-factor made him admit to himself he does indeed love cute things, no matter how adamantly he denies it to you.

His favourite thing to do is bring you along to the beach for field research, knowing just how wide eyed and giddy you get when you’re allowed to collect shells and rocks or even poke a jellyfish. You seem very good at spotting irregularities in your surroundings, making quite the good assistant to Dr. Kujo.

You’re even allowed to help with lab research, studying petri dishes filled with algae as you excitedly point out a very important detail he hadn’t noticed yet, too tired from working such long hours. Sometimes you’re quite the genius without even trying.

More than anything he loves the amount of lightness you bring to his life, his studies and general headspace take a large toll on him. Any relief is a welcome one.

He’ll often find himself smiling at the thought of hanging out again, staring at the collection of trinkets he keeps in a cute little Hello Kitty box you once gave him, which rests on his nightstand as a reminder that it can’t hurt to adapt your lifestyle of mindless giddy; even just the tiniest bit.

Risotto:

Being close friends with Risotto seems a bit impossible without being in his squad, he’s very insistent at keeping outsiders of Passione more than an arm-length away. Good thing that the stoic man is your capo, phew!

He’s apprehensive at first, not really sure why the soft round pebble you brought him reminded you of the man as he studied the mineral, admiring its softness. “It’s like you! Soft and worn down, but very sturdy and unbreakable.” smiling sweetly at him, excitedly awaiting a response.

What was this new feeling of being appreciated and cared for? Risotto’s never really experienced a friendship so pure. He’ll quietly thank you for the pebble and keeps it on his desk, staring in awe as he’s reminded of your kind words every time he spots it.

He knows the others like to tease you for not always being aware of general human knowledge, shooting them an intense glare as a warning to keep any rude comments or jokes to themselves.

Your friendship consists of him mostly listening to you, quietly taking in all the stories you divulge- so full of excitement, telling him facts you picked up somewhere; the source of these often containing varying levels of credibility. He won’t correct you though. (unless it’s something that might actually endanger you)

He values your friendship so.much. He’s not used to being treated so kindly, receiving random gifts, being praised for a job well done, having someone who doesn’t judge him in the slightest. He’ll do whatever he needs to keep you safe, from others and yourself, along with trying to return your kindness and care. (he tries his best and it’s so cute)

(you guys hold hands for safety when you’re out in the city... just saying, it’s adorable)

Prosciutto:

Prosciutto has a chronic case of “caring older brother disease”. Will need to hold himself back from tying your shoelaces for you, the man knows you can do it it yourself but it’s just taking sooo long.

Just like Risotto, you’d have to be a team member to get close to him in any way. Good thing he recruited you ;)

It’s a bit hard to make him open up about anything personal. You feel like he knows everything about you, while you barely know a thing. When he sees your pouty lip and begging gaze that is way too cute to deny, he’ll cave. Perhaps finally realising it’s alright to lean on others.

He’ll still struggle with continuing the openness, but find relief in your loyalty and understanding. The way you intently listen to his troubles, there to hold his hand if he ever needs it, it makes his heart hurt to know how sweet and gentle you are.

Will keep you and Pesci separate during missions, he’s already getting a migraine from imaging everything that could go wrong without his guidance.

For someone who’s a little more on the dense side, you make up for it in emotional intelligence. Whenever you see how stressed he tends to get, eye twitching without even realising while his shoulders hunch together in discomfort, you come over to hug him. It’s something he had to get used to, the small gesture always calming him down enough to keep going.

Does not appreciate you slipping cute trinkets in his suit pocket. Especially not after finding a snail that one time. You’ve been forbidden from leaving pocket gifts since the incident.

Bruno:

It concerns Bruno just how clueless you can be from time to time. That one time they almost left you behind on a busy station with no cellphone because you found a coin on the ground made him realise you need some extra supervision.

He’s not the type to hold you back from doing things that are guaranteed to result in disaster (unless it’s literally deadly), he wants you to experience the consequences of your own actions.

You do make him hold back his laughter when you try out a stupid idea you know has failed in the past, but change your methods slightly to hope for better results. And you know what? Now he’s curious too.

The man has a weird sense of humour that sometimes even surprises you. He’ll copy your habit of picking up strange trinkets or rocks and asks you to compare findings with him. Like trading marbles, he’ll barter with a smirk.

“Mhh, if you give me that cute shell and that pointy rock... I’ll give you this keychain.” His alluring offer making you question if you’re getting swindled or not. “Hey! That shell is at least worth two stickers!” He’ll heartily laugh at your reply, a mischievous smile while thinking over the trade. “Ok, two stickers and a pebble then.”

With a firm handshake the deal goes through. The rest of the gang never knows how to respond, staring in amazement as their grown-ass capo barters with their grown-ass teammate. He loves being silly with you and forgetting all the pressures of life for just a moment.

Bruno takes his time opening up to you, but finds your presence so comforting it becomes very easy to trust you. As a vital part of his team he finds it important to be able to lean on each other for support and is glad you offer him just as much trust and loyalty.

Abbacchio:

Will never admit he can’t live without you anymore. You’ve become the shining beacon of assumed happiness the man never thought existed. He knows you won’t always be go-lucky and have your own troubles and struggles but admires how you handle them.

Don’t get me wrong, he’ll still gladly tease you for your occasional (well, more like frequent) stupidity. He’ll let you know with a big huff you should smarten up; “Read a book that doesn’t have pictures in it for once.”

He’ll be the first to correct any wrong info you’ve been given, unless he thinks it’s funny. Like when Mista made you believe you needed to order dessert at Libeccio or they’ll kick you out for breaking their beloved rule. It’s only when he saw the panic in your eyes when you finished your main course one day -too full for any sweets to come- that he assured you it was a dumb joke. (he’ll put all the blame on Mista)

Abbacchio seems to tether to people who have a positive influence on him without even realising, it won’t be obvious to him, but just like with his loyalty and admiration for Bruno, he’ll make sure you know it once he finds out.

Not that it’s a bad thing, his need to cling to anything that might help him stay afloat just needs to stay healthy. You didn’t even realise your effect on him, you were too busy trying to figure out a way to turn that scowl into that smirk.

After gifting him a handmade friendship bracelet that had the shortened versions of your names spelled on it, he hugged you. So tightly it was suffocating, you were shocked since he’s never been the touchy type. “Leone! I can’t breathe...” He’ll let go after the complaint but that look on his face will never leave your memory. The face of being loved unconditionally by choice, no matter how unworthy he might think himself of it.

[pertinax--loculos]

Update

Gonna try a new thing. I've seen these weekly updates from other writeblrs and it appeals to me because I can blather about writing or lack of writing (if it's been one of Those weeks), I can also include anything else I want, and it's a manageable goal to have for a start.

Tentatively breaking it up into writing, reading OR watching, real life (if applicable), and possibly excerpt (again, if applicable).

So! (Warning: This is long. I seriously babble like nothing else.)

Currently Writing Absent That Night (tagged: WIP: ATN)

wordcount: no clue, it's all on my phone and I've been writing scenes I'd previously written snippets for, so it's a mash-up. (Which reminds me I need to back it all up at least onto my computer.)

Proud of the short summary I did for my pinned post, so repeating it here:

Agent Latrell has been chasing the thief known as Nox for more than three years; but when bodies start turning up at his crime scenes, he’s the only one who believes Nox isn’t responsible. Unfortunately, he’s also the only other suspect. In order to clear his name, he’s going to have to find the real killer; and the only way to do that is to team up with a criminal who, it turns out, he knows absolutely nothing about.

still love love LOVING this WIP. I've got pages and pages of notes, and it is probably getting a wee bit too complex with subplots and suspects etc, but I'm an overwriter anyway so if I end up with a 200k word draft then shrug. More to work with

dunno if I mentioned or just thought it was obvious because I know it so well, but it has an enemies/rivals-to-allies(lovers?) (sub?)plot. So I've been pulling out a lot of threads there

technically I'm up to about halfway between the catalyst and break into two. Definitely not hardcore plotting but I do have an idea of the beats I wanna follow in the back of my head

Nox is still a fucking mess. I should probably stop piling trauma onto him, poor guy

my favourite creation this week is Mark Gault, who is a secondary/minor character who is amazing in every way. He is both essentially a ruthless mercenary and the "I LOVE MY WIFE" guy. (I also keep calling him Grant, instead of Mark, because he's actually the father of a character who first appears in Phase Two of CASCADE. (!!!))

basically happy with how it's all going this week. Regular writing is getting the juices flowing and it's easier to come up with ideas even when I've only got a vague notion of what is supposed to happen in the scene.

guys i am such an overwriter this is ridiculous please send help this scene was supposed to be like 2.5k total and it's turned into 4-5 scenes and is like 10k long dear god--

Currently Reading Blue Lily, Lily Blue by Maggie Stiefvater, book three of the Raven Cycle

I have not just jumped in at book three of a series, I have read the previous two.

in the last week.

I've read eleven books in the last five weeks, so that's... something.

they have all been thrillers except for this series. (And also Girl One, which despite being marketed as a thriller was definitively NOT a thriller. Which, yes, I should've guessed from the tag line, but I'm still mad about it.)

I am in love with the prose. It feels similar to mine, but Better, and I have been unconsciously mimicking it.

(which may be a problem when I finish it and am still writing ATN, but that is an issue for Future Pockets)

ngl I was not a fan of the way the first book ended. Not only did I have to reread the final line multiple times in order to even begin to grasp it, but I kinda think it's a dick move to end on a cliffhanger, even for an established author and clear indications this was gonna be a series

(but you bought the next book, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU??)

very very much enjoying the series, to be concise (ha!). Love the characters and it's all pretty tightly paced. The overarching series arc kiiinda maybe feels a bit slow/irrelevant, and some of the motivations annoy me, but I keep reminding myself it's YA in which the motivations are in character, so

not far into this one yet but so far so good

I wrote this earlier this week and since have begun thinking the series arc is becoming more relevant, but am reserving judgement. Reading slower with work and reading but still enjoying it all

Real Life

continues to be mostly a pain in the ass. Apps in for a second job, research on next year ongoing

update: may have the dream second job, basically waiting for confirmation (fingers crossed!)

one of my housemates is the literal devil, although even that is being quite kind to her. The nice one is moving out because of it. People keep asking how I've lived in this house for three years. I have no answer.

enjoying writing time in evenings and feeling mentally pretty good thanks to exercise

Excerpt Long, nearly 900 words, but a favourite of recent pieces and also something I coincidentally wrote today. Nox and Latrell's third meeting, when Latrell is still, uh... resistant to the idea of working with him:

"Why me?" Not at all the way Latrell had intended to phrase it, but he couldn't take it back. He continued, quickly, instead, jumbled thoughts pouring out of his mouth. "Surely that's the least you can give me. You come to me and ask me to fucking help you after you've made the last three months of my life living hell, you can at least fucking tell me why the fuck that is. You owe me that much. I'm not letting you fucking walk away until you fucking answer me that."

Nox was silent for a long moment. He ran a calculating gaze up and down Latrell, as if searching for something; it wasn't apparent whether or not he'd found it when he said, softly, "And if I don't?"

Latrell was abruptly very aware of the weight of the handcuffs in his back pocket. He would have to move quickly. There was every possibility Nox would see this coming, especially if he'd been arrested before. But Latrell was quietly confident. He inched his hand back, keeping it subtle, eyes on Nox's face.

"In that case," he said, as evenly as he could. His fingertips brushed warm metal. "Perhaps we should try something--"

Everything went white.

For a moment Latrell thought he'd somehow lost consciousness; that he'd underestimated Nox's affinity for violence, that the man had punched him or otherwise managed to incapacitate him without otherwise moving. Then it occurred to him that he was still thinking, which essentially took unconsciousness off the table, and he realised, vaguely, that it was an illusion.

It was very, very convincing.

The entire world was an endless expanse of emptiness. Utterly, absolutely white, a whiteness that could not and should not exist. Latrell was overcome by a sensation of falling, of plummeting into nothingness; he had to concentrate to feel his feet still on the ground, to know he was still upright. He had nothing to orient himself. There was no up, no down, no left or right. Just that endless expanse of a lack of colour. He was hanging in nothingness, or everything.

"You forget who you are dealing with, Agent."

Latrell swallowed down nausea. Nox's voice came from startlingly close, the sound of it somehow wrong, which objectively he knew came from the fact that his brain was convinced it should sound small and insubstantial in this endless void but it sounded normal because he was actually still standing in the alley. It was academic knowledge only. He still felt like he was tipping or falling or rising, weightless and disoriented. He had no voice, no ability to open his mouth.

Experimentally he tried to take a step. He couldn't lift his foot off the ground. Physically, he was sure he could -- he could still twitch his fingers, if he thought about it -- but his mind was convinced that there was nothing to step away from, nothing to step onto. Just nothing, nothing, nothing. A brightness that wasn't a light, a void constructed of the pieces between atoms.

Nox's voice came from his other side this time. "I have attempted to do this civilly, but there are other options."

It was a struggle to concentrate on his words, close as they were. Latrell tried to narrow his focus to only sound, tried to ignore the nothingness he was suspended in, tried to tell himself it was all an illusion. Just something Nox wanted him to see. The Orn, threaded through his eyes or brain or soul, acting upon Nox's orders.

It didn't help. He was still in freefall.

"Do not," Nox's voice came, a bare whisper in his ear, breath brushing Latrell's neck, "Presume to test me."

Abruptly the white disappeared. Latrell was back in the alley, trying to adjust to the change of light, trying to find where Nox had gone. Turning his head made the ground roil beneath him and he staggered, utterly disoriented.

Fingers closed around his forearm, steadying him, and Latrell looked up to find Nox inches away.

"Easy, Agent," he purred. His smile was more a baring of his teeth.

Latrell wrenched away from him, staggering until his back connected with a comfortingly solid wall. He was dizzy, brain still adjusting to reality, but he managed to straighten his spine and set his shoulders. He kept his hands in front of him. In Nox's view.

"Do we have an understanding?" Nox said, still silky and low.

"Screw you," Latrell said, voice faint and alien.

Nox's smirk sharpened. "I thought so. Lovely chat, Agent Latrell." He sauntered past where Latrell stayed pressed against the wall, hesitated at the corner of the alley. "Keep up the good work."

He stepped forward and disappeared from view.

Latrell's breath left him in a rush and he doubled over, bracing himself on his knees. His head still spun, the unpleasant sensation he'd come to expect from vertigo. The backs of his eyelids were painted with a stark blank white. Every time he blinked he was engulfed.

It was far beyond any illusion he'd ever experienced. It was approaching the type he'd only ever read about in scientific articles.

You forget who you are dealing with, Agent.

Perhaps he had. But this assault supplied more than a reminder.

It also provided a piece of the puzzle.

[diazevans]

and then they were married (it's a funny story)

Buck is looking at him like he is particularly like he is clearly missing the point, the same Christopher does when he doesn’t understand some obvious conclusion he has reached. It makes him smile, just for a second, before it disappears when Buck speaks again.

“She says we are already married.”

Eddie is really not strong enough for this.

or Buck goes a little bit crazy with birthday planning, but Eddie loves him too much to care.

“Edmundo, if you are not down here in five seconds I’m leaving without you!”

“You need to calm down.”  

“We are going to be late!”

As a matter of fact, Eddie knows they are not going to be late. It’s only a 15 minute drive from the station to Christopher’s school on the worst days of traffic and they are not supposed to be there until 11 am.

It’s 10:20.

But he is not going to go against Buck, at least not right now when he seems into some birthday planning panic for the millionth time this week. It’s cute and yeah, it does make him want to grab his shirt and make out with him for two hours straight, but it’s also getting on his nerves a little bit. Eddie has to remind himself this is the first time his best friend is planning Christopher’s party at school and it’s just the desire for it to be perfect for his son that makes him be so on edge. Later, when all of this is over, he is gonna make sure to laugh at him for months, but right now he just needs to help him get everything as it’s supposed to be.

There is also this tiny, tiny , hope that once Christopher is in sight, Buck will chill out. Maybe just a fraction; he will take whatever he can get.

Once they arrive at his son’s school ( their son , he corrects. Eddie is inside his mind, he can phrase it whatever the hell he wants, thank you very much), they are greeted by Christopher’s teacher and together, they take all of the supplies out of the car and into the little space they use for birthday celebrations and, between decorations and food, he feels like they are on a mission. His mind barely has space to store how soothing it feels to have Buck by his side, chatting away with the teacher and moving beside him like they were two parts of the same whole.

“It’s really wonderful to see how both of you are so involved with Christopher’s school life. Some parents don’t really make the time.” Even when the teacher is still looking at Buck, Eddie knows it’s  a clear comment for the two of them.

He turns around from the glasses he is adjusting to give the teacher a smile, but he stops short when he sees Buck’s cheeks painted with a pretty pink and he can’t just look away. It’s not the first time he’s seen the other man blush, but it stops his heart every time, especially when they’re standing so close. Still, he feels the need to say something, mostly because he knows they are not alone.

He walks forward to where Buck and the teacher had been working on, pressing a hand on his best friend’s shoulder, but keeping his eyes on the teacher.

“We do our best.” Out the corner of his eye, he sees Buck’s grin grow a bit, nodding along with his words. But before Buck can say something, Eddie finishes his original thought “This party is all Buck. He’s been working on it for weeks, that’s why everything looks so good.”

And it’s not that he hasn’t told Buck before how much this means to him, because he has and he is pretty sure Christopher has been giving him even more hugs than normal, but he wants everyone to know how thankful he is for the other man’s presence and everything he does. There is not a day when he is not reminded of the luck he had to love a man like him and that by some miracle, he loves him back in some way.

Eddie and the teacher go back to their easy conversation, but he feels Buck’s eyes on him the entire time and when he looks at him, there is something deep in the blue that he can’t quite place. It’s nothing bad, but it does make him feel tense all of sudden and he is pretty sure that the only reason he is able to shrug it off it’s because it’s time for the kids to have their celebration.

As expected, everything goes smoothly.

Christopher has the time of his life surrounded by his friends, and Eddie and Buck work around them with bright smiles and easy laughs. When it’s time to sing Happy Birthday, the little ones surprise them by singing in English and Spanish, and Eddie has to look away for a second, because that is just too fucking cute. After they clean the place and give all the teachers their thanks, the ride home is filled with Christopher’s recollections of the day and for a long while, Eddie completely forgets about the look.

It comes back when it’s just the two of them alone, with the kid sleeping in his room.

Buck is seated on the couch when he comes back from putting Christopher to sleep and Eddie really wants to stay on the entrance to watch him from afar, but there is a concerned feeling in the way Buck’s eyebrows are knit together and that is enough to convince him to get closer and sit beside him. The blonde seems to be so in his head that he doesn’t turn his attention to Eddie and his eyes only focus on him when Eddie puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Is something wrong?” He worries something has happened in the party and he is already going through the whole thing in his head to see what could have been when Buck shakes his head.

“There is something I want to talk to you about.” His voice is serious, but Eddie can feel Buck’s body relax under his touch, especially when Eddie starts to rub circles with his fingers. It’s nothing new for him to comfort Buck this way, because he has learned with time that Buck feels more confident talking about his feelings when he is being physically reassured . So he waits for Buck to gather his thoughts, knowing that whatever he’s thinking about is important.

“Today, when we were talking with the teacher. You … You had this … proud look on your face and I just …”  

Eddie’s hand doesn’t stop moving, but he does hold his breath, unable to help himself. It’s basically taking everything he’s got in him not to run away from this conversation, mostly because he knows this could go horribly wrong. Yet he doesn’t, because there is no version of reality where he doesn’t prioritize Buck’s feelings above his own.

Their eyes find each other, and Buck’s smile is almost shy when he speaks again.

“Maddie’s been saying some things. About us.”

And here we go. There is no way back from this, is it?

“Things?” He has to ask, because maybe the God above is merciful and Buck is talking about something completely different from what Eddie is imagining.

“She doesn’t think we are dating.”  Intense blue eyes stare at him expectantly, and Eddie realizes that should mean something to him, but, yeah? They aren’t dating?

“... OK?”

Buck is looking at him like he is particularly like he is clearly missing the point, the same Christopher does when he doesn’t understand some obvious conclusion he has reached. It makes him smile, just for a second, before it disappears when Buck speaks again.

“She says we are already married.”

Eddie is really not strong enough for this.

He feels like he’s in some sort of a dream, like he is looking at the conversation he is having with Buck from the outside, and while he sees Buck’s mouth move, it’s like his brain has just shut off. Probably to preserve itself.

“And I know she was just being nosy but today at the party, I just…” There is a pause and the blue is far from his reach when Buck looks down “I’m sure this is how a marriage is supposed to feel.”

Eddie can’t be the first person in the world to truly wonder how Buck lives with his heart so out in the open.

Because this, right now? This is Evan Buckley showing him absolutely everything he feels, honest and raw, and Eddie doesn’t understand how he does it, even after everything that he has had to go through. He knows Buck well enough to know that this is really the first time that he had weighed their relationship like this, and that his first instinct was to reach for Eddie. Like he didn’t see any other way than to be completely honest with how he was feeling. No pretense or lies, no pinning or internal drama; just him and his feelings out in the open.

Eddie owes him honesty, if nothing else, , even when it breaks his own heart.

“Buck,” His voice is patient, and he is really trying to not sound like his whole world is one step away from slipping through his fingers, but he doesn’t know how well he manages that. “You are supposed to be in love with the person you marry.”

He doesn’t say it because he thinks he is stupid or because he is somehow dismissing what Buck is feeling. Eddie knows his heart, how big and bright it is and he has to make sure that Buck doesn’t think he owns him anything. That it doesn’t have to mean anything.

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say.

“I’m not a child, Eddie, I know that.” Buck moves away from his hand, indignation written clearly all over his beautiful face. But instead of standing up or storming out the door, he just sits impossibly closer on the couch, and there is a defiant attitude that was definitely not there a moment before. “Are you really gonna say to my face that you don’t love me?”

This can’t be happening. Has he always known?

“No, I …” And fuck, no, he can’t . “This is not about me” Because it’s not. It’s not about his heart; that has belonged to Buck for months, since the first time he saw him. It’s not about how he has never felt more at ease than with Buck by his side, or happier than when he gets to share Christopher’s life with him. It’s not about him .

But then Buck’s hands move to his neck and he doesn’t have the strength to make it about anything other than his own treacherous heart. He is smiling too now, which only proves his point that he is too far gone to ever go back.

“... You can’t be that dense, Eddie Diaz” Before Eddie can reply that yes, he for sure can, his best friend is moving forward and pressing his lips against his.

Two things happen at once: He kisses Buck back, and Eddie realizes that absolutely every second of his life that he hasn’t been kissing Buck has been a waste of his fucking time.

It feels so natural, so right, that the only thing Eddie can do when they part lightly is look absolutely dumbstruck. And fucked.

And so completely in love.

He still has half a mind to find his voice. “I guess we are a little married.”

“A little? Really ?”

Eddie has to laugh at that because yeah, he is pretty sure too that is more than a little, but he wouldn’t change a damn thing.

[datawyrms]

hey so do you think you could write stuff about danny and dani being cousins and maybe him visiting the ghost zone to go see her and nocturn cuz the one that mentioned that was super cool

You bet! Sorry I took awhile, I’ve been juggling things and flicking between ideas and not finishing anything :v It’s short and doesn’t go very far but hey just something to maybe expand on later, yeah? (oh look i slapped it on AO3!)

”I have no idea how you stay over here so long.” Danny shuddered, trying to ignore how green everything was. The sky should be blue, not some endless green expanse.

“Stealing to eat is a pain cuz. I don’t get why you’re always over there!” Dani rolled her eyes as she glanced at her trailing friend. “I know you like flying as much as I do and you spend most of the time pretending you can’t.”

“It’s not that hard to fly if I want to,” his shrug was dismissive, but he couldn’t keep the frown from his face. “I just don't get why you don’t just hang around the Far Frozen if you like being in the Ghost Zone.” Well, it was more ‘why can’t you hang around ghosts that HAVEN’T tried taking over the world’, but the last time he’d phrased it like that, Dani had kicked him.

“Not all of us have ice powers!”

“Uh. You totally do. Or should eventually, I guess.”

She seemed to appreciate he didn’t bother voicing the obvious, slowing down so they didn’t need to keep hollering at one another. “Nope. Frostbite didn’t seem to think so when I asked.”

“Really? Huh. Your ghost sense is like mine though isn’t it?”

“Don’t ask me, I’m just listening to big, smart and fuzzy. Just means I can get something way better than ectoblasts but Blue.”

Well when she made it that easy… “Nothing cooler though!” Ducking the hurled ectoblast was easy enough, she’d aimed a bit high.

“Looks like my power is shooting people who make bad jokes.”

“So saying to chill out would-” he broke off laughing as she tackled him at full speed, sending the two half ghosts in a barely controlled spiral. 

Still, the clone had joined in the laughing by the time the two managed to steady themselves again. “You’re awful.”

“I get too much practice.”

“No kidding. You’ve sent how many ghosts back here this week? Eight?”

“Try twenty and you’ll be getting close,” his amusement faded. He really, really should be getting back. Yet he’d promised to at least try visiting sometimes, so he had to at least get to the place. Even if every bit of him was wanting to get back to Amity already now that he was thinking about it.

“Whoops. Sorry cuz, forgot you’re reallll territorial sometimes.” Dani elbowed him, forcing Danny out of his own thoughts.

“I am not!” His denial was a bit more forceful than he’d like to admit. “You just reminded me how many ghosts might hold a grudge this week.”

“Uhhuh. Since you know we’ve been attacked so often today.” the smaller ghost paused as if she needed a moment to count. “ All zero times! The horror.”

“Real funny. Don’t you feel weird over here?” he caught her eyes, a little confused to see a complete lack of understanding. “You know...that feeling? That we don’t belong over here? That little pulsing at the back of your head?”

Her blank stare answered that well enough. “Noooope. I don’t know if that’s a ‘you’re a territorial nutcase’ or a ‘you’re a corpse stuffed with ectoplasm’ thing.”

“One, no I’m not, and two EW? Gross!” he gagged, fighting off the urge to shudder. “Someone call you that as an insult or something?”

“Mhm, Kitty was trying to explain why humans are kinda weird.” she gave a little shrug. “So we’re even weirder. Though I totally melted so I’m probably not lugging a corpse around all the time, but you might be!”

“Yup, that’s it, you spend wayyyy too much time around ghosts.” He had not expected to get a new nightmare from Dani nowadays, she’d given him plenty already. Yet life was apparently full of surprises. 

“Or you don’t spend enough time around em.”

“No, pretty sure you crossed from morbid to just disgusting there.”

“Hey, if you really want to creep someone out just crack your knuckles at em. Get a shudder out of any ghost that can’t get over to the human world, guaranteed” 

“I’m not really big into the scaring people thing.” The fact Dani was still made part of him twinge in discomfort. She was her own person, obviously. It should be a good thing that they were different in more ways as time passed...

“Pft. You’re such a human cuz” she gave him a nudge before shooting forward “Almost there! Don’t shoot at a sleepwalker if it surprises you!”

“I won’t,” he muttered, already more alert for any movement.

He didn’t really expect Nocturn’s lair to seem so inviting. He’d been expecting the dull wasteland that he’d seen back when they’d fought, dark skies, ominous towers, that sort of thing. A hazy sort of garden lit by gently swilling lights had not gotten on his list of possibilities. Even the clouds seemed to be dotted with stars now that he was close enough to see them. The tower nearby didn’t seem dangerous with the surroundings feeling so peaceful. Though that was probably a trap, all of Nocturn’s power was tied up in sleep. Getting an enemy fired up and wide awake would just make him have a harder time, wouldn’t it?

“Hmmm. I thought he’d be outside.” Dani crossed her arms, glancing at some of the nearby trees.

“I’m mostly here to see you anyway.”

“Which is why you need to see him! Otherwise you’re just gonna keep grumping about how I’m being corrupted or something.”

He’d like to deny that, but the lie would be pretty obvious. “He has better taste in lairs than takeover plans, at least.”

“There’s a place inside that has a way to see the real stars! The ones out here are nice too though.” Dani brightened at his admission, a little more animated as she pointed out the scattered ‘stardust’ clouds.

“Is that why you stay around here then?”

“That, and no nightmares. Noc can just cut them off before they start if I’m nearby.” she paused, kicking her feet. “It’s really, really nice not having to remember him every time I go to sleep.”

Well, Nocturn couldn’t be all bad if he’d help his poor clone with that. He’d be pretty tempted by a ‘no more nightmare reminders’ offer. “I bet.”

“You still think he’s up to something, don’t you.” her frown burrowed into him so he had to glance away.

“I can’t help it! We didn’t really meet on good terms.” Maybe he was being unfair, but the uncomfortable feeling he always had in the ghost zone combined with that bad history was making him jumpy.

“Do you think I’d lead you into a trap?”

“What? No!”

“Well I’m the one who invited you!”

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t plan something behind your back.”

Dani let out a frustrated groan. “He won’t! You don’t mess with family cuz.”

Danny’s retort died in his throat as Nocturn seemed to melt into visibility behind the smaller half ghost, struggling with the impulse to shove Dani out of the way to protect her.

“Sorry Dani, I was distracted by a particularly interesting set of dreams, I’ll have to show you. I think you’d enjoy them.” Nocturn seemed to have no such difficulties, speaking easily and giving her a warm smile. “Did you fly far?”

“You bet!” she nodded before glancing back. “Brought someone back while I was at it.”

Danny’s pulse quickened when the lanky ghost finally took notice of him. Had he really just...not noticed he was right there?

“Ah, your wayward cousin.” the dream ghost gave a small nod. “I expect you had an uneventful trip then?”

“Yeah, sorry if you were expecting any gossip.”

“A safe trip is the best news you could deliver regardless.” he messed with her hair, earning a hug before she pulled away.

“Nuh uh, you’re a total snoop Noc.”

Maybe he’d been a bit of a jerk for expecting something worse. They just seemed...happy. Really he just felt like he was intruding at the moment.

“Only while people sleep.” there was a hint of a laugh, but when his red eyes caught Danny again it died out. “Is there an occasion for the visit?”

Dani rolled her eyes, glancing back at Danny and his stiff posture. “Trying to get someone to relax already. Sheesh cuz, your brick wall impression is great.”

“Sorry,” he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The first impulse that he had to protect his clone had passed with the two ghosts interacting in a friendly matter, but he couldn’t quite dismiss Nocturn as a potential threat.

“Don’t be. I am aware our previous meeting made an unfavourable impression.” No apology for the attack was in those words. That, and Dani had made it pretty clear he wouldn’t be getting one either. How did ghosts just think that putting  people at risk was no big deal?

“That’s an understatement.” Dani’s scowl at his words only earned her one of his own back. “I had to use Dash as a weapon of mass destruction. It wasn’t a good day, okay?”

“Yeah, but we’re not even close to Amity and you’re still being tetchy.”

“Don’t be so hard on your cousin, Dani. He wouldn’t have made it this long without that kind of caution.”

He hadn’t really expected Nocturn to come to his defense. Great, now he felt like even more of a jerk for still wanting to punch the ghost in the face. “Uhh. Thanks?”

“I guess. Should we hold off on exploring more till another time then?” She was looking at both of them now. 

“...Yeah. I should be getting back.” Admitting it made the guilt worse, but the itching need to be away and back to his home made the idea of staying any longer sound like torture. Even if there’d be an accurate set of stars to look at.

“You are welcome at any time, though Dani does tend to roam. Safe travels.” There was no judgement from the older ghost, only a sort of understanding look.

This ghost of all people knowing how he felt better than himself was disquieting. He settled for a stiff nod before turning to take flight at his top speed. The sooner all that was behind him the better. Questioning how his feelings towards the whole situation might be more his ghost half than human half talking just wasn’t something he wanted to be thinking about right now. Later maybe, when he wasn’t this on edge.

[rushingheadlong]

Take Me Home Tonight - A Brian x Reader smut fic

Summary: You’re not expecting Brian May, of all people, to walk into your record shop late one evening, but when he asks you to go home with him you’re certainly not going to pass on the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to have all your fantasies fulfilled.

Wordcount: ~4,600

Warnings: Smut, dirty talk, oral (m&f receiving), fingering, a bit of size kink

Notes: Written for a request from @hodgepodge-of-rog, who asked for Reader meeting Brian somewhere public and being star struck, and Brian taking her home for some fun. This got away from me so it’s a bit longer than expected, but I hope you like it!

You bite back another sigh and try to resist looking at the clock again. It’s not that you thought working in the little record shop was a particularly exciting gig when you applied for the job, but the business was tucked away off the high street and rarely saw customers on weeknights, leaving you with nothing to do for the long hours of your shift and frequently bored out of your mind.

Luckily it’s almost time for you to close the shop- but, of course, that’s when the little bell above the door rings, signalling the arrival of your first customer in nearly four hours.

“Good evening!” you chirp, sounding much more perky than you feel. “Do you need help-?”

The rest of the question is lost as you finally take a good look at the customer: a tall man with a shock of long, dark curls, wearing sunglasses that don’t really work as an effective disguise. Holy fuck that’s Brian May!

He glances in your direction with a polite smile, and then does a quick double-take as his grin becomes a bit more genuine. “No thanks. I know what I’m looking for, and I know you’re closing soon.”

And yeah, that is definitely Brian May. You’d recognize his voice anywhere- how could you not? He’s your favorite member of Queen, has been since the very earliest days of the band. You’ve seen them perform live countless times, screamed yourself hoarse at so many of their shows throughout the years, and you thought the time that you weaseled your way to stand by the very front of the stage would be as close as you ever got to any of them.

But that was before Brian freaking May walked into the tiny record shop where you worked.

You swallow roughly, trying to bring some moisture to your suddenly-dry mouth, and say, “Take your time, there’s no rush.” Not the sentiment you’d have for any other customer, this time of night, but you’re in no rush for Brian to leave.

“I’ll still be quick,” Brian says with another grin that makes your knees go weak. His gaze lingers on you for a few moments longer, and although his eyes are hidden behind his dark sunglasses you can feel the intensity behind his stare. It’s a heady rush, having your rock idol focus on you like that, and you can feel your face start to flush at the attention.

Or maybe it’s just unusually warm in the shop tonight, because Brian looks a bit pink around the edges as well as he turns to start browsing through the records.

You try not to ogle Brian as he shops but there’s not exactly anything else for you to do and you find your focus wandering back to him despite your efforts. Somehow he seems both larger-than-life and surprisingly down-to-earth, seeming at home in the cramped aisles of the store but with something about the way he carries himself that makes it obvious he’s someone special.

And the fact that he’s easy on the eyes doesn’t hurt either. Even in normal clothes and trying to be discrete Brian is still just about one of the hottest men you’ve ever seen. You let yourself entertain a familiar fantasy of Brian asking you back to his place… but no, things like that didn’t happen in real life, and you were determined to be polite and not a giant creep to Brian.

Okay, keep it cool, just keep it cool… You repeat to yourself as Brian finally makes his way towards the register, but then all thoughts go out the window because Brian is there, right in front of you, and you feel like you could either faint or scream from the excitement of it all.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” you ask, and how you manage to keep your voice from wavering when you’re this close to Brian May you have no idea. Christ, the man even smells good…

“Yeah I did, thanks,” Brian says, still with an easy smile on his face.

You look down at the album that Brian hands you and despite your best efforts you can’t hold back a bark of laughter. “You’re joking.”

Brian bristles, just a little, and his smile fades away. “Judging my taste in music?”

“No, but…” You flip the record around so the cover of the latest Queen release is facing Brian. “You’re buying your own album? Seriously?”

“Right.” Brian visibly relaxes and he laughs a little as well, though it sounds a bit sheepish. “Guess my disguise didn’t work too well then, huh?”

“Well, not on me, at least,” you say. “I’ve been going to your shows since before John signed on as your bassist, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen every interview you’ve ever given. It’ll take more than a cheap pair of sunglasses to fool me.”

Brian stares at you in surprise. It’s only then that your brain catches up with what you’re saying, and you can feel your face go bright red with embarrassment. But then Brian chuckles and finally takes off his sunglasses (oh, his eyes are gorgeous...) and says, “Well, I’ll try to come up with something better for next time. Any suggestions?”

Brian sounds like he’s teasing you, but it’s not malicious. On the contrary, it’s almost… flirty? Or maybe you’re just too caught up in your fantasies and reading too much into his words.

Still, because you know you’ll never get another chance you flick your eyes up and down his body, just once, and decide to risk a joke. “Maybe if you button your shirt up all the way, that’ll do the trick…”

“What, and hide all my assets?” And, yeah, there’s no mistaking the fact that Brian is definitely flirting with you.

“Seems to me like you have plenty of other fine assets,” you tease, and Brian’s bright laugh in response feels like a victory, even if it’s accompanied by him pulling out his wallet to pay for the record.

Still, you don’t want this conversation to end and you are curious about what he’s doing here, so after you ring him out you ask, “I have to know, why are you buying your own album?”

“Would you believe that Roger bet me a tenner that I wouldn’t be able to do it without getting mobbed by fans?”

You think about that for a moment. “Actually, yeah,” you say, which causes Brian to laugh again. “Sorry for making you lose the bet, then.”

“Hm? Oh, no, I don’t think chatting with you counts as being mobbed,” Brian says. “I’ve quite enjoyed meeting you, actually. What’s your name?”

“Y/N.” Your heart is fluttering in your chest from the attention and the smile on Brian’s face, and all your promises that you weren’t going to be an overbearing fan have completely left your mind as you muster up the courage to ask, “Listen, I totally understand if the answer is “no” but do you want to grab a drink with me?”

You’re expecting him to turn you down, but instead his smile gets brighter and he says, "I'd love to get a drink with you, but if we go out I actually will end up being mobbed. Would you like to come back to my place instead?" Your mouth drops open in a small “o” of surprise and Brian is quick to continue. “Just for drinks. Doesn’t have to be anything more.”

Doesn’t have to be… There’s an offer in that delicate phrasing that restarts your brain, and you need to know if the two of you are on the same page here before this gets any further. “And if I want there to be more?” you ask, and the hunger in Brian’s eyes is answer enough.

“Then I think that can be arranged,” he says, in a low voice that causes a bolt of lust to go through you.

“Then yeah,” you say, a slow and wide smiling growing on your face. “Take me home, Brian May.”

----------

Brian kisses you before his front door is even fully closed, pressing you against the wall of his entryway and devouring you with a passion that you haven’t felt from any of your previous partners. You gasp, the noise swallowed up in Brian’s mouth, and wrap your arms around Brian’s neck, pulling him in closer to you.

When he finally breaks the kiss it’s only to pull back enough to ask, “What do you want tonight, love?”

You shudder at the sound of Brian calling you love and tell him, completely honestly, “Anything you want to give me.”

Brian kisses your lips again, a little softer, and then trails kisses along your jawline and down your neck. You arch into his touch, and you can feel him smile against your skin. “I want to make you feel good,” he murmurs, and you can’t hold back a whimper.

“It’s you, Brian. Whatever you do will be good.” It’s as close as you can bring yourself to admitting that you’ve thought about this for years, gotten yourself off countless times to the thought of Brian’s hands and mouth on you. You don’t even care if Brian doesn’t live up to your fantasies because this is real, and already so much more than you ever expected to have.

“That’s a lot of confidence to have in me,” Brian says, as his hands slip under the hem of your shirt, fingers skimming lightly along your skin, and you gasp at the gentle touch. “Better make sure I don’t disappoint you then.”

He tugs up your shirt and you quickly pull it off. One of Brian’s hands immediately moves up to your breast, cupping and massaging it through your bra, and you can’t hold back a moan. Brian’s other hand flicks open the button on your jeans and slowly, teasingly, pulls down the zipper.

“Wanna taste you, baby,” he murmurs as his fingers tease at the open V of your pants, driving you wild even though he’s barely touching you at all. “Gonna let me eat you out right here? Gonna let me taste that pussy of yours?”

“Fuck, Bri, yes,” you moan. “Yes, god, please-”

Brian chuckles and hooks his fingers through your belt loops, slowing dragging your jeans down your legs. You step out of them and go to take off your panties as well but Brian stops you. He sinks to his knees in front of you, and that picture is enough to get you absolutely dripping.

You whimper as Brian gently nudges your legs a little further apart and runs one finger slowly, gently, along your core. “You’re already wet for me, aren’t you?” he murmurs, his breath hot against the bare skin of your thighs. “Already so eager for this, and we’ve barely even started…”

“Brian…” you whine, hips bucking into his teasing touch. Brian looks up at you, smirking, and finally tug your panties down.

You unhook your bra and toss it aside as you kick your panties away, and as soon as they’re gone Brian’s mouth is on you. You cry out at the first flick of his tongue against your core and you bring your hand to your mouth to muffle the sounds of you falling apart embarrassingly quickly.

“Come on baby, let me hear you,” Brian says, before licking along your entrance, his tongue dipping in just enough to set your whole body ablaze. You pull your hand away just as Brian’s tongue circles your clit and without thinking you reach out for him, burying your hand in his hair and trying not to pull as he keeps his attention focused on your clit.

He sucks gently at the nub, making you moan and writhe against the wall, but pulling back just when you’re on the brink of coming to lap at your entrance again. You can feel your wetness start to drip down your thighs but Brian doesn’t pull away, keeping his mouth buried against your core and his tongue teasing at your entrance until you’re practically grinding against his face in your desperation to come, before he finally moves back to flick kittenish licks over your clit again.

You’re so worked up that even that gentle stimulation is almost too much to bear. “Bri, I’m gonna- I’m gonna-” you pant and you get a glimpse of Brian’s smirk, before he brings a hand up and sinks one finger inside you.

You let out a choked-off gasp before you’re coming hard against Brian’s face, hand tangled in his hair as you hold him in place, his tongue working your clit and finger gently moving inside you as he works you through your orgasm. He doesn’t stop until the pleasure nearly becomes painful, until your keening moans turn to high-pitched whimpers and your knees finally buckle underneath you.

Brian catches you, laughing a little, and presses you against the wall to keep you upright as he stands back up. His face is wet with your slickness and he goes to wipe his mouth with the back of one hand, but before he gets a chance you lean up and kiss him fiercely. You can taste yourself in his mouth, a visceral reminder that Brian gave you what may be the best oral you’ve ever received, and when Brian groans and rocks against your hip his hardness is a welcome reminder of everything still come.

“God, Brian,” you pant between kisses. “I want-”

“Yeah? What do you want, baby girl?” Brian asks, one hand creeping up your body to tease along the edge of your breast and you arch into his touch.

“Wanna suck you,” you tell him, and reach down to palm Brian’s cock through his jeans. “Please, Bri…”

Brian groans lowly and presses against your hand, his head dropping down as he pants against your neck. “Fuck, Y/N, you think I’m gonna say no to that?”

You laugh, breathless, and let Brian lead you further into the house, back into the bedroom where he finally strips out of his shirt and you tug open the fly of his jeans, kissing him again as you help him get them off. You run your hands down his chest and fuck, just the sight of all that beautiful lean muscle is nearly enough to make you moan. You want to sink your teeth into his skin, leave your marks all over his body so he can’t forget this night, but with how often he appears semi-shirtless in front of cameras you know that’s not a good idea.

So you’ll just have to make sure he remembers you for other reasons instead.

You push Brian down so he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and drop to your knees in front of him. You mouth at his cock through his pants, loving the sound of him groaning above you. You can already tell that he’s well-endowed, a fact which is confirmed when you tug his pants down over his cock and Brian lifts his hips so you can pull them away completely.

“God, you’re huge,” you say, and it comes out sounding more like a moan than you care to admit.

There’s a flush spreading across Brian’s face and he starts to say, “Listen, you don’t have to-”

“That was not a complaint,” you interrupt before Brian can finish that thought, and you lean down to take his cock into your mouth.

Brian cries out as you suck gently at the tip of his cock. His hands flutter above your head, like he’s resisting the urge to hold onto you, and you pull back to mouth along his shaft as you tell him, “You can touch me, Bri, it’s fine.”

That’s all the permission he seems to need and he reaches out for you, just resting his hands in your hair, not forcing anything as you take him back in your mouth and start to bob your head along his length. He’s too big for you to take all the way down but that doesn’t stop you from trying, swallowing him as deeply as you can and working whatever you can’t fit into your mouth with your hands.

The taste of Brian’s precome on your tongue and the sound of his groans filling the room are a heady combination. The knowledge that he’s falling apart because of you, that you’re the one coaxing those sounds out of him, that it’s your mouth working him towards his orgasm, is a rush like nothing else you’ve ever felt.

You look up at him and find that he’s staring down at you, eyes half-lidded with pleasure but still watching you as you work him over. You can’t hold back a small, pleased noise at the image he paints and Brian’s answering moan makes your core start throbbing with need again.

You keep your eyes locked on him as you slowly start to swallow him down, taking him deeper than you had before. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat and you choke, pulling back just enough to take a deep breath and try again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Y/N…” Brian pants, his hands tightening in your hair as you relax your throat and let Brian’s cock slip down.

Brian’s cock is large enough that it’s a struggle to hold him in your throat and you still don’t have his entire length in your mouth, but you don’t care. You don’t care because Brian looks overwhelmed with pleasure, the muscles of his legs flexing as he struggles to keep himself from thrusting deeper into your mouth, and all because of you.

You swallow around his cock and Brian cries out loudly, hips stuttering forward once before he’s pulling you away. You whine and try to mouth at his cock again, but Brian holds you back and says, “If you keep that up I’m gonna come before I get a chance to fuck you.”

“Well we can’t have that now, can we?” you tease, although heat pools in your stomach at the thought of Brian coming in your mouth, getting to taste him completely… There’s a twinge of regret at knowing you won’t get to have that, but it’s quickly overshadowed by excitement as Brian coaxes you up to lie on the bed.

He kisses you, a bit more softer this time, before slowly moving down your body, trailing gentle nips and kisses down your neck, teasing over your breasts, and mouthing down your stomach where he sucks a bruise into your hipbone.

“You think you can take me, or do you need a bit of help?” he murmurs against your skin, one hand teasing along your folds and around your entrance. He sinks one finger into you before you have a chance to answer and you gasp, arching off the bed and bearing down on his hand.

“Might- might need you to- ah-” You whine as Brian pushes a second finger inside you and starts to slowly move them. “God, Brian…”

“Need me to open you up?” he asks as he keeps moving his fingers at a steady pace, too slow to get you off like this but it’s enough to get your blood racing and make you so wet that you can hear Brian’s fingers thrusting into you. “Hm? Do you need me to get you ready for my cock?”

“Fuck, yeah, Bri, yeah,” you gasp, rocking your hips to try to get Brian to move faster. “Yeah, god, please, give me another, I can take it…”

Brian chuckles and instead of slipping another finger inside you he pulls away completely. You whimper at the loss, feeling empty and needy without him filling you up, but Brian kisses you again as he reaches over to grab a bottle of lube from the drawer of his nightstand. You don’t notice him slicking up his hand, and you’re taken by surprise when he suddenly sinks three fingers deep inside you.

You cry out, nearly jackknifing off the bed. Brian slings one arm over your hips to hold you in place as he starts fingering you open, scissoring his fingers and curling them up to rub them over that spot inside you that makes you scream.

“Brian, Bri, please, please fuck me, god, please,” you beg, writhing beneath him, barely able to stand the pleasure or the intensity of Brian’s gaze on you.

And Brian, it seems, has had enough of the foreplay as well because he pulls his hand away and quickly rolls on a condom before slicking up his cock. He lines up at your entrance, hesitating only for a moment to look into your eyes; you smile, and nod once, and with a low exhale Brian starts to push in.

He is big, and he feels even bigger as he slowly eases into you. You whine at the uncomfortable stretch and tense up around him. Brian groans and you can feel his cock twitching inside you as Brian stills, barely halfway inside you. “You’ve gotta relax for me, babe,” he pants. He ducks under one of your legs, draping it over his shoulder and opening you up wider for him. “C’mon, let me in…”

You shudder, and try to will yourself to relax. Brian is patient, pressing soft kisses to your inner thigh and waiting for you to be ready, even though he has to be dying to move. After a few moments the burn fades away and the stretch feels more pleasurable than painful, and as soon as you ease up around Brian he rocks into you again, gentle and slow. You gasp, but you don’t tense up again, arching up to meet his movements instead.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl, feel so fucking good around me, fuck…” Brian’s words make you flush with embarrassment and arousal and you whine, turning your face into the pillow and feeling overwhelmed as Brian finally fills you completely.

“C’mon, Y/N,” Brian murmurs, kissing along your jawline. “C’mon, let me see you, wanna watch you…”

“Brian… Bri…” you pant, but you let Brian turn your head back towards him. His eyes are dark with lust and he looks at you in wonder, like he can’t believe he gets to have you, even though you’re the one lucky enough to be in the bed of your idol.

You keep your eyes fixed on his as he starts to thrust into you, slowly at first and so gentle that you can feel every inch of him as he moves inside you, leaving you gasping and whimpering underneath him. Brian groans with every movement, but even as he starts to rock into you faster, harder, his eyes don’t leave your face. The two of you are locked together, Brian’s cock pistoning into you, your legs hooked over his shoulder and wrapped around his waist, and neither one of you able to break your stare.

You study every detail of Brian’s face, needing to memorize everything about him in this moment, every flutter of his eyes, every low moan, every bite of his lips as he gives a particularly harsh thrust. You watch as Brian falls apart above you, his pleasure heightening your own, and every noise and keen from you makes Brian a little more desperate, a little less composed.

“‘m close,” he gasps, and he brings one hand between your bodies to rub your clit. “Want you to come, Y/N, wanna feel you come first…” You moan, pushing desperately down on Brian’s cock and against his hand, so close just from knowing that it’s Brian who’s working to bring you over that edge. “Yeah, that’s it, Y/N, that’s my good girl, come for me, want you to come-”

And you do with a loud cry, shaking and writhing underneath Brian as he keeps his hand on your clit, keeps thrusting into you, keeps looking at you as you lose yourself to the waves of pleasure, your vision nearly whiting out from the intensity of it all.

“Fuck, fuck, Y/N, so good, you’re so good-” Brian groans as he comes as well, finally breaking eye contact as he drops down on top of you, your leg sliding off his shoulder as he ducks his head into the crook of your neck, panting against your skin as his hips stutter into you. You clench around him and he bites at your shoulder to muffle a cry as he thrusts into you once more, before falling still.

The two of you lay there, breathing heavily and shuddering through the last aftershocks of pleasure. You brush a hand over Brian’s hair, and he presses a soft kiss to the bite he gave you. “Sorry about that,” he mumbles.

You laugh and unhook your other leg from around Brian’s waist. “’s alright,” you tell him, still trying to catch your breath. Brian could’ve left a thousand marks on your body and you wouldn’t have cared one bit.

It’s a few minutes before Brian moves again, leveraging himself back up with a groan. “Be right back,” he says, kissing you once, before climbing off the bed. You watch him leave but make no attempt to get up yourself. You stretch out instead, feeling the best sort of soreness, and you smile as you think back over the evening. This is certainly not how you expected your night to turn out, but you’re definitely not complaining.

“You look happy,” Brian says, as he reenters the bedroom. He’s cleaned himself up and gotten rid of the condom, and he runs a damp washcloth over your skin to clean you up as well.

“Mm, that’s because I am happy.” You reach for him and he leans down to kiss you again, gentle and slow.

“I’m glad.” He tosses the washcloth somewhere over the side of the bed and he lies down next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and holding you close. “I’m pretty happy right now as well,” he tells you, and your whole chest feels warm with affection and satisfaction.

You let your eyes slip shut, just for a second, enjoying the feeling of Brian pressed against you and his hand tracing absent patterns along your hip. You know you’ll have to get up soon and catch a cab back home, but you still allow yourself to imagine for a moment that you could stay here instead.

“You know, we never did have those drinks,” Brian says after a few minutes, breaking the silence between you.

You smile and open your eyes again, rolling onto your side so you can look at Brian. He’s smiling, lazy and content, and you think you’ve never seen a more gorgeous sight in your life. “Guess you’ll just have to make it up to me sometime, then,” you say, with a soft smile of your own.

“Guess I will,” Brian agrees. “Would coffee in the morning be a good start? Or do you prefer tea?”

You blink, surprised, and sit up on one elbow so you can look at Brian properly. “Are you asking me to spend the night?”

“Why not? It’s late, and there’s no sense in you leaving now unless you want to.”

There’s nothing but honesty and affection in Brian’s face and you swallow down a sudden lump in your throat as you settle back into bed next to him. Brian wraps his arms around you again without hesitation and you sigh, and relax into his embrace. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I’ll stay.”

[runnfromtheak]

fanfic author’s tagging game (yay!)

Thank ya darling for tagging me!!!! @boyblunder-thedarkheir!!!!!

AO3 Name(s): LostandLonelyBirds aka RUNNFROMTHEAK

Fandom(s): Primarily Batfamily (so, Dick Grayson) and Young Justice (along with DCU obviously, but I also dabble into Miralculous Ladybug, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Harry Potter, and MCU (none of which I will ever seriously write for? Idk man).

Number of fics: 22 I will admit to (how do you have so many, my dear @boyblunder-thedarkheir​? What is your secret?)

1. Fic you spent the most time on: Are we talking writing or thinking about writing, cause those are two very different answers. I spent the most time writing this bitch of a fic I’m working on right now, and the most time thinking about the two latest installments of my main series, Death is But An Illusion (aka How Could He and How Could It Be). I agonize over every goddamn detail with Dick’s anger, Jason’s Jason-ness, and every person’s every move and word. I am a mess, and I’m going to be murdered if I don’t update them soon. I am not sorry about that XD

2. Fic you spent the least time on:  You Came Behind Me Secretly and Shattered Every Piece of Me (There's Blood On My Hands) aka my pick-your-own-canon clusterfuck of Dark!Dick Grayson and Dick Grayson being traumatized and tortured with no comfort (Some of them are so fucked up I question my own mind). I take less than an hour to write 80% of them, cause they’re short, and they very rarely take any time to plan. Fun and easy!

3. Longest Fic: At present, he had a chest full of heart and a body full of scars (pain became the only way that he could ever learn)  is my longest, but the fic I’ve been hinting at on my other tumblr, @lostandlonelybirds​ is easily double the length (why do I do this to myself? Why am I like this?) the long boi (named one, not the one I won’t shut up about) is easily my best fic at the moment, and I’m so excited to write a sequel whenever I get the chance.

4. Shortest Fic: With Bated Breath and Pain You See (We're Nothing More Than Memories) technically, I have one shorter than that, but it’s a collab that wasn’t my original idea so I’m not counting it :)

5. Most Hits: You Came Behind Me Secretly and Shattered Every Piece of Me (There's Blood On My Hands) why do you people like this trash-fire so much? I don’t understand

6. Most Kudos:  How Could He which does not surprise me.

7. Most Comment Threads: Technically, How Could He followed by the trash-fire AU title thing I’m too lazy to type again, but I’m gonna love on this one: Just Close Your Eyes (No One Can Hurt You Now) because it’s my baby, and it deserves it okay?

8. Fave Fic You Wrote: Ooo we are doing a top five.

             5. How Could It Be (Jason is precious and sad and Dick is oblivious, and I love one-sided pining wayyyy too much)

             4.  How Could He (I put my life force into this stupid fic, so ofc it’s here)

             3. I'm Scared to Live But I'm Scared to Die (I'm Numb Inside) (the suicidal boy, major trigger warning)

             2. I See Things That Nobody Else Sees (And It's Slowly Killing Me)  (the only fic I’ve ever written from Cass’s perspective, and definitely one of the creepiest and most fucked up. Bruce does not look good here)

             1. he had a chest full of heart and a body full of scars (pain became the only way that he could ever learn) (so ummm Bruce doesn’t look good here either? RHATO #25 if DC wasn’t cowardly and let Dick react how he actually would, aka fuck Batman is the new motto)

9. Rewrites?: Fuck. All my older ones? Everything? Who knows.

10. Share a bit of your WIP or share a story idea that you’re planning:

Let’s do two. I’m nice.

First comes from How Could It Be:

“You loved him,” Donna says, ignoring his barb. “You loved him, and no one’s seen you or heard from you and I’m concerned, damnit.”

 She punches his shoulder roughly, and he’s reminded of her strength, no matter how small she seems in her dead best friend’s sweater.

 “I’m fine. Peachy-keen. Couldn’t be fuckin’ better. Honestly, you should be more concerned with Replacement, don’t think he’s slept in—”

 “Jason.” Her voice is firm, even as her eyes swim with tears and she holds her arms tight to herself, breathing in the well-loved item’s scent. Jason wonders when Dick wore it last, if Donna had taken it from his abandoned Gotham Penthouse or his Chicago Apartment. He wonders if he’d left it draped over the couch, like the natural disaster he was, or if it had been folded neatly in a drawer.

For someone who prides himself on not being sentimental, Jason suddenly wishes he had something of Dick’s too.

 “I’m here because I care, and because if Dick was here, he’d be doing the same thing I am.”

 “But he ain’t here,” Jason snaps, “Is he?”

 Donna’s head falls, and he feels like a giant jerk. He just… reacts poorly to that name, hasn’t heard it spoken since the transmission and subsequent funeral, since the guy he’d had the hots for since wearing the scaly panties had his mask ripped away and his life taken in front of Bruce’s eyes (who, to absolutely no one’s surprise, failed to save his son).

In the aftermath, no one said Dick Grayson’s name, always Nightwing, or some inane nickname the superhero community had for him. Last time he said it was to Damian, a failed attempt at comfort. But even Jason’s form of mutual grieving had been better than any of Bruce’s shit ideas. Bastard immortalized the ripped costume from his own son’s corpse (not that it had been the first time) and hadn’t even had the decency to give it a plaque (No ‘Good Soldier’ or ‘Good Son’, just a bare glass case with a bloody suit). Which… was weird. Jason was far from B’s best friend, but even he noticed something seemed strange, off, just not quite right. Like the funeral he didn’t speak at, like the breakdown none of them had witnessed beyond a one-off rage fit

“B, what the fuck happened down here?”

The Batcave was a disaster, dents glaringly obvious in several vehicles and a large spiderweb crack across the Batcomputer. Bruce closes the screen down, but Jason manages to catch a spiraling eye.

“Nothing, just…”

Bruce looks at the spare Nightwing costume none of them had taken down yet, still clean and ready for use (too bad its owner died and would never wear it again).

“Dick?” Jason questions, and the way Bruce’s eyes snap to his face is almost suspicious, almost enough to arouse concern.

“Yes. I—”

Jason sits next to Bruce on the desk, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I miss him too, Old Man. Don’t mean you need to be an ass about it.”

 A memorial next to Jason’s own, but Dickhead’s is empty and broken from Damian’s fists and grief, and Jason’s is just gone. No one told him why, it was just gone.

Kind of like Dick.

He wonders if Bruce would have told him if the video hadn’t been broadcast, if he would’ve told anyone. B did love his fuckin’ secrets.

 “No,” she whispers, and he can hear the tears in her voice, can feel her grief as keenly as his own. It’s palpable, tangible, “He’s dead, and I’m alive, and I don’t know how to handle it.”

 And then, to Jason’s mounting horror, she starts crying openly.

…..

Second comes from my one I’m working on rn with Stray!Dick called I See Sunset In Your Eyes (I Hate This Part Right Here)

“Come on,” Wally says with a pout, dragging an overly amused Jason and Dick with him through the karaoke bar doors. “Donna and Roy are waiting for us, and Dick had to take forever to primp.”

 Dick shrugs with a grin.

 “Beauty takes time, time I can tell you did not take.”

 Jason snorts, and Wally glares at him.

 “At least I don’t take five hours to finish getting ready.”

 “At least I can last longer than five minutes.”

 “Ouch!” Roy butts in, throwing an arm around Jason and Dick’s shoulders. “Claws are out tonight!”

 “Speaking from experience?” Jason asks, eyebrow raised.

 Dick smirks without comment, sauntering past the group towards the table Donna’s lounging at.

 “Hey gorgeous twin of mine,” He greets with a kiss to her eyes. She smirks, rolling her eyes at him.

 “You’re just stroking your own ego with the twin tacked on, Wonder Boy.”

 Dick bumps his shoulder against hers.

 “Can’t I stroke both our egos?”

 “You can stroke mine,” Wally mutters, turning red when Stray winks at his phrasing. Jason and Roy both facepalm, groaning. “Not what I meant guys!”

 “Why Kid Idiot,” Dick replies, hand on his heart, “I had no idea you could be so forward~!”

 Wally glares, waving over the waitress.

 “Round of shots, on this dick,” he jerks his thumb at Stray, offering up his fake ID. She doesn’t bother checking it, probably because this is Gotham, and they were all in uniform. “Whisky, please.”

 “Trying to get me drunk?” Jason jokes. It is, after all, his first big outing with the Titans for non-mission reasons. Stray had practically dragged him out of the Manor with a wink at Alfred and a middle finger for Bruce, saying that Jason needed to have fun outside of books.

Jason knows better than arguing with Dick Grayson-Kyle when he wants something, Stray trained him well.

 “Of course, Batboy,” Roy replies, “It’s not a Titans outing if Stray is fully dressed and everyone’s sober.”

 Dick shrugs.

 “You’ll have to get some real liquor in me if you want me to do anything like last time.”

 “Last time?” Jason asks, looking to Donna for an answer. Dick snorts. You get near naked one time…

 “Boy Blunder ended up in just his boxers in a dancing cage drunk of his ass. Everyone thought he was one of the strippers, and he made, what, three-hundred dollars in bills?”

 “Five-hundred,” Dick replies proudly, offering the waitress a twenty as she came back with their drinks. “Keep the change, darlin’!” He adds with a wink.

 She flushes, making Jason frown.

 Stray, of course, notices this and elbows Jason.

 “Don’t get jealous, Blue Jay, it’s not becoming.”

 Jason does not blush. He doesn’t, and that’s the hill he will die on.

 “I’m not. On an unrelated note, pass me a shot.”

Jason is the master of changing the subject, Stray thinks sarcastically, passing him a shot and downing one of his own.

 “Five bucks says alley cat blacks out,” Roy says smugly as Dick makes a face, the way he always did with heavier liquors. He glares at the redhead, who shrugs unapologetically.

 Donna eyes them both speculatively, taking a sip of her own drink.

 “Twenty says he gives a lap dance before he blacks out.”

 Roy snorts.

 “I’ll take it,” and to Dick, “Don’t do it, for me.”

 Dick bats his eyes innocently.

 “Lil’ old me? I would never do something so…” He trails a finger down Roy’s chest, making him swallow roughly. “Scandalous.”

 Donna grins victoriously as Roy groans, trying and failing to hide his excitement.

 “I hate you. I hate you both.”

 Tagging whoever sees this, I suppose? 

[100storiesin2020]

The Foxes' Tutor- Part 1

It was the first week of class and Nickola was already tired. She hated sports, hated athletes, and hated tutoring. Unfortunately food costs money, and the athletic tutor position was fairly easy to nab. She settled back in her seat in her office, glancing at the clock. Her next appointment was late.

The door crashed open. “Sorry I’m late,” the kid said, hair disheveled, slightly out of breath. He looked like he’d run halfway across campus. “I just finished a class in the language hall.”

Nickola raised an eyebrow. The language hall was all the way on the other side of campus, and the nature of scheduling at Palmetto suggested that this boy had run nearly a mile in just about six minutes, carrying a duffel bag, a backpack, and a book under one arm. The kid must be fast. “You’re Neil?” The boy nodded. “I’m Nickola. If you’re cutting that close to class, I’m more than happy to push your time slot back a few minutes so we aren’t in as much of a rush from this point out. Does that sound good?” Neil nodded. “Then let’s get started.”

It was now three weeks into the semester, and Nickola was settling into her routine. She’d hammered out her schedule to be where she needed it. She’d dropped some athletes from her tutor schedule when it became obvious that they just weren’t clicking. She’d debated dropping Neil, but had ultimately decided not to. He was obviously smart and grasped concepts quickly, so he really shouldn’t need her services as much as he did.

“Hi Nickola,” Neil chirped, opening the door softly. “Hey Neil,” she replied, glancing up. Then she did a double-take. Neil’s brown eyes were much brighter. “You look like you’re having a great day today.”

“Yeah,” Neil sheepishly replied. “Dan convinced me to drop two of my classes, so now I’ve had time to sleep. It’s made a big difference. Plus I no longer have to deal with that chemistry class.” He grimaced.

Nickola grimaced back. She knew exactly what it was like to take Professor Ozbourne’s class. Even if you weren’t sleep deprived, it was hard to stay awake in there. They settled into the tutoring session, tackling the Spanish vocabulary. Neil must have been getting all his sleep during his classes, she decided. Now he barely needed her help at all. She was very glad she hadn’t dropped him. Intelligent athletes were few and far between.

It wasn’t too many weeks after that when the Incident happened on Kathy Ferdinand’s talk show. Nickola hadn’t planned to watch it, but when she hear that Neil Josten had absolutely roasted Riko Moriyama, she had to see it with her own eyes. It was a thing of beauty, and she knew she was going to have to get closer to her favorite athlete.

“So Neil,” she said, leaning back in her chair as the door opened to a certain brown-haired Exy player. “I’ve come to learn that you have quite a mouth on you.” Neil tossed his brown hair back and laughed. “You’re going to have to share more of that wit with me. It’ll certainly make our tutoring sessions more entertaining.”

“As if anything could make this damn English class entertaining.

“Well, perhaps less boring is a better phrase than entertaining. Let’s get to it.”

Over the course of the semester, Nickola got to know a few of the other Exy players. Neil was grateful for her help, it seemed, because when Matt continued to struggle with his tutor Neil suggested he switch.

Nickola was neck-deep in thesis research when there was a knock on her office door. She jumped, looking hurridly at the clock. Was it already time for the rugby player? She relaxed when she realized that there were still several hours left, and decided that it must be a professor swinging by. “Come in,” she called, turning back to her computer screen.

“Hi, are you Nickola?” Nickola turned, surprised. Standing in the door was a very tall man, peering in curiously at her. “I’m looking for a new tutor and Neil said I should try you out.” Nickola stared in astonishment. Generally athletes were assigned to her randomly. Sometimes an athlete would request having her in a subsequent semester, but she’d never been recommended before.

“Yes, that’s me,” she blinked, and then began to clear her desk. “Have a seat. You said Neil talked to you? Josten?” The man nodded. “I’m guessing you’re an Exy player then. Have a seat and introduce yourself.” The man moved the chair around quite a bit, trying to fit his long legs under the seat.

“I’m Matt Boyd, Neil’s roommate. I’ve been struggling in my Literature class, and my current tutor just doesn’t seem to be clicking with me.” Matt grimaced. “He quite obviously thinks I’m an idiot, and I really don’t appreciate his condescending attitude.”

Nickola tried not to look guilty. She’d been guilty of a condescending attitude in the past, and it was really only this semester that she’d come to understand that not all athletes are idiots. “I’m sorry to hear that. Let’s take a look at what you have going on, and then we’ll see if we can line up some time in our schedules on an upcoming basis. Assuming we click better than your current tutor, anyway.” Matt gave her a grateful grin and they started into the Literature material. An hour later, both were exhausted, but Matt was smiling.

“Thanks, Nickola. Neil was right about you.”

Nickola looked up, surprised. “What did he say about me?”

Matt grinned. “He said that you had a knack for explaining concepts and making them clear. He thinks you’re a better teacher than any of our professors.

Nickola was floored. It was her dream to be a history professor. “He really said that??” Matt nodded. “That’s kind of a shock. I was under the impression that he didn’t like me.

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever seen Neil smile?”

Nickola thought for a minute. “Yes, actually. After the Morning Show Incident,” the emphasis causing Matt to cackle, “I told him that he had quite a mouth on him and that I wanted to see more of it. Meaning,” she clarified, seeing Matt’s incredulous expression, “that I appreciated his attitude and that snarky comments would make the tutoring more entertaining.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Matt replied, “because I have adopted Neil as my own and I would have to approve any potential suiters.”

Nickola laughed. “No worries here. The other girls can have him, I don’t swing.”

Matt’s eyes widened. “What do you mean you don’t swing?”

“Oh, I’m asexual,” Nickola replied. “Or possibly demi. I’m just not interested in guys or girls.”

Matt looked thoughtful. “Neil says something similar, and I can tell he’s not into girls or he would have mentioned your beautiful hair.” He held up a hand. “I’m not hitting on you and I’m totally spoken for. But that hair of yours is astounding.”

Nickola’s hair was waist-length and golden blond, done in intricate braids. She may not wear makeup and wasn’t into pretty clothes, but her hair was her pride and joy. “Well, thank you,” she smiled. “I won’t tell your girlfriend that you were admiring it.”

Matt laughed. “I’ll bring her in sometime. I’ll bet $10 that she’ll be all over it and way more embarrassing in praise than I ever could be.”

Nickola snorted. “I’m pretty sure I’ll get in trouble job-wise if I start betting money with my tutees, but put a sandwich on the line and I’ll take you up on that.” They shook hands in agreement as Matt stood to leave. “See you again next week?

“Sure will,” Matt replied. “Thank you again.”

She ended up having to buy Matt a sandwich.

[club-roc]

The C&Me Report: Dispatch #   1

Author’s Forward

This is a work of friction, the turbid spew of a diseased imagination.  The characters, events, location, time of day, and yes even the fucking weather are all made up - except when they aren’t.  

That the submissive in the story maybe resembles someone in my past life is a bizarre coincidence that you shouldn’t read anything into.  The rumor that I may have based the -  selfish? disgusting? can we settle on sick? - narrator on myself is an unfortunate misunderstanding.  I am a considerate, thoughtful, kind, compassionate, altruistic, gentle, empathetic, loving soul - and I swear the wrath of a banshee working off a seven day drunk upon anyone who says different.

I hope you enjoy what I think is a novel approach to the old in-out.  For those of you who prefer a more traditional 3-step narrative of the form:

 boy meets girl (or whatever gender permutation gets you going)

 one paragraph (preferably less)

 boy fucks girl

this just ain’t gonna work for you.  Seriously.  But, if you choose to ignore this warning, for fuck’s sake don’t whine about it afterwards.  

One final note: if you do make it to the end, and your cursor is a short click away from registering one star, you should know that the banshee gets pissed off rather easily these days - just sayin’.

Happy trails.

Roc Daimonas

Sep. 2020

*          *          *

I have an ethical dilemma that I’m hoping that you can help me with.

Whether you come at it from a moral or legal perspective, these days non-consensual sex is kind of frowned upon.  The MeTooers are clear: she has to freely say “yes”.  Sounds easy, but sometimes Easy Street is paved with potholes.

Let’s start with the seemingly obvious: “yes” doesn’t get you off the hook if you mention that you’ve got proof that could have her swinging in Sing Sing. Nor, for that matter, any persuasive argument that includes an “or else I will … “ clause.  But what if it’s “or else I won’t”?

For example, you have front row tickets to the hot show that she’s dying to see.  Without a promise of action for afters, you won’t take her.  “Maybe (fill in her best friend’s name) is interested…?”  I think we might need a new category, “technically consensual but the guy’s a douchebag”.

Also obviously, if she’s drunk, her “yes” doesn’t mean shit.  But what if she’s sober, in fact hasn’t had a drink all day.  And she needs one, badly, sort of the way that after holding your breath for two minutes you need air, because she’s an alcoholic.  Sadly she’s broke, has nothing left to pawn, and has already been to the Plasma Donation Center twice this week.  Let’s say she loves bubbly and you have a bottle of White Star on ice.

If, under those circumstances, you tell her, “no nookie no party”, you know damn well that you’re going to get laid. (Pro tip: one glass, then sex, and only then finish the bottle).  You can get all moral on me, but she’s gonna do what it takes to get a drink, and if that’s by blowing somebody in the liquor store’s parking lot, oh well.  I’m thinking why not me, instead of some jerk who’s gonna sub a store-brand asti?

Seriously, I’m looking for feedback, let me know what you think.

BTW, I wouldn’t trade sex for a drink, I’m not that kind of asshole, and this isn’t that kind of story.  Rather, it’s actually cannabis that she wants, and I’m much worse of an asshole.  You see, I’m a sex addict, sub-category control freak, and I’ve been waiting patiently for a long time.

*          *          *

C called, Lydia was dead.  Apparently she passed out and knocked her 151 into a candle.  I hadn’t heard anything from C, hence nothing about Lydia, for about five years, but this seems less like news than the fulfillment of the inevitable.  Though on second thought, that she made it that long is impressive.

When she called, she was upset.  Not because they were friends - nobody was friends with Lydia, she saw life as 100% transactional.  No, C was upset because she was on her way to score reefer, “and I’d already given her my last $60” … could I help her?

“Sure no problem”, I told her, answered by a huge sigh of relief.  “I’ve got that much cash in my wallet, come by and get it - and don’t worry about paying me back”.

Oops.  Not exactly what she was fishing for.  “Ah, do you have any weed that I could have?”

Long.  Fucking.  Silence.  It’s been five years since I’d talked to her last, the day we broke up over - surprise! - her drug and alcohol problem. 

“Uh, Roc…”

“Let’s do this: come over for the $60.  Let’s at least get you covered on that, then you can score somewhere else.  I’ll think about the other”.

A little while later she’s on my sofa, smoking a pipe.  I have the cash and a small container in front of me.  “This is for you”, and I hand her the bills.  “You can also have this - BUT - one time only, never again.  This is about a week's supply, you can score something in that time.  Are we agreed - never again?”

Two things that I need to clarify - a week’s supply for me, if she’s on a roll, is probably about a 4 hour supply for her.  AND - if it gets them their fix, an addict will tell you anything that they think you want to hear.  

So of course, she was absolutely in agreement.  Some things never change.

And surprise!, surprise!, 24 hours later, guess who knocked on my door?

*          *          *

C no doubt spent the day coming up with all sorts of completely sensible reasons why I should give her more shit.  Most likely revolving on the fact that Lydia was the last person who would sell to her.   But she’s thrown off, I have a packed pipe on the table next to me, she can’t take her eyes off the prize, she can’t focus...I just let her stammer for a minute.  I ask if she wants the pipe?

Shit eating grin - hell yes!  I grab it and reach out towards her.  She takes it, but I don’t let go.   ‘You can have this one, no problem.  You want more, ‘present yourself’”.  Ancient code for “submit for kinky sex”.  She starts to object, I cut her off: “you can have none, one, or stand, your choice - do you understand your choices?”

Maybe she mumbles “OK”, so I let go and in no time she’s sucking down the pipe.  I get a couple beers while she’s busy, set one next to her, pop the top on mine and sip some brew.  Done with the pipe, she follows suit.   Between the weed and the booze, she relaxes, but after a bit starts starts fidgeting.  I wait for it.  Finally it pours out: “I don’t think this is a good idea”

I bust out laughing, she doesn’t see what’s so funny.  “You’re right, it’s an AWFUL idea, we just don’t agree on what’s the bad part.  So maybe we forget about it, huh?  Maybe you should just go home”.

Well, no, she doesn’t want that either…“Can’t I have some more?”

“It’s time for you to go, I’ll walk you to the door”.

She takes a deep breath, rises, and puts her hands on her head.  Her arms are in the wrong position, her legs aren’t nearly far enough apart … some things never change.  I pack the pipe.  “You want this?”, she says yes, eyes focused.  I spark the lighter and smoke it.  From her face, that’s not what she had in mind.

I pack another, walk over to her.  “First, if you want your fix, I get mine - is that understood?”  She nods.  I hold the pipe for her, spark the lighter, and long hit, all gone.  She’s holding it in, deep, and I continue, “second, anytime - and I mean ANYTIME - that you feel uncomfortable giving me what I want, just say, “take that shit and shove it where the sun don’t shine”.

Suddenly the tension’s broken, she cracks up, coughs, blows out the smoke, coughs a little more.  “You fuckerhead! - you owe me another!”

I smile.  “We’ll see.  But I’m serious.  Say that phrase and everything stops.”  She nods, but I’m not done.  “What you gotta realize is that I don’t really want to do this”.  Like Hell, but she doesn't need to know that. “You can say that anytime, BUT … once and done.  No more weed.  Ever”.  You can tell she’s not happy about that, but keeps it to herself.

I pack another, then tell her “this is a really good time to tell me that, because if you don’t walk away, I’m going to turn you into my slave.  For real.”

She’s heard that before, sarcastically says “of course you are”, tilts her head a little, mocking me with her face, her eyes.

“You heard your choices, tell me what it’s going to be”.  

To get their fix, an addict is going to tell you anything they think that you want to hear.

I hand her the pipe, tell her to use the can, have a cigarette, whatever, then get undressed and back in position.  “If you’re quick enough, I’ll pack another pipe”.  While she’s scurrying on her assignments, I try to find some rope.

*          *          *

She’s back in position, but instead of being naked, she’s got my robe on - and her socks.  Some things never change.

I pack a pipe, point out that she’s not quite undressed.  Eyeing the pipe, she tells me “brr, it’s chilly!”, her code for gimme the pipe, and let’s go to bed and fuck.  Well that ain’t gonna happen, so instead of giving it to her, I spark the lighter and smoke it myself.  She has a frustrated look on her face.

“Why don’t you turn the furnace on, and relax a bit.  When it’s warm enough, strip and return to position.  When you’re ready, I’ll get you another pipe”  She sticks out her tongue, turns up the furnace, sits, but the blower’s barely on before she’s lost the robe and is back in position.  I pack the pipe full enough that even she’s gonna need a few minutes, hand it to her.  While she’s working it, I look over the body that I once knew so well.

Five years of hard living has taken its toll, but she’s still a great looking lady.  Tall for a woman, long torso and average legs, she’s blonde, slender, tits in damn nice shape (hey - we’re all getting older, things ain’t the way they used to be, nothing’s wrong with that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t notice tits that gravity hasn’t found yet.)

She’s set down the pipe so apparently she’s done.  I walk behind her, tell her to cross her wrists, which she does it the wrong way - surprise! - which I correct, wrap the rope and tie it securely.  My feet push her legs further apart, I grab her hair and pull her backwards so she’s a little past the tipping point, take my free hand and caress her face, my lips find hers...

Our lips and tongues play as my hand finds its way to her breast, stroking the one, squeezing it, finding the nipple, pulling, twisting, back to main tittie and fondle some more, soon the other tit has my attention and it’s on to part deux.  Mission accomplished, my hand returns to her forehead, another cycle begins, this one ending at her navel. 

A couple more cycles and she’s kissing like she’ll die if something doesn’t happen, finally my hand finds her pussy, palpable heat rising from it...I touch it, she’s dripping wet ...fingers on either side of the clit, squeeze, the clitteral bud, engorged, twitches under the pressure, again and again....  She moans past our kisses, I slide the fingers in her slot…

Out again, slick as can be,  fingers strum her clit, right-left right-left right-right-left, the moan does not diminish, she’s begging me to fuck her…but the control freak in me is not ready yet, I play some more…My fingers find her snatch again and I jam them in, fast, over and over...the moan is lower as the orgasm has begun, her voice up and down as the O takes control…

Fingers out but the O continues, I strum her clit, her abs are so tight and she’s over the top again….suddenly I slap her oh so exposed pussy a half dozen times, her O just fucking explodes, she shrieks loud enough to wake a passed out banshee …

I set her down, exhausted.  I get ice water, give her a sip, she didn’t realize how thirsty she was.  I ask if she wants a smoke, or a fuck?  She perks up at fuck, “oh yes please fuck me, I am sooo horny”, so arms released, into the bedroom, onto the bed, a pillow under her ass…

I pull down my pants, off with my shorts, oh my I thought it was hard but this is impressive, it would a crime to lose this boner, and C is looking at it, can’t take her eyes off it, wants it, inside, so I climb onto her, give her pussy what it needs more than anything….

No more fooling around, dick slams into cervix and her abdomen erupts, instant orgasm, cunt even hotter and squeezing tight, won’t let go… I get an urgent message, dick to control center, situation critical, too much pressure, heat, we can’t take much more of this, we’re going to have to unload…

No.  I’m not in high school anymore, this doesn’t have to happen.  I pull the dick out, pre-cum dripping, trailing, C figures out something’s not quite right, OH NO PLEASE DON’T STOP PLEASE FUCK ME...and I jam it in, thrust as fast and hard as I can, she goes fucking nuts, my dick does the impossible, gets bigger, harder, and it’s that way with each thrust, reactors are critical, pumps overloaded, Captain she’s gonna blow!, and unlike on TV that’s what happens, hot jizz spews into eager pussy and can you say “supernova”?  Of course she can, but not now, not enough energy, ambition left to talk.  For the first time in five years, we embrace.

As usual, she’s out of bed first, runs to the john, back to me, hugs me...I wonder what she’s going to compliment first, after all it was a stellar performance...I figure she’s going to ask me to slap her pussy again next time...

“Can I have another beer and a pipe?” 

 Some things never change.

[kyogre-blue]

Nano follow up 1

Notes: This is another interlude, taking place after they leave Imuchakk. After this, there should be just one final chapter. 

~.~ 

Interlude 2: Trust

The Imuchakk respected warriors above all others, and for an outsider, it was easy to assume that strength in battle was all they respected. Especially for Rametoto, a towering figure covered in battle scars, who carried the air of someone perpetually ready to turn any meeting into a duel. 

However, just from Rurumu, that was clearly not the case. She was a trained warrior, of course, who had passed her adulthood trial years prior. But she was also well mannered and extremely well educated. Economy, diplomacy, administration, even political scheming were among the many fields Rametoto had made part of his children’s upbringing. 

Among their group, only Alibaba could match her, as became quickly obvious when Rurumu began to test them on non-physical skills. 

Not that Ja’far’s attempts to turn it into a physical test went any better. Assassination techniques were not a match for sheer Imuchakk power, wielded with great precision. Rurumu needed only one foot to pin him to the deck while continuing to explain, in a calm, gentle voice, that as merchants, they needed the skills of trade and money. 

“Do you even know how to buy things in a store?” Alibaba wondered, in the test, unhappy atmosphere. “I mean… I can’t imagine you guys shopping.” 

“I’ve bought things!” Sinbad declared happily. 

“With actual money? With more money than three coppers?” 

Sinbad laughed -- more or less admitting that, no, he had barely seen money all his life. His father had fished and then trade those fish for other goods in the village. By the time Sinbad himself was old enough to seek other work outside Tison, mostly directing ships in and out of Contastia, the national currency was in shambles, so he had also been ‘paid’ through goods. 

And after Baal, Alibaba had handled all actual “paying” -- even the first time getting a doctor for Esra. 

“I’m good at haggling though,” he said without a hint of shame. 

“That’s a start, but it works differently from the other side,” Alibaba said. 

“Indeed,” Rurumu agreed. “For a merchant, the most important expression is a smile. This is both your shield and your spear.” 

A shield and a spear, I see, I see, Sinbad nodded along with a smile. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Ja’far grumbled, scowling. Unfortunately, even his most fearsome look of disgust only looked cute on his small pale face. It was no wonder he’d covered himself up like a mummy -- otherwise, there was no way he’d be taken seriously as an assassin. 

Very gently, Rurumu swatted him across the head. “Use polite language,” she instructed. Glaring in outrage, Ja’far darted a look at Sinbad, the one he had actually sworn to follow, but Sinbad only looked back. He didn’t necessarily think a few swears were the worst thing ever, but Rurumu probably knew more about training someone than he did. 

“Well, to start with, it’s harder to hit someone who is smiling at you,” Alibaba said. “That goes for being rude or pushy too. Nice customers react better to smiles, and difficult customers will have a harder time pressing you. That’s how a smile is your best defense. As for how to attack… that’s a bit advanced, although I think Sinbad is already a natural at it.” 

It was decided they would demonstrate. 

Dragging over a random assortment of barrels, crates and other objects lying around, they set up a makeshift “storefront” on the deck of their Imuchakk vessel. Moving into position in front of it, Alibaba spun around and… smiled. 

It was kind of creepy. Sinbad, who had been with Alibaba for several months already, knew what his actual smiles looked like, and it was not like that. His expression had changed in a blink too. 

Rurumu gestured to Ja’far, acting as Difficult Customer #1. 

“Hmph! Hmph!” Sticking his nose in the air, Ja’far made overemphasized sounds of disgust as he swaggered up to Alibaba’s… stall. This kid had definitely never shopped before. 

“Welcome, sir!” Alibaba greeted him a bright, sugary tone. “What are you looking for today? Could I interest you in some of our exciting new merchandize? Straight from the extreme north, Imuchakk itself! We have anything for anyone, I assure you that you’ll be satisfied!” 

Ja’far had opened his mouth, teeth bared, to retort something immediately after the first sentence, but Alibaba’s quick, loud offers interrupted him one after another, giving him no room to say anything. By the end, the assassin was left glaring mutely, too unsure whether it was his turn to talk yet. 

Just when he thought that it was safe, Alibaba cut him off yet again. 

“This way, this way, sir!” he beamed, gesturing emphatically toward the storefront of crates. “Take a look at these wares! This carving, isn’t it particularly exceptional?” It was actually a broken plank. “What about this weapon? Doesn’t it just radiate fierce strength?” It was a bent hook. “And this--! And this--! And this--!” 

Ja’far did try to talk at several points, but his voice was completely drowned out. Since Alibaba was still smiling happily at him, the assassin looked increasingly at a loss, frozen in place. 

This was basically bullying. 

“F-fine! Fine, I’ll take it! Just shut up!” Ja’far roared, snatching the… short loop of ragged rope… that Alibaba had been showing in his face with enthusiastic praise of its craftsmanship. Ja’far held it up like he was going to strangle Alibaba with it, but he once again had no chance. 

“That will be twenty silvers! Quite a steal, wouldn’t you say?” Alibaba said brightly, crowding in with his hand outstretched and no sense of self-preservation. “Will you pay with coin or bank credit? We, of course, have a close relationship with all the major banks in the city. Please choose whichever method is most convenient, sir!” 

His smile widened. “Of course, if you are unable to pay at this time… We understand! How can you resist such a fine item! We offer a range of very fair credit options.” 

In rural Parthevia, there were no loan sharks, since no one had anything left to loan. However, Sinbad still felt a sudden, instinctive chill go down his spine. Ja’far, who had survived and made his way to the top of Sham Lash at the tender age of 13, felt the same. Without thinking, he hastily fumbled for something to pay with. 

Finding nothing, he leaned away, sweat beginning to stand out across his brow. He didn’t seem to dare to look away from Alibaba’s unchanging smile. When his blindly searching hands closed around a pouch at his waist, he thrust it out. 

It was, in fact, full of chalk from the slate they used for their writing lessons. However, Alibaba accepted it as if it was the promised twenty silvers. 

“Thank you, good sir! We look forward to seeing you again!” he said, already waving. Of course, Ja’far was already jumping three steps back, one hand clutching a metal dart... while the other still held his newly purchased rope. 

“Very aggressive,” Rurumu commented in a praising tone. 

Wasn’t that... too aggressive, actually? 

Alibaba’s aggressive sales smile dropped as quickly as he’d assumed it to begin with, leaving a far more natural, neutral expression. “Every sale is a battle,” he said very seriously. “Your voice, your expression, your words are all your weapons, and you have to use them well. That’s what it means to be a merchant!” 

The reactions were varied -- Rurumu continued to smile, Sinbad nodded along earnestly, Ja’far just looked disgusted and disbelieving. Hinahoho had managed to excuse himself to mind the ship’s course, and Mahad did his utmost to fade into the background as another piece of the ship. Vittel stroked his chin in thought. 

“Alright, I think I see,” he said. “Let me try?” 

Alibaba gestured him forward. As Difficult Customer #2 stepped up, the salesman of the makeshift stall turned away and back -- and revealed a bright, creepy smile again. 

“Welcome, good sir! Could I interest you in some of our exciting new merchandize...?” 

~.~ 

Vittel was also soundly defeated, despite his best approximation of someone with beady eyes and an upturned nose, picking and needling at every small detail -- someone real, it seemed, from Ja’far’s disgusted expression and Mahad’s shaking shoulders. In the end, he was forced to depart with several broken seashells, looking not entirely sure where and how he’d been outmaneuvered. 

After that, Rurumu began her lessons. Unfortunately, it was immediately obvious that most of them did not have a head for broader theory, whether of buying and selling or broader social behaviors. But Rurumu was an Imuchakk, and she knew how to handle people who did not like to think too deeply. 

Instead, they drilled. 

How to call out to passersby, how to greet a potential customer, how to introduce themselves, even. Repeating the same phrases over and over as they were corrected on their tone, expression and posture. 

The results were naturally mixed. Mahad slowly but steadily adjusted from his trained body language of looming and intimidation to the opposite, practicing faithfully even though he would not be expected to handle sales alone. Vittel progressed well too, having a good head on his shoulders. Ja’far was good when he tried, but only had the patience to try twice before losing his temper and beginning to swear or threaten, or both. 

Sinbad was, of course, a natural. 

After walking him through the basics and having him repeat them back with impressive sparkle and passion, Rurumu dismissed him to focus on her other pupils, leaving Sinbad free to drift over to the sidelines, where Alibaba was watching their progress. 

“How did I do? Any pointers?” Sinbad immediately fished for compliments and advice. 

“You’re amazing,” Alibaba said frankly. “You could probably earn a fortune within a day with just your charisma. If there’s anything… don’t flirt.” 

Sinbad made a face. “Why? It works.” 

“Sometimes. And then sometimes it really backfires,” Alibaba said. “You can get good results without the flirting, but the bad results will be a total failure. It’s safer not to do it at all.” 

“What’s the point of choosing just the safe way? I want to change the world,” Sinbad shot back, shrugging. He waved a hand flippantly. “Besides, I have good instincts. I can tell the direction of the flow. I’ll know if I’m about to make a big mistake.” 

...At least, he thought so. He had never misstepped in a way serious enough that he couldn’t recover from it. But given all the dangerous situations he’d been in, including two dungeons capable of killing entire armies, wasn’t that proof in its own way? 

He was a special person, chosen by destiny. 

“I don’t know if you’re confident or just arrogant,” Alibaba sighed. 

“What’s wrong with being confident?” Sinbad laughed. “You could be more confident yourself. You’re so good at everything, and you always know what to do. You have treasure and a djinn’s power. What are you worrying so much for?” 

He kept his tone light and casual, but it was a question he sometimes wondered about. 

“W-wha--?” Choking, Alibaba stared at him with an expression of comical shock. “What?!” 

What was that reaction? Sinbad’s eyebrows rose and his smile curled with amusement. 

“I’m good at everything? I always know what to do? Me?” Alibaba pointed at himself, full of disbelief. He huffed. “Are you making fun of me?” 

“Well, aren’t you?” Sinbad wondered. 

“No way,” Alibaba replied immediately. 

Making a thoughtful sound, Sinbad didn’t protest although he still didn’t really understand. From his perspective, Alibaba was very capable. 

Obviously, he was a king vessel and a dungeon conqueror. He could use the djinn’s power exceptionally well, and even without that, his swordwork was exceptional. He could think on his feet when in danger and was obviously not inexperienced with combat. From Sinbad’s observations, he didn’t lose out by much to Drakon, an actual soldier and officer in the Parthevian army. 

But even more than that, Alibaba had been able to adjust to every situation they’d been through. He could manage money, he could even make more, he knew how to read and write, he could negotiate and trade and talk to even Rurumu as an equal. Even when he spent some time worrying and pacing first, he had always settled on something and proceeded with it eventually. 

It wasn’t like Sinbad felt he couldn’t match him. But Sinbad was aware that he often had to rely on his intuition and luck for opportunities that he didn’t always understand and couldn’t replicate purposefully. It worked out for him, and he had confidence that it would continue to do so, but wasn’t there something impressive about doing the same without his gift? 

In a way, it was no surprise that Sinbad couldn’t pull him along the way he had with all the others. Probably, Alibaba had his own path that he wouldn’t bend so easily to Sinbad’s will. 

He just wondered… What kind of path was it? 

Alibaba had a goal of some kind and a purpose. He had his reasons for going to Valefor and now to Reim. He had probably had a reason for going into Amon’s dungeon in the first place as well, although it wasn’t possible to tell whether the two were one and the same. 

He didn’t seem to care much about a djinn’s power, so perhaps his goal had been the treasure. Sinbad hadn’t missed Alibaba’s concern for ensuring Miss Anise’s livelihood and residence. Of course, he hadn’t missed their resemblance either, or the fact that Alibaba -- poorly -- tried to hide the name he shared with her young son. 

It was easy to guess something like siblings, maybe close cousins, separated after the sister had a child out of wedlock and was chased out of the family, and the brother than helping her in secret. 

It fit. 

But it also didn’t. 

It was probably… only part of the story. 

Because Valefor’s dungeon had only appeared days before they arrived, long after they’d sent out from Balbadd specifically aiming for a dungeon in the extreme north. Because Alibaba had tried to ask the djinn about “the gate between worlds,” which was a thing there was no reason for even kings to care about. Because even Rametoto, so far from Parthevia, had heard of Baal’s dungeon and Sinbad’s conquest of it, but no one ever mentioned a dungeon in Qishan. 

Because Alibaba had looked so shocked when he heard Baal’s name. What was it that he’d been expecting? Sometimes, Sinbad wondered. 

Was that why he felt he wasn’t doing well -- a difference in expectations? By the standards of a village boy, they had already been successful beyond all belief. But maybe by the standards of a king vessel… 

They had only just gotten started. 

But it was a good beginning, of this Sinbad was certain. 

Grinning, he slapped Alibaba across the back and draped an arm over his shoulders. They were almost the same height now, and the extra weight made Alibaba stoop so they were evenly face to face. “Anyway, you’re pretty great, you know,” Sinbad said, lightly knocking their foreheads together as he leaned in. “So don’t worry so much! It’ll be fine! I guarantee it!” 

Alibaba’s entire expression twitched into a squiggly line, too many vivid emotions blurring into a general feeling of ‘why are you like this’ that was very familiar to Sinbad. 

“Well,” he said finally, his tone dry and crumbling. “Thanks.” 

Sinbad burst out laughing. 

~.~ 

From Imuchakk to Reim was somewhere around a month or two of sailing, depending on the weather and the skill of the crew. With Sinbad’s ability to read the waves and the wind, it was possible they’d make it even faster. The only concern might have been keeping an accurate heading, but Rametoto had provided some old navigation charts for them, from the days where the Imuchakk were feared as unstoppable raiders, before they isolated themselves from the rest of the world. 

Although both Alibaba and Rurumu could read them, their knowledge of sailing was mostly theoretical, so Sinbad preferred to take care of navigation himself. He didn’t mind -- there was something very peaceful about studying the night sky and matching up the constellations to mark their way, alone except for the sound of the waves and the wind. 

Well, maybe not entirely alone. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Sinbad asked, smiling. 

Scowling a little, Ja’far stepped out of the shadows of the cabin, his footsteps finally making sound again. He hadn’t been trying to hide, precisely, but it was annoying having even his minor efforts to remain quiet seen through by a bumpkin from the seaside. 

His frustration was amusing, so Sinbad would never tell him that he hadn’t actually been able to tell who was there or the precise location. He had just known there was someone nearby, instinctively. That was why he had continued to watch the sky and the sea, instead of turning around. 

It was tempting to offer a bedtime story, but the atmosphere wasn’t quite right. Silently, Sinbad waited. 

“We need to talk,” Ja’far said, grim and rough. He glared at Sinbad, as if daring him to make some quip. 

Sinbad only raised his eyebrows. “Okay,” he said, turning to give Ja’far his full attention. “Let’s talk.” 

Pursing his lips, Ja’far nodded sharply. “Who is that guy? And how much do you trust him?” he said, direct and uncompromising. He scowled. “And don’t you dare ask me who I mean! That guy is too weird, you can’t have missed it! Where did he come from? How can he have a djinn? It doesn’t make any sense!” 

“Yeah, it doesn’t,” Sinbad agreed. “But I kind of like that.” 

“Like…? Are you stupid?” Ja’far wondered. 

Sinbad laughed. “Come on, isn’t it fascinating? Trying to figure out what’s going on with Alibaba is such a great mystery. I’ve been turning it over in my head, but I can’t imagine what his deal might be. It has to be something amazing, right?” 

This approach was incredibly lackadaisy, and Ja’far wasn’t wrong to give Sinbad a look full of disbelief and disgust. Part of it was that Sinbad had always wanted to remain someone who would be open to others, even after everything that happened with Darius. He hadn’t turned away Yunan, no matter how suspicious the self-proclaimed ‘wanderer’ was. And he hadn’t turned away Alibaba either, no matter how inexplicable his circumstances. 

And hadn’t both of them ended up being a great help to Sinbad? 

“He’s a djinn-user you don’t know anything about!” Ja’far protested. “He’s dangerous!” 

Leaning back against the mast, Sinbad tilted his head back to look at the stars again. “Hm... do you really think that? I don’t. That Alibaba? What part of him is threatening?” 

There wasn’t any part, of course. Alibaba was incredibly un-threatening, in fact. When interacting with him, he simply felt like an ordinary person, without any pretense or hidden side. Even Ja’far hadn’t been able to find anything concrete to latch on to. 

Except for the mystery of his origins, anyway. 

“It’s just that you think he’s dangerous, it’s that you don’t know anything about him and you can’t trust him,” Sinbad judged. “So how about this? Trust in me instead. And I trust him.” 

Ja’far’s face scrunched up in frustration, but he didn’t refuse. He couldn’t. After all, he had agreed to become one of Sinbad’s comrades, and even a former assassin like him could understand that this required a certain trust. But he had never trusted anyone, not since his parents. Not since their blood on his hands... 

“...And me?” he muttered, looking away, his lips pressed together tightly. “Do you trust me?” 

“Of course,” Sinbad answered without hesitation. 

A complicated expression creased Ja’far’s face, but before Sinbad could begin to make sense of it, he looked away with a huff. “Stupid,” Ja’far berated. “Trusting an assassin? It would serve you right if I was just getting close to stab you in the back later.” 

“But you’re not going to,” Sinbad said with absolute confidence. 

He could no longer resist, seeing the way Ja’far’s back hunched and his hair puffed up like an angry cat. Reaching out, he clamped a hand on the boy’s head and began to rub vigorously -- all while laughing in the obnoxious way that would have gotten him pushed into a barrel by Alibaba, if he had been present. 

A shudder of horror went through Ja’far, and he began to hiss and splutter, flailing at Sinbad, who only chortoled. 

Although he pretended to wince at the small fists hitting his chest haphazardly, Sinbad knew Ja’far wouldn’t put up more than token protest, much less actually hurt him. It was ‘trust’, but also his instincts, the same ones that had guided him to offer to make Ja’far his comrade in the first place. And those instincts, that ability to see the flow, had never steered him wrong. 

Alibaba was the one person he could never get a precise read on, as if he did not belong in the flow at all. Maybe Ja’far was right and that should have made him wary, but Sinbad felt only curious, more and more so. 

After all, he had always dreamed of finding the new and unexplored, beyond his knowledge and the horizon. 

To him, first and foremost, Alibaba was fascinating. But also -- even if he walked a path separate from Sindria -- a friend. 

~.~

[evakuality]

Hi! Can you write something for 66 please?

For you, anon, it’s chapter two of the fic that grew out of several prompts! (If anyone else wants to send more, the list can be found over here, and chapter one is available on tumblr here and Ao3 right here).  This chapter is also available on Ao3.

Rings, Riddles and Revenge.  Chapter Two: “How could I ever forget about you?”David

The genteel tinkle of the store’s bell as the door opens is the only alert David has.  Since this is such a regular occurrence, usually he barely gives it another thought.  Lets the customers approach the counter and start the process of falling in love with their wares before he even acknowledges that the bell had rung.  So why it’s different this time, David has no idea.  But he does look up, for once.  And he does see the breathtaking Engagement Ring Man again.  And it does stop him in his tracks briefly, his practiced patter stuttering to a halt for a moment before he recollects himself and focuses back in on the customer in front of him.

That doesn’t stop him from glancing out of the corner of his eyes at Engagement Ring Man as he makes his way into the store.  Because he may not have been consciously waiting for the guy to return, but now that’s he’s here David’s body relaxes in a way that lets him know exactly how much attention his subconscious mind has been paying to that one chance meeting not even a week ago.

His last customer smiles and thanks him, moving away from the counter and making her way towards the door.  David turns his attention to Engagement Ring Man, drags his usual smile onto his face, sets his posture to his best customer service mask and hopes like hell the guy can’t tell what effect he’s having on David.  It’s not made any easier when he looks up, catches David’s eyes on him and his entire body slumps, losing its obvious tension, and his face lights up in what can only be described as relief.  

And that, David thinks, as he watches Engagement Ring Man approach the counter, is enough to make a weaker man than him turn into a puddle.  So it’s not exactly a surprise that his own body reacts with a hot flush, or that his voice is slightly breathless when he manages his usual, “good afternoon, sir.  How can I help you?”

Engagement Ring Man’s face falls a little, the smile slipping sideways before brightening again into something that is a good approximation of a retail smile.  David would probably mistake it as genuine if he wasn’t so practiced at spotting it on other workers.

“I’m … um, I guess you don’t remember,” the guy starts, running his fingers through his hair the same way he did last week and leaving it an artful mess over his eyes again, stilling David’s heart with that one casual motion.  “I was in here with a ring on Wednesday…”

He pauses, as if he’s not quite sure how to phrase it, which makes sense.  It was a fake and I was sad about that, is probably not an easy thing to confess to someone else in this situation, particularly when you might be embarrassed by that fact.  Still fascinated by what the guy might need to do with the ring, David takes pity on him, cutting in with another practised phrase.

“Of course I remember, sir.  The ring was old and probably quite valuable.”

A grin breaks out over Engagement Ring Man’s face and he shuffles, looks up at David from under his mess of hair.  It stills some awkwardly flustered thing in David’s chest and he takes a risk, knowing he’s not supposed to do this but needing to make it clear he remembers more than just a customer in distress.

He adds, “how could I ever forget about you?”

The grin this time is blinding, and the guy flushes, a bright crimson staining his cheeks as if he’s not used to people noticing him, as if the mere mention that David might have remembered him and not just his query is something foreign.  The guy coughs, looks away for a moment, clearly gathers himself together with a muttered encouragement under his breath, and then he lets that breath out slowly and carefully.  It’s only then that he glances back at David.

“I was wondering if you maybe knew somewhere I could get it properly valued as a fake,” he asks quietly, glancing around to be sure the other people in the store don’t hear him.  “It’s just, we need some money and even that much might be enough.  But …”

David nods.  He understands, even if that ‘we’ tears at his chest.  Of course this guy has a ‘we’ of some sort.  He shakes himself out of his disappointment.  It’s not something most people would have easy access to, after all, a knowledge of antique buyers and sellers who might give a fair deal on something like that ring.  

“My … uh, my mother and I.  She needs some money,” Engagement Ring Man says, softly, as if he has seen and understood David’s sting of disappointment at his words.  Smiling, David lets his breath out, relieved.  He tries to tell himself that it’s just because the guy came back and David can actually help him this time.  But he knows it’s at least partly because the blue of Engagement Ring Man eyes have haunted him, and the way the hair falls into his eyes has whispered in his heart even without him consciously knowing, and he wants to spend more time with this guy.  Hearing that the ‘we’ in his life is a mother is more of a relief than it has any right to be.

“Of course,” David says warmly.  Far more warmly than he strictly should.  This doesn’t fit the persona of the store at all, the aloof, slightly distanced glamor the owners try desperately to maintain.  “If you’d like to come down to this end of the counter, I can get some contact details for you.”

It’s not really necessary for David to move him like this; he could go find the details by himself, but he wants at least the illusion of privacy as he talks to the guy and this seems like too good an opportunity to ignore.

Matteo

It had taken a lot for Matteo to come in here today.  He knew he was only going to be able to make the request if Piercing Guy was there; he was the one who had made the suggestion after all, so he’s the one who’s most likely to know how to help.  And it’s probably not going to do any good, but Matteo is willing to try anything at this stage. If that happens to mean he might bump into Piercing Guy again and get to see his stupidly attractive face again, well that’s just what you might call a perk of the somewhat uncomfortable process.

He’s here, Piercing Guy is here, and Matteo instantly feels the relief of knowing he can ask what he needs to ask.  For a terrible moment, though, it seemed like he hadn’t remembered Matteo at all, but then his face had softened and he smiled as he said, “how could I ever forget about you?” in the gentlest voice Matteo has ever heard.  And Matteo almost can’t get the words of his request out because he’s so flustered.  It’s not like him to be so unnerved by someone, even when that someone is the cutest guy Matteo has ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on, with his curly dark hair and liquid eyes.  And the piercing that had starred in more than one of Matteo’s day dreams since they last met.

Then he’s drawn away to the far end of the counter, and the guy is shuffling around on the ground behind it, sifting through a pile of papers that looks far too messy and haphazard to belong in a place like this.  Feeling bold, leaning over the counter so he can keep an eye on what’s happening, Matteo laughs.  

“That doesn’t look smart enough for a store like this,” he says, nodding at the pile of papers the guy has just shoved to one side.  From his spot kneeling on the floor, the guy looks up at Matteo and rolls his eyes.

“There’s never any time to keep tidy piles,” he says, pulling another clump of papers out and riffling through this one at speed.  He grins up at Matteo again.  “And we only need to look glamorous and flashy out there in the bits the customers get to see.”

“I’m seeing the unglamorous stuff right now,” Matteo points out, knowing there’s a cheeky grin on his face.  Sees the way the guy’s eyes light up in amusement as he looks up at Matteo.

“You’re being nosy and intrusive is what you’re doing,” he says, making a cold shame flood Matteo’s body.  Did he go too far?  But then the guy winks as he refocuses on the papers in his hands, and Matteo relaxes.  It’s just banter, then.  Silly comebacks to a ridiculous conversation.

Matteo is fascinated by his hands as they shuffle through the pages one by one.  Sure and sturdy, they move with a grace and an elegance even while their owner curses softly under his breath when he doesn’t find what he wants.

“Shit,” Piercing Guy mutters so quietly that Matteo doesn’t think he was supposed to hear.  He stands up so quickly that Matteo doesn’t have time to move back before he’s right in front of him and with the way Matteo’s been leaning forward, their faces are close.  He can see every strand of Piercing Guy’s eyelashes, thick and lush with the color a mixture of browns mingling together like strokes on a masterpiece of art.  

The guy blinks in startled awareness of their proximity, something flashes in his eyes, and Matteo has to suck in a steadying breath as he pushes back off from the counter.  He’s flushing, can feel the heat in his cheeks and the pounding of his heart.  The guy’s eyes had bored into Matteo’s, framed by those perfect lashes, and Matteo isn’t sure he’ll ever be steady on his feet again.

The guy’s facade has slipped completely now; there’s no remnant of the perfect customer service employee in his face or his body anymore, and he looks genuinely upset when he speaks again.  His hand ruffles his hair, pulling the strands into a disarray that sets something else new and terrifyingly electric into Matteo’s heart.

“I can’t find the contact details,” he says.  “But … maybe I can get your number?”

Matteo gapes at him.  Blinks.  Opens his mouth to say something, to ask why on earth this sudden request of an almost-total stranger, when the guys blushes himself.  His cheeks bloom rosy with shame when he obviously realizes what he’s implied.  “Oh.  Um.  You know … for … for when I do find them.  The details.  To send you the contacts.”

“Oh.  Right.  Yes,” Matteo mumbles, kicking himself for assuming.  Remembering that they’re in a store and that the employee of the store, however attractive, isn’t going to be going around asking for random guys’ phone numbers for no real reason.

He jots the number down on a piece of paper Piercing Guy hands him, noting in passing that it’s not at all like the creamy, formal, expensive piece from last week.  This one looks like it’s been torn from a notebook.  He thinks about saying something, making a joke out of it, but he’s spooked.  The banter earlier was a bit too easy to fall into, the proximity as the guy had stood up too electrifying, and Matteo has to keep his distance.  Falling for some guy in a shop just because he’s good at his job is exactly the sort of dumbass thing Matteo would do, but it’s also exactly the sort of dumbass thing he’s trying hard to avoid.

He pushes the paper back across the counter towards Piercing Guy, who looks down at it and smiles.  “Matteo,” he mutters almost under his breath, then looks up and holds his hand out.  “I’m David.”

Startled, Matteo takes the hand that’s being offered.  It’s warm, smooth.  The grip is firm and capable and Matteo tries hard not to let the guy see how much he’s affected just by this brief touch.  The guy clears his throat and Matteo drops his hand quickly, realizing that he’s held on a little too long.  The brown eyes when he looks back into them are once again filled with amusement.

“David.  Hi.  I’m Matteo.”

“I know,” David says, smirking at him, and Matteo can feel the heat in his cheeks increasing even more.  

Another customer moves in beside Matteo, and Piercing Guy … David, nods, his customer service face falling swiftly back into place and leaving behind it no hint of the ease he’s had in the last few minutes.

“I’ll message you when I have the details you need, sir,” he says.  Matteo nods in his own turns and makes his way back out of the store.  He’s not entirely sure what just happened, but he is sure he’s treading a dangerous path and that he should avoid returning at all costs.  

But that doesn’t mean he’s not looking forward to receiving a text.

Continue to chapter three

[icarus-imagines]

Japan X Country!Reader

Word Count: 2,018

Category: Hetalia

For Japan on February 11, 2018. National Foundation Day. Happy Birthday, Kiku Honda! ^_^

-Mod Icarus ଘ(੭ºัᴗºั)━☆ﾟ

~Otanjoubi Omedetou Gozaimasu~

You knew something would go wrong the first time you heard America introduce the idea of giving Japan a surprise birthday party. Well, not wrong exactly. You just knew Japan would be incredibly embarrassed and flustered over the whole ordeal. He would hide it behind a fake, yet very convincing, small smile. But assume things for it wasn't that he didn't appreciate his fellow countries throwing him a surprise birthday party, it just simply wasn't his kind of scene. Though it would be painstakingly obvious to anyone and everyone who actually paid close attention to the small nation, that he wasn't quite enjoying himself. At all really. No one noticed him and his unusual behavior at a party celebrating him.

But you did.

You're protective (E/c) orbs would watch the littlest movements his lean body would make as you sipped on blueberry punch, they should have gotten something traditional instead. Tiny hints from widened eyes full of embaressment to the flushed skin of his cheeks. You noticed he would occasionally flinch, barely even noticeable to anybody else when somebody got to close for comfort or actually touched him. His eyes would wander to the door, as if he wanted to run out, away from all of the commotion.

You and Japan had been very close friends since, quite frankly, for as long as you can remember. It was inevitable for the fact you were a new country and Japan had found you. Meaning somebody would have to be your caretaker as you grew up. Naturally, the others wanted the little island country, smaller than even Japan, named (C/n). But they miserably failed as you chose Japan to be your founder. At first, he was nervous to take on such a big task and responsibility. Raising and influencing a country, something could go wrong and you could grow up making the wrong choices.

Despite the others worry over what was best for you, you grew up better than some of them. Japan had been patient teaching you everything he knew and learned from his own caretaker China. At times it was hard to learn things while other things you picked up quite easy and adapted it to your own countries liking.

Your country had grown up quite beautifully and unique the whole 98 years of your life. You're most admirable feature being your people's exotic food, undeniably coming from Japan since he was such a good cook.

You owed Japan your life. So in repaying your life long debt to him, even though you could never actually do so, you taking action had instead decided to do small and simple tasks that made him happy, without him even knowing you were doing so.

And he didn't seem happy right now.

You set your cup down with a little sigh watching as America was practically shouting rather than talking about a story he remembered. You snuck up behind the group whispering a small 'Thank you' as Japan was on the outside of the circle nervously stepping from one foot to the other. Without disturbing everybody held you tugged on Japan's sleeve, you thought about taking a hold of his hand instead, but you knew from his teaching it would be considered impolite and rude in public.

Japan turned around a bit uneasy somebody touched his clothes, but his frown disappeared quickly when he saw you.

For a second you stopped and looked at his attire. Confused why he wasn't wearing his normal yukata, but knew that he needed to wear more formal wear during times like this. He wore his military uniform, the normal beautiful shining white lined with gold and black trim that complimented his pitch black hair and brown eyes. Yet this time he wore a dark red cape that almost touched the flour. It must have been a present from one of the countries, most likely China. He did have a thing for red, seeing as it was one of his national colors. Even so, it would fit Japan too.

You offered him a small smile and tugged him forward, your eyes wandering to the door and back to him. It took him a second, but he understood as he took your hand in his. A blush started to form on your cheeks, but You're turned your head and led him quietly. You closed the door behind you, just as you heard England shout at America to get down from one of the tables while France said he was just trying to have fun.

You let out an internal breath of relief as you turned back towards Japan who seemed to be doing the same thing. You brushed back a stray of (H/c) hair, tucking it neatly behind your ear. You looked up at Japan realizing he was still holding your hand. You tried to take your hand back, trying to be polite about his personal space and touching rule, but he held on. You decided to keep holding his hand, he was probably still stressed about the whole party.

"Gomenasai," you bowed slow and low showing respect, though it was a bit awkward as you were still holding hands. "I should have greeted you properly earlier, but I didn't want to attract any atten-" you were stopped mid-speech and bow by Japans other hand on your shoulder.

"Ie, (F/n)-san," he said a small smile on his lips. "I understand, you are not to brame."

You stood up straight, a blush quickly invading your rosy cheeks. He just called you by your first name. He's never done that before. The closest you had ever got to get him to call you by something more intimate and casual was your last human name, that still had an honorific attached. Where you making progress in your relationship?

You returned his expression, elated at what he had called you. "You rooked nervously," you silently cursed yourself in your mind. You always messed up your 'l's just like Japan did whenever you got flustered. "You looked nervous," you repeated without the speech impediment, "so I wanted to help you get out of there."

Japan nodded. "It's not rike I don't rike what they've done for me. It's just a bit too much." you hummed in reply understanding what he meant. Japan wasn't one for loud crowds. Another reason you liked him so much, he was quiet and respectful.

"I thought so," you murmured, your thoughts instantly taking over. For some reason, you wanted to hug him. You had only hugged him about five times, and that was when you were 10 and younger since you were too young to do anything on your own.

His hand wasn't helping the whole matter. It was safely locked around your own. It was only a bit bigger than yours, but it was still bigger overall. Smooth and soft. But you could feel his palm was a bit rough, he was a country after all. A tough burden to carry. You squeezed his hand as your (E/c) orbs framed by charcoal lashes trailed up to meet his own soothing dark brown ones.

"May I hug you?" you insinuated, just loud enough for both of you to hear.

Nothing happened, so your eyes started to lower in sadness until you heard Japan breathe out a humorous chuckle. You almost thought you were being made fun of until a hand slipped under your armpit and just above around your waist, resting softly on your back. You were pulled gently to his chest as your eyes widened in surprise. He was being a bit confident it seemed something that he never demonstrated.

"It makes me happy. To know you noticed such a smarr thing about me," he said in a hushed tone. Your heart swelled immensely at his words.

"A-arigato...Kiku," you said back.

Kiku's hand squeezed yours tighter and you both widened your fingers, interlocking them together like a puzzle. Kiku's hand on your back slithered up to the nape of your neck. You gasped at his daring hand, but you shouldn't have opened your mouth for he kissed you. It was only a hint of passion, but overall it was that of longing. You had both waited to do this for so long. You were too young a country to do such things, but now you were free range. He had to make a move before any other country had snatched you away from his grasp.

You both broke away, your lips brushing each other. Your (Plump/Thin/etc) lips moved across his as you spoke.

"Otanjoubi omedetou gozaimasu, Kiku."

~The End~

Translations:

-Japanese-

Otanjoubi omedetou gozaimasu, Kiku: Happy Birthday, Kiku

Gomenesai: I'm very sorry

Ie: No

Arigato: Thank you

Fun Facts:

-For the translation of 'Happy Birthday' in Japanese, if the person is someone very close to you, you can omit the first "o" and the last "gozaimasu". (These expressions make the phrase sound polite). So if you want to say "Happy birthday" to your friend, you can just say, 'Tanjoubi omedetou'. Which is much shorter. But since Japan is traditional you told him Happy Birthday in a polite way instead of the casual way. Extra: 'Omedetou, literally translates to 'Congratulations'-

-Asian couples don't usually express affection toward each other in public. Public displays of affection between members of the opposite sex’such as kissing, hugging and holding hands---are considered rude. Even families rarely touch, hug or display physical affection in public. For example, most school children have said they have never seen their parents kiss. Which is why you had second thoughts about taking hold of Japan's hand even though you wanted to-

-When talking about China's national color being red, I'm talking about their flag. For example, China's would be red and gold. The cape given to Japan by China would fit him since his flag colors are white and red-

-Bows are carefully calibrated to show different levels of respect. A short, clipped bow of about 20 degrees is used for service people or acquaintances. This bow should last no more than a second. A slower, deeper bow is used for one's boss or department head. The deepest bows are reserved for the company president or member of the board of directors. If people of unequal status bow the lower-ranking person should bow more deeply than the higher-ranking person. Which is why you're bowed slow and deep. You still thought of Japan as being your so-called 'boss'-

-Japanese birthdays are not as big a celebration as they are in the West. In fact, there was no custom of celebrating birthdays in Japan until around 1950! Before this, there was only one day on which to celebrate birthdays (everyone's birthday) and that day was New Year's Day. This was because ancient people thought everyone got older on New Year's Day, not the day they were born. Since then, however, Japan has been influenced by Western culture, so they started celebrating people's birthdays on the date of their actual birth. I think because of this reason, birthdays are usually only celebrated with people very close, meaning only their family, spouse, children, etc. They don't enjoy being sung 'Happy Birthday' to since they are the center of attention and they think it's embarrassing. Even so, you can still sing it to them. I've found they usually only like to celebrate their birthday with one person, and that person is their spouse/significant other-

-It has traditionally been considered taboo to touch the nape of a girl's neck. After World War II, kissing wasn't allowed in Japanese films. The first celluloid kiss took place in 1946 and the actors that did it were so nervous about it they put a piece of gauze between their lips. You were taken by surprised by Japan's 'daring'. It seems when he wants something he gets it no matter if it breaks tradition. And consequently, that's you~ -

[let-it-raines]

Love your prompts! If it's still open - CS and baby's first xmas?

I’ve gotten quite a few of these, so if you’ve sent me one, I hope this is okay as the answer, even if it’s not your original ask. Canon is not my cup of tea, but I try and take a few liberties. Also, holy holiday fics, you guys :D

There’s a large tree in their living room, green branches smelling of pine and lit up by multi-colored lights with colorful baubles hanging on the branches. At the top rests a star and at the bottom rests boxes wrapped in colorful paper like the baubles all tied up with ribbons. Above the fireplace there are four red and white stockings, each one respectively inscribed with the names Killian, Emma, Henry, and Hope, and on the front door there’s a wreath, fake red cranberries sticking out of the vibrant greenery. At night, and only at night, there are white lights lit up that are strung across the rooftop, something that caused him a hell of a lot of annoyances and pains until he said screw it and asked Emma to flick her fingers and string the lights so that he wasn’t climbing atop their pointed roof while white snow covered the black shingles.

His entire home looks like festivity vomited on it – a phrase Emma has assured him does not match up with the Christmas holiday – and while a part of him can’t help but think that they’re going to have to take this all down, he mostly thinks that it’s as magical as his family is.

And he means that literally.

His family is actual magic, the kind written about in storybooks and spell books and projected across the television screen in fantasy, but to him, it’s all real.

He didn’t celebrate Christmas in the Enchanted Forest – he definitely didn’t celebrate in Neverland – but there were similar holidays. The firelight festival was held in the winters in certain kingdoms. Candles would be lit to imitate Christmas lights, though no one knew that at the time, and they’d line the streets while people stood outside and sang songs and traded goods and food while drinking ale. It was bloody wonderful the few times he got to celebrate, but he spent most of his winters out at sea, whether he wanted to or not.

But then he came to Storybrooke and met a woman – though he didn’t exactly meet Emma here – and everything changed.

There was no time for holidays his first few years here, not that he would have been invited anyways, but in the last few years, things have calmed and everyone has been allowed to celebrate whichever holiday they please.

What Emma pleases is Christmas.

And he’d do anything to make Emma happy, including stringing lights on the roof of their house and ordering a Santa Suit online so he could play Santa for all of the children in town when no one else would do it. He looks absolutely nothing like whoever Santa Claus is – though he thinks that may be one character who isn’t real – and he’s not sure any of the kids believed it, especially when Alexandra asked why he sounded like Killian.

Last year, Emma had been six months pregnant during December, and she was ready to get a move on things. He can’t begin to count the amount of times he caught her muttering about speeding along the pregnancy, wanting to fit into her jeans again, not having to pee in the middle of the night, and finally, getting to meet their daughter. It was an adventure like all of their other ones, and his quests to the market in the middle of the night to buy her chocolate ice cream only to have to return with pickles instead were a quest if he ever went on one.

But it was always worth it. He’d come home with the goods she wanted, and sometimes she’d eat them, other times she wouldn’t, but it always ending up with them in bed watching late-night television. He thought he knew Emma before, thought there was very little left of her book to be read – though he’d never tire or rereading it and discovering new passages he might have missed the first time – but then during those nights, he’d learn more about his wife than he ever thought possible.

She took to resting against his side, her body pressed against his from shoulder to toes, while his arm wrapped around her waist and either played with the loose strings of her hair or found itself resting on her ever-growing belly. Hope was quite the kicker, always moving around, and they both found comfort in feeling her move. During those late nights, especially around Christmas time, Emma would share a little more insight into how she felt growing up alone, all of the hopes and dreams she had about what Christmas could one day be like. He understood it all, childhood memories of wanting and wishing for more and for different in the back of his mind.

They weren’t in the past anymore. They were in the here in now with a bright future ahead of them, a happy beginning really.

So the things they talked about weren’t always melancholy. Emma would teach him more about the music she likes, varying between Motown and Rock of the past and the Pop music of today. He quite liked the classical, the ones without words, but Emma only liked those for background noise. So they’d take to talking about music or movies or television shows, which always lead to real life stories that gave him peeks into his wife’s mind.

Then, without fail, he’d be weaving her an intricate tale only for him to look down and hear soft snores against his chest.

He’d smile before leaning down and kissing her forehead and her stomach, wishing his loves a good night’s rest while he watched over them both.

But this year Emma is not pregnant, and they have a lively little bundle of energy bouncing around the house. Well, actually, she’s crawling and can prop herself up to stand with a few steps that get a little longer every day. From all the books he’s read, and it was a lot, she’s progressing just fine, if not the slightest bit advanced…or maybe that’s just his thinking. He’s biased, but his daughter is bloody brilliant and has been since the day she was born.

Gods, that was a beautiful moment.

Bloody and loud and uncomfortable, but beautiful.

He hears Emma’s footsteps pad down the staircase. From the way she’s walking, she’s avoiding the creaks, but he knows that she’s still going to hit the one on the left five steps from the bottom. Right on cue, the stair moans and Emma groans before continuing on and coming to stand in front of him. She’s got on naught a thing but one of his old pirate shirts, something she’s taken to sleeping in because the necks allow easy access for breast feeding, and her long thin legs are on full display to his gaze, expanses of creamy skin right before him.

“Killian,” she whispers despite no one else being around, “what are you still doing downstairs?”

He hums before splaying his knees apart and tugging on her (his) shirt before she stumbles forward into the open space, her hands falling against his shoulders and the shirt dipping open in front of him. “Well, I’m playing Santa, and I hear there’s a song out there about mommy kissing Santa Claus.”

Her face scrunches up, and even though he knew it was a joke in bad form, he still had to say it.

“That’s not your best flirting, Mr. Jones.”

“Aye, I know. But I was still kind of hoping you’d kiss me.”

Her legs bend before she settles down onto his lap and her arms wrap around his neck. She’s warm, always so warm except for her damn feet, and he closes his eyes the moment her lips slant over his and his arms begin rubbing up and down her back, tugging her as close as he can get her.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” he whispers when they pull back from each other.

She reaches to the side and pulls his left arm up, placing a kiss against his stump and holding it against her chest while her other hand caresses his stubble. “Merry Christmas, babe. Do you want to come to bed now? The Grinch isn’t going to come and steal our Christmas tree. I think you might be safe.”

He chuckles before leaning into her palm. “I don’t know. Weird things happen here, and I think Hope may lose it if there’s no tree or presents in the morning.”

“She’s not even ten months old. She doesn’t understand the concept of Christmas.”

“But she understands the concept of shiny things and new toys. And we understand the concept of Christmas. Wasn’t it you who said this is more for us than for her?”

“Hmm, I don’t recall.”

“Liar.”

Emma gasps, even if it’s exaggerated, and he rolls his eyes. “How dare you call the mother of your children a thief. And at Christmas time no less. You scoundrel.”

“Dashing rapscallion.”

“Yeah, whatever.” She tugs at his t-shirt collar before leaning down and kissing him again, her lips barely brushing over his. “Let’s go to bed, dashing rapscallion. The real Santa won’t come if we’re down here, and I may have a nice little red surprise waiting for you upstairs.”

He quirks his eyebrow while his body begins to tingle and Emma rises from her perch on his lap.

“Really now?”

“You’ll have to come if you want to find out.”

She begins to walk away and he leans forward to playfully smack her ass, which only makes her sway her hips in a more obvious fashion. Yeah, he loves her a hell of a lot.

“That’s the plan.”

He wakes the next morning to Emma splayed across the entire bed, her head resting over his stomach, and to the sounds od Hope’s babbling through the static of the baby monitor. In the video screen, she’s just sitting up in her crib, but she likely needs to be fed and changed, so he slides out of bed, pulls his pajama pants back up, and wanders down the hall to her nursery. He’s got no clue what time it is, but Henry hasn’t woken to go downstairs to open presents yet, and if it’s anything like last year, he won’t be up anytime soon.

“Hi, little love,” he greets the moment he walks into the room, and Hope’s blue eyes find him almost immediately before she screeches. She’s adorable but holy hell can she make some noises. “Okay, okay,” he soothes, stepping forward and scooping her up so that she’s squirming in his arms, “daddy is just going to change your diaper and get you dressed in the pajamas we bought for mommy, okay? Because it’s Christmas, bug. Yeah, Merry Christmas, Hope.”

Hope doesn’t talk back because, well, of course she doesn’t, but he likes talking to his daughter anyways. One day she’ll be able to speak and she’ll very well talk to him like Henry sometimes talks to him, angry and dismissive and pissed that he said no to staying out until three in the morning. But right now, wishing he’d thought to put his brace on to help hold her down, she babbles as he changes her, and he’s content to listen to her little noises. He quite loves her little sounds, and as much as he loves watching her grow and watching the milestones, he kind of wants it to all just…stop.

He doesn’t want her to grow up. He wants to be able to hold her in his arms forever and listen to her squeals and dress her in pajamas with a tail on her bottom likes she’s a human reindeer.

Ten years ago, if he’d had a thought like that, he would have assumed he was delusional and dying, but it’s not ten years ago. It’s here and now, and while he’ll gladly challenge anyone who dare hurts his family, he’ll also gladly be gushy and sentimental for his family. He wasn’t sentimental, or at least he claimed not to be, for so long, and now his treasure chest isn’t simply a box of things. It’s a home of memories.

Once Hope is changed and dressed, her blonde curls pinned back with a bow, he walks her down to he and Emma’s bedroom, quietly sneaking in and getting back under the covers while Emma slumbers away…until Hope squeals again and gets her chubby hands on Emma’s face.

“Hi, baby,” Emma sighs, her eyes almost instantly transforming from terrified to affectionate. She moves the comforter, the blankets rustling, making sure that it’s still covering her bare chest until her hands are free and she’s sitting up against the headboard. “Did daddy come take care of you while I was sleeping? Yeah? That’s because I put him in a good mood last night.”

“Swan,” he chastises, though no part of him means it.

“She’s a baby, Killian. She doesn’t know what sex is. It’s not like having Henry in the room. We can’t traumatize her like that yet.”

“I know.” He leans over and kisses his wife’s head before pressing a kiss against Hope. “When should we wake Henry up? I know he’s sixteen, but the lad sleeps like a rock.”

Emma hums beside him, still rocking Hope on her lap while their daughter continues to touch all of Emma’s face. “Let me enjoy some cuddles with this little reindeer, nice choice by the way, before we go wake him up. We’ve got to get our stuff done before we head over to mom and dad’s.”

They end up waking Henry around seven, and for someone who has not been a fan of waking up before noon on his break from school, he shoots out of his bed pretty quickly, ambling down the hallway with a determination in his eyes that must be some kind of Christmas thing. He practically bounds down the stairs until Emma stops him, handing over Hope and claiming that she needs pictures of the two of them coming downstairs to see what Santa brought. Henry grumbles a bit before Hope slobbers over his face, and then he smiles down at his sister and talks to her, telling her all about Santa and Christmas while trying to get her to pose for the camera. It’s a disaster, but he’s sure that he and Emma will treasure the pictures and memories regardless.

Henry rips through his presents almost instantly, his face lighting up with excitement over the new laptop they bought him for his writing. Of course, he knows that the lad will likely use it to watch Netflix, but maybe some actual writing and work will be done.

“Thank you, guys,” Henry gushes, getting up and hugging Emma’s neck before he moves to come hug his.

“You’re welcome, my boy,” Killian whispers into Henry’s ear while patting his back. “I think there are some other things under the tree for you, too.”

“I know, but I already know what all of those are.”

“Kid,” Emma chuckles, wrangling Hope in her lap, “what the hell? Did you sneak peeks?”

“No, but you ordered them on Amazon, and it’s hooked up to my email.”

Emma’s mouth gapes open while Henry smirks, and Killian throws his hands up in the air. “See, darling, modern technology is bloody wonderful, but if we’d gone to the store, none of this would have ever happened.”

She huffs in response before looking down at Hope. “Your daddy and your brother are ruining Christmas, and you’re just happy to be playing with the wrapping paper. They should be more like you.”

“She’s a baby, mom.”

“Yeah, well, you’re my baby, too.”

“Mom,” Henry whines, but he smiles anyhow.

The rest of their morning is a blur of red and green wrapping paper being tossed around and thrown away, toys and books and clothes scattered all across the living room. It looks like a tornado has blown through, but for one day, he won’t bother to clean up right away. He’s just going to enjoy this time with his family.

They get Hope several sets of new clothes, none of which she cares about, and several new toys, all of which she cares about for ten minutes before moving on. Meanwhile Henry is sitting in the recliner messing with his computer, mumbling under his breath as it chimes in his lap. Emma opens her gifts, a myriad of clothes and books as well as some Granny’s gift cards. They’re not a thing, but he convinced the Widow Lucas to make them a thing for Emma. But then she opens a small box filled with a diamond necklace, and her eyes light up.

“Killian, we weren’t supposed to do any nice gifts like this.”

“Aye,” he scratches the back of his head and smiles down at her, “I know. I just saw it and thought you’d like it. And that maybe one day you’d go back to wearing necklaces again.’

“Will you,” she begins, scooting over on the couch so that her thighs press against his, “will you put it on? Hope will probably yank it off, but at least for this moment.”

She hands him the silver chain before sweeping her hair over her neck, the thick blonde strands all falling to one side. It takes some maneuvering, but it’s nothing he’s not capable of, and he gets the chain to clasp behind her neck, pressing a soft kiss just below where it rests.

“Beautiful,” he sighs, and Emma smiles. They both know he’s not talking about the necklace.

Though it is a damn beautiful necklace. He has become quite adept at gift giving if he says so himself.

He eventually gets around to opening his own gifts, some sea charts from Henry. He says they’re vintage, which is Henry’s way of saying they’re old, and Killian sometimes wonders if that’s how Henry describes him to his friends…as vintage. Emma’s bought him some new clothes, some of them too bloody bright for his liking, as well as a telescope and new vacuum. Henry practically falls out of his chair laughing at him being excited over a new vacuum, and that’s when he promptly tells Henry that the lad can use it to clean all of this up tonight.

And then maybe he’ll use Henry’s new laptop to “Netflix and chill” with Emma.

Both Emma and Henry gasp, but he chuckles along with Hope. She has no idea what’s going on, but her little baby laugh makes the entire room melt and forget that he just scandalized both mother and son.

Possibly.

Henry may remember that forever.

After all is said and done, it’s a wonderful Christmas morning with just the four of them in their home before they’re all on their way to different houses and celebrations with the complex, wonderful family to which they belong.

“So,” Emma asks, coming to stand next to him and wrapping an arm around his waist while Hope is snuggly perched on her opposite hip, “was operation baby’s first Christmas a success?”

He leans down to kiss her hairline, lingering a tad bit too long and letting the scent of her shampoo and flowery perfume invade his senses. “It was perfect.”

[m58]

A review of Peter Dent’s ‘Yarn’

Copy No-One

Peter Dent Yarn (Leafe 2021), citation p36; as nettles and ivy permit (Kaleidikon 2020) edition of 50

An alternative rendering of the title might be to copy only oneself, although as Dent elaborated ‘Copy no-one was my mantra until I’d tasted the best of what is and discovered ‘provenance’’ (p36). Dent that is is highly original but his inspiration neither is entirely without precedence. He has been writing inventive poetry for a long time now, since Proxima Centauri (1972) from Agenda, very often in short run limited editions. Dent has thus far resisted any compelling impetus to compile a Selected. Actually the copying motif is no doubt highly pertinent now given the essential status of appropriation among the avant-garde Conceptualists. Dent was also editor and publisher of Interim Press from 1975 to ’87.

It is worth recalling again that I first came across Dent’s writing in the Stride/Shearsman anthology A State of Independence (1998) for the spare and stirring sequence ‘Naming Nothing’, which I still regard highly, and is probably a good place to start for making sense of this poetry. Another highpoint is likely a trilogy of books from Shearsman;- Handmade Equations (2005), Tripping Daylight (2012), and A Wind-Up Collider (2019), by way of retrospect.

Working in favour of this writing is its originality and lack of pretension; it comes without inordinate claims and has a way of affecting or settling into the mind. That said I’d say Peter Dent clearly enjoys writing and is unequivocal about playing the authorial part. Like a number of others he is not averse on occasion to ephemeral private publication, though these works are generally in short runs, as we find for instance with as nettles and ivy permit.

I suspect then there is a sense in which Dent’s writing is not imposing; no grand claims; no reaching out or pushing for authority. And of course this is a little deceptive, like an underdog peculiarly fit for rigours of comparison.

We are here however certainly encountering a late phase in Peter Dent’s (b.1938) poetic trail. I don’t doubt one really has not, if anything else, the energy for it. That said, for mature work I’d say it is very accomplished, the mind in so many ways as perceptual and delineatory, discriminatory as ever.

Yarn naturally takes on both meanings of the word, but this is a collection of some 61 prose poetry pieces rather than any larger narrative. The self deprecatory note is apparent right off from the first poem, ‘At Least One Yarn’s Died the Death’. The homemade white yarn glove on the cover is also short of a couple of fingers. This piece does actually have a self-contained argument winding its way through;- ‘The school closed long ago’, ‘the 20th Century’s lost its way here’, recuperative action may be required but ‘it will mean more than walking the dog’ in that ‘Students are now topographically challenged’ where ‘Playgrounds fly only branded kites’. (p7) It’s a bit of a melancholy observation, Dent himself was a school teacher, but it can hardly be denied the acute and penetrating perception of these linked up observances. There seems to be some sort of recognition that students lack the capability of mobility that once promised and motivated challenges of moving higher or on.

This sense of perhaps opportunities curbed or lost continues in the second poem, ‘A Yarn Found Wanting’ which begins ‘The carnival was only too obviously over’ (p.8). Although this rather elegiac note seems to approach a kind of resolving cast in the third ‘One Yarn to Another’,- ‘I don’t mind what you do: being words only you can always listen to their song.’ (end p.9) There is a muted social commentary here that is perhaps for others to more fully if not prosaically work out.

‘Yarn with Black and Maroon’ that closes the collection returns to this quality of perceptiveness. It consists of three ‘deliberations’, which it is tempting to ascribe as students’ guides. These are,- ‘My shadow makes to light everything I owe’ (somewhat paraphrasing); ‘A road of the circumstances of my understanding’; and ‘Sometimes necessary to close down words too manic to fit’. This verges on a highly truncated ars poetica, while also nothing so obviously grand.

That first deliberation discusses a bringing to light but also a no doubt ethical question of what is ‘owed’. And this plainly also reverts back to the writing, as, say, ‘what is owed in writing’. This suggests to me the way so many of us are caught up as a ‘community’, albeit a highly dispersed one, of writers. We very likely often take on writing not for the obvious lure of fame, fortune and bestselling, but out of an effort of communication with and between those who matter to us, a certain quality of care, attention, craft and the workmanlike.

Dent’s gripping and multi-varied renderings of language are highlighted at many instances through the book. There is for instance a very charming observation on page 49,- ‘Only love and art have the faintest who I am’ which is succinct as well as unexpected. Another memorable rendering occurs just before this,-

            ‘half out the door I’m seeking alliance with simply what              at any given time and in any place actually IS.’   (p.45)

‘Yarn Warp’ (p.21) has some highly adventurous phrasing to encounter,-

            ‘I’m a latch-key liberal independent and a pro-future sky-              diver with an early-onset appetite for even slower slow-              cooking. I’m a multi-bit fact-fake deviant after my tea.’ (end p.21)

which is refreshing and provocative, for instance in matching ‘fact’ to ‘fake’ and contrasting ‘early-onset’ with ‘slowing’ down, not to mention concluding with questions of when to take tea.

nettles and ivy is also dispositionally quite complex. Ways of apprising this, say, might be the artwork and title, neither could be called ‘easy’ or ‘pitched to sell’, say. This intimates perhaps that much of which it speaks pertains to the inner life, including its complexities; but if probed it does yield.

I could pick out a few among numerous distinctive phrasings;-

          ‘If only I hadn’t put myself at the centre of the mystery; if           candy floss hadn’t tempted – and you not around to see.’ (‘Frailties’)

And the conclusion of ‘Palm Trees and Sandy Assignments’;-

                  ‘She thinks irresolutely about me. I

     can account for just about everything that doesn’t matter.      I can’t what does. Her whisper. Barely a breath of air.’ (‘Palm Trees’, end)

Then the penultimate ‘Imagine You Don’t’;-

     ‘She can wear her clothes out; I like her as much as she is as      she isn’t. I always stump up the necessary.’     (‘Imagine You Don’t’, end)

There is also the ‘last rehearsal’ and ‘waving goodbye’ of the final poem, ‘Ill-Informed Choices’, which I suspect many readers may pick up on. Personal pronouns don’t appear too frequently; the ‘Red Book of Refractions’ has much of the male third person.

So the pamphlet I would say is highly articulate and nuanced. There is a thread which I might describe as an awareness of seeking out or recognising in an insightful way matters of truth and deception. In all then, acutely thoughtful and unexpected. My impression is that this will hold up well to rereading; plenty going on there, as with Yarn.

Dent I can only conclude has a pretty decent grasp of philosophy and of ethics. As we find for instance in ‘Unspecified Yarns of the Moment’ he maintains that there is not the inclination to ‘put my mind between warring parties’ (p.62). And nearer the conclusion in this prose poem we arrive at ‘Thinking a letter will put things straight or fix a wise-woman’s potion is curious? If only there were different words and happier meanings.’ There are limits to what words can do. There is naturally what might be termed an interface between action and behaviour and the use of language. An accurate and incisive use of speech is no guarantor of happy episodes or endings.

Poetry can be showy or adept without necessarily offering up much in the way of novel insight or understanding. At the end of the day we are surely returned to how literature and words connect with our behaviour, thoughts and perceptions. Language might be conceded as something of a means to an end. But of course we are embroiled in it and lengthy passages of time can go by in which the use of words is not seen as particularly critical. I suspect Dent’s writing probes or at times irritates with these pertinent connections. There is and has been the effort to move forward with the language, to enjoy and explore its capacities. Albeit that these are very late entries into the game these two publications have a remarkable solidity and a kind of essentialism, whereof the expressiveness is very adequate, guided and appropriate to intent. Whence at last to reside,- ‘This is after all a road and being on it keeps me free’ (p67). Dent keeps this curt and suggestive rather than fully spelling it out, though others have well worked the road motif, as if we were not always gathered into that process of getting from A to B.

Clark Allison

[thegreatduggo]

Ordinary Obsessions

I have a habit of wasting way too much time and energy on minor and not terribly important endeavors. I get obsessed with trying to solve the “puzzle”, whatever it may be. I give it my best shot until I get fed up or run out of time.

After enough time has passed, I think to myself “There’s got to be a solution - it can’t be that difficult, surely?” and I get back to it with renewed resolve and vigor.

This is essentially the colloquial definition of insanity. I could call it "going down the rabbit hole", "wearing blinkers", getting "stuck in a rut" or various other similar phrases, but I think a better term for me is "cul-de-sac'ing". I make my way into a dead-end and just keep trying to fight my way out rather than turning around.

The funny thing is that in most cases I do finally prevail, so it’s not really insanity - it’s actually victory. So what’s the problem? The problem is the amount of work I put into things that are pretty trivial but end up taking up a big chunk of my life.

One of the more trivial examples was when I broke the carafe on my expensive coffee machine (it has a built-in grinder). I pulled it out from the machine and it slipped in my wet hands, rotated and hit the granite counter-top from an elevation of no more than 2 inches. It was enough to break out a small section from the base, rendering the whole machine useless. 

It was still quite new, or rather, it hadn’t seen much use as I tended to get my coffee on the way to work or at work, where I was quite a prodigious coffee drinker. So, when I broke the carafe I was pretty pissed off. And I guess, in a way, when I try to fix these things, I’m actually trying to expunge the original mistake - I absolutely hate making stupid mistakes.

Initially, I tried to various appliance parts vendors to see if I could get an OEM replacement. Virtually every machine on the market has a different shape and size of carafe. You're never going to find an exact replacement and good luck finding one that's even a workable alternative.

I kept searching on and off, frustrated that I couldn't find something that must surely be out there somewhere, right? It's a sodding carafe - everyone breaks them...

After a few months of iterative searching, I found some universal options but it was hard to tell if they were the right fit - the specs weren't that clear and the dimensions, particularly the height, had to be a close match to make the “sneak a cup” feature work. Eventually I bought the one (actually a couple) that seemed best - but they were way off and I sent them back.

Months went by and then I gave it another go. The previous website was gone, but I found another after a lot of digging. I bought the "Euro" version this time. The capacity was right and it fitted the heating plate but, even with the adapter it wouldn't activate the sneak-a-cup valve. The simple solution was to remove that valve altogether, but (being anal) I'd kept the old carafe all this time and I was able to scavenge the old lid to make the new one work. I had felt it was kind of dumb to keep it, but it got me sorted.

7 years later the coffee-maker stopped working. A bit of research pointed to the thermostat being the likely culprit. This type of electronic component is quite easy to get hold of these days and can be had very cheaply. 

I repaired it successfully for $6. It worked perfectly.

It just failed again and I repaired it from the extra thermostats I bought for general use.

But this wasn’t what got me going on this thread. When I first moved into this house, I noticed that 5 or 6 windows had a strange green film on them that rendered them semi-opaque. 

At first I thought it was some sort of deposit that could be scraped off or removed with a heavy-duty cleaner. I wasn’t overly bothered about it - it was just unsightly, but it wasn’t causing a problem, besides I had plenty else to do.

When I got round to taking a closer look, I found out that the film was actually in between the panes of glass. I’d never seen or heard about this problem and I didn’t know what to do about it.

I thought that insulated glass units (IGU) never went bad and only had to be replaced if the glass cracks or breaks. So, I felt that there might be a standard procedure for addressing it. I had no idea what - they’re sealed units after all and they’re assembled never to come apart.

I tried calling round a few double glazing stores, but they only deal with ordering full window installations from the various companies that fabricate them. Installing an entire new window would be very expensive and and would also be disruptive. 

I searched online but nothing came up.

Going round the neighborhood one day, I saw a sub-contractor sign for a window glass company.

I contacted the guy and found out that these windows are designed to come apart and can be repaired. There are manufacturers who can make IGUs to any shape or size - which is kind of obvious when you think that essentially all windows are custom made and the IGU is of course the key component.

After some time, I got round to getting the job done. I had 5 windows to get done. The guy came round, measured up, and went off to order the new IGUs. In the meantime, I found another one and added that to the mix.

He came back a couple of weeks later and did the installation and it all went fine.

A few years later, I realized that I had a bunch more bad panes. I couldn’t understand how I had missed them before, especially as 3 of them were really far gone. 

I had the phone number for the old company, but it was disconnected. I thought that maybe they’d moved or changed the business name. I had nowhere else to go so I just kept looking and looking, thinking that if I tried hard enough I’d somehow find them - this was my cul-de-sac’ing I followed lead after lead. I did this on and off for 3 years or so. I explored other options when they popped up, but nothing looked very promising.

Somewhere along the line, I did manage to find another company that would be able to do the job, but it was pretty pricey.  I wasn’t happy about it and put it on the back burner. 

I kept looking periodically and then finally, I stopped cul-de-sac’ing and started with a clean mental slate. This time I found an online company where I could order my own custom IGUs. The prices were surprisingly good and the shipping was free, so it came out as a much better deal than I was expecting.

I did a bit of research on fitting the IGUs and it didn’t look too difficult. I was a bit nervous as I am with all new things, especially with the thought of doing it wrong and breaking something or mis-measuring the IGU.

I prevaricated on committing on placing the order. I kept remeasuring and dry-running the order. In the end I pulled off the fastening strips and measured the actual IGU - which is what I should have done to start with! Rather than speculating about how much clearance there should be between the IGU and the frame. 

In practice, the IGU has about 1/8″ clearance all round and so, you can simply measure the dimensions up to the edge of the fastening strips and then subtract 1/4″ of each dimension. 1/8″ spacers all round hold it in position. 

Eventually, I took the plunge and nervously placed the order.

For fitment, I decided to use glass-tape instead of silicone sealant for the install. Silicone is more robust and allows for easy realignment to insert the spacers, but if the IGU is not dropped in accurately, silicone may get onto the glass and if too much silicone is used, the excess will be forced out onto the glass. If the silicone is wiped off, it will smear and spread out further. It can never be fully removed from the surface and it will continue to attract dirt and cause water beading for evermore. Plus, it’s a bastard to deal with when replacing the IGU. First, t

he silicone bond has to be broken all round the window frame with a thin putty knife and then removed from inside the frame. It’s a tedious task. The new IGUs are very high quality and I probably will never need to touch them again, nevertheless, I prefer to use a more maintenance friendly approach.

I wasn’t keen on the fact that the tape creates a bigger separation between the glass and the frame than silicone but the extra thickness is barely noticeable on the inside of the window. I also wondered if the tape would absorb water but so what if it does - it’s not going to do anything. I did test it out of interest and it didn’t soak up any water as far as I could tell. Besides, it gets compressed against the frame making it thinner. It may trap a little dirt but that’s about it.

Two tales of cul-de-sac’ing - two of many. I was, of course, victorious - but what the cost?

[asleepinawell]

Silhouette

A Story About Shaw

(AN: About two weeks ago I posted Destinations, a story about Root and liminal spaces. I knew I wanted to do a companion piece for Shaw, but I couldn’t figure out the theme. The phrase that kept coming to mind was negative space, but it took me awhile to figure out why my brain settled on that. The result was quite different from Destinations, but it kinda had to be. Silhouette was...much harder to write and might be more polarizing than the last for a couple reasons, but nonetheless I hope you enjoy it).

After the accident, Shaw comes home one day to find a framed picture in her bedroom. It's a photograph of herself from a few years ago. In it she sits solemnly between her mother and father who are both smiling, laughing. Her father’s hands is resting on her shoulder.

Shaw is puzzled, unsure why her mother chose to put this picture on her dresser. By this point she’s realized that people surround themselves with photographs to feel connected; the photos are a reminder of the things pictured in them, a shortcut to the emotions those things evoke.

The day the picture shows up on her dresser, all solemn in its heavy black frame, Shaw stares at it, trying to understand what her mother expects her to do with it. She’s...not content with her father’s absence, but she’s not sure how a picture is supposed to help. She stares at it for hours, but only ends up with a headache. When she moves to a different, larger room the next year, she leaves the framed photo behind on the dresser. Her mother notices, of course. She doesn’t say anything, but the photo shows up on the desk in Shaw’s new room the next day. Shaw stares at the picture again, but still comes up blank. Her mother must have had a reason for moving it, so she keeps thinking about it, tracing the implications of the actions and expectations. Tries to understand why it’s so important to her mother that she keep it. A year later they move to a new house. This time it’s the first thing she packs.

She’s sitting in her apartment at three in the morning, bouncing a tennis ball off one wall and catching it. She knows her neighbors can hear it, that they’ll probably call the building’s super tomorrow to complain. She keeps bouncing it. She catches the ball on the rebound and looks around the room. There’s some light coming in through the shades from a street lamp outside, casting bright lines across the bare wood floors. Her desk is the only real furniture aside from her bed, and the books and papers on it are stacked neatly. She wonders if she’s supposed to throw that all out now, light the dumpster on fire. Is that the proper way to conclude a chapter of her life? They’d told her she didn’t care about her patients, that it didn’t hurt her when she lost one. She can’t argue with that exactly. But…. But after her patient, Loftin, died she’d spent the next evening reviewing every action she’d taken, trying to find places to improve technique, hone reactions. Sure, she didn’t feel sad, or guilty, because there was no reason for her to. She knew she’d done everything it was possible for her to do at the time; all that was left was continuing to improve so that the next time she’d have more options. Would having a good cry help her next patient? She’d stumbled upon another resident sobbing in the bathroom one day. The distraught woman had just lost her a patient, her first, had asked her how she dealt with it. Shaw had been irritated, told her to get better at her job so it wouldn’t happen again.

Wasn’t that the obvious answer? She throws the ball at the wall again, harder this time. By the time her neighbors complain the next day, she’s already moved on.

Apparently she isn’t suited to saving lives, but maybe she’s suited to taking them.

She understands the contradictions of being a soldier. Taking lives, and, by doing so, saving lives. But saving lives isn’t the skill she’s congratulated for, and isn’t what catches the attention of the ISA. No one asks her why she wants to join the marines, but then no one had ever asked her why she wanted to be a doctor.

She sits in a room full of very fresh corpses, her gun trained on a man named Lewis who’s staring at her in horror. She knows that operational procedure suggests she should shoot him, not leave any loose ends, but as of about an hour ago she doesn’t work for the ISA any longer. And, while she wouldn’t lose any sleep over putting a bullet between Lewis’s eyes, he isn’t a threat. She didn’t take the job she just lost to shoot the Lewis’s of the world. He runs away into the night as she sits on the couch surrounded by the men she just killed and the absence of the one she let go.

“I read your file and I’m kind of a big fan.”

Shaw’s biggest fan apparently has a thing for her sociopathic tendencies. The more time they’re forced to spend together, the more she wonders why. This…Root seems to generally dislike people, finds them useless, and Shaw decides the flighty, homicidal sadist must think she’s found a kindred spirit in her.

Except… sometimes Root’s face softens when Shaw’s pulling a bullet out of her or checking a bandage. As if somehow Shaw’s actions are louder than her irritated retorts.

As if Root sees that what Shaw does is sometimes more telling than what she is.

There's never any question of her not holding onto the kid's dumb medal.

That framed picture her mother had given her never did anything for Shaw, but it hadn't cost her anything to leave it on her desk. And sometimes her mother would see it there and smile.

She hangs the medal on the light by her bed.

Harold tells her she has a binary moral compass and she has to suppress the urge to roll her eyes.

Root’s still stuck in her cage in the library and Reese is off on his suicide revenge mission. She rather likes Reese; he doesn’t pry where he’s not wanted, and she can appreciate his decision to hunt down Quinn. But Finch wants her help and apparently his conceptions of right and wrong outweigh Reese’s desire for retribution. She’s not sure what Finch thinks her motives are for beating up half of Brooklyn, because it isn’t like she doesn’t want Quinn dead as well. But Finch would hardly be the first employer to assume she’s casually violent without cause.

The thing is, she doesn’t like many people, but she’d liked Carter, respected her. And while she recognizes Reese’s claim on this revenge, she wants to make sure he gets it.

But, well, Finch is the boss, and Reese is in bad shape, too damn lost in his own head to acknowledge that he needs to stay alive at least long enough to pull the trigger. And things might be dull without him around, so fine, she’ll play along.

But Reese keeps managing to stay ahead of them, and time is running out.

Of course, there’s an obvious solution.

Shaw has (mostly) gotten over the taser incidents. She got to punch Root in the face (which had been immensely satisfying) and then Root had sat in a cage and had Finch preach at her for days on end which Shaw can only imagine was excruciating. They’re probably even now.

And all that is irrelevant anyway because the mission is finding Reese, and Root is the fastest way to that goal.

Finch is having none of it, though, too enmeshed in his owns fears. She wonders again exactly how emotions help save lives.

Root is dangerous, unpredictable, and a pain in Shaw’s ass, but she’s also a valuable asset, and they don’t have the luxury of requisitioning help from the morally unimpeachable (if such a thing even exists, which Shaw highly doubts). But Finch is unable to see past the parts of Root (and, Shaw realizes, the Machine) that terrify him to the parts that could be invaluable to them now.

Shaw finally gives in to the urge and rolls her eyes. Binary moral compass, her ass. Someone here's got one, but it sure as shit ain't her.

She doesn’t say that though and eventually, when it’s almost too late, she gets her way.

Reese lives.

Root examines her apartment as if she can see something beyond the bare walls and lack of furniture.

“What?” Shaw asks, but Root only shakes her head.

“It’s very you,” she says.

Shaw holds back a scowl, strangely disappointed by the answer. She knows she doesn’t let it show on her face, but Root seems to pick up on it anyway.

“I meant, it’s…” Root tilts her head, searching the ceiling for inspiration. “…it’s direct.” She lets out a frustrated sigh, still unhappy with her word choice. “There’s nothing here that doesn’t have a reason to be. It’s…honest, and you can see the important parts easily.”

“Nothing here’s important.” Maybe the guns in the fridge, but even those are more practical and she knows that isn’t what Root meant.

She's suddenly very glad she'd pocketed that kid's medal right when they'd gotten here. Something tells her Root would have immediately honed in on it.

Root’s smiling now, like she knows something Shaw doesn’t. “Maybe the things you find important aren’t things that can be put on shelves, Sameen. Not that you have any shelves.”

She probably thinks she sounds clever, insightful. Shaw rolls her eyes, something she does a lot these days, especially around Root.

“Whatever.”

Maybe inviting Root here was a mistake.

She doesn’t kick her out though.

She finds she likes working with Reese even more than she’d expected. He does have an irritating habit of flying off the handle and running headlong into needless danger, but he’s otherwise easy to be around. 

He teases sometimes, and it’s almost affectionate, his awkward way of showing he gets it, he gets her. Not completely, but more than most people do.

She’s glad they saved his life.

She’s used to being thought of as a blunt instrument, and so she’s a bit nonplussed by the way Root keeps insisting she cares. That’s not something anyone’s ever accused her of before and she’s annoyed by it as a reflex.

She’s annoyed by it the entire ride out of the darkened city on a damned bike, and when she steals a car on the other side of the bridge, and all the way across bumblefuck New Jersey to make sure Root doesn’t get shot before she can tell her how annoyed she is.

She watches her own shadow biking furiously alongside her over the bridge. That’s all most people see, she knows. Her shadow, empty and dark, miming out her movements because it can’t do anything else.

Root predictably insinuates she was worried about her and Shaw isn’t nearly as annoyed as she’d planned to be.

“Did Harold tell you anything?” Root’s fidgeting with her jacket, uncomfortable.

She’s shown up tonight out of nowhere, the first time Shaw’s had word of her since the hotel incident.

She doesn’t think she’s ever met anyone as prone to getting shot as Root. She’s got some sort of nutso martyr complex that should make Shaw steer well clear of her. And yet here she is in Shaw’s apartment. Again.

“Tell me what?”

She’s pulling her medical kit out already because god knows Root probably did a half-assed job getting her wounds treated.

“Nothing. It’s not important.”

“Okay.”

She wonders what Root had said that Finch thought she wouldn’t care about. He might have been right about that, in some fashion. In a way that made sense to him anyway.

She’s glad the Machine doesn’t tell Root this time, about how she’d once again gone to try and find her. Because then Root might tell her whatever it was Finch hadn’t and Shaw isn’t sure she’s ready to hear that.

She’s not ever going to be able to tell Root what she thinks she wants to hear. That’s not who she is.

But there is one thing she can do.

Back when she’d left for college, she’d brought that picture her mother had put on her dresser, been sure to let her know she’d packed it. She’d put it on the desk in her dorm room, the only decoration she allowed. 

She hadn’t put it there for herself.

The first time her mother had come to visit, she’d seen the framed photo and had beamed at it just like Shaw had known she would.

Root doesn’t smile when Shaw kisses her. Definitely doesn’t smile when she locks her in the elevator.

But then Root had already known, or at least strongly suspected. Or at least hoped. And now she knows for sure, a parting gift, the only one Shaw can give.

(And maybe, Shaw admits to herself (because if it’s the last chance she has she might as well be honest), that kiss had been for herself, too).

Do the others know now? Were her actions finally loud enough to drown out the deafening quiet people could sense within her?

She supposes she’ll never find out now.

When they’d trained her in the ISA they’d gone on and on about detaching the mind, taking it someplace safe. She’s never been able to detach her mind like that because she’s never needed to. Nothing has ever been able to get inside her head enough to do damage.

At the time she’d assumed a safe place was an actual place, a location. She finally understands why the exercise had been a waste of time for her back then. And why it isn't a waste anymore.

Samaritan can’t figure it out. With all its power and knowledge, it’s still ignorant when it comes to her. It knows what she is and (like so many before) it expects her to act according to her programming. When she doesn’t it tries again and again, convinced she’s only being stubborn and that eventually she’ll act as it expects.

She wonders if it knows that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

Eventually it tries a new approach, but now it’s gone too far in the other direction. It expects her to react like Reese or Finch might, to be swayed by its mathematics of human lives.

She remembers her first meeting with Root, how she said torture almost never works. Torture is about getting inside someone’s head and now she’s glad Root never did get a chance to try and get inside hers.

Because she’s the only one who stood a chance.

She’s unsure of everything when she breaks free, off-balance in a way that’s completely alien to her. But she knows that going back, getting near the others, near Root, is the wrong thing to do. She has to keep her safe.

Root will understand because she always does.

She enjoys her time in the desert. It's quiet, and the wide open spaces are soothing after all her time imprisoned.

She thinks it might be nice to stay here a while, away from all the complications of the world. She'd lost track of time while she'd been locked up, why not lose a little more?

But she doesn't stop walking, headed in a straight line towards the one place she can't go.

Her shadow lags behind her across the landscape.

She can go anywhere in the world now that she’s free. Anywhere that isn’t New York City. Root is almost definitely still in the city, so she absolutely cannot go anywhere near there and that's all there is to it.

She heads straight to New York.

She won't let herself look for Root or the others, but she won't leave either and eventually the inevitable comes to pass.

And it turns out she’s the one who doesn’t understand (and apparently Samaritan doesn’t either), because Root points the gun at herself and suddenly Shaw’s annoyed and mildly worried, things she hasn’t felt in quite some time. At least not in this way.

They sit in the park most of the night, in a spot Root promises is free from surveillance. Samaritan might not be watching her, but Root sure is. Her face practically glows.

It brings back whispers of the simulations, of Root swearing she’d never given up looking for her, and Shaw raises a hand to her ear without meaning to.

“Hope you didn’t miss me too much,” she says, unable to stop herself from dangling out a line from the script she’s long-since memorized.

Root’s silent at first, her eyes full of things she won’t put into words.

“John and I almost blew up Control after you...after everything,” she says at last. “Fired a rocket at her car and then stuck her in a cage and tased her.”

She tilts her head to one side and manages one of her mischievous grins. “Well, I tased her. John brooded threateningly in the background.”

Shaw’s surprised at the choked laugh that escapes from her throat. This was one response she’d definitely never heard in a simulation. And even Samaritan hadn't been able to predict the weird fondness Root has apparently developed for Reese.

She wonders what else she's missed, how much everyone's changed. Where she fits in.

“I’m glad you came back here. To New York, I mean,” Root says and Shaw is reminded of that first time Root had been in her apartment, all that nonsense about the things that can't be put on shelves.

“Pretty bad idea under the circumstances. Would have been safer for you if I’d stayed well away.”

“No. It wouldn’t have been.”

There’s an expression on Root’s face she can’t quite define, and she thinks that maybe staying away wouldn’t have kept her safe. Not from some things.

On some level she must have already known that. After all, she’d come back here.

It’s a little overcast the next morning, standing there under the bridge, and she casts no shadow. There’s nothing to see here but her.

From the other’s expressions she can tell that her absence left a hole and she wonders what that looked like to each of them, what part of their world had been missing.

Looking at the others makes her think that maybe she understands a little about what Root's expression last night had meant. That there hadn’t been a Shaw-shaped hole in Root’s world like there had been for the others.

If the Machine’s silence had torn Root’s world to shreds then Shaw’s absence had surely demolished what was left of it. There couldn’t be a hole in a world that was gone.

But that’s not the expression on Root’s face now.

The others stare at her in wonder and disbelief, like she’s not real.

But Root….

Root looks at her like she’s the only thing that is.

(AN: I’m aware that ‘Shaw’ is not her real last name and she wouldn’t have had it as a child. I chose to use it for consistency since referring to Shaw as ‘Sameen’ when writing in her POV feels weird to me.)