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nightwishesworld · 4 years ago

Note

hello! do you think you could do a chapter with fem!reader whose afraid of thunderstorms and wakes up in the middle of the night because of it but doesn’t wanna wake alcina so she just stays awake but the storm goes on for like a week and this keeps happening until she notices and comforts you through it by like cuddles or talking you to sleep to distract you from it :)

Oh my god I hate the way this came out. My brain just could not process this for some reason. I also couldn't make it as long as a week, my apologies.

**************

One dark evening at Castle Dimitrescu a storm rolled in. Relatively speaking, it was quite harmless and most of the inhabitants of the castle were unbothered by the storm.

Except you.

Late into the evening, whilst most were asleep, the storm was at its strongest - the crackle of thunder rolling through the halls as flashes of lightning illuminated the darkest corners of the room. You were trying to sleep, honest, but just as you felt the drowsiness of rest come to take you - a loud crack of thunder would jolt you awake and paralyze you with fear.

You sat with your back against the headboard, your breathing rapid.

You pulled the covers up to your chest and hugged your pillow close to your chest. Resisting the urge to run and hide in the closet like you used to do as a kid was becoming more and more difficult.

Another flash, another boom.

You knew it wasn’t logical, but you couldn’t stop yourself from flinching or jumping as the sounds of the storm roared outside. It was just so loud and you could swear the castle was shaking with it.

You squeezed your eyes shut, white-knuckling the pillow held tight against your chest and humming a song to yourself in order to distract your brain.

The sound of constant rain was suddenly accompanied by heavy hail falling, and that’s when the thoughts started charging at you full force.

What if the lightning strikes the castle? What if the castle collapsed? Did it have the right infrastructure? What if-

“Stop it, God. Stop it!” You begged your brain but to no avail. Your mind kept generously providing you with possibilities and images you did not ask for.

Another loud boom and this time you couldn’t help the cry let out before clapping a hand over your mouth and diving under the blankets.

When you didn’t hear anything for a few minutes you felt it safe enough to come out of hiding. Thankfully the vampire slumbering next to you wasn’t disturbed by your pathetic cries and whimpers. She had a rough day dealing with a very pissed off Mother Miranda and needed rest and relaxation as much as she could possibly get.

You forced yourself to lay still on your back and focus all your energy on controlling your breathing. That was the key to saving yourself a panic attack. You don’t know how long you were staring up at the ceiling, but dawn eventually came and your partner stirred from her sleep.

She would have been happy to see you if not for the redness in your eyes and puffiness surrounding them, obvious signs of lack of sleep.

“Are you alright, draga mea?” She wrapped her arms around your midsection and rested her head on your shoulder, kissing your cheek.

You didn’t answer, even though you knew Alcina wouldn’t just drop the question. She was sweet and caring like that, which is probably why you never had the heart to tell her how much of a coward you actually are.

“You didn’t sleep very well, did you?”

“Nightmares,” you rasped, trying to focus on Alcina more than the low rumbling outside. “I’ll be fine after a cup of coffee.”

She looked as though she didn’t accept that answer but quickly hid any doubts behind a warm smile. “If you’re sure.”

It felt wrong lying to her. You had never felt the need to hide anything from Alcina before, but this was just embarrassing. She’d probably laugh at you told her you were still afraid of thunderstorms.

The day progressed with relative normalcy despite the occasional sounds of rumbling. Alcina busied herself dealing with the mountain of paperwork on her desk for Mother Miranda and the girls were running amuck in the basement. Depending on which room you were in you could hear their laughter below you. Their mischief down there has always been a mystery to you, even now after living in the castle a couple of years. You knew what they were doing, but couldn't fathom the idea of enjoying it so much. You did find it rather disturbing that their torturing frightened you less than a stupid thunderstorm.

You huddled in the back section of the library behind the bookshelves so you couldn’t see the lightning out the windows. The loud rumbling still had you on edge, but a good book is always a welcome distraction. It worked so well, that you didn't hear Daniela approaching. You practically jumped three feet in the air when she was stood in front of you.

“What’s wrong with you?” Daniela asked, her voice was stern, but it also had a concerning tone to it. She had dropped her bag, keeping the knife at her side. Your breathing was heavier than usual as you tried to think of what to say. It was more than embarrassing to tell Daniela the truth. You knew for a fact she out of everyone in the castle would laugh at you. "You scared me,"

She rolled her eyes. "No, Dummy, I mean what's really wrong?"

You shrug and turn the page of your book. “Nothing.”

Another boom. You couldn’t fight off flinched.

“Oh, I think I get it. You’re afraid of-”

“Don’t tell anyone.” You clenched your fists, shutting your eyes tightly. Daniela wanted to laugh, but she didn’t. You watched as she cautiously sat back down. The redhead sat in front of you, the rain somehow sounding even louder than it had before. You looked over at Daniela, feeling the embarrassment creep upon you.

Daniela started at you with a rather confused expression, resting her arms on her knees. “Out of everything we’ve been through,” she began, “everything you’ve seen us do. Everything that goes on in this castle just below your feet,” she paused. “And you’re scared of thunder?”

You sat silently and twiddled your thumbs.

“Why?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you whisper. “It’s not important. You’re only going to run off and tell everyone.”

Daniela rolled her eyes and picked up her bag, headed once again for the basement. “Whatever, y/n, have it your way.”

You spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening shuffling around the library hiding from the white flashes. It was only when Daniela came to fetch you for dinner that you left. Luckily you were eating in the kitchen instead of the larger Dining Hall. The kitchen is much more manageable; marginally fewer windows to see the lightning. The meal carried on as it normally would; the girls boasted about their successes in the basement, Alcina discusses all the work she got done today and complains about the work she put off for tomorrow. It was almost enough to take your mind off the chaos happening just outside the windows. Almost.

The storm carried on just as confidently throughout the evening and into the night. It showed no signs of relenting, which in turn meant another sleepless night.

You wasted no time stripping your clothes and crawling into bed, back to the open windows. Alcina didn’t think much of it, simply chalking it up to being exhausted from the previous night’s lack of sleep. She wasn’t completely wrong, you did feel like you were ready to sleep for the next 24 hours. But you knew the storm wouldn’t allow you that luxury.

Pressure against your back and an arm wrapping around your midsection snapped you out of your thoughts.

“I hope you sleep tonight, my love.”

“Me too.”

An hour later and you were still wide awake listening to the rain being pelted against the windows. An anxious voice whispered impossible scenarios of the rain breaking through the windows and lightning striking you down in the safety of your bed. You tried your hardest to not toss and turn as to not disturb the woman next to you. She's not asleep yet, you can tell by the lack of snoring, but her breathing is starting to even out. You were curled up on your side, back to Alcina. She wrapped you in her arms, her chest against your back and arm across your waist. "Dove..." she whispered in your ear. "Y/n... "

"I'm sleeping, Al." You murmured snuggling further into the vampire’s arms, your eyes still closed.

"No, you're not." She stroked your side absently. “Are you sure you’re ok? You aren’t falling ill are you?”

You sigh. “No, I’m not getting sick. My body is just too exhausted to relax.”

Alcina hummed, burrowing her face in the crook of your neck. “I’ll stay up with you for a while.”

“You will not. Go to sleep Al, I’ll be fine. You had a long day yourself, one of us should be able to sleep."

"Why don't we go sit in the Drawing Room or the Library? I'll hold you in my lap and read to you." God no. Way too many windows. "Goodnight, Alcina." You feel her sigh against your skin, pushing a few stray hairs around. "Can I do anything?" "Stop worrying, it's just insomnia." "I'll stay up with you then. You shouldn't be up all by yourself staring at the ceiling." "I'm not alone, Love, you're right here with me. Asleep or not I'm still in your arms, and that helps a lot." You feel her smile against your neck and pull you closer against her front. "wake me if you need anything."

You actually slept fairly well; only waking up a few times to have Alcina soothe you back to sleep. Being tucked away in her embrace did a world of help, but you still woke up hours before Alcina did. Her eyes fluttered open and focus on your groggy face. She frowns.

"Did you sleep at all?"

You smile and kiss her lips. "Yes, I actually slept a lot better last night than before."

"Good," she pulls you back to kiss you again.

*******************************************************************************************

Later in the afternoon Bela and Cassandra invited (dragged you really) into the Drawing Room to play a game of cards.

Everything was going really well. You were laughing and playing with the girls like everything was as it should be in Castle Dimitrescu.

You were made astutely aware of the situation outside again when a loud crack of thunder shook the castle. There was another flash and clap of thunder, this time loud enough to make Cassandra flinch.

You abruptly shot up from the table. “Sorry. I need a minute.” You rushed down the hall into one of the guest rooms. Cassandra and Bela shared a confused glance and watched as you hurried away. They’d never seen you so flighty and nervous before. Neither could tell what was wrong.

They laid on the carpet and silently counted to sixty before following you to down the corridor.

“Y/n?” Bela softly knocked on the door. “It’s been a minute.”

There was no response. More thunder. Bela frowned. “We’re coming in, okay?”

She opened the door a crack and poked her head inside. You were nowhere to be seen. “Y/n?” Cassandra called, stepping further inside and glancing around the room. The sisters checked under the bed, then under the covers, even under the shade of the bedside lamp. Then Bela peered out of the rain-soaked window for good measure. Where else could you be?

Just as Cassandra decided she was stumped, she heard a rustling from behind her and a muffled, “I’m in here.” She turned around in confusion because the only place they hadn’t checked in that direction was…

They crept over to the closet and carefully slid open the door. The girls smiled when they found you sitting on the ground, curled up with your head between your knees. “Playing hide and seek now, are we?” Bela said. “Next round I call being the— um, y/n?”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, staying right where you were. “Sorry.”

“S-Sorry for what…?” Cassandra crouched down beside you. The closet almost had enough space for the three of you to fit.

“Y/n, please. Something’s obviously bothering you, can’t you tell us?”

All three of you startled as another flash of lightning cut into the room, followed by another growl of thunder. You tightened your grip around your legs. Bela’s jaw dropped.

“It’s the storm,” she said, half a question, half a statement. “You’re scared of thunder?”

“It’s childish.”

“Oh, y/n…”

“I’m weak. Something as dumb and simple as loud noises shouldn’t make me so—”

“Y/n. Look at me.” Cassandra’s gently stern tone convinced you to move your head so your chin rested on your knees. You side-eyed the girls, trying to imitate your usual stoicism. It was difficult with red-rimmed eyes.

“A phobia doesn’t make you childish, or weak— do you know how many people have a fear of thunder, y/n? A lot of humans.”

“A lot of Uncle Heisenberg’s lycans as well,” Bela chimed in.

“And are you going to go around insulting them? No, Y/n, because that’s not nice. So don’t insult yourself for the same thing.” Cassandra waved around her index finger as she spoke. Your eyes widened and followed the movement. Both girls laughed.

“Is that what’s been giving you nightmares?”

You shake your head. “I just haven’t been sleeping; too tense.”

Cassandra giggled. “Just ask mother for extra cuddles, not like she’ll say no.”

“Or a more intimate distraction,” Bela winked.

Both sisters giggle at the blush creeping on your cheeks.

“Can we sit here with you?” Bela asked, already taking the vacant spot on your right.

You shrugged— as much as you could in this balled-up position. “You don’t have to.”

“It’s ok y/n, we don’t mind.”

They sat on either side of you, Bela holding your hand, enjoying the comfortable silence that cast over you.

*******************************************************************************************

A loud crack of thunder jolted Alcina awake. Cursing to herself she eyed the clock across the room–2:06 am. Raking a hand down her face, she jolted again when another crack of thunder echoed through the castle. It wasn’t a minute later that an insistent downpour of rain started pelting the roof and windows followed by an angry howling of the wind. You stirred next to her in the bed. You were mumbling in what sounded like a mix of Romanian and English. Alcina swallowed thickly because she knew what that meant; another night terror. She laid back down and curled herself against you, cocooning herself against your back. Alcina placed a few stray kisses on your shoulders and the nape of your neck, smoothing her hands along your hipbone in the process. You calmed after a few minutes, your mumbling returning to the steadying breaths of deep sleep. Alcina sighed in relief and closed her eyes in hopes that she could drift back to sleep.

KRAK-OOOOOM!

Alcina sat up on the bed and saw you still appeared to be sleeping, though you looked somewhat agitated. She reached over and attempted to run her fingers through your hair but all that succeeded in doing was causing you to jolt awake.

You woke up with a strangled yell and starting crawling out from underneath the sheets. You sat with your back against the headboard, your breathing and heart rate rapid. Alcina crawled over and realized you were having a panic attack. “Y/n, can you hear me?” You nodded, your eyes squeezed shut as tears started leaking from the corners. You clamped a hand over your mouth, and Alcina realized you were trying to silence your breathing. “Honey no, don’t do that, just focus on me,” she pulled your hand away from your mouth slowly. You shook your head and tried to take your hand back. “No no no... I can’t- I-I-I can’t wake Al-Alcina,” you gasped. “It’s alright, Dove, just follow my breathing.” Alcina took exaggerated breaths to demonstrate. You started calming down slightly. “That’s it, everything is alright, just keep breathing.” You seemed to calm down more with the breathing exercises. “I’m going to get you a glass of water“ Alcina started to say, but was cut off by you grabbing her arm. “No! Don’t-don’t lea- don’t leave, please, don’t- don’t” you closed her eyes, her breath quickening again. “Sweetheart, breathe with me. In, out. In, out.” Alcina took your hand and put it on her chest. “Breathe with me. In, out. In, out.” Your breathing returned to normal. After sitting in silence for a bit, Alcina turned to her.

“Another night terror?” She asked. You looked away for a minute, ashamed of yourself.

“No.”

God, you probably woke her up, good job.

Alcina couldn’t keep an amused smile from forming. “Can my little dove not sleep because of the thunderstorm?”

As if on cue, a blinding bolt of lightning crackled down from the sky. The following rumble of thunder seemed to shake the castle. You let out a whimper and shielded yourself from the sky. “How could I possibly sleep when it sounds like the sky is falling?!”

Alcina hums and pulls you close against her. “There’s nothing wrong with a healthy fear, Dove. It brings out the human in you.”

“UGH! Just-!”

KRAK-OOOOOM!

Another shriek, barely muffled by Alcina’s shoulder, had you violently trembling. You were barely holding yourself together.

Wracked with terror, eyes shut tightly, you found yourself unable to prevent the reflexive compulsion to cling to something nearby.

Which, in this case, was Alcina, who was left staring in shocked silence at the violently trembling form with arms wrapped tightly around her midsection. She immediately wrapped her arms around you again and began rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“Calm down. You’re fine,” She spoke softly, ignoring the buzz under her skin as she soaked in the unwitting embrace like a dry sponge in water. Soothingly, she rubbed up to your shoulder blades. “There we are, my love,” Alcina chuckled. “I’ve got you. Listen to my voice,” She rumbled, speaking soft but firm as the thunder forced smaller tremors through the floor. “You’re going to relax. I’m going to help you. Just lay here with me and close your eyes. I’ll hold you all night if you want me to.”

Gradually, the sound faded and petered off back into the loud patter of rain against the windows but Alcina held you tightly still. She could feel the flutter of your heartbeat against her own, almost impressed that you hadn’t passed out from fear alone.

“Why didn’t you say anything? The storm’s been going on for days now you must have been petrified.”

“I didn’t want you to know,” you mumbled into her neck. “It’s a pathetic fear I’ve had since I was a kid. I don’t want you to think less of me.”

“You think something as trivial as a phobia would make me think less of you?” She pulled you even tighter against her. You melted into her embrace. “Clearly I haven’t been a very good partner to you.”

“No Al, it’s not like that. Gods, you’re an amazing partner. It’s just my stupid insecurities. You’re all so fearless and brave. You’re not afraid of anything, and then there’s me; tiny, inferior, afraid of a little thunderstorm.”

She sighed and continued rubbing circles on your back. “I’m not fearless.”

“Yeah right,” you scoff. “What could the great and powerful Alcina Dimitrescu possibly be afraid of?”

“Death.”

You wriggled out of her arms just enough to turn and face her. “What? But, you’re immortal. Death isn’t really something you have to worry about.”

She gave a small smile and brought a hand to cup your face. “I never said my death, sweet one.”

Oh...OH

“The girls are clever, they can get themselves out of most situations unscathed, but still, we can be slain. And there have been some pretty close calls in the past. And you,” she rubbed gentle circles on your cheek. “Your death is inevitable. It gnaws at the back of my mind every time I look at you. Every time morning I have to untangle myself from your embrace I remember that one day I’ll wake up alone and wish I cuddled with you for just a bit longer."

"Al, I didn't-"

"I can't always be there to protect you, including the girls. If I could take the brunt of all conflict for you I would gladly do so, but that's unfortunately not how life works. I'm just left worrying until I know for sure you're all safe."

She hummed into your neck and kissed your pulse point. "How selfish of me, I'm supposed to be comforting you, not the other way around. If I paid more attention I would have known, I’m sorry, my love.”

“Don’t apologize, just hold me.”

Alcina kissed the top of your head. “With pleasure.”

Soon enough you did fall asleep again, your arms still clinging tight around the vampire’s upper midsection. Alcina found a comfortable enough position and allowed herself to drift away as well.

#lady dimitrescu x reader #lady Alcina #tall vampire lady #alcina dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #resident evil #resident evil village #resident evil 8

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imaginepirates · 4 years ago

Text

Pirate

For the anon who wanted a James x reader where they meet on the Pearl, but James doesn’t have the guts to admit that he’s falling for them. Later, (we’re pretending his death didn’t happen), they meet again at Shipwreck Cove, and James confesses his feelings during the battle on the Dutchman.

@emdrabbles @tesserphantom @paljonkaikenlaista @viper-official @hellspawn-brownies @groovyfluxie @wordsinwinters

~3760 words. Long again.

~~~~~~~

His hair hung in wet strings around his face. Whether they were matted together with water, alcohol, or vomit, you weren’t sure you wanted to know, though you suspected it to be a mixture of all three. A guard rail was all that kept him upright. He was a disaster, even for a pirate. Not that he’s a pirate, either.

The former Commodore looked a wreck. You would be, too, you supposed, if you’d drunk yourself into complete oblivion. And someone needs to take away that damned wig. Currently, it sat on his head much like some bird’s nest, and you half-expected a gull to land in it at any moment. Pity mingled with your disgust. There had been a time when his name alone had struck fear into you. Now, he was a pathetic image, unable to do so much as hold himself up on two feet. He couldn’t strike fear into a fly.

You were a bit surprised that Elizabeth, of all people, showed him no sympathy. Even Jack looked a bit repulsed, which was saying something, given that Jack himself was never in a prime state. He staggered upright, puking over the side of a railing.

You sighed, walking brisky over, snatching the wig off the top of his head and tossing it overboard. He looked up at you through bleary eyes.

“What the bloody hell was that for?”

“You look awful.”

“Thank you for your astute assessment.” Even drunk, his tone dripped sarcasm, and you were a little surprised.

He’s still in his wits, then. You looked him over again. Somewhat. “You look marginally less awful without the wig.” He grunted. You grabbed the bottle he was holding, too, and threw it over the side.

“Now that’s just a waste.”

“You need to sober up.”

“And who exactly are you, that it’s your job to police me?”

“You’re embarrassing, is all, and it’s no good to be embarrassed by crewmates.”

He snorted. “You should write to the admiralty. That sort of thinking would have spared me many of my own crewmates throughout the years.” He stared down into the waves, where his water-clogged wig had begun to sink under the surface.

“Well, you don’t want to be that person, do you?”

“At this point, I don’t particularly care.” His wig finally lost the battle, disappearing into the murky depths.

“Have some pride.”

“Pride?” He pushed himself up, looking coldly into your eyes with his own. “I’ve lost my title, I’ve lost my station, I’ve lost my livelihood. I have no house, nor family, nor friends. I’ve lost everything I ever held dear, including the woman I love, because despite being with her,” here he gestured with his chin to where Elizabeth stood at the helm, “I’m further from her than ever before. Now please, tell me again why I should have pride.”

If you were being honest with yourself, it was hard to give him an answer. “You still have your life, and for however little that’s worth right now, things could be worse. You could be dead. Take pride in the fact that you didn’t let things get that far.” He scoffed, but you continued. “Go clean yourself up; splash some water on your face, and do something about the vomit in your hair. Things can get better. Clean up, and you’ll be one step closer.”

He looked at you then, a vulnerability in his eye that wasn’t there before. Hope. He stalked off then, stumbling a bit, but trying admirably to, supposedly, follow your advice.

Norrington carried out his tasks admirably and without complaint, no manner how demeaning for a man of his previous station. He was watched with suspicious eye; but why wouldn’t he be? He had been a ranking officer, after all, and an effective one at that. Too many pirates had been lost to his scouring of the Caribbean. Just how far can you trust a member of the navy, former or otherwise?

The way he looked at Jack’s compass didn’t escape your notice. He knows. “Not thinking of stealing it, are you?” His neck craned to look up at you from his position kneeling on the deck, a wet cloth in hand. He stopped his scrubbing to glare.

“I’m not a thief.” He looked back down, returning to his task.

“You are a pirate.”

His head whipped up at that, jaw working in annoyance. “I’m not a bloody pirate,” he hissed.

“Then what the hell are you doing here? Top secret mission? I’m surprised you were chosen; I wouldn’t believe your fall from grace if I weren’t here to see it myself.”

Norrington was showing clear restraint, obviously wanting to hit you with something. You watched him breifly consider using the wash-rag as a projectile before deciding against it.

“Commodore Norrington. That was a name to fear, once.”

The ferocity in his eyes vanished, replaced by sadness, his gaze dropping from yours. “I haven’t been that man in months. I never will be again.”

“Good.” He shot you a questioning look. “It’s no use to be afraid of you. And, if what I hear from Elizabeth is true, you might learn to have some fun and not be so stiff all the time.” Offence flashes across his face, but you only smiled. “I blame high society. Welcome to freedom, James Norrington. I hope you get a taste for it.”

He turned to look out over the steadily changing horizon, a soft pink beginning to dust the sky. “So do I.”

The days wore on, and the crew steadily adjusted to James’ presence. He no longer ate alone, though he ate in silence, and the crew was more willing to interact with him. Elizabeth, you noted, had barely paid him any mind since his arrival. How she could be so callous towards him you didn’t know; you had expected her to at least talk to him, but she barely even looked his way.

Not that he didn’t look hers. His gaze would fall upon her, sometimes, while he worked, and there was a sadness there that tugged at your heart. He was confused, too, as to her treatment of him. He wanted, more than anything, to be close to her. Even if she could treat him like a friend. But she refused to give him even that much.

You were tired of watching it. “Come on,” you walked up to him, “let’s do something about that hair.”

“You haven’t grown tired of telling me what to do, have you?” he drawled. He was propped against a railing, eyes following Elizabeth as she walked across the deck above them. With Jack, you noted. So, it seemed, did James.

You sighed. “It can only get in the way, hanging down by your face like that.” You turned away, heading down belowdecks. He needs to get away from watching her.

James followed, pushing off the railing and heading after you. Good. You found a spot with a few barrels—full of apples, you assumed; you never had gotten rid of all of Barbossa’s cargo—that would be suitable for sitting on. You motioned for James to do just that, moving behind him.

You found yourself at a loss for words. What was there to say? You had little in common, and less that wouldn’t bring back poor memories for him. You kept silent, instead running your fingers through James’ hair. It’s longer than I expected, for a naval man. I wonder if he always kept it like this, or if it was close-cropped, once.

“What exactly are you doing?” He turned his head a little to look back at you.

“Braiding.” You separated his hair into three parts, beginning to twine the strands together.

You expected him to ask you why, or to move away, but he stayed put. “I haven’t worn my hair in a braid since the navy.” It was almost a whisper. Somehow, in the low light of the hull, it seemed appropriate.

You almost pulled away and apologized, but he went on. “I used to braid it to fit it under that damned wig. It could get so insufferably hot in the sun, though I was always glad to have the hair off the back of my neck. I don’t know how Elizabeth ever managed, in those dresses.” A soft smile sat on his face. “How did any of us manage, back then?”

You knew he wasn’t speaking of the heat. You tied his hair off with a small strip of ribbon from around your wrist. It was interesting, to see something of yours on him, and you stared at it a moment before moving. “You’ve always kept your hair this long, then?” You moved to a barrel across from him.

“For years. My mother hated it.” He smiled. “She told me it would be easier if I just cut it off.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” He looked at you curiously, and you felt yourself beginning to flush. “It suits you.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise. Even in the dim light of the lanterns, you could see his cheeks turn pink, the color extending down into his collar. You sat in awkward silence a moment, James fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves while you looked down at the black deck. “A name to fear, you said.”

James was still toying with the cuff on his left wrist when you looked back up. “I think I like you this way better.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

You got up, moving to a barrel next to his. “I’d rather not fear you.” You grabbed his hand, taking it gently away from its fiddling. He scanned your eyes. “Like most people, you aren’t as terrifying as the stories make you sound.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“That you struck fear, even into the best of us?”

“I…” he trailed off. “It seems so ridiculous, that anyone feared me. I know I was good at my job—it was all I was good for.” He scoffed. “But I was so out of place in society…I always felt horribly awkward at all those social events. I was much more afraid of those people than they were of me.”

“You were like…” you wracked your brain for a parallel. “You were told stories about Blackbeard when you were a child, right?”

“Yes, of course. Upon reflection, I’m sure they were too dramatic to be true.”

“That’s how you were to us. You were a reverse Blackbeard.” James laughed aloud at that. “I can’t even tell you how I pictured you. Larger, maybe. Older. And with a horrible, mean beard that took up half your face.”

James smiled, and you found you quite liked the expression on him. “Am I as scary as the stories?”

“Not even close. Though I’m sure I wouldn’t want to meet the business end of your sword,” you added.

“Is Blackbeard as frightening as the tales?” James questioned. Then, more seriously, “Is Davy Jones?”

You sobered. “Aye, he is.” You found that his hand was still in yours—he hadn’t pulled away. “But it’s mixed with disgust. He isn’t human, anymore. It can be revulting. And sad,” you said, upon reflection. “I can’t imagine; losing your humanity like that.”

James said nothing, his eyes on your entertwined fingers. He ran his thumb over your knuckles. “Why do you talk to me?”

You shrugged. “There’s no reason not to.”

“That doesn’t seem to be the common belief.” He continued to rub gentle circles in the top of your hand. His fingers were calloused from years of hard work, but so were yours. He traced over your knuckles and each finger in turn. His brows furrowed. “It’s pity, isn’t it?”

You could see how disgusted he was with himself. “Some, yes,” you admitted. “But you’re not half-bad to be around. This was…nice. I haven’t had a quiet moment with someone in ages.”

He looked at you thoughtfully, using his free hand to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re not half-bad either, for a pirate.”

You smiled, and he looked like he might say something more, but he stayed quiet, a soft smile of his own gracing his features. When he left, you knew he was in a better mood than when he came. I wonder if I’ll occupy any of the space in his thoughts that Elizabeth does. It was a silly thought, and you didn’t quite know why it came to mind, but there was a ghostly touch where James had brushed your hair aside, and you realized that you liked the idea of his thinking about you. Wishing for the attention of a naval man. Who would’ve thought?

~~~~~~~

The news about Isla de Muerta came hard. You had been anxious the entire time, confined to the Pearl on the account that Davy Jones could make an appearance, and the ship would need to be crewed if he did.

You weren’t prepared for the eventuality that James wouldn’t come back. You had worried, of course, wringing your hands with it, but you hadn’t actually thought…

You kept your tears for him to yourself. Nobody else was bothered—not even Elizabeth. A man she’s known her entire life, dead, and she has no sorrow to show for it. How can she be so heartless? It was as if nothing had happened at all. The crew ignored it; they were used to that, you supposed. Half your number had been killed by cannibles, after all. But even Gibbs seemed unbothered by the prospect of James’ death.

Only later did you realize that James had taken the heart. You didn’t believe it, at first, but slowly came to reconcile yourself with the idea. Elizabeth thought him a traitor. But was he ever really on our side? You thought back to your conversations with him. I like you this way better. It had been true. I’m not sure I do. That was true, too, and now he’d shown it.

At first, none of it mattered to you. He was dead, anyway. Slowly, you began to realize that Jones didn’t have the heart. After all, he hadn’t quit pursuing the Pearl, even if you didn’t have the heart. When you learned that the heart was in possession of Cutler Beckett, damn his eyes, your heart leapt with joy. James is alive! No matter the mood of Jack, or Gibbs, or Elizabeth, or the crew, you could only think of James. He wasn’t killed, then. He used the heart as leverage to secure his old position.

You pondered the thought. If ever you met him again, would you be afraid? Or would you just be sad?

~~~~~~~

Shipwreck Cove was just as you’d remembered it. Dimly lit, ships stacked one on the other, whispered conspiracies in every corner. Every sailor’s legend had its place in these ships. There wasn’t a legend that hadn’t been speculated within the fortress, and not a pirate who hadn’t chased them without.

You had fond memories of the Cove, but less fond memories of the Court. The Brethren Court convened on only the deepest of issues, and you still remembered some of their gatherings from when you were a child. It was loud, and there was no order, and the Court couldn’t meet without at least one death per session.

It was that way now. Jack toyed with the swords stuck in the globe at the front of the room while the other pirate lords surrendered the miscellaneous junk they deemed their pieces of eight. The end result was a dish full of random trinkets. Not that you didn’t understand; the idea that pirates obtained mass amounts of wealth was a myth. Most of the time, you barely had a shilling to your name. Working with Jack was especially non-lucrative, but it was certainly more entertaining.

Jack’s hand strayed briefly to the piece of eight at his temple. “Might I point out that we are still short one pirate lord and I’m as content as a cucumber to wait until Sao Feng joins us.”

“Sao Feng is dead.”

You recognized that voice. You whipped around to see Elizabeth, clad in full Chinese armor, sword in hand. You smiled to yourself; she was always full of surprises.

The best surprise, however, was the man standing at her side. You mouthed James’ name, and his eyes locked on yours. He stepped forward, as if to greet you, but you were interrupted by further discussion of the Court. He’s alive, and he’s here, and I never thought I would see him again. You glanced over your shoulder. And he’s in full uniform.

The Court was chaos. Barbossa’s plan to free Calypso was not taken well by the others, and you couldn’t blame them. Your mind was preoccupied, focussing on the man somewhere behind you. You wondered if he had seen the relief in your eyes. Had he felt the same?

A hand settled on your shoulder. You turned to see James, worried eyes staring into your own. He pulled you back, leading you out of the room.

“James?” You felt your eyes beginning to water. “For the longest time, I thought you had died.” Your voice cracked, and you were unable to stop it.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but only reached out to you, pulling you into a firm embrace. “I’m so sorry.” His breath tickled your ear. “I’ve done horrible things.”

You held tightly to the back of his coat. “I’m just happy to see you again.”

He stepped back, pain blossoming across his features. “I know you can never forgive me, for what I’ve done. I can only hope you-”

The doors behind you opened, and the Court flooded out. The consensus is war, then.

~~~~~~~

The rain made it hard for you to keep a good grip on your sword. The Dutchman pitched and rolled under your feet, waves crashing rougly into the sides of the hull. Its mast, tangled with the Pearl’s, loomed above you, a towering dark figure in the haze of the monsoon.

These damned fish people. The Dutchman’s crew fought more viscously than even Barbossa’s undead pirates. Who knew starfish could be so angry? You feared that their weapons, often tarnished and jagged, would catch on your own and leave you defenseless. I should’ve stayed on the Pearl. But there are fish people there now, too.

At least you weren’t alone. Elizabeth and Will were with you, as was Jack, though he seemed to be having difficulties of his own. If you hadn’t been fighting for your life, you might have been more amused. You had lost sight of most of your crew mates. You were too focused on the eel-headed freak in front of you to give your fellows much thought. With your swords locked, you had no other way to grapple with the beast. It hadn’t occurred to you that the eel could elongate its neck, which was exactly what it did, arching forward to bite at your face.

A moment later, the head lay at your feet, the slimy body collapsing beside it. James was there, sword in hand, looking at you with concern. That, or he’s squinting to keep the rain out of his eyes. You gave him a nod, stepping in closer.

“There are too many of them. We’ll never get to them all. Some of them are coming right out of the walls!” You both looked around yourselves at the endless numbers in the Dutchman’s crew.

“We only have to kill one.” James gestured towards the other end of the ship, where Davy Jones stood, lobster claw digging into the wood of the deck.

“We don’t have the heart.”

“But we both know who does.” James’ face was grim. “I should’ve stabbed it while I had the chance.”

You grabbed his arm. “No. You would be just like Jones, then, bound to this ship for eternity. You’d have no humanity left.”

“I’d be better than I am now.”

The comment broke your heart, but there were too many enemies around for you to focus on it. You slashed at a shark-headed monstrosity before James pulled you in close, stabbing something just behind you. Now isn’t the time for blushing. But James was holding you tightly to his chest, and you heard him shoot another member of Jones’ crew.

You hated to let go, but you had to duck under James’ arm to go after another, and another. Your back ended up pressed against James’, and you could feel each others’ heavy breathing.

“I don’t think we’re going to make it out of this alive.” You had to shout to be heard over the thunderous racket. Between the rain, the gunfire, and the sharp clanging of swords, there was little room for words.

“It doesn’t seem likely.”

“You were trying to tell me something earlier.” Rain ran down your face in streams. “Now might be your only chance.”

James put a hand on your shoulder, turning you around to face him. “I wanted to apologize, for it all. I hope you’ll accept it.”

“Of course.” You grabbed the pistol from his side, leveling it at a creature behind his shoulder.

“You didn’t deserve what I did.”

You cupped his face with a hand. “I understand why you did it.”

“You were the only one who treated me like a person, then, on the Pearl.” He had grabbed your arm, keeping you close. It occurred to you that you were both going to die like this, paying too much attention to each other and not enough to your surroundings. “I can’t…” James took a steadying breath. “I can’t help but love you for it.”

You barely had time to process the words before his lips were on yours. Despite the storm, and the gunfire, and the clanging of swords—despite the knowledge that neither of you were going to make it out alive—the kiss was achingly tender, with so much softness and vulnerability that tears began to slip down your already soaked cheeks.

This won’t be such a bad way to go.

There was a sudden shuddering of the ship, and you and James had to cling to each other to keep upright. You looked up, only to find that the Pearl had broken away, her masts now untangled from the Dutchman’s.

You tugged at James’ arm. “We have to go. I think the ship’s going under.”

He nodded, and you found a loose line to swing over to the Pearl. The Dutchman sank not long after you hit the deck. The ship fell beneath the waves, sucked under by the storm.

“We still have to face Beckett.” James looked out over the water to where the British armada was advancing.

You could already feel some of the fight leaving you. How could you withstand an armada, when you’d barely defeated the Dutchman? “At least we have each other, now.”

James looked down at you. “Yes.” He cautiously wrapped an arm around your waist. “And after? If there is an after.”

You smiled teasingly. “I hope you don’t mind returning to piracy.”

James smiled back. “I don’t think I’ll mind at all.”

#potc #pirates of the caribbean #pirate #pirates #james norrington #norrington #James Norrington x reader #x reader #self insert #potc fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #potc imagine #writing #writings

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carelessannie · 4 years ago

Text

the five times steve gives bad dating advice, and the one time it actually works

Or, the Starker Shifter and College AU no one asked for

Link to AO3 Main pairings: Tony x Peter, (background) Steve x Bucky Word count: 5.6k Major Warnings: smut (not shifted), everyone’s a complete idiot, discussion of canine and feline mating behavior, excessive cursing Aaaaannnnnddddd I’ll tag @the-mad-starker because I said I would and I really hope you enjoy it bb

---

The door slams, startling Steve out of his afternoon nap. Peter must be home. He’s pretty sure Sam said he was gonna be out until the evening, and the stomping, slamming of cabinets, and various clanging dishware are usual signs of Peter’s afternoon fury.

Steve shakes out his coat, rolling his eyes as he stretches in the sun— his roommate is a damn idiot.

He doesn’t even bother shifting as Peter storms in the room, throwing his backpack to the ground and perching on the nearby armchair. He’s learned by now that when Peter wants to talk, Steve doesn’t need to speak. In fact, his friend probably prefers it that way.

So instead, he lets Peter brew, slamming his fingers onto the keys on his laptop, and viciously eating apple slices and… nutella. Oh. One of those days.

They only bring the nutella out on bad days.

Steve throws him a bone— metaphorically— and opens an eye, making an inquisitive noise deep in his throat.

Peter looks up, his delicate features squished together in an angry pout.

“First of all, your boyfriend’s an idiot.”

Offended, Steve bares his teeth and squints his eyes, sending Peter a menacing snarl that the smaller man waves off. His boyfriend is an idiot, but Peter has no business noticing that.

“I’m right and you know it,” Peter sniffs, turning his nose and inspecting his nails, “and his roommate is the absolute worst. And I’m not talking about Clint.”

There it is. Steve chuffs, feigning indifference. If he waits long enough, Peter will tell him more. So he lounges back, keeping one eye open, and letting the sun warm his fur. As he watches, he sees the moment Peter gives up his act. He jumps off the chair, making his way into Steve’s sunbeam, and slowly curls up next to the larger wolf.

“I’ve never met another cat so absolutely infuriating, Steve,” Peter whispers, petting through Steve’s golden fur, distractedly, “I can’t stand it. Always purring at me and calling me fucking kitten— no sir! I’m not a kitten, and it doesn’t matter how… how…”

He trails off, gripping tight onto Steve’s coat. When Steve turns to look, he realizes Peter’s tiny fangs have lengthened, poking through his rosy lips, as he runs his tongue over them absentmindedly. If he looks close enough, he can even see where Peter’s small, shifted ears are pushing through his curls.

Peter mumbles something that even Steve’s enhanced hearing can’t pick up. He nuzzles under Peter’s arm, urging him to repeat it.

“It doesn’t matter...” Peter murmurs, “... how beautiful he is, right?”

Steve’s ears perk up.

“Don’t act so surprised. Bucky told me you guys talk about it all the time. I just… I didn’t see it, okay? Not until today. Not until Tony fucking brought me coffee. I had no idea he was so sweet, Steve. I guess I always thought he was a dumb male cat shifter, like the stereotypes paint us out to be. But… he’s not. He’s so kind and funny and sexy, and oh my god, I bet his shifted cat is absolutely gorgeous.”

Steve rolls over to let Peter pet his tummy as he continues, “So naturally, I cornered Bucky to get him to spill. To tell me more about Tony, and how to date him, and… and… how you guys got together. But he said to come talk to you—” Peter crawls closer and tries to look him in the eye, “pleeeeeease, Steve? Help me?”

With a sigh, Steve sits up, shaking out his fur and letting his wolf recede, until he’s stretching out long arms and wiggling his fingers. His gym shorts are nearby, so he slips back into them, doing a customary once over to check for a full shift. Then he settles against the couch, opening his arms in an invitation for Peter to curl up on him.

Peter scoots closer, marginally, and Steve chuckles, “Want some dating advice, Pete?”

“Mhm, yes please,” Peter hums, closing the distance and leaning into Steve’s leg.

“Okay, I’ll tell you some things that worked for me, when I was courting Bucky.”

One.

Later that evening, Tony and Steve are set up in the dining room, comparing notes for their Econ class, and steadily working through their midterm project. Bucky and Peter should be back in a moment with pizza, and hopefully the four of them, plus Sam, will spend the night watching movies. It’s Friday, after all.

Steve hears the front door open and close, quiet conversation drifting down the hallway, but is surprised when just Bucky walks into the kitchen, setting down pizza and making his way over to where the two of them are seated.

Bucky leans down, planting a sweet kiss on his lips, before claiming a seat.

He opens his mouth to ask, but Tony beats him to it, not even looking up, “Where’d Pete get off to? You didn’t lose him, did you?”

Bucky just huffs, “No, you moron. He had to grab something from his room.”

Tony just shrugs, turning back to his notes. Steve spares Bucky a glance, curious about what Peter could be up to, and Bucky gives him a wink. Great.

It’s quiet as the three of them shift pages, typing gently on their laptops, and only exchanging conversation when there’s an issue with the material. Steve gets up once to grab a glass of water, and tries to look down the hallway— no sign of his roommate whatsoever.

With the smell of pizza filling the apartment, they decide not to wait any longer to eat. Steve hollers down the hall for Peter to come get some dinner, but still, his roommate is nowhere to be seen.

As he sits back down at the table, Steve can hear light footsteps coming towards them. He turns his attention back to their homework, and watches as Tony and Bucky pass out glasses, uncorking a bottle of wine.

“How fuckin’ fancy are we?” Steve wonders, giving Bucky a smirk as Tony starts to pour.

“Okay, there’s nothing wrong with a nice bottle of—” “YEEEEOOOOOWWWWWLLLL—”

Tony drops the bottle, flipping backwards out of his seat at the ungodly screech. Steve hops over into Bucky’s lap, picking his feet off the floor as his boyfriend flounders around, cursing and gasping for air.

“Holy shit, what the hell—”

“ReeeRRROOOOWWWWLLL—”

The noise continues, splitting through the air, and Steve watches Tony shift down, fangs lengthening, ears and whiskers emerging, as he drops to four legs. From where they sit on the dining room chair, neither of them can see what happens as the noise suddenly stops, a long, hissing growl taking its place.

Steve peeks under the table, and sees both cat shifters arched up, fur fluffed out in a clear challenge, teeth bared and hissing. Dammit. Peter’s cat— a yellow tabby— is slowly backing up as Tony’s cat— dark and tortoiseshell— follows him, spitting and growling, until Peter finally turns his back, relaxing his coat, and slowly retreats.

“Holy shit,” Bucky breaths, starting to laugh, “what the fuck was that.”

Steve just shakes his head in disbelief, watching Peter sprint down the hall to his room as Tony licks his paws, tail still fluffed in irritation, and eyes pinning them with a deadly glare.

The table is a mess— wine spilled across their notes, Tony’s laptop, and pizza overturned, smeared across the soaked pages. Once Tony starts shifting back, Steve slides off of Bucky’s lap and takes stock of the damage. What the fuck indeed.

He looks over at Bucky, “Can you… take care of this,” he gestures to the table, “I’m gonna go talk to Peter.”

Bucky nods, still shocked, and Steve turns to follow Peter back to his room. He stops outside, knocking gently— careful not to intrude into the shifter’s territory.

“Peter, it’s me. Can I come in?”

There’s a rumble, and then the lock clicks, letting the door swing open. Peter struts back towards his window seat, fully shifted back and wearing just a pair of black briefs, and curls up by the window.

“Uh, Pete? What happened?”

Peter sniffles, looking out the window, “You told me that you and Bucky like to show affection by making noises at each other in your wolf form. So why didn’t it work?”

“Oh my god.”

“He attacked me, Steve!” Peter whines, burying his face in his hands.

It takes everything in Steve’s power not to laugh. Poor kitten. He slowly approaches, sitting nearby and in Peter’s view, extending a hand for Peter to take if he wants.

“So… maybe that wasn’t the best advice. I swear, it’s one of the easiest ways we bond, as wolves. But not that screeching noise, Peter— more of a growl, or other small noises.”

Peter pouts, looking into his hands.

“Here,” Steve stands up, holding out his hand, “let’s go get some pizza and help clean up. You can apologize, come up with some dumb excuse, and we can find some other way to hit on Tony, okay?”

“Fine.” Peter joins him, pulling on a sweatshirt and some shorts, “Let’s hope I didn’t spill all the damn wine. We’re gonna need it.”

Two.

A few days later, all of their friends are lounging across Steve’s furniture, taking a lazy afternoon after midterms to drink some Coor’s and watch Japanese game shows. Steve’s not even sure who’s interested in this, but doesn’t really care, as he lets himself drift off to the sound of Bucky’s deep breathing, his mate settled close on his chest.

It’s rare that everyone is in the same place, especially without homework or projects taking up their time, and Steve feels a deep sense of peace as his pack is settled, warm and safe, around him.

“Stop it, Stevie, you’re givin’ me thoughts,” Bucky mumbles, pinching him in the side.

Steve just hums, smiling down at his mate, and looks over to where Peter’s laying across the floor, partially shifted, and tail flicking slightly. On the other side of the room, Tony watches with his arms crosses, eyes following the striped tail.

“Let's go for a walk.” Steve announces, lifting Bucky off and getting a grumpy noise in protest. He makes a show of stretching, and gives Peter a wink. His eyes go wide in understanding.

“Fine,” Peter pushes off the carpet, shaking himself to shift back fully, “but only if I can get ice cream.”

Bucky ends up agreeing, and muscles Tony into joining them as well. Sam and Natasha decide to stay, enjoying the silence, but demand delivery from their friends. Clint stands up as they’re leaving, and follows them out the door.

It’s a quick walk down to get ice cream, just a block away, and Steve tries to make a show of brushing up against Bucky, reminding Peter of their last conversation.

Peter saddles up next to Tony, walking side-by-side only a few steps in front of them. He glances up, batting his eyelashes, and bumps his hips into Tony’s.

Tony whips around, on instinct, and pushes Peter in the chest, sending him careening off the sidewalk and landing in a heap, right in the middle of the road. All of them freeze, looking between Tony and Peter in disbelief, as the younger boy’s eyes brim with tears.

“Oh my… Peter, oh my god,” Tony shakes himself, and sprints into the road, thankfully clear of traffic, and pulls Peter to his feet, leading him back to the sidewalk. “I don’t… I don’t even know what happened, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” Peter pulls away, giving Steve a dirty look, “can we just go get ice cream, please?”

Tony nods, sticking close to Peter as they walk away, and Steve can hear him promise, “I’ll buy yours, really, I’m so sorry.”

When they’re out of earshot, Clint ambling along after them with a shrug, Bucky turns to him and smirks, “What was that, Stevie?”

“I… I told him about the rubbing thing we do. You know… when we walk together?”

Bucky laughs all the way to the ice cream parlor.

Three.

It’s a week or so later when they have Tony and Bucky over for another movie night. Peter was mortified, and furious, about his latest attempt, but Steve can tell he’s determined to make a move tonight.

And Steve thinks this one will work, too. He’s not sure, at this point, if he should still be giving Peter advice, but he’s seen cat shifter mates do this, so he’s pretty sure it’s gonna work.

Bucky just smacks him in the head, annoyed that Steve wants to meddle.

The four of them are watching the Hobbit trilogy, per Tony’s request, and have piled blankets and pillows on the floor to lounge on. Steve takes the leads and shifts down, kicking off his clothes, shaking out his fur, and stretching out in his wolf form on the floor. He feels Bucky join him, the familiar warmth of his mate comforting against his side. They both look expectantly at their friends, hoping they take the hint.

Peter squints at them, irritated, but shifts down anyway, pushing out of his clothes and settling against Steve’s side, purring when the giant wolf starts to groom him, licking long strokes down his back.

Steve can see the adoration on Tony’s face. He’s completely captivated by the sweet kitten, and he shifts, stretching out and pacing closer to the three of them. Steve can’t help but wag his tail, bumping up against Bucky and wiggling closer to get a lick on Tony’s face.

Tony yelps, bouncing away, and pretends to clean himself. Peter just watches on, intently, as Tony takes his time to walk back over, carefully avoiding the wolves. His eyes are wide and unblinking. Tony curls up nearby, and Peter takes his chance, slinking closer, and reaching out to lick Tony’s cheek.

Tony shifts, moving out of Peter’s reach. Peter crawls closer and tries again, but Tony pulls away. One more try, and Tony stands, jumping up onto the couch and out of reach.

Peter just mewls, soft and sad, before tucking himself back underneath Steve’s front leg. Bucky growls, low in his chest, and Steve can tell it’s aimed at Tony. Dumb cat.

They stay shifted for the better part of an hour, grooming and cuddling together, until Tony finally comes back down from his perch. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see him approach, slowly, and try to get near Peter. Bucky growls again, not even opening his eyes, and the tortoiseshell cat scrambles away.

So much for that.

Four.

Spring break— fucking finally.

Classes have been hard this semester, and all of them are feeling it. Steve’s thankful that Tony’s parents have a place in the woods for them to escape to, because he’s itching to shift, let loose, and run away with his mate. Hopefully for the whole week.

Somehow, Steve got stuck driving their car, packing Bucky in the passenger seat, Sam and Peter in the middle two, and Clint, Nat and Tony in the backseat. He’s not sure how they make it there alive, with Bucky’s Cool Vibes playlist, Sam and Tony’s backseat commentary, and the thick mix of pheromones swirling through the air.

“What is that, Buck?” he murmurs in a low tone, squeezing his boyfriend’s hand over the center console.

“Hm?” Bucky looks over, blinking lazily.

“The… tension. The smell. What is it?”

“Oh, uh—” Bucky takes a moment, scenting the air and grimacing, “— yeah, that’s rut.”

Steve almost slams on the breaks.

“Rut? Like cat rut?”

Bucky just nods, making a point to roll down his window, “Yeah, Stevie. It’s springtime. We’ve got two, male cat shifters in the car. The rest of us ain’t gonna feel nothin’, but they’re definitely feelin’ it.”

He turns around and glances behind him, smiling at the sight of both cat shifters arguing and flirting behind them. Sam looks horrified.

Steve just rolls his eyes, “I’m tired of their bullshit. Hope they spend some time together this week, ya know?”

“Hope they spend more than time,” Bucky laughs, giving Steve’s hand a squeeze in return.

In the rearview, Steve can see Tony, fully turned around in his seat, gesturing wildly as Peter shakes his head, the two of them clearly caught in a deep discussion. When he looks closer, he sees the way Peter flutters his lashes, how Tony rubs up against the seat and the wall of the van.

Idiots.

Steve focuses back on the road, sighing and trying to enjoy how warm Bucky is next to him, how settled he is with his mate nearby.

Less than an hour later, and with every window rolled down, Steve parks the van outside of the cabin. If anyone would call it that. Three stories tall, the cabin looms over the driveway. Dark, aged wood is contrasted with sleek and modern architecture, blending back into the treeline and standing out of it at the same time. Gorgeous. Breathtaking.

As they carry their bags into the cabin, Steve catches sight of the lake in the backyard. Apparently Bucky and Clint see it as well, because all three of them are dropping their stuff, stripping out of their clothes, and racing to the water.

Steve shifts mid-stride, barking in joy as his pack follows him into the lake. Around the cabin, down the hill, off the dock— he’s first. First! And Bucky follows after him, their splashes large and in sync.

Clint ambles, albeit slower in his shifted golden retriever, and flops gracelessly in after them. The water is heavenly, and the three of them swim and play, bounding through the water and jumping off the pier.

That is, until their friends join them.

It seems as though Tony let the others into the house, put away their bags, packed a cooler, and found a few beach chairs and towels. The four of them set up a row of chairs and open an umbrella above them, settling down in skimpy swimwear to enjoy the afternoon sun.

Clint barks up at them, no doubt encouraging Nat and Sam to shift down and join them in the water.

“You guys are idiots,” Sam yells back, popping the tab on his drink, “the beer’s up here!”

Steve treads water, huffing a bit in amusement as he watches his pack— which is how he catches Tony moving closer to Peter. Tony passes him a beer, which Peter takes with a smirk and quick comment that makes Tony laugh.

Gag.

And he almost misses it— he goes to turn away, and sees Tony dart across, pressing a swift kiss to Peter’s blushing cheek. Peter gasps, meeting Tony’s eyes in shock, before grabbing his shoulders, leaning closer, and—

“Ow!”

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, Tony—”

“You bit me!”

Steve swims over to the ladder, shifting down as he goes, and grabs a towel as he climbs up to investigate. Both men are standing now, blushing and holding their faces— Peter in shame, and Tony in mock horror. So dramatic.

“— how could you think that was what I wanted?”

“I didn’t! I just… I asked Steve, and he said—”

“Woah woah woah,” Steve cuts in, hands up in surrender, “I never said to bite him.”

Peter covers his face again with a groan, flopping down in his seat and throwing a towel over his face.

Tony looks down at him, bewildered, and back up at Steve, shrugging. “What did I do?” he mouths, lips turning down into a sad, sad pout.

Steve doesn’t even know what to say.

“Let’s go start the grill,” Sam suggests— thank god for Sam, and grabs Steve and Tony’s shoulders to lead them away.

A few minutes later, working over the grill together, Tony peers up at Steve, giving him a pointed look. Steve just sighs, again.

“Canines do this thing— instead of kisses on the cheek, when we’re shifted, we like to nibble on each other’s faces. It’s the same thing,” he pauses, taking in the disbelief written across Tony’s expression, “... for canines.”

“So he was… trying to kiss me back?”

Sam huffs, clapping Tony on the shoulder, “More than that, Tones.”

Tony sits down, hard, in light of this revelation.

Five.

Bucky corners him, later in the evening, and it’s not for a sexy reason.

“You’ve gotta stop meddling in their shit, Stevie,” he hisses, pinning Steve to the wall.

Steve looks down to where their bodies are pressed together and groans, “Buck, this is a serious conversation, but you gotta let me up, pal.” Bucky’s eyes go wide and he grimaces, letting Steve up.

The two of them take a deep breath before Steve continues, “I’ve got a plan.”

“No.”

“It’s a good one.”

“Absolutely not.”

“We should force them to sleep together.”

“...”

“I mean. Not like… Buck, not like that. I mean, like, den together, like how we did when we were bonding for the first time.”

Bucky crosses his arms, giving Steve a less than impressed look.

“So you think that would work? How would you even pull that off?”

“I told you, I have a plan.”

---

Steve and Bucky corner Tony, later, and tell him their plan. Steve explains how he’s spent almost a month trying to help Peter court Tony, and Tony, for the most part, looks absolutely baffled.

“Yeah, I didn’t get that.”

Bucky covers his laugh with a hand, turning away so Steve can’t see him. Idiot.

They try to convince Tony to go along with their plan— sneaking into Peter’s room, fully shifted, and curling up next to him.

“It’s not gonna work, Steve. Felines are territorial—”

“— so are canines—”

“— and he’s not gonna want me in his space uninvited!”

“— but it’s not his space! It’s yours, it’s literally your territory,” Steve insists, “and it’ll show him that you want more, Tony.”

Tony just sighs, looking off into the fireplace, roaring with life. Warm and inviting. Steve aches to get out of here, but he’s committed to getting his friends together first.

“Fine,” Tony concedes, rising to his feet and starting to shift. He points at Steve as he shrinks down, “but I’m blaming you when thisss goesss to shhit.”

Fully shifted, Tony stalks across the living room, disappearing up the stairs to the guest bedrooms. Steve pulls Bucky close, both of them nuzzling close and enjoying their shared scent, shared warmth. They hear a door shut. Silence. Bucky turns to dot a light kiss on Steve’s jaw, and Steve returns it with a teasing growl.

“When this is over,” he rumbles, “we’re shifting for days, baby.”

Bucky sighs and wiggles closer, “Can’t wait, Stevie. Been itchin’ for it. Needin’—”

BANG, CRASH!

MrrrOWWWWWWWW

“Not again,” Bucky groans, hiding his face in Steve’s chest.

Tony, still fully shifted, tears through the living room, tail fluffed out and fur raised along his back. He darts under their couch, breathing hard and hiding, as Peter stomps down the stairs. He’s half shifted— fangs and ears and paws and tail all displaying aggression and annoyance.

“I really like you Tony,” he hisses, crossing his arms and standing so that Tony can see him from under the couch, “but that was a real dick move. Sometimes I feel like you hate me, and want me to hate you. Don’t try to talk to me, Tony. I don’t wanna see you until the morning.”

Peter stalks away, leaving Tony under the couch. Bucky tugs on Steve’s sleeve, “We really shouldn’t be here when Tony shifts back.”

Steve spares a glance under the couch, watching Tony clean his paws and glare back at them, and nods. The two of them beat a quick retreat, heading for the kitchen to pack some snacks for their time in the forest. Tony said the deer in this area are free to hunt, but sometimes they like fruits and pastries for breakfast. It’s a whole thing.

Before they run off into the woods, Steve stops, looking back to where Tony, still shifted, is sulking under the furniture.

“You should do it.”

Both Tony and Bucky look at him in shock, the latter already protesting.

“No, no— you don’t have to take my advice, Tony. I know I’ve screwed a bunch up already. I’m just saying, you should talk to him tonight, show him that you care. Follow your instincts— because they’re obviously different than ours. We know…” he glances over at Bucky, who nods, “we know you love him, Tony. Go fight for him.”

Tony just turns around, showing his back.

Bucky grabs Steve’s hand, “Let’s go, Stevie.”

One.

Tony watches them retreat out the backdoor, letting it close with a soft click! He slinks out from under the couch and sits by the fire, thinking about what Steve said.

Follow your instincts.

He thinks about the kiss earlier. How pretty Peter’s blush had been, how much he wanted to rub up against Peter’s cheek and mark him, claim him. He wishes they got to run together, fight and wrestle away their pent up energy. He knows both of them are rutting, he just thought… he really thought…

It doesn’t matter now. He closes his eyes, lets his ears twitch in thought, as he focuses on his instincts. He lets the rage and the desire and the animal need wash over him, and all he can think, all he can feel, is chase.

Chase. Catch.

He doesn’t even register getting up, prowling up the stairs, moving down the hallway.

Chase. Catch.

The door to Peter’s room is open.

Chase. Catch.

He creeps inside, taking a peek over to the bed.

Mate.

Peter turns his head, making eye contact.

Run.

Tony leaps into the air, sprinting out the door— Peter hot on his tail. He flies down the stairs and slides around the corner, slamming into the trash can. Dammit. Why is that always there? As he growls at the metal can, Peter catches up to him, tackling him to the ground with a loud shriek.

They wrestle, growling and biting, until Peter breaks free with a hiss, bouncing on the pads of his feet to assert dominance. Oh no. Not in Tony’s house. Tony spits, rising up on his toes, until Peter freezes— both of them growling, low and angry.

Peter takes off. Spinning on his feet, the yellow tabby slams, hard, into the wall— fuck, he’s so strong— and bounces off lightning fast, out the door and into the front yard. Tony runs after him, dodging bushes and trees to follow Peter’s agile trail, secretly admiring his speed and the cleverness of his path. Beautiful.

He follows Peter all the way up a tree, forcing him out on a limb. Tony arches his back, sending a signal of dominance across to Peter, but Peter refuses to back down. He meets Tony’s gaze, raises his haunches, and spits back. Holy shit.

Tony leaps, tackling Peter off the branch, and sends both of them tumbling into the grass. In a flurry of nails and teeth and yowling, they fight for dominance, pinning and repinning until they come to a stop, teeth mutually clenched in the other’s scruff, and completely tangled together.

They’re breathing hard. Tony can feel it on his neck, and realizes both of their penises have unsheathed, rubbing together and catching on the barbs. It’s a crazy sensation— ramping up both of their rut pheromones.

As they lay there together— intertwined in the dark of the spring night— Tony feels himself start to shift back. He closes his eyes, gripping tight to Peter’s neck, his bare skin, as he flexes his fingers. He feels Peter shifting in his arms, and they hold on tight, neither willing to give up their prize.

“Mine,” Tony growls, unlatching his jaw as he feels Peter do the same.

His friend, his new mate, smiles— his gorgeous, bruised lips pulling back to reveal delicate and deadly fangs, “Mine,” he agrees, leaning forward hesitantly.

Tony closes the gap, rubbing their cheeks together and earning a satisfied purr from deep in Peter’s chest. He rolls them until he’s on top, and takes a few moments to kiss and lick around Peter’s chest, his tummy, his neck.

He grins mischievously before biting down on a pale pink nipple, earning him a gutted moan in response. Peter’s definitely hard against Tony’s thigh, but he’s been waiting way too long for this to rush it. Damn if he isn’t gonna take his time tonight.

“Mine,” he growls again, fiercer, and drags his nails up Peter’s hips, down his back. He drowns in the small gasps and moans he’s able to coax from his mate, marveling in the way his pale skin glows in the moonlight.

Peter paws at his back, spreads his legs wide, and grinds up against Tony’s erection, desperate for his touch. Every Mine is echoed between them, sung like a mating call for all to hear in the thick, springtime haze. They dance together, flipping time and time again for dominance— although, this time gentle. Caring and full of playful adoration.

When Tony finally takes them in hand, Peter throws his head back, yowling into the open air— “Tony! Tony, fuck fuck, touch me, goddammit, please touch me,” and Tony bends to his wishes, stroking their cocks together, long and firm.

He loves how Peter feels next to him, a tiny bit smaller, but the perfect size to compliment Tony’s own length. Tony spits down into his hand, slicking the way, and thrusts forward, urging Peter to follow his lead as they fuck into his grip.

“C’mon Pete, c’mon love— fuck me, baby, please.”

“Yeah, oh Tony, please. Need more, Tony,” Peter begs turning his wickedly innocent doe eyes on Tony in desperation.

Tony grips tighter, thrusts harder, and returns Peter’s molten gaze. What can he… oh.

He throws himself forward, bracing with one hand above Peter’s head, and seals their lips together. Peter gasps, stuttering his hips, and Tony can feel the warmth spilling over his palm, coating both of their cocks. He strokes Peter through it, kissing him deeply, thoroughly, until his mate starts to whine in discomfort.

Tony pulls away, feeling his orgasm pooling deep in his belly, and crawls up closer on Peter’s chest. His eyes are half-lidded, lips swollen and hair matted and messy— and Tony’s never seen anything more gorgeous.

“Please,” he pants, speeding up the stroke on his cock, “Pete, please let me, let me come on you, please. Mine. Mine, Peter. Let me mark you, please.”

“Yes, yes—“ Peter moans, reaching up to cup Tony’s balls, “mine, give it to me, Tony— it’s mine.”

At his words, Tony lets out a breath, crumpling forward as his release drains him, throwing him over the edge and right into Peter’s waiting arms. He watches as hot stripes of cum paint Peter’s chest, drip down his chin, and even land in his mouth. It’s too much to see his mate, covered in him, licking it off his fingers— so he falls to the ground, exhausted and spent.

A moment later he’s grabbing for Peter, humming in pleasure as his mate saddles close, burying his face in Tony’s neck.

And then Peter giggles. A soft, barely there laugh that tickles the side of Tony’s throat.

“What?” Tony rasps, looking down at Peter in amusement.

Peter keeps laughing, sitting up fully to bury his face in his hands and get out full, gasping belly laughs. He holds onto Tony as he wipes away tears, and Tony just chuckles, happy to see his mate so joyful.

When Peter settles down, he sighs, giving Tony a lopsided smile, “I can’t believe what just happened,” Tony shakes his head, returning the smile, as Peter continues, “I’ve been taking dating advice from a fucking wolf for a month— when all we had to do was,” he gestures wildly, “whatever this was,”

Tony laughs, he gets it now, “Well, it was kinda inconvenient that every suggestion they had was actually a severe act of aggression between male felines.”

“Oh my god,” Peter giggles again, “what the hell were you even trying to do tonight? When I found you in my bed?”

Tony blushes, looking away, and mumbles, “Steve and Bucky thought if we slept next to each other—“

“— but that’s a breach of territory for unmated felines!”

“— that’s what I said! Somehow they convinced me otherwise, and… well…”

Tony trails off, letting his words fade to a comfortable silence. Peter snuggles closer, letting Tony wrap and arm around him. It’s chilly outside, but until they go and lay by the fire, both of them are content to find warmth in each other.

“I’m glad you came to find me,” Peter whispers, dotting a kiss onto Tony’s collarbone.

“I’m glad I did, too,” Tony nuzzles into his curls, inhaling the new scent of mate and home that he’s come to associate with Peter, “and you know what? In the end, that idiot’s dating advice ended up bringing me to you.”

“We don’t have to tell him that do we?”

Tony shakes his head, “No. No we don’t.”

Bonus:

Clint and Sam and Nat stare at each other in horror, refusing to acknowledge what they just heard going on inside and outside of the house.

“Do you think the coast is clear?”

“Can’t be certain. It’s way too quiet out there.”

“They’re both in rut, it could be days.”

“Maybe we should go find Steve and Bucky, they’d know what to do.”

“If I know them at all, and I think I do, those two are gonna be knotted up for the next few days. I don’t wanna witness that.”

The three of them are silent, listening for any movement or sign that their newly mated friends are alive.

“I vote we shift down and doggy pile.”

“Yes, okay.”

“Fine.”

“And in the morning, we can talk about feline mating patterns.”

“... and boundaries.”

#starker #tony x peter #shifters #college au #shifter au #peter parker #tony stark #background #stucky #feline shifters vs canine shifters #fluff #smut #tw: cursing #nff #tw: boys are idiots #idiots in love #steve pov #tony pov

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breakyeol · 4 years ago

Text

— SQUIRM, BABY.

You don’t like Doh Kyungsoo. Especially not when he’s got his fingers buried knuckle deep inside of you and your seeing stars —goddamn stars!— but can’t make a sound unless you want the entire library to know exactly what he’s doing to you under the table.

┗ Pairing: Tutor!Kyungsoo x Reader

Genre: college au, tutor au, enemies w benefits au, smut

Words: 4.7k

Rating: 18+

Warnings: strong language, sexual acts in a public setting, fingering

A/N; tomorrow is going to be my 1 year anniversary as an EXO-L!! oh my goodness that feels so crazy, time really flies. so here is a little present from me to you, enjoy lovelies!!

“These are all wrong,” Kyungsoo mutters blankly, “start over.”

A loud groan is ripped from your throat, the sound earning you more than a few sideways glares from the surrounding tables but you can’t really bring yourself to care. You’ve been here for two hours, studying one of the most intolerable subjects in the world: Calculus. The mere mention of its name made you shiver in disgust.

To be blunt, you’d always been shit at math. Numbers and equations were never your strong suit, not in high school and definitely not now with the added complexities of derivatives and differential equations (neither of which made even the slightest bit of sense to you). You much preferred the gentleness of literature and history to the strict logic and rules of mathematics and science. Unfortunately for you, the latter subjects were just as vital a part of your education, and opting out of them was not an option.

“Can’t we take a break?” You almost whine the question, pressing your fingers into your throbbing temples. “My brain feels like it’s going to explode.”

“No.”

You scowl at the bluntness of his rejection. “I’m paying you.” You point out, stabbing a finger into his bicep for emphasis. “Shouldn’t I have a say in when we take a break?”

He rolls his eyes, swatting your hand away and shoving the paper back in your direction. “I’m giving you your money’s worth. Do it again.”

You let out a noisy huff of air, slouching over dramatically in the stiff plastic chair until your chin is pressed against the cold table. “I hope you know I am deeply regretting some of my life decisions right about now.” You grumble, shooting him an icy glare that you hope conveys the absolute loathing you feel for both him and the set of problems laid before you.

“I thought that was a daily thing for you.”

Scoffing, you bury your mouth in the thick sleeve of your hoodie. “Your face is a daily thing for me.”

He doesn’t even bother to look at you, though you could almost feel the intensity of his deadpan. “I think that was the shittiest comeback I’ve ever heard.”

“Your face is the shittiest comeback I’ve ever heard.”

“You do realize that that makes absolutely no sense.”

“Your fa—”

“Shut up and do your work.”

He either doesn’t hear or consciously chooses to ignore the colorful array of curses you grumble spitefully in his direction, though simultaneously resigning yourself to the fact that you won’t be able to put off your work inevitably. Kyungsoo was a stickler for proper time management. If he had an agenda set in place for your tutoring session (which he always did), then you better believe he’d be checking off each item within its designated time frame. And if you don’t cooperate— well then, your best bet is to pray that there isn’t a mechanical pencil within his reach.

He might not always be able to reach the top shelf, but Kyungsoo had ways of getting what he wanted. Usually, that chilling glare was enough to get those around him to bend to his will. He could be a scary little shit when he wanted to be. You’ll admit, even you had been the tiniest bit intimidated when you first met him. He was quiet, reserved, strict in manner, but also the dangerous unpredictable type, you gathered that much quickly enough. Maybe that’s why the two of you didn’t get on too well.

Where he was cool and standoffish, “a man of few words” some might say, you were more vocal about your opinions, social by nature, always eager to meet new people and make new connections. You had a tendency to speak loudly when excited and talk with your hands when passionate about a subject. That was something most people learned about you very quickly. Unfortunately, upon your first official meeting at a party in your freshman year with your mutual friends, Kyungsoo had no idea just how emphatic you could be until you’d knocked his drink clean out of his hand and spilled it down the front of his brand new shirt.

It was an accident, of course. You’d apologized profusely and he’d accepted it (albeit somewhat begrudgingly), but that was probably the first of many missteps in your... unique relationship.

With such conflicting personalities, it was understandable that you got into frequent arguments about one thing or another. Petty disagreements would often grow into something larger than they really needed to be. Mostly because despite having such contrasting personalities, you shared the trait of innate stubbornness, neither of you willing to admit when you were wrong. It was easy to argue with him, and you liked when you proved him wrong. You liked the way his brows furrowed and his cheeks flushed. You liked the way he glared, the way his lips pouted. You like the challenge he presented you with every time he opened his mouth. Above, you loved to win. Especially when it was against him.

So you pushed, and he pushed right back. And before you knew it, you found yourself a proper ‘frenemy’, though you aren’t sure that that’s quite the right word to describe whatever it was you two were.

But that’s just how the two of you are, how you’d always been. If you were being honest, riling him, seeing that usually so stoic, so controlled expression crack when you pushed just the right buttons— it was fun. You thoroughly enjoyed fucking with him, discovering new and creative ways to get under his skin. And you knew he got just as much satisfaction from doing the same to you, rendering you speechless with witty comebacks, flustering you with his sharp tongue and impressive rebukes.

So really, was it such a terrible thing?

Not to mention, a number of not-so-terrible things occurred as a result of one of your many arguments, such as hiring him as your calculus tutor. One that started out with you claiming he would probably be the shittiest teacher to ever exist (which seemed a valid argument at the time considering how short tempered and impatient he could be *cough* with you *cough*) to which he rebutted with the claim that he could “teach a goldfish advanced calculus” if he set his mind to it, and considering that you “had an IQ equivalent to one”, he could without a doubt teach you. His words, obviously.

It just so happened that you had a calculus exam coming up that next week, so to prove his point, he tutored you for the three days preceding said test. Even though you loathe being proven wrong, you ended up getting one of the highest scores you’d ever gotten on a math test in your entire academic career.

Putting your pride aside, you made the suggestion that he continue to tutor you. He only agreed when you offered him green in exchange for his troubles and admitted that he was right (it took a few extra hours to convince yourself that your grades should be held above your ego before you could bring yourself to verbally admit defeat).

And now here you are, not flunking out of calculus. You’d consider that worthy of the bruise to your pride, even if only by a small margin.

“Kyungsoo, why’d you mark this one wrong?” You frown at the large red X marking problem two as incorrect. You’d been glaring at your scribbled work for almost two minutes, running over the problem in your head, but you couldn’t seem to figure out where he thought you’d gone wrong. It looks right enough to you.

Kyungsoo shifts over to get a better look, his arms pressing against yours in the process and you are briefly stunned by the sudden, unexpected closeness, wholly unable to stop yourself from noticing the faint, woody scent of his aftershave that caresses your senses. Fuck. You can’t tell if you hate or love the fact that he smelled so good. Partly love it because good hygiene is always something to admire in a man (even if that man was Doh Kyungsoo), partly hate it because dammit it’s Doh Kyungsoo and you loathe finding anything that has to do with him attractive. Plus, it’s distracting. You’re here trying to learn and he has the audacity to go around smelling like pine trees and fresh moss after a rainfall. Unfair.

“Right here.”

The scowl you don’t realize you’re wearing immediately drops away as the low baritone of his voice thrums through the cavity of your ribcage and you lean forward to see exactly what he’s pointing at.

“You multiplied straight through instead of distributing.” He explains further upon seeing the uncertainty on your face. A few seconds of further inspection and you finally see what he’s talking about.

“Fuck,” you hiss, “I’m so stupid.”

“It’s an easy mistake to make.” He reassures.

“Yeah, but I should know that by now, I should’ve—” you turn your head, only to nearly choke on air as you discover that any space that once existed between the two of you has virtually disappeared, “... seen it.”

He’s close, so close that you can feel the cool rush of his breath against your skin as he exhales, goosebumps bristling across your arms in response. He’s close. Too close. You can’t think straight, can’t even breathe. The moment that surrounds you feels fragile, like even the slightest disruption would rupture it completely.

Frozen, you can only swallow around the sudden dryness of your mouth as your treacherous eyes drop to trace the plush line of his lips. Who even has lips like that? They’re just so big and so pink, that dark, kissable kind of pink that every girl just wishes her lips could be. You, included. They look soft, and you can’t help but to wonder if they’d still taste like the strawberry bubblegum he’d been chewing on at the beginning of your tutoring session.

“Careful, ___.” The sound of Kyungsoo’s voice, raspier than you recall it being before and laced in a faintly taunting pitch, is enough to break you from your trance and, once freed, you whip your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash.

“Fuck off.” You cough, jaw clenching as you attempt to drag your mind out from the gutter and back onto the calculus problems you have yet to correct. But for whatever reason your brain refuses to cooperate, instead filling your head with images of his pretty mouth and everything it could be doing instead of rambling on about something as uninteresting as calculus. Damnit.

No doubt seeing the distress written clearly across your face, Kyungsoo chuckles, the sound low and smooth where it drips from his lips, and a familiar heat blossoms in the pit of your stomach.

You can feel his eyes on you now, every cell of your being suddenly hyperaware of his presence beside you. The pressure of his knee where it nudges against yours, the teasing curl of his lips as he watches you struggle to focus, the warmth of his palm caressing up your thigh, the— wait what?

Your gaze whips down, breath hitching at the sight of Kyungsoo’s hand gently gripping the lagging clad flesh just above your knee. It’s another few seconds before you’re able to find your voice again.

“W– What’re you—?”

“Focus.” He cuts you off smoothly, fingers soothing over the inside of your leg, squeezing gently. When you don’t look away from him, he smirks, jerking his chin forward in a manner you can only interpret as challenging. There’s a familiar glint in his eye, a dangerous glint that doesn’t fail to provoke your competitive side. You know that look well. He’s challenging you.

And you don’t back down from a challenge.

Especially not from Doh Kyungsoo.

Determination flairs up inside of you, your jaw clenching as you strike him with a single, heated glare that read plain and simple ‘you. are. on.’ before honing all your attention onto the worksheet in front of you. It’s not too difficult to focus at first, to disregard the tingles that erupt across your skin where his hot touch sears into it. You manage to find and correct your error in one of the problems (impressive for you even if Kyungsoo wasn’t feeling your leg up under the table).

But whatever pride you find in doing so is quickly quelled when his hand suddenly shifts higher, and you feel the faintest pressure against your heat. It’s a sensation that robs you of your ability to breathe entirely for a handful of seconds, and you can’t stop the shiver that ripples down your spine.

This, you see, is one of the more recent developments in your oh-so complicated relationship with Doh Kyungsoo. Yet another that began with a disagreement at a party, over something you can’t even remember anymore thanks to the haze of alcohol that clouded both your minds at the time, that spiraled way out of proportion. You remember yelling at him, insulting him, stabbing your finger into his chest, feeling the sting of his lethal glare. God, he’d looked so pissed off, and you just fed off of it, fed off the rage and the frustration that festered like lava in those dark brown eyes. The angrier he got, the harder you pushed, until he finally snapped.

You’re still not sure what you expected to happen. What you expected him to do. But you sure as hell hadn’t anticipated him grabbing you by the throat and pulling you into one of the hottest, most mind numbing kisses you’d ever experienced.

Next thing you remember is being in a bed. Whose bed it was, isn’t important. What is important, however, is the fact that that night you had the best sex of your entire life with the man you thought you couldn’t stand.

Hate sex with Doh Kyungsoo opened your eyes to a whole new world of mind boggling pleasure that you’d never experienced before. Pleasure that no other person had ever been able to give you. God, the things he did to you. No one had ever touched you like that before. It was like he knew all the places on your body that made you unravel. He honestly ruined all other men for you that night because none have even come close to comparing. Which was beyond frustrating especially considering that, at the time, you thought it was a one time thing.

The morning after you both pretended that nothing happened. In the two weeks following as well, neither one of you mentioned it. You tried to erase the memory from your brain, tried to go back to normal, but it was hard considering every time you needed some sexual release (which was more often than you care to admit), it was his hands, his mouth, his cock that you imagined while you touched yourself. You replayed his moans in your head, his deep, rasping voice growling your name, and fuck, you never came harder.

But it was still nothing compared to the real thing.

As time passed you only grew more and more frustrated. Worst of all, you could tell he was feeling it too. It was obvious in the way he looked at you, with fire burning in eyes, in the way he spoke to you, with a pitch of something hot and wanting in his voice, in the way he lost his cool far quicker and far more often than he had in the past, your arguments fiercer and more frequent than they’d ever been. The tension between the two of you was palpable, thick enough to be cut with a knife. It got to the point where even your most oblivious of friends started noticing it as well, though they knew better than to voice their curiosity.

The second time it happened, you were both sober and, somehow, it was even better than you remembered. The pleasure was more intense, more overwhelming, a feeling you can’t even put into words. Then it kept happening. Late at night when he’d show up unannounced at your door. Early in the morning when you had an important exam later in the day and you needed some pre-test de-stressing. Between classes in the back seat of his car just because you could. At parties when your friends were too shit faced to notice the two of you slipping into an unoccupied bedroom.

Just sex. That’s what you both agreed to when it became blatantly obvious that your little ‘arrangement’ wouldn’t be coming to an end any time soon. No strings. Just sex. Just really, really good sex.

And that was perfectly fine by you.

Exhaling shakily through your nose, you try to block out the feeling of his thumb as it begins to caress gently up and down your clothed core, suddenly very grateful for the layers of fabric that separate you from his intoxicating touch. But it’s a gratitude that’s short lived. Just as you manage to adjust and scribble down a correction, he cups his hand over your mound and squeezes. A gasp escapes you, and you try to cover up the sound with a series of short coughs, the sting embarrassment intertwining with the warmth of pleasure as a few eyes briefly glance in your direction.

“You’re such an asshole.” You hiss under your breath, thighs tightening around his hand, locking it in place.

He throws you a lopsided grin, brows lifting and you don’t miss the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I’ve been called worse.” What he means is you’ve called him worse.

Your lips part, but any intelligible words die on the tip of your tongue as he grinds the heel of his palm down, directly against your clit. Your head drops, eyes squeezing shut, teeth locking down firmly on your lower lip in order to silence the soft moan that threatens to break free.

“F- fuck.”

You hear him coo tauntingly beside you at your slip, the tips of his skilled fingers easily locating your entrance and prodding experimentally. At this point, you don’t doubt he can feel the fabric of your leggings growing hot and wet with your arousal.

Despite being used to the quick effect he had on your body, you can help but to feel the slightest twinge of shame at how he was able to rile you up this much with little more than a few well-placed strokes of his fingers. But fuck, it felt so good. You’d already been feeling somewhat deprived since you’d both been so busy this past week with exams and projects and what not. This is the first time you’re spending time with him since almost a week ago.

And you are in need of a fix.

“You look like you’re having a bit of trouble on that problem. Do you need my help?” Kyungsoo leans into you, his face right up next to yours, and you have to resist the sudden urge to kiss him right then in there in front of everyone in the stupid library.

Instead, you grit out an unconvincing, “I’m fine,” and force yourself to stay focused on the dizzying mess of numbers and letters on the worksheet in front of you and not on the delicious warmth of his hand where it is applying just the right amount of pressure to keep you teetering between pleasure and the insatiable need for more.

“You sure?” There’s a certain lightness to his voice that tells you he is thoroughly enjoying watching you struggle. Sadistic bastard.

“Positive.”

And just like that, he’s gone. You almost gasp as a rush of cold air fills the places he had been, and you can’t help the frown that tugs at the corners of your lips, disappointment and irritation coloring your features before you can reel them in. From the corner of your eye, you chance a glance in his direction. The smug, knowing little smirk staining his lips sends a wave of heat pulsing into your cheeks, and you grit your teeth in frustration.

“So what, you’re just going to stop?” You whisper sharply, not making any attempt whatsoever to hide your annoyance.

A look of feigned innocence overcomes his features. “You said you didn’t need my help.”

You grit your teeth, glaring at him as hard as you can manage with how incredibly turned on you are. But he remains unfazed.

“If you want my help,” he continues, voice dropping an entire octave, “you’re going to have to ask for it... nicely.”

Nice wasn’t a word in your vocabulary when Kyungsoo was involved.

Seeing the resistance you are still putting up, he feathers his fingers over your thigh, tracing slow designs across the thin, black fabric. You swallow, unable to look away as they trail dangerously higher, teasing closer to where you both knew you wanted them most.

“You do want it, don’t you?”

Fuck, you want it so bad.

You know that he knows you want it. It’s just the getting yourself to actually say it out loud part that proves to be a challenge. But that’s exactly what he wants you to do, he wants to hear you say it, wants to see you cast aside your stubborn pride and beg for it. Beg for him.

Lifting your eyes, you glance unsurely around the library. It isn’t overly crowded anymore since most of the other students have begun to trickle out as late afternoon approaches. Plus, the table you were seated at was tucked into the far back corner of the room, secluded and out of the way. But still, your nerves buzzed at the thought of someone seeing. Though maybe — just maybe — there was a buzz of something else as well. Excitement, perhaps?

Grip tightening around your pencil, you chewed on the corner of your lip, refusing to meet Kyungsoo’s penetrating gaze as you let out a soft murmur. “...ease.”

He leans closer, mirth shimmering in his eyes. “What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

Groaning, you shoot him a scowl, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Please help me, asshole.”

Laughter bubbles at his lips, the genuine kind that makes his cheeks lift and his nose wrinkle. You like it when he laughs like that. Makes him look a lot less like a serial killer.

Sinking his teeth into the pillowy flesh of his lower lip to stifle his laughter, he shoots you a lazy grin, “that’s all you had to say.”

Next thing you know, his hand is slipping beneath the elastic of your leggings and into the soft cotton confines of your underwear. Your mouth fell open, a sharp inhale filling your lungs with cold air as his fingers slid through your slick folds.

“I knew you were wet but shit.” He hisses, thick brows furrowing at the feeling of your heavy arousal coating the length of his digits. “I must say, I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” you breathe, eyes fluttering, “even Chanyeol can get me this— ngh!”

Without warning, he plunges his middle finger inside of you, and the remainder of your sentence pitches into a strangled moan. One look at his face, jaw clenched, nostrils flared, lips down turned, tells you he isn’t all too pleased at the mention of another man’s name, especially when he’s the one buried knuckle deep in your greedy cunt.

A hazy smirk curls onto your lips and you let out a low hum of pleasure, walls squeezing around him. “You’re sexy when you’re mad.”

“Is that why you enjoy pissing me off so much?” He questions, tone biting and low, and you shutter involuntarily as he rolls the pad of his thumb harshly over your aching clit.

“Partly.” You admit, somewhat breathless. “But you’re also just a really fun person to piss off.”

He chuckles dryly in response, though the sound lacks any genuine amusement. “You are such a brat, you know that?” He emphasizes the word by stretching you around a second finger, and you have to drop your pencil in favor of clasping your hand over your mouth, unable to swallow down the soft whimpers that tremble up your throat.

“You love it.” You manage to get out before you’re forced to bite into the tender flesh of your palm to muffle a desperate cry when the slow thrusts of his digits suddenly picks up speed. Your thighs squeeze around his hand, hips jerking up to grind your throbbing clit against the heel of his palm. Electricity ricochets through your veins, and you feel that distinctive tightening in the pit of your stomach. Kyungsoo also feels the way you throb and clench around him, and makes sure to grind down hard against your swollen clit.

Heat immediately spreads through your core, the intensity of the pleasure becoming more than you can handle. “Oh god, Kyungsoo.” Your voice comes out louder than you intended, and you quickly duck your head, doing your best to make it seem like you’re focusing on your work and not the fingers drilling relentlessly into your g-spot, praying to god that no one had seen the blissed out expression on your face. Still, you can’t help the quiet whine that escapes you when his ministrations slow.

“Are you trying to get us caught?” He asks in less than a whisper, breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Ever hear of subtlety?”

“Ever hear of suck my dick?” You snap back without missing a beat, only to jolt as his fingers curl inside of you, pressing directly against that sensitive bundle of nerves. Every muscle in your body tenses, and fuck you’re so close you can almost taste it. Frantically, you thrust your hips, desperately trying to fuck yourself down on his digits.

“Sit still.” He growls, and you quiver when he sinks his teeth into the lobe of your ear, obeying only because you really don’t want to get banned from the campus library if someone happened to catch on.

“Soo— fuck,” the force with which you bite into your lip is nearly about to break the skin, but you can’t be bothered by the pain, not with how quickly your orgasm was approaching. Sensing as much, Kyungsoo goes the extra mile of drawing hard, fast figure eights over your clit with his thumb while simultaneously thrusting his fingers into you so fast that you swear you can almost hear it.

All at once fire roars through your veins, euphoria consuming you as your high crashes over you. Your walls spasm around his digits, painting them with your release.

He doesn’t withdraw from you until you go slack, thighs spreading, body slumping back in your chair, eyes fluttering as a hazy, blissed out smile touches your lips. You can only watch through hooded lids as he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, sighing in amazement as he sucks them clean. There’s a twinge of arousal in your core as he moans softly at the taste of you on his tongue, a downright lethal sound that somehow manages to rouse your positively spent pussy.

This man is going to be the absolute death of you one of these days.

“Fuck.” You chuckle airily, heady gaze flickered over him lazily, only to do a double take when you notice something standing upright beneath the zipper of his jeans. The corners of your lips twirled into a mirthful grin, eyebrows raising slowly.

“Need some help with that?”

“Yes.” He answers shamelessly and without hesitation, grunting softly as he adjusts himself in the tight confines of his jeans to make the raging hard-on he’s sporting somewhat less obvious. “But not here.”

“I figured. So... your car or mine?”

“Didn’t you just get a new one with reclining seats?” He questions, running the tip of his tongue over the seam of his lip at the mere implication.

You strike him with a wicked grin, already beginning to shove your things into your bag. “I did indeed.”

“Then what are we— wait.”

“What?”

“You didn’t finish correcting the worksheet yet.” He points out, drumming his fingers across the paper that had completely slipped your mind.

You pull a face, pausing in the act of gathering your belongings long enough to cross your arms pointedly over your chest. “No offense, Kyungsoo, sweetheart, but I’d much rather suck your dick than do one more of those stupid fucking calc problems.”

His brows leap to his hairline, and he offers a single nod of acceptance, in no position to argue with such a valid point.

“Noted.”

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caden · 4 years ago

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Concerning Lindsay Ellis and contrapoints, it seems stupid to me to like coordinate internet campaigns to cancel leftists who are famous for making YouTube videos and then get mad at them for making YouTube videos about their own cancellations. Obviously no one has any obligation to watch those videos, you do you, if you didn’t watch the creator anyways there’s definitely no reason to start now. But also, like, if you got canceled on a public platform, were targeted because of your public platform, and that cancellation— the loss of that public platform— posed an existential threat both to your livelihood and your ability to keep making work in the medium you love— why would you not use that public platform to either defend yourself or apologize? That’s not a bad look, it’s not egotistical, it’s not the equivalent of a drama YouTuber making a monthly sobbing apology video. It just makes sense. In both cases, they didn’t think that a notes app apology was the appropriate response. And literally, in Lindsay’s case, what would the right version of “accountability” and “apology” have looked like? She says “sorry that I made a tweet which could have been misread as me saying something I don’t believe”? That’s a clarification, not an apology, but anything more apologetic would be completely forced and performative. How does she correct the harm when said harm is so nebulous and so up for debate? If she apologizes publicly it looks like she’s just saving face, if she does it privately she’ll never have a chance of being un-cancelled, and there’s no actual consensus on whether on not what she did necessitates an apology in the first place. She obviously thinks that the situation is more complex than that. But no one could argue that her response isn’t being made in good faith. I don’t really think her video is perfect, I think some of her points are pretty flawed and the tone of some sections can be a little arrogant. But if you aren’t willing to hear them out at all, should you really get to continue having a voice in the discussion? I know the easy response to that is “I’m not trying to educate people or have a debate, I’m trying to dunk on white breadtubers”. I know and genuinely love a bunch of people who think this way. I’m not saying anyone is a bad person if that’s your philosophy. It’s your phone and you can choose to engage with the internet in whatever way feels best for you. But I think that’s a childish and irresponsible approach to these topics, which are very serious discussions and need to be treated as something more significant than just meme fuel. Even if you feel like you have no followers and your actions are completely isolated, recognize that this thinking is indicative of and contributes to a larger culture which does not genuinely help progress social awareness nor does it genuinely amplify marginalized voices, but instead encourages us to view politics through an entirely black and white, entirely punitive, entirely entertainment-based lens. I’m not saying cancel culture is bad, in fact, I think it’s usually really good and very productive. But it isn’t infallible either. It obviously has the potential to be both destructive and deceptive and will always slip into that if we don’t each take personal responsibility for our actions and rhetoric. If we demand a one-size-fits-all response to cancellation— the same old Twitter thread where the canceled person just says they’ve learned the error of their ways, are here to amplify marginalized voices, and will never ever do X again— rinse and repeat— we’re not creating a system of real accountability. We’re creating a cycle of performative bullshit activism with zero room for nuance or depth, zero room for genuine evolution, where any conversation about complex social systems, urgent life and death issues, and worldwide political movements becomes worthless if it can’t be boiled down to a pastel Instagram PSA or a trending Twitter hashtag or an epic clapback. I’ve said enough words post over <3

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queroze · 4 years ago

Text

Holding back

Happy holidays, @worrynotso ! I hope you enjoy!

@sanderssidesgiftxchange

Summary: A vampire merman and a marine biologist meet. Love at first bite? Not quite....

Angst with a happy ending, Analogical

TW: its a vampire mermaid: fangs, blood, water, biting, non-consensual biting

Word Count: 3533

Link to AO3

Virgil was hungry.

Very hungry. It had been far too long since he had eaten. He was desperate. Weak and dizzy he looked up from his cave of coral on the seafloor, the sandy muck and seaweed around him swirled as he moved. Shadows moved over him, blotting out the small amount of light that managed to make it to his glowing purple eyes.

Food.

A grouping of large sea animals cast dark shapes above him. They were too large to be fish. And it didn’t matter what they were. If they moved in groups and they were as bulky as they seemed, they were warm blooded. And that’s what Virgil needed. His stomach panged as he moved out of his cave and up and out with a quick flick of his tail. The bodies were sleek and quick.

Dolphins.

He swam, lithe and fast toward a pod of dolphins. Darting, chasing, gabbing, squeaky skin just out of reach. They scattered, each going a different direction, effectively confusing Virgil's luminescent violet eyes. Because there wasn't an old weak one among them, Virgil didn't get a chance to pick one off. He let his body fall listless to the bottom of the sea, the sand catching him and puffing around him.

Virgil would have never tried for a dolphin were he not confused by hunger gnawing away at his gut. His hands went into the sand, hoping to find some kind of mollusk to chew on at least. It wouldn't give him the nutrition he craved, but it would at least give his pointed teeth something to do, rather than him biting his own tail. The thick, strong and rough appendage was tucked under him as his thin pale hands came up empty of shells.

Blood.

Mammal blood. That's what he needed. Warm, live and pulsing. Heart pumping away into his mouth, veins his glass, teeth his cutlery. Seals were ideal. Slow on land, thick with blubber sure, but at least it wasn’t that rubber band bounce of a dolphin. Whales were marginally better than their squeaking cousins. But also, extremely hard to catch. But their size made it easier to feed off a single one for months before Virgil sucked them dry. But he needed something, anything now.

There was no warning when the net fell on him, other than the slightest change in the shadows that surrounded the merman in the sand. It tangled him, caught his hands and arms, twisted at the base of his tail, cut into his skin. The net was making it hard to breathe, restricting his movements, until all he could do was a pathetic wiggle, sand filling his mouth as he struggled. After what seemed like an eternity, water catching in his gills frantically, a new movement happened. Virgil was being pulled up.

Virgil thrashed against the net, as he moved from the sea floor thru the empty middle expanse of the ocean. The thin twine cut into his tail, his back, his face.

But up he went.

His sharp teeth were useless, because he could not get purchase with his mouth against the tight weave of the net. But that didn’t stop him from biting the water uselessly.

And up he went.

The merman’s arms were pressed, folded awkwardly at his sides, as he attempted to claw at the net to no avail. The short stout claws would have done the job in a hurry if he could only get to the net.

Still up he went.

Until he broke the surface, rump first, tail flopping his own face as the full force of gravity hit his body dripping over the water. It was dark. It could have been a day with a storm, or a clear night for all Virgil was aware. Something jabbed at his side as he slowly turned in his dangle. Rough voices excited and fearful hit Virgil's ears as his body turned sluggishly around. A fishing boat, men in bright yellow shiny coats, as rubbery looking as a dolphin. Virgil snarled at the men, wiggling like a worm on a hook.

Something jerked and his body was moving closer to the boat. The movement was smoother than the easiest swim. The merman kept thrashing, snapping and snarling in vain. When he got close enough, hands grabbed him, callus and rough, pulling him into the boat. There was yelling, incomprehensible and confusing. The people aimed the merman over a large hole in the deck, dark and menacing to Virgil's violet eyes.

Trapped.

Virgil was dropped into the darkness, the deck of the ship disappearing above him. He landed with a splash into water. The water was wrong. It was too warm, too still, too hard, too scratchy. It stung his glowing eyes, the gills along his neck and his tender and pale upper body skin. Virgil’s body dropped like a stone, until it hit the hard and smooth bottom. The net loosened around his body and Virgil moved and thrashed until he was free, the net an evil puddle on the smooth floor.

Free finally to move about Virgil swam quickly around a small circle. A tank, he was in a tank. Legends of humans and their cruelty were abundant. Catching, killing, eating, maiming. He had heard them all….before. Before the only thing that sustained him was blood. Before when flesh was what he needed to survive. Before his tail turned dark, his torso pale and his eyes glowed. He had heard about the cruelty of humans.

And according to Virgil, those legends were right.

Chapter 2

"Unusual coloring on the upper quadrant of the specimen indicates a wider variation in population than previously hypothesized." Logan pressed pause on the recorder. He cleared his throat and turned to the merman in the tank. The 9-foot-long merman was laying at the bottom of the tank, its eyes tracking Logan's movement. Pressing play again he continues. "Incisors and canines are also 60% larger than other specimens that we have studied." Logan continues to take notes walking up the ramp that curved around from the bottom of the tank to the top. He paid no mind to the glowing violet eyes following him.

"The specimen is also at the point of starvation. Live fish, dead fish, and processed food have been offered and so far, rejected. The specimen…." Logan, nearing the top of the tank, checked the tag. Each of the merpeople that have been caught had been assigned a letter. This specimen was assigned the letter V. "The specimen V, as it will henceforth be referred to, seems to be on the brink of malnourishment. Because of this, in order to keep the specimen V alive in captivity for as long as possible for optimum scientific inquiry, some kind of nutrition needs to be entering its system without delay. Intravenous methods are being considered at this time."

Logan looks down into the water holding the merman, purple eyes look back from the bottom of the large tank. The merman wasn’t moving. But it’s fluttering gills and open eyes the only thing betraying the fact that it was alive. "The specimen V has been tracking me all the way up the ramp. That suggests alertness and awareness of its surroundings. This is encouraging as its malnourishment has not yet affected its cognitive abilities." Logan bent down to take a sample of the water. "A water sample of the specimen is going to be taken at...gaAHHHH!"

As quick as lightning, a pale arm breaks the surface of the water and pulls the marine biologist down under. Artificial saltwater fills Logan's mouth and lungs burning his esophagus and nostrils. He fights for the surface, reaching with his hands but the edge is getting further away. He fights against the strong thin hands that hold him, one around his torso, and the other around his face. But already the lack of air makes it hard to fight, to struggle, to get away, to get to the edge of the pool that was only 2 feet away.

A clawed hand tugged his hair, pulling his head back. Teeth sharper than scalpels cut into his neck, staining the water red around him. Logan's body, already heavy with clothes, is impossibly heavier as blood is drained from him. Darkness creeps the edges of his watery vision. Logan is being drained and drowned at the same time. The only thought in his head, clear despite facing impending death was: What is going to kill me? The water in my lungs or my blood in the water?

Blackness overtakes him.

Thump

Thump-thump

Stinging, salt and chlorine erupts from his face. Logan coughs, fresh new air burns and it begins to fill his chest. He is laying precariously close to the edge of the tank. Something hard and plastic is pressed into Logan’s hands by someone pale and wet, his apparent rescuer. His glasses. Logan smashes them onto his face, blinking away the harsh water.

The merman looks back, mouth painted with blood. Logan's blood. Logan clutched the wound on his neck, still wet. But from his own blood gushing forth or from the saltwater clinging to him, he can't tell. He scrambles up, but almost falls back into the tank for his trouble.

"Dude. Chill."

Logan tries to focus on the voice, but as it happened to be coming from the direction of the merman, the very same merman who currently has Logan's blood on his lips, Logan was looking for any other source of the sound. Hand still clenched on his neck, stemming any potential blood from escaping him he finally makes eye contact with the…. vampire merman.

"Sorry about that." The voice of the vampire merman was low, gravely, and rocky in all the right places.

"Biting me?!" Logan asks, finding his own voice to be higher and raspier than it normally was.

"Yeah...I uh...hadn't eaten. And you were right there." The vampire merman actually looked embarrassed, his hand on the back of his neck, eyes downcast.

Logan looked dumbstruck at the sea creature talking to him. None of the other specimens had even said hello, let alone mumbled an embarrassed apology for blood sucking. But Logan's instinct for correction overrode the astonishment.

"You didn't eat. We provided a variety of options."

"I don't eat fish." Came the simple yet significant reply.

"You suck blood." Logan hypothesized, hand still on his neck, still stemming whatever bleeding was happening there.

"Mammal blood" The vampire merman corrected with his rocky stormy voice confirming what Logan was about to say.

"Mammal blood. You drink mammal blood." Logan plops hard on his rump, blinking in disbelief, his hand still on his neck. It was cold, not warm. Did that mean there was no bleeding?

The vampire merman reaches out and gently moves Logan's hand from his neck. "Your fine. You won't bleed out." The care in his gravelly voice is apparent.

Logan goes along with the movement, looking wide-eyed at the most unique creature he has ever studied. "I won't? But the blood...my blood...it was in the water."

Specimen V's pectorals turn a dark purple. "Yeah, my bad. I was starving, so it got everywhere. Usually I'm cleaner than that."

Logan nods dumbly unsure how to respond. He finally looks at his hand, the one that was supposed to be stopping the blood from the bite wound. It was clean, as Specimen V had said. “How?” was the only word the biologist could form.

“oh…uh…I don’t really know?” The merman looks everywhere but at the human. “Something to do with the venom….”

“Venom?!?!” Logan says moving away from the fanged monster.

“Woah dude…It won’t kill you…probably…” The merman winces. “I’ve never fed off a human before…So probably.”

Logan shakes his head a hundred questions lighting up in his brain. “How are you talking? None of our other specimens talked.”

Specimen V's looks at the slightly cowering human with sharp eyes. “Other …specimens?”

“The other merpeople.”

“How many?” The fanged voice is all sharp rocks and crumbling cliffs.

“You are the 22nd” Logan says scooting away from the merman, the tank, and all the mysteries they hold.

“Oh no…” The merman grabs at the scientist’s ankle like lightning, even quicker now he was out of the water. “You’re not just going to leave. You have to let me out of here.”

The vampire merman, after displaying a surprising number of emotions, now shows the most surprising one of all: fear. Terror is etched into every line of his skin, bone, and body. From the way his muscles were taunt as he held Logan from escaping. To his pale face, violet eyes frantic and darting, looking for an exit. His angled jaw set, fangs poking out of his lips menacingly.

Logan pulls his leg hard trying to get away, but the creature's grasp is tight. “Let me go, I cannot release you from here.” He reasons confidently.

Specimen V, eyes still looking for a way back to the ocean himself, finally settles on the man he is holding distrust in his eyes. “How do I know you will?”

“You don’t.”

Chapter 3

Virgil lets go of the human. There wasn’t much more he could do. His captor was probably telling the truth, as there was nothing within reach that looked like the ocean to him. The human scrambles up and runs down a curve and out of sight. And Virgil waits, skin feeling tight as the too clean saltwater dries on his skin. He rubs the gills on his neck in a self-conscious movement. He could dip back in the tank with the water that was all wrong, relieve his gills, give his tiny lungs a break. But being out of the tank gave him a better view of the goings on of the human. The human who had been gone for an exceedingly long time….

“Hey! Don’t you dare do anything funny!” Virgil calls, his voice echoing unpleasantly off the metal walls making him wince from the reverb.

Nothing calls back. In fact, is suspiciously silent. Virgil pulls himself forward, tail dragging on the grates under him. “Are you there?” he calls again, voice high and tight in suppressed panic.

Then footfalls, fast and heavy are coming up the ramp that hugs the tank. The man comes into view, this time he is armed with a spear as long as Virgil.

“No! No please!” Virgil yells holding his arms up to protect himself.

“Get back in the tank!” The human yells at him.

“Please! Please just let me go!” Virgil cowers now, the human getting closer. He had never seen spears up close, but the victims of such weapons left little to the imagination.

“Back in the tank! Did you really think I am going to let such a unique specimen go?” The scientist laughs hauntingly. “In addition, you speak. You and I are going to have a number of conversations.” With a free hand he holds up an impromptu muzzle made from a bungie cord and some extremely large fishing hooks. “One way or another.”

The cruelty of humans is well known from before his tail turned dark, his skin pale and his eyes glowed. But never did he hear of the cold calculation of a man of science. Of an ambition and ivory towers. No, if Virgil had heard about that he would have starved himself at the bottom of the tank, with its too clean saltwater and too smooth floor.

And there he heads now, splashing sideways, spear poking at his side, just this side of cutting into his skin. He looks at the man bearing the spear defiantly. “Someday you will get too close again. And I will not hold back.”

The vampire mermaid and the human scientist stare each other down, each one a monster in the other’s eyes.

Chapter 4

Months pass.

And Virgil is fed. Not always on purpose, and sometimes on accident, but he no longer starves.

Months pass.

And Logan learns more. Not always on purpose, and sometimes on accident, but he knows more now than he ever has.

Months pass

And each of the monsters grow softer to the other.

Logan is kinder and gentler now to the merman he has learned the name of. Logan learns he doesn’t like it too bright, too warm, or too loud. The biologist learns that the merman in his care knows all about the prey he hunts, doesn’t know anything of his kind. That after being left for dead by the one who had bitten him, he had not interacted with merpeople since. He had no mate, nor friends.

Virgil is softer and sweeter now to the biologist he has learned the name of. Virgil learns he hates to repeat himself, dislikes not being listened to, and craves praise. The merman learns that the biologist who harbors him knows all about the creatures of the sea, but knows nothing about his own race. He didn’t know how to interact with them, how to find a mate, and how to make friends.

As they pity each other for what they don’t have, each develops a want. One that they each try and squash.

When Logan feels the want, he refuses to meet Virgil’s eyes.

When Virgil feels the want, he can’t stop looking at Logan.

Months pass.

�� And the want grows.

Logan is reading to Virgil. Virgil is on the outside of the tank, laying on a makeshift sofa made from an inflatable raft. Logan is on a stool, hunched forward, nearing the end of the tale. Virgil is enraptured by Logans voice, the story, everything, his eyes drilling into the hunched figure in front of him. As Logan concludes the book, he closes it and looks up at Virgil, meeting his eyes.

“Did you enjoy that one?”

“Yes….and I liked you reading it.”

This catches Logan off guard. “Only because you’ll get the pages wet.”

“I like your voice Lo.” Virgil says his own stormy and rocky tones that send shivers up Logans spine.

“Your sample size isn’t that large.”

“I still like it. Its soothing.”

“It’s monotone.”

“Same difference.”

Logan smirks setting down the book. Virgil perks up. “What are you doing now?”

“Not leaving. Don’t worry. Its Friday night, so I have no plans.”

“Lo?” Virgil’s voice is soft, like the foamy part of the waves.

Logan looks toward the merman, and notices his chest is a darker purple again. That happens sometimes. But Virgil assured him it was not bad. But it was still curious. “Yes Virgil?”

“You can plan to stay here. Then you would have plans.”

“Well reasoned. That does make me feel better. Plans created and executed. I am now fulfilled.” Logan says deadpan.

The merman laughs, fangs catching the light.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Logan asks undoing his tie already.

The purple on Virgil’s chest gets darker, eyes not leaving Logan’s face. “I mean…. we could find someone else…”

“It’s the weekend. It isn’t good when you go three days. If you drink today, we will get you someone else on Monday.”

Virgil’s stare intensifies. “Alright.”

Logan comes closer, and sits next to Virgil, shivering next to the colder merman. Virgil reaches for Logans head and pulls it down into his lap gently. The merman cradles Logan’s head, his neck exposed and waiting. Logan breathes steady under him. Virgil bites, fangs going deep into the pulse of the human’s veins. Logan hisses until the toxin makes its way into the wound, numbing the area. Logan’s eyes flutter closed, the toxin and the blood loss a potent combination. Virgil drinks deeply, brine and blood in this mouth and on his tongue. He finishes with a press of his lips on the open wounds, and they knit close, new skin tender and shiny.

Logan opens his eyes, and he sits up unsteadily. His face close to Virgil’s, he can feel the sharp breath on his cheek. His eyes drop to the dark purple chest of the vampire merman. Virgil’s chest was always dark purple when he drinks from Logan, but never when he drinks from someone else. When Logan smuggles him someone homeless, drunk, or drugged it’s a ghostly pale white of his normal coloring.

Virgil tips Logan’s chin up, their eyes meeting. “My eyes are up here sailor.” He whispers playfully.

Logan swallows, eyes stopping at the lips of the merman, one of his fangs caught on the outside of his bottom lip. “Virgil?”

“Yeah?” As he speaks, the fang is tucked back to where it belongs.

Eyes still on his lips Logan surges up and kisses the vampire merman. Virgil, surprised, is knocked back, into the inflatable raft, his tail squeaking against the rubber. The biologist, embarrassed, scrambles back.

“Oh no you don’t…” Virgil grabs the human by the ankle and pulls him into the raft. “I have been wanting to do that for months!”

Logan laughs crawling into the raft, “Why didn’t you?”

“I was already drinking…it seemed a lot more to ask…but now…” Virgil brings Logan into a Vampire kiss, fangs pressing into Logan’s lips. “Now…I’m not holding back.”

#sanders side fic #sanders sides #logan sanders #virgil sanders #vampire #mermaid #vampire mermaid #so crazy it just might work #fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #quewritesalot

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owletstarlet · 4 years ago

Note

For a prompt, maybe a Tanunatsu college AU? I'm sort of picturing something where Natsume is visiting the shrine for a weekend and Tanuma is trying not to focus on the fact that his boyfriend now has earrings

(*insert profuse apology for how long this took here* I had initially wanted to get this posted in time for @natsumeweek as one of the prompts was “future” but I guess this is more an early happy-September-birthday-to-Tanuma fic...

ao3 link in the comments.

When the doorbell rings, it’s a near thing for Kaname to not spill his tea all over the keyboard. He has to remind himself several times on his way to answer it not to look as ludicrously eager as he feels, as though his heart might float right on up and out through the top of his head, in case it’s a mail carrier or a maintenance worker at the door.

It isn’t.

It takes all of a second and a half before Kaname’s got his arms full of him, face buried in his hair.

“Hi,” he mutters, voice muffled against the top of Natsume’s head.

“Hi,” Natsume says back, and Kaname can hear the grin in his voice, feel the arms coming to rest around his waist.

They stand like that for several seconds, in the genkan with the door wide open, and Kaname can feel all the tension he’s been holding for six weeks bleed out of him. Eventually, he asks, “How was your flight?”

“I liked it.” His voice is just as muffled against Kaname’s shoulder. “Sensei didn’t.”

“Really?” Kaname finally pulls back enough to see his face. He looks well, relaxed and smiling, the barest dusting of freckles across his nose from time spent outdoors, and it’s almost enough to push a month and a half’s worth of swirling images and morbid what ifs out of his mind. “You’d think Ponta would enjoy flying.”

Natsume rolls his eyes a little, but there’s something fond in the set of his mouth. “He complained the whole time, about being stuck in human form, and kept saying it was unnatural or something to be up so high where he couldn’t even see the treetops past all the clouds.”

Kaname grins at the thought. “Where’s he off to right now?” He pulls Natsume into the genkan, finally lets him go so he can get his shoes off.

“Probably off getting drunk. Or begging snacks off Touko-san. She was pretty happy to see him.”

Natsume’s been up in Aomori for a little over a month, on a few jobs with the Matsuokas. Field training, as Natori had cheerfully put it to Kaname over the phone. And Kaname hadn’t been thrilled about that, but had felt marginally better to hear that Natori would accompany him for most of the trip.

The Matsuoka clan wasn’t particularly prominent or large, but they were well-funded and well-connected. It was Natori who’d reached out to them over a year ago, once Natsume had given his slightly grudging consent to it. Since then Natsume’s been living two and a half hours away in a spacious apartment and attending a university to which the Matsuokas happened to be generous donors. In exchange for this, and their tutelage, Natsume accompanies and assists them with exorcisms. They’re apparently pleased enough to have him, and Natsume’s told Kaname that they haven’t asked him to do anything he’s opposed to; it’s often either binding a harmful entity or else simply sitting down to listen to whatever it is the troublesome youkai-of-the-day is after. But despite Natori being on good terms with the head of the clan, he’d had to make it perfectly clear that Natsume had no interest in longterm recruitment. Or, at the very least, that potential adoption into the clan was to be a decision that Natsume would be entirely free to turn down.

Kaname himself, meanwhile, hasn’t gone anywhere since graduation. Natori had floated the idea of Kaname joining Natsume, that the Matsuokas be perfectly willing to take him on. And, admittedly, the prospect of learning how to defend himself, and others, with the basics of exorcism under his belt had its appeal. Especially since a big factor in Natsume’s own decision had been an ugly encounter with some cave-dwelling youkai that had landed him in the hospital for weeks, an incident which had ultimately led to the truth--or parts of it, at least-- spilling out to the Fujiwaras. Kaname still has nightmares about it.

It was ultimately the prospect of being able to go with Natsume while he was out on a job instead of having to sit around and fret about it that had had Kaname prepared to agree to the offer. But then Dad had needed knee surgery, and a complicated one at that. And Kaname learned very quickly just how much work it takes to run a temple essentially on one’s own. Theirs was part of a larger organization of temples in the prefecture, who had arranged for Dad to be sent here in the first place. To be fair, they’d been as helpful as they were able, and are still paying Dad a salary. Another priest would come two or three days a week to fulfill necessary duties and rites and enabling them to stay at least partially open to visitors while Dad recuperated, and a maintenance worker would show up once a week to help Kaname care for the actual grounds. But Kaname still typically spends the better part of his week at the desk of Dad’s cramped office poring over order forms and spreadsheets he doesn’t always understand, attempting to balance the books of a little temple that barely takes in enough revenue to stay afloat even with the organization’s support. He’s gotten better at it, and Dad’s helped a lot, but even though he’s recovered enough to receive visitors and resume some of his religious duties, Kaname still tries to keep him out of the office most days so he can get some rest.

Still, Dad worries, not only that Kaname is overworking himself but about how his friends have all gone off to school, how he rarely leaves the temple grounds unless he’s running errands. He knows about Natori’s offer regarding the Matsuokas, Kaname’s discussed it with him. And though he’s made it clear that it’s ultimately Kaname’s decision he’s made it equally clear that he likes the idea—both for the sake of Kaname’s mental health and for the prospect of him learning how to better protect himself. On occasions when Dad’s pushed himself too hard and worn himself out, Kaname has threatened to accept the offer but go on to major in accounting just to get hired on by the temple organization and then end up right back home. But he has to admit, he’s been dreaming of it—of the airy kitchen that always smells just a bit like the tea Natsume drinks in the mornings, of the sun-dappled corner where Sensei likes to curl up and nap, of the balcony overlooking a cityscape both unfamiliar and beautiful in its own way, the mountains that look blue in the distance. Of waking up to Natsume’s cheek squashed against the pillow beside him, safe and whole and wonderfully there. He’ll probably have to wait until the next academic year begins, but he thinks it wouldn’t be so bad at all.

“I have something for you,” he tells Natsume now, scooping up the backpack Natsume had set down while taking off his shoes. Natsume smiles, tilts his head just a bit in question. But when he does, Kaname sees something, a glinting just beneath his hair on one side. He blinks, steps forward to brush Natsume’s hair back. “What’s—”

And when he sees what it is, he thinks his face must do something odd, because Natsume’s smile has faltered a bit, turned sheepish. “I actually thought you’d have noticed them already,” he says.

“I left my glasses by the computer,” he murmurs, and he thinks he’s staring. He should probably stop staring. “And your hair’s gotten longer anyways.”

Natsume shrugs, looking a touch pinker than before. “It’s just on the one side.” A pause. “It doesn’t look weird, does it? I don’t really trust Natori’s opinion.”

“It’s not weird.” The answer is immediate, almost embarrassingly so. He realizes they haven’t moved from the genkan, and that he hasn’t quite managed to quit staring, so he takes Natsume’s hand and tugs him towards the kitchen. He hopes his palms aren’t as clammy as he thinks they are.

There are two hoops in his left earlobe, side by side, one silver and one gold, catching the light from behind strands of pale hair. They’re subtle enough—Kaname doesn’t think the tip of his little finger could fit through either—but the sight of them makes the air stick strangely in Kaname’s throat.

“Did they hurt?” he asks, a moment later.

“Not really.” Natsume takes a seat at the worn kitchen table, hand hovering up near his ear in a way that’s half considering, half self-conscious. “Right when they do it, yes, but not so much after.”

Kaname goes to get Natsume a drink, but pauses with his hand on the refrigerator door, considering. “Any particular reason you got it done?” he starts, tone as light as possible. If Natsume’s already shy about it, Kaname doesn’t want to make it worse, but he can’t pretend he isn’t curious. “Just because you wanted to, or…”

“No, I—I mean. I don’t hate it, but there was a reason.” The shade of Natsume’s cheeks is on just this side of salmon when Kaname glances back, and it’s so frankly adorable that Kaname has to turn his back again, not trusting himself to keep a straight face. “Do you remember the farm in Aomori I told you about?” Natsume continues. “The owners had called the Matsuokas for an exorcism because their livestock kept getting sick so we stayed for a few days.”

“I remember.” He also remembers all the grim visuals his own imagination had served up over the course of those three long days, until he’d gotten the text that all was resolved and that Natsume was safe and whole and on a train away from that place.

“The family had a connection to a lesser exorcist clan that sort of fizzled out a few generations ago. And Sayaka-san—ah, the wife—was really her aunt and uncle’s only heir because they didn’t have children. They were both exorcists, and she’d inherited a few things from them.”

“Did the angry ayakashi have something to do with that clan?” Kaname asks, setting two cups of lemonade on the table and sliding into the seat across from Natsume. And god if it doesn’t do something to him, to see Natsume right there, right across from him, pale fingers wrapping easily around the lumpy clay cup Kaname made in middle school, afternoon light through the window settling in his hair and glinting starlike off those new tiny hoops in his ear and every day, Kaname wants this every day. Just this. He swallows, hard, forces himself to pay attention because Natsume’s talking again.

“It actually had nothing to do with them. The farm had been owned by her husband’s family anyhow, but. The land the farm sat on was at the center of some dispute between two ayakashi, some territory thing they bicker about every hundred years. All Sensei and I really did was get them both to agree to meet each other, and they mostly sorted it out themselves from there.”

Kaname blinks. “The Matsuokas didn’t do anything?”

Natsume shrugs. “They didn’t really need to. Sensei worked out what was going on pretty quickly, and didn’t really wait up for their help. He thought the exorcists barging in would just make things worse.” He pauses to take a sip of lemonade. As soon as he does, his eyes light up. “Ah—your lavender! You got to harvest it?”

Kaname feels a grin touch his lips as he watches Natsume take a second, larger gulp of the lemonade, in his face all the bliss of an elementary schooler who’s gotten his hands on an ice cream pop at the park. He’s a bit surprised Natsume didn’t notice the smell straightaway when Kaname had poured it, but to be fair the entire kitchen smells a bit like lavender most days. “I did. I’ll tell you about it later. Finish your story first.”

He does, after yet another hearty gulp. “When it was all resolved and we went to tell the family, Sayaka-san wanted to give me a gift. I told her not to, because it was more Sensei than me, and Hiiragi helped too—Natori sent her with me because Sensei didn’t want him there either—they made sure neither of the ayakashi could get away until they settled the dispute. I asked a couple of questions, mostly because I wasn’t sure what was going on—it was something about a sacred pine grove—but it wasn’t like I resolved things for them.”

Kaname doesn’t need to hear the specifics to be soundly convinced that Natsume’s not giving himself near enough credit. He takes his own sip of lemonade, the tartness of it tempered by the softer herbal taste that lingers on his tongue. “What was the gift?”

Natsume smiles, a bit rueful. “Earrings.”

Kaname points. “Those?”

“No, these were just to get the piercings done, but I can show you later. They’re talismans, and pretty effective ones from what Sensei could tell. It’s a set of six, they’re little round polished stones in all different colors. I’ve got the types of stone written down somewhere and what each of them is useful for but I don’t really remember. Sayaka-san had inherited them from her aunt and uncle.”

“Did she know what they were for?”

“Vaguely. Enough to think she didn’t have as much use for them as I might. They’d just been sitting in a box in the house, and she was really glad the problem was fixed, so. She insisted. But Natori also insisted on paying her for them.” His mouth twists. “She didn’t love that, but I think he had a sense of how valuable they were, and didn’t want anyone trying to step in and claim I’d gotten them illegitimately. I like Yasuda-san and Tanaka-san—they were the clan members that went with us—and I really don’t think they’d do something like that, but I guess it’s better to be cautious.”

Kaname’s not sure how to feel about that. “That’d technically make them Natori’s then, right?”

Natsume huffs a short sigh. “I did try to make him take at least some of them, but he said they’d do me more good than him, that he’d feel better if I wore them at least some of the time. Also that his agent would kill him anyways if he showed up with holes in his ears. So he took me to get mine done, instead.” His hand’s inching upwards again, like he can’t decide if he wants to touch his ear or hide it from sight.

Kaname reaches across the table and intercepts his hand midair, lacing their fingers together in a move that’s objectively more awkward than suave, but it makes Natsume’s lips twitch nonetheless, and that feels like an achievement. “What’d the Fujiwaras say?” he asks.

“Well when I explained why I got it done, they were all for it, but.” Lips pursed, he looks equal parts embarrassed and affectionately exasperated. “I think it sort of amused them. Touko-san said it looked ‘very handsome’ and had me promise to clean them really well, and Shigeru-san cracked a few jokes about rock stars.”

“I mean—”

Natsume shoots him a withering look. “Don’t you start.”

Kaname agrees with Touko; can picture the barest hint of mischief touching the corners of her wide, delighted smile. “Will you get the other side done?” he asks. “If you’ve got six.”

He shrugs. “Natori said two at a time would be fine. And both sides seemed a bit…”

There’s a dozen different adjectives Kaname could fill in at the end of that sentence, none of them remotely close to what Natsume looks to be thinking. If he had showed up with both sides done, Kaname’s quite sure that his own reaction would’ve embarrassed them both.

“I did think—” Natsume starts, then seems to need a moment to rally himself before continuing. “If you wanted,” he begins again, looking rather more at some spot on Kaname’s cheek than at his eyes. “You could take some of them.”

“Oh.” It’s safe to say that’s not an offer Kaname had anticipated. “I’m not…I’m not an exorcist, though.”

“Neither am I,” Natsume counters, his fingernail tracing idly across the back of Kaname’s hand where their hands are still twined together across the tabletop. “Not really. And you are good at cleansings and banishings, anyways.”

“That’s…it’s kind of just a matter of showing up and remembering the words, but thank you.” He’d been practicing a bit of that at Dad’s suggestion and with his help, and had genuinely found the memorizing to be the most arduous part of it all; he’d taken to muttering the trickier, more unwieldy bits of sutra under his breath to practice while watering the plants or doing housework, most days.

“You’re good at it,” Natsume repeats. “I don’t want to make you feel like you’ve got to go and put holes in your ears if you don’t want to but I thought…” he trails off, looking uncertain.

“Thought what?”

He lets out a tight breath, then says, the words jumbling together a bit as though he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve if he doesn’t get it out quickly, “I thought you could use them if you still wanted to come apprentice with the Matsuokas too.”

“I do.” He surprises himself with the immediate answer, but it crystallizes inside him even as he says it. “I will.”

Natsume’s eyes go round. “Really?”

“Really.”

Natsume smushes his lips together for a moment before speaking again, the taut look on his face suggesting there’s something before him now that he’s not sure he ought to hope for. “But…your dad—“

“I think Dad’s close to packing my bags himself if I don’t get out of here soon and go do something that doesn’t involve spreadsheets and invoices.” He feels himself smile. “I’d need to wait for the new school term, and don’t think I can do much to help out an exorcist clan, but…”

“You’ll do fine,” Natsume interjects, in a murmur. “I told you that.” And he had; as nerve-wracking as it is for Kaname to consider that he’d be literally blind to so many of the youkai the clan would be taking on, Natsume had said that he’d already met a handful of respected exorcists who worked for or alongside the Matsuokas whose sight for the supernatural was even less than Kaname’s. Some, even, with no sight whatsoever—who, like Dad, could compensate for that fact with knowledge and technique and become formidable in their own right. It’d been a comfort to know, but Kaname can’t say he’s not nervous about getting someone hurt because he couldn’t keep up, or excusing himself to go be sick behind a tree in the middle of some crucial binding or ritual because his body wouldn’t tolerate it.

Still.

“I want to go with you.” It’s out of his mouth before he can even find it in himself to be embarrassed about it. He’s staring at their hands, his own wrapped tightly around Natsume’s cool fingertips like he’ll find himself alone in the kitchen if he lets go.

Some of the creases in Natsume’s forehead soften. “That apartment’s too big for just me,” he says, with a tiny smile, looking down into his cup. “As long as you don’t get yourself eaten.” He pulls a slight grimace. “Or recruited.”

The first option’s more likely than the second, Kaname thinks but doesn’t say. “I won’t if you don’t,” he says instead.

“No chance of that.” Natsume taps the side of his cup with two fingers. “I think Sensei would rather eat me himself than consent to working for an exorcist. It puts him in a bad enough mood to be mistaken for a shiki as it is.”

Natsume had been very clear from the beginning, that his only reason for working with the Matsuokas was to learn to protect people, though Kaname also knows that means doing so without having to harm any ayakashi that ought to be left well enough alone. Kaname’s not sure why any of that has to be mutually exclusive from pursuing exorcism as a career path, but he’s certainly spent less time with exorcists and clan politics than Natsume has. And he can’t say he wouldn’t appreciate Natsume choosing a less dangerous day job.

“You’re sure?” Natsume’s asking him, now. His expression hasn’t changed much, but behind his eyes Kaname can see the years stacked upon years of learning to brace himself for rejection.

“I am."

***

They’re on the veranda now, legs hanging over the edge, the tips of Natsume’s socked toes not quite brushing the mossy carpet below. Heaped on the floorboards between them is what Kaname now realizes is probably an excessive amount of lavender: dried blooms in a glass jar, loose stems fastened with twine into bunches, yet more blooms rather poorly sewn into cotton sachets with simple blessings Dad had helped him write tucked inside. And finally, currently perched atop Natsume’s head where Kaname had placed it on a whim a moment ago, a carefully twisted wreath of pale purple and silvery green.

“You don’t have to use it all,” he tells Natsume, tapping lid of the jar. “Or take it all. It’s a lot.”

Natsume gives him a small sidelong grin, and with those slitted eyes catching and holding the afternoon sun as if it belongs to them, Kaname has to remind himself to breathe.

“Did you leave any for yourself?” Natsume asks wryly.

A soft snort. “Plenty. I had no idea they’d bloom so much this year, after how pitiful it was last year. I harvested most of them twice.”

Kaname’s got a literal dozen plants, the seeds a gift from one of Dad’s associates who’d gotten them on one of his frequent trips to a network of temples in Hokkaido. Kaname had sprouted them in egg cartons and had done his best with them, knowing that plants more suited to a milder climate far to the north would be finicky to say the least. It had taken two years to coax a decent harvest from them, and that had taken digging up a long strip of garden space to fill in with the sand and gravel they needed, and then painstakingly potting and repotting them all to move them between the flowerbed and a sunny storeroom he’d cleared out at the rear of the house when the weather grew too wet. Dad had joked that they’d bloomed so well this year because Kaname had spent so much time mumbling sutra while tending to them, but whatever the case it had been deeply satisfying to cut and hang the bunches of long fragrant stems up to dry when they’d been so scraggly the year before.

Natsume takes a sachet into his hands, holding it gently between his fingers up to his eye level. It turns a faint purple where the afternoon sun lights it from behind.

“I’m not sure it’ll do any actual good in protecting you,” Kaname says, watching him lightly touch his fingertip to the outline of the card where the blessing is inked. “Taki would be better for that. But it’ll make your pillowcases smell nice, at least.”

Natsume brings it up to his face, letting his eyes shutter as it covers his nose and mouth. “It smells like your room,” he says softly. He reaches up to where the wreath is settled in his hair. “This too.”

“Well I’ve got the one on the wall near my bed,” he says, certain he’s failing to sound casual when there’s that rare, unveiled softness in Natsume’s eyes. His tongue feels heavy and strange, and there’s a sensation like so many soda bubbles fizzing and popping in his chest, but he somehow manages to say, “The smell’s relaxing, so I like it there, but. You can put it anywhere you want. Sorry for not tying it so neatly.”

Natsume takes his hand off the wreath, sets it over Kaname’s, fingertips chilled from the refilled cup he’d carried with him. “It’s a good thing the apartment has a big veranda.”

Kaname chuckles, shakes his head. “Not big enough for a dozen large pots. Where would we hang the laundry?”

“We’ll fit them.” Natsume shrugs, tips his head back, looking utterly serene. “Won’t you want them for your tea?”

And that’s about when Kaname can’t take it anymore. He turns, cups Natsume’s face in both hands, and kisses his parted lips.

For the space of a breath, Natsume’s motionless against his mouth, but Kaname barely has the time to start to wonder if he’s done the wrong thing before he can feel the cool grip above his elbows, practically taste the featherlight sigh between lips that have opened wider to move with his own.

When they part, a long lightheaded moment later, Natsume’s reaching up towards his own hair, brows scrunching together, cheeks marvelously flushed under Kaname’s fingers. “Isn’t this poking you in the face?” He taps his makeshift crown.

“Yes,” Kaname says simply, leaning in to peck the very tip of Natsume’s nose.

Natsume bites down on a smile, not quite managing to look disapproving, and not moving to take it off, either. “All the flowers will fall off.”

I’ll make a better one, is what he means to say. What comes out of his mouth instead, entirely unbidden, is, “I missed you.” His voice snags oddly on the last word, and he swallows hard. A month and some change does not warrant falling to pieces on him, Kaname tells himself sternly, a handful of colorful nightmares notwithstanding. He’d made enough of a scene when he’d nearly tackled him at the door, hadn’t he. Still, he doesn’t trust himself to speak until Natsume does, his throat feeling suspiciously thick.

Natsume, for his part, looks a bit stricken, at first. And Kaname has the sudden thought that he’s grappling with the idea of being missed to such a degree in the first place. But the expression shifts soon enough into one of concern, and warmth.

“You won’t have to, for long,” he murmurs, after pulling Kaname back in for a gentle brush of lips across his cheekbone. “I won’t, either.” A lingering pause. Then, “…ah, sorry. That’s got to be stabbing you in the eye, right?”

Kaname blinks when Natsume abruptly pulls away, feeling muzzy and untethered and wanting very much for Natsume to be kissing him again until he realizes that Natsume’s gingerly lifting the wreath off his head. It catches on his hair despite his best efforts, enough to tug a few blossoms loose, and enough to knock aside those strands that have grown out just long enough to fall past his earlobes.

And Kaname couldn’t have pretended not to stare if his life depended on it.

His hand’s up, fingers outstretched before he even realizes. “Can I, um. It’s not going to hurt you or anything if I—”

“No. Go ahead.”

But Kaname’s only just touched the tip of his finger to the outermost hoop—the barest amount of pressure enough to make it lie flat against the bottom of Natsume’s earlobe—when Natsume sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, ducking his head out of Kaname’s reach.

Kaname snaps his hand back, distressed. “I’m sor—”

“No, it tickles.” Natsume straightens back up, rubbing at his ear with more vigor than he probably ought to whether it’s fully healed or not, leaving the metal gleaming against reddened skin.

Kaname raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

The glare Natsume shoots him is truly remarkable, though the effect is somewhat dampened by his mussed hair, the crumbly bits of lavender that have fallen onto his shoulders. Kaname throws his hands up, a picture of innocence, tucking this particular scrap of information away for a later date.

“For what it’s worth, though…” he starts, once he is well and truly sure that Natsume won’t try to scoot himself several meters down the porch and out of his reach; his arms are wrapped loosely around himself and he’s smiling again, though warily. But at that moment Kaname finds himself so thoroughly arrested with love that he couldn’t have launched the anticipated attack if he tried. “For what it’s worth. The earrings look good.”

#I didn't mention it in the fic but I need you all to know #Nishimura is absolutely thrilled by this development #'let me touch them' 'no'#natsume yuujinchou #natsume's book of friends #natsuyuu #tanunatsu #tanuma kaname #natsume takashi #owlet's fanfic #lizzyeleven #prompt fic #ask meme

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blarrghe · 4 years ago

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♥ Dorian and Taren!

Look what you did, you made Dorian cry.

Lengthy emo feelings ahead. No cut because mobile sorry =/

Dorian had seen Taren cry. More than once, in fact. It wasnt that it happened often, just that the elf had quite a lot to contend with. There was no shame in it, and indeed Taren took very little shame in anything pertaining to his emotion. He was free with it; asking for help almost as easily as he offered it. Almost. The first time Dorian had seen Taren cry the whole thing had actually come to a rather dramatic head specifically because of the Lord Inquisitor's refusal to show vulnerability. But grief makes people do uncharacteristic things. It had done so to Taren; made him hide his fear and doubt behind unrelenting activity. Work work work, until the crash. Dorian had been there for the crash, and it had been the first time he'd been there, like that, for anyone.

Dorian had seen Taren cry a few times after that, not with a crash, but just for a moment under a hug at the end of a long day. And he had begun to understand that it was a reasonable thing to do, sometimes, to cry. The world was a very tumultuous and unhappy place, filled with demons and bandits and various vicious beasts. There was no shame in fear or grief or loneliness, and truly, it was ok to cry.

For other people.

For Dorian, a more suitable alternative had always been - and would remain - expensive, strong brandy. On the day he recieved news of his father's death, he found some in the cellars, and taking it without asking soon found himself a quarter of the way through the bottle, hunched over a desk at the top of Skyhold's mage tower. It was an unusual venue for him; he never had migrated over from the library after the tower was built. But the tower smelled like lyrium and thrummed with residual magic, and at the top of it it was cold, and quiet.

He rubbed a thumb over the letter in his pocket, and swirled the brandy in his glass. Father was dead. It had been coming long enough; he wasnt young, and his friends were mostly false ones, but it came on suddenly nevertheless. It also came with consequences. Opportunity, he reminded himself, to actually apply all that good-principled change he'd been dreaming up all his life. And Taren would understand, he always did.

Or he might not.

Another drink.

He might say he understood and then resent him.

A larger drink.

He might have reached it, that end he always knew would one day come.

He drained the glass.

He pulled the letter out of his pocket and poured himself another glass. His mother's writing was fine, her words matter of fact and devoid of emotion. He wouldn't have expected much more, and he didn't expect that she was at this moment taking the news any differently than he was; with a strong drink and a quiet moment alone. She would cry at the funeral, dramatically, and then gather up the fortune bequeathed to her and take a sojourn out to the family beach house. She'd likely be gone from the estate before his luggage arrived. Oh, but he did not want to have to live in that house again. He took another bitter sip, gritting his teeth against the thought that he had never really lived in that house at all.

Well, he chuckled dryly to himself, he could free all the slaves while mother was away. Have her come back to find him cooking his own meals.

All these lines of thought quickly led him back to the main point, which was that his father was dead, and he wasnt quite sure how he felt about it. But however he felt, it was unpleasant, and he sought to numb it with brandy.

They had exchanged a handful of letters, after that strained reunion in Denerim. His father had asked for a forgiveness he had never granted, and that even now he was not sure he could. There was some decency to the letters, a reluctant push toward reconciliation brought on, no doubt, by his father's reckoning with his own mortality; his death had resulted from illness in the end, not political motivation. And how very bitter that dance had felt. A father who had only marginally accepted him after years of pushback, asking to be heard out of love. Thanks to the letters, thoughts of his childhood had been digging into him since well before the eventual death, and the nostalgia in them was heartwrenching and infuriating. He had given his father many proud moments, impressing his early teachers and outshining his peers. He had almost been such a perfect son.

Dorian had answered every letter slowly, leaving them at the bottom of his long to-do lists. Mostly he had just wanted to avoid those conversations because he didn't exactly know what to do with them. What to do with a relationship so steeped in resentment? What to do with all the things that would never change, that he would never get an answer for? What to do now that there was nothing else he could ever say.

He should have written longer letters. He should have had a better father. He should have been a better son.

A memory slipped itself in uninvited between mild frustration and a growing fuzziness in his thoughts; a vacation, praise for learning some new spell, the giddy joy of being seven and already important. Pride. A good memory, a happy memory where his father was kind and his mother was sober and his legacy was exciting. It was always the warmest memories that left his heart cold.

He had spent about half his life a golden child, then in a flurry of dissillusionment and ideological exasperation, made a very deliberate show of throwing it all away. Rebellion and resentment had been his only modes of communication with either of his parents for years, and with more than enough good reason. Dead or not, some broken part of him would always be angry. And the parts of him that were whole knew well enough that his anger was justified.

He had idly imagined the familial fallout of death a number of times; in his darkest moments, he'd ruminated on the shadow he could cast with his own, and in fits of anger and heated verbal sparring, he'd passionately invoked his desire to see his father's. He had known for a very long time that ungrateful though it may seem, he wouldn't feel much troubled by its eventual occurence. He had assumed that his tears for matters concerning his legacy, his failures as a protege, and his mistreatment were long spent. But grief makes people do uncharacteristic things.

Drinking was probably not helping. When the first salty droplet fell into his brandy, his mind was already a rough sea of happy memories and unhappy reactions, unhappy memories and refreshed anger, unspoken rants and unwritten apologies. All the things that had only just begun to feel far away and over during his time in the South were back, emboldened by the discombobulated nature of a mind altered by drink. The waves crashed into him, and with an ugly wail and a choking breath, the rest of his tears spilled out from behind his eyes.

He crumpled the letter into a tight ball, and threw it across the room with all the force he could muster. Despite the force behind it, the wad of paper bounced off the wall and rolled along the floor with nothing more than a quiet patter. His violent little burst of energy only fueled things further, and then he was slamming a fist into the desk and pushing away the bottle of brandy in order to preserve it from a sudden urge to smash something.

A sob heaved itself from his throat, and he lowered his head into his hands to shake out the rest. Most of his complex feelings of anger and grief were swallowed up by curse words, and he let the colourful stream of them run through his head while his breaths hitched and broke under more sobs.

Taren had never seen Dorian cry. Not even when his voice had cracked and wavered in Redcilffe after confronting his father, not even when he had pulled him in tight and swearing under his breath after their close calls with death, not over anything. In fact, every distressing moment in Dorian's life seemed to be relayed with humour; a well developed mix of sarcasm and bravado. It wasnt that he was insensitive, the man had simply had a lot of practice maintaining his face, and letting that face fall was new and foreign territory. He would no doubt have given Taren a nonchalant explanation of what had happened in a day or two, the emotional impact always something you had to know him to hear. But Taren would. Dorian was a passionate man, and while he was wordy and quick witted, most of what he felt came through in action. He'd throw it all out there like it was nothing, then hold him in a desperate grip and sink his kisses deep into his bones, and that would say everything.

But Dorian wouldn't have that chance. Instead, as he wrestled with his composure with his head bent over the desk, Taren quietly ascended the stairs. Dorian didn't even realise he was there until his hand was on his back, rubbing gentle circles over his shoulder as another shaky breath jostled them up and down.

"Vhenan," his warm voice was quiet in his ear, a soft breath of a word that held so much. Exactly the right thing, and exactly the wrong thing, for it triggered a surprised inhale and an embarrassed crack in his voice as he tried to reply with some assurance that he was fine through the tears.

"What can I..."

Dorian took a few more breaths and rubbed at his eyes, forcing an unconvincing smile and reigning in the display.

"Nohing, Amatus. I'm fine, I'm fine."

Taren didn't move. His hands massaged Dorian's shoulders slowly, and a kiss landed in his hair. "Tell me what happened."

Dorian sighed, and nodded his head to the left just enough to signal Taren to where the crumpled letter sat on the floor. Taren took the few steps across the small room and picked it up. With a cautious look to Dorian first, he undid its folds and smoothed the letter out. He read it slowly, eyes scanning the page and then flicking up to Dorian again with close-knit brows. "Oh," he whispered as he finished taking in the news, "oh, ma vhenan."

This was not their spot up in the library where things were comfortable. Dorian wasn't hunkered down in a cozy little alcove with two comfortable seats and the homey clutter of books and candle stubs and notes, he was bent over a solitary desk, in a small and dim little room at the top of a tower. When Taren returned to his side he tucked himself in at a kneel and took up one of Dorian's hands.

"So, shall we make it quick and painless then?" Dorian asked, forcing another of those smiles that didnt quite make it.

"What?"

"My leaving."

"Dorian," he said it like no.

"Dont tell me you want to draw this out. I dont think I can stomach more crying." Even as he said it, his voice cracked over the words.

Taren sighed, and gave Dorian's hand a solemn squeeze. "I do though," Taren replied, "I love you." Dorian sat up, turning his face reluctantly to Taren's. "I wont make promises for myself. You dont have to do any more crying." He smiled at him, all real, "but if you must leave, I'd like to draw it out for as long as I possibly can."

"Bastard."

Taren chuckled. "It's too soon to point that back at you, isn't it?" A rare moment of pithyness from the Inquisitor. It worked, Taren was almost never anything but achingly sincere, and the surprise of a joke in extremely poor taste jolted Dorian to an actual snort of a laugh.

"Maker, I must look a fool. I've been wishing for this day for years."

Taren frowned. "You're not a fool."

"I kept putting off his letters..." He felt a need to explain something, a reason for the hysterics. "I should have, I should have..."

"Listen to me," Taren was suddenly serious again, taking both his hands and fixing him with a knowing gaze. "Whatever happens, whatever you need, I'm here." Dorian felt his face scrunching up again against his permission. "I love you." Taren said again, every time a lightning bolt. He swallowed, and hid his wretchedness in Taren's shoulder.

He had thought he was done. The fit of shaking and wailing interrupted by the warmth and comfort of Taren's voice, the masking power of a joke, the space enough between thoughts to find some ground to stand on. But as his eyes closed over Taren's shoulder and he felt arms wrap close around him, something else washed over him. Being held somehow made it all better, and all worse. His body convulsed, inhales entering his lungs in jagged chunks, just one bit of air at a time. His eyes left a damp spot in the soft fabric of Taren's thick sweater. Taren's hands pressed firmly into his back, one moving slowly up and down. His own hands clung to the wool of Taren's sweater in tight fists. The shattering breaths grew longer bit by bit, until they were deep and calm again. Taren always smelled a bit like campfire smoke, underneath notes of sea water and fresh pine. He inhaled, buoying himself on the familiar comfort of the embrace until his eyes were truly dry.

When he pulled away Taren had another smile ready for him, though his eyes were wide and full of concern. Dorian responded with a watery smile of his own. He pushed himself away from the desk, his chair sliding roughly on the wood paneled floor, and reached across the desk to retrieve the bottle he'd shoved aside.

"Brandy?" He offered, pouring a finger of it into his glass and tossing it quickly back.

Taren leaned on the desk, still watching him with an affectionate gaze. "Yes," he agreed, "but let's go somewhere else."

Taren rose to his feet and Dorian followed. Before anything, Taren took his hand and pulled him into a kiss. And without ever letting go, he led him away from the tower.

#dragon age #dai #dragon age fanfic #my writing #writing prompts #cw death #dorian pavus #taren lavellan #my ocs #pavellan #hurt/comfort #angst #cw for dealing with the death of shit parents??#heavy shit #and why yes i do need 7000 hugs and am using fic as an outlet #how could you tell?

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tothedarkdarkseas · 4 years ago

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D'you feel like Gorillaz has become more gentrified? Like, they've really reversed a lot of the character design from Phase 1 imo. I can sort of see where "soft boy Stu" is coming from; looking at Humility versus Tomorrow Comes Today, there has been a huge departure of character. Same with Noodle (who is showing more cleavage than any other phase) and Murdoc (who seems to take himself MUCH less seriously). What do you think?

Hi anon! This has been tough for me to answer because there’s such a tension in the fandom right now, and as ever, I’m sort of the most useless type of person who falls a bit in the middle. I’m just doing a bit of stream of consciousness here, so I’m sorry if it’s ever unclear!

To start, I want to clarify that I do understand what you mean by “gentrification” in a more colloquial media setting like this, and I don’t want to seem pedantic, or like I’m picking on you or disagreeing-- but for me, “gentrified” is not really the word I would use to describe Gorillaz. Again, that isn’t me try to point to the dictionary and contest the meaning on paper, words evolve with us as our usage of them evolves, and in this context I’d infer it as meaning the project is being made more profitable for white and upper-class voices at the chief cost of devaluing marginalized people. Now, I know we’re talking about the characters here, but... Gorillaz is always a bit weird to talk about because it’s such a multi-faceted project, and I do have some regretful feelings that the work of hundreds of people often goes dismissed in the full scale of the “is Gorillaz bad actually” conversation. I do apologize if it seems like I’m willfully misconstruing the question to push the subject, I promise that isn’t my intent and I’ll get back on topic-- it’s just something I’d like to express some appreciation over while we’re discussing the good and bad of the project. There aren’t many bands in existence, and none on their level of mainstream fame in the English-language market, who bring this many POC artists to the forefront, heavily featuring not just superstar crossover collaborators but smaller indie or unknown artists performing on a larger stage without being asked to compromise the culture in their music. The fact that Song Machine has three non-English languages featured on different tracks, including Xhosa, is pretty cool and not something you often stumble across. That doesn’t mean the band, real or fictional, is perfect by any stretch-- but I’ve never gotten the sense that the collaborators are being used by Gorillaz or asked to follow only what they’re told, but that the band backs the collaborators in making the music they bring to them.

I recognize that’s not entirely on topic for this question, but it’s sort of aimed at the broader conversations happening right now I guess. Like, we’ve all been seeing a lot of strong feelings about the band by now, haven’t we? So er, y’know, hot on the heels of this album, I just wanted to ramble about my opinion on the band’s side of it, and whether Gorillaz as a band has lost what makes them special. As far as the music goes, no, I don’t personally feel that way, so I’m still pretty jazzed on this album.

As for whether the characters have been moving in reverse or stagnating-- I’d have to agree, yes, I look at soft boy Stu and it feels pandering. That isn’t necessarily to discount that anything of value has come from Gorillaz since then, they’re just... rather inconsistent. Truthfully, it’s difficult to speak to because I do have to take into account that my vision of the characters isn’t really entirely in-line with canon, even the older canon, but is much less so with the newer stuff. I can’t say there aren’t moments that have frustrated me, between art or interviews-- and it’s the things I know earn me ire to express because it is a selfish want, it’s the cute stuff people like that I often don’t, and so I have to step back and assess what is an objectively (or as close to objective as we’ll get) disagreeable direction, and what simply doesn’t gel with what I want the characters to be. I think it’s very often the latter, but of course there’s part of me-- as there is with near everyone in the fandom-- who thinks that something I really dislike is inarguably not as compelling. On the flipside, there have been bits scattered here and there that did gel with my ideas of the characters (this refers primarily to Stu and Murdoc) that seemed completely reviled and rejected when they happened. Er, so the wishy-washy thing I’m getting at is: yes, Gorillaz is surely different. In particular Stu is written and drawn quite differently, to the extent that there is a completely fractured image in the fandom of what “in character” means for him, and I’m not always happy with everything we get. I’ve had to just “distance” myself from canon-- which, to be quite honest, even though this is a popular mindset with shippers I don’t actually say it with much pride. I do have a sense of embarrassment at how it sounds for me to say it “doesn’t matter” if it’s in-character when I guess I’ve wished that I was... I don’t know, doing some kind of good and thoughtful thing for the character and his potential, rather than just writing him as an OC, which is what it increasingly looks like I’m doing. (Hell, it increasingly is what I’m doing, and I don’t love to feel that way but in the effort of honesty I do recognize it.) For Murdoc, I don’t personally mind his presentation nearly as much, though I can see how he’s leaning more cartoony by the day. While there were some missed opportunities for better Debunked sessions, better interviews, or better videos, I haven’t been totally wrong-footed by him either. At worst, the jokes we’ve gotten from him have felt a bit toothless, and at best I’ve also felt like there were some winners in there. I’d be glad to simply ignore the “plot” around the portals, but even when engaging with it, I can see the idea behind having Murdoc aimlessly chase them-- maybe for profit, maybe for control, maybe just because they exist around him and it is his core driving need to take and to have. That isn’t to say it’s handled as well as it could be, but I sort of just... look past it to be frank with you, haha. It hasn’t been spoiling me on Murdoc, I suppose. That’s just my own feeling, though.

I’m staying optimistic that the almanac will have some funny Murdoc bits, but I’m more nervous about Stu’s parts of it. I have hopes and fingers crossed, but I also have a lot of fear based on the direction Stu’s gone in for a while now. Yes, it does bum me out quite a lot, I admit. Hope springs eternal, though, and I do still perhaps foolishly believe that Jamie and the writers have a bit more love for mumbling, zombie-faced, “a bit thick” laddish Stu than they do for the soft boy and they might make some efforts to give us something. Touch wood.

If I’m being honest though, despite taking issue with a lot of choices I haven’t lost my love of Gorillaz as a project partly because I sort of think we’ve had rose-tinted glasses toward previous phases, and there is some extent of editorializing that goes on about the band’s history. I think Gorillaz’s plot writing now is pretty bad, but I also think Gorillaz’s plot writing has always been pretty bad. I think it rides on the characters like it has always ridden on the characters, and it is uneven in that respect because it has always been uneven. I think these statements-- that it is worse now, and that it is not actually a steep decline-- both feel true for me, but I can’t say how true they feel for you! And that’s alright! Just my two cents. It’d be a lie to say I’m thrilled with everything over the past two years or so, but it’d also only be hurting myself to lean into the frustration and force myself to become more upset if I have the ability to compartmentalize and make my peace.

#long post #this isn't meant to step on toes! i just have some compacted feelings... which i shove down because i still enjoy a good joke #thank you for the question anon! i hope you know that i was not aiming to disagree or put words in your mouth!#Anonymous #i keep trying to insert a read more and it just isn't working so i'm v sorry about that

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qqueenofhades · 4 years ago

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Thanks for writing DVLA, it was wonderful. I haven’t gotten that absorbed in something in a while, and I read it twice while on a camping trip this weekend. And then spent a lot of time just staring out the window being sad about the Crusades and just these two beautiful queer disasters in general. (A HUNDRED YEARS OF PINING. I LOVED IT). (1/6)

It was everything I wanted, so satisfying, and the thread of Crusades and faith conflicts and the stupid complicated ways humans find to hurt each other was really masterfully woven through. I learned so much; I had a basic idea of the Crusades but you filled everything in and made it come alive. And you got across so well that people across history are just people. (2/6)

Maryam was my favourite, I would read anything with more of her in it as well. The Constantinople section and the way it ended just ripped my heart out. (PHIL.) I was so glad Hippolyta and Rebecca got out safe. But the end to such a lovely sunlit chapter of life was heartwrenching. (3/6)

It means a lot to me, as someone trying to confront her own faith’s and her ancestors’awful actions in the past, to have someone present religious conflict the way you do. Part motivations like conquest and glory and riches, part motivated by faith, and very much something that I or anyone else could fall into just as easily as people in the past did. (4/6)

I graduated three years ago with a minor in history and have done absolutely nothing with it - I was burned out for ages on even reading anything, and I haven’t read anything academically rigorous in so long. This felt like a perfect reintroduction to history, and it made me want to do research and read history again, for the first time in years. (5/6)

I’m noting the resources you’ve recommended to some other folks about medieval queerness and the Crusades, but I was wondering if you also had any recommendations for reading about Julian of Norwich specifically, or queerness in female medieval religious spaces in general? Thank you so much, I’ve followed your blog for a long time and always love reading your posts. (6/6)

Ahh, thanks so much. Once again, I must bow to someone’s superlative tumblr ninjitsu skills both in knowing the number of asks it will take ahead of time and preventing the blue hellsite from eating any of them.

I’ve had so many people say these absolutely lovely things to me about DVLA -- about the history, the religion, the journey, the story, the reactions they had to these themes, how they felt inspired by it -- and I really am truly humbled by it. I think it speaks to the way all of us felt some kind of ownership or reflection or empowerment in Joe and Nicky’s story and the way it unfolds both on screen in the TOG film and our own conceptions and reactions and engagement with it. It’s just one of the best ships I can think of in terms of that, and I’m worried that anything I say will end up sounding trite, but I really do mean that.

As a historian, I am obviously delighted to hear that it made you want to return to or re-engage with the subject in some way, as well as to use it to help think through the religious themes for yourself. Because as I said in my answer to how to deal with the history in a hypothetical Joe/Nicky prequel movie, we can’t just have the easy luxury of being like “oh all the crusaders were clearly religious zealots and we would never be like that and never do anything like that.” Because a) we already do that, and b) it prevents us from assessing ourselves and our own behaviour and our own troubling patterns and habits if we just arrogantly assume that all the people in the past were stupider and/or less enlightened than we were and clearly We Won’t Make Those Mistakes. So we have to see ourselves in them in some way, and to understand they still did those things, they still destroyed a lot of beautiful things in their world for ultimately no good reason at all. We’re doing the same thing, we justify it to ourselves in different ways, and the goals and the stakes are a lot larger in a globalized world, and anything that sets up medieval people (or really any people in the past, but the medieval era is the stick that gets used the most often) as so unlike us and so inferior to us is just genuinely dangerous. So yes. I’m sure you know my feelings on that topic.

Maryam, Rebecca, and Hippolyta have all gotten a lot of love, which I think is great, and it seems to be the consensus that chapter 4 ruined everyone’s lives. This is understandable, since I’ve mentioned the fact that despite the pain, I think it’s possibly my favourite, and I am glad that everyone had the totally normal emotions over the sack of Constantinople that I also had while writing it. Because yes! It is a tragedy the likes of which was still a Thing in the year 2004, the 800th anniversary, when the pope felt moved to apologize for it! The scale of what it destroyed and took away and the way it influenced history afterward (as Joe is thinking at the start of chapter 6) is just MASSIVE, and... yes.

As for reading recs (and again, it delights me that you want to dip your toe back into reading academic history), I don’t have anything about Julian of Norwich specifically (though there’s a LOT about her out there, especially right now, so I’m sure you can nose about and see what turns up). But as for queerness in female medieval religious spaces (with some bonus medieval queer ladies in general):

Sahar Amer, Crossing Borders: Love between Women in Medieval French and Arabic Literatures (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008)

Judith Bennett, ‘ “Lesbian-Like” and the Social History of Lesbianisms,’ Journal of the History of Sexuality, 9 (2000), 9–22.

Marie-Jo Bonnet, ‘Sappho: Or the Importance of Culture in the Language of Love: Tribade, Lesbienne, Homosexuelle’, in Queerly Phrased: Language, Gender, and Sexuality, ed. by Anna Livia and Kira Hall (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 147–66.

Bernadette Brooten, Love Between Women: Early Christian Responses to Female Homoeroticism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996)

Mary Anne Campbell, ‘Redefining Holy Maidenhood: Virginity and Lesbianism in Late Medieval England’, Medieval Feminist Forum, 13 (1992) 14-15.

Carol Lansing, ‘Donna con donna? A 1295 Inquest into Female Sodomy’, Studies in Medieval and Renaissance History, 3 (2005) 109-122.

Kathy Lavezzo, ‘Sobs and Sighs Between Women: The Homoerotics of Compassion in The Book of Margery Kempe.’, in Premodern Sexualities, ed. by Louise Fradenburg and Carla Freccero (New York: Routledge, 1996), pp. 175-198.

E. Ann Matter, ‘My Sister, My Spouse: Woman-Identified Women in Medieval Christianity’, in Weaving the Visions, ed. by Judith Plaskow and Carol P. Christ (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1989), pp. 51–62.

Jacqueline Murray, ‘Twice Marginal and Twice Invisible: Lesbians in the Middle Ages’, in Handbook of Medieval Sexuality, ed. by Vern L. Bullough and James A. Brundage (New York: Garland, 1996), pp. 191–222.

Nancy Sorkin Rabinowitz, Among Women: From the Homosocial to the Homoerotic in the Ancient World. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2002

Susan Schibanoff, ‘Hildegard of Bingen and Richardis of Stade: The Discourse of Desire’, in Same Sex: Love and Desire Among Women in the Middle Ages, ed. by Francesca Canadé Sautman and Pamela Sheingorn (New York: Palgrave, 2001), pp. 49-83.

Have fun!!

#history #medieval history #queer history #greenestcoat #ask #dvla asks

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lligkv · 4 years ago

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a starting point, not the sum total

The magazine Harper’s recently published a feature in which a bunch of writers talk about “life after Trump.” They cover various topics: reality, tabloids, movies, relationships, manners, imagination, gold, conversation, punctuation, apologies, golf, literature, and Trump himself. Some of the writers are covering their usual beats: “literature” is covered by the book critic Christian Lorentzen, “movies” by film critic A. S. Hamrah. And some writers cover topics that I know from Twitter they’re already interested in: I’ve seen a number of tweets from Jane Hu, for instance, with quotes on Adorno’s thoughts on punctuation, which also opens her Harper’s piece. Other writers speak to subjects that seem more random, like Liane Carlson’s examination of the decline of the public apology that we saw so often in the early 21st century (with Bill Clinton, Eliot Spitzer, Anthony Weiner, and their like) or Yinka Elujoba on gold: the color, the substance, why it appeals to a certain brand of aristocrat in a certain type of declining empire.

A few of the pieces are inane—showing what can happen when you assemble a piece by giving a bunch of writers a topic to just do whatever they want; different people take mandates differently, and they won’t always be deep—they won’t always be hits. For instance, there’s not much to “Golf” by David Owen. Basically: golf was staid and boring when he first took it up in the early 90s, then it became kind of cool with Tiger Woods’s fame in the late 90s, or at least something people knew about and many people watched, and then all that was undone by Trump’s love of golf the last four years. And that’s well and good, but who cares. Ultimately, Owen’s contribution registers as a marginal blip in the midst of more robust discussions.

But the most inane entry might be Eileen Myles’s contribution to the feature. It’s ostensibly about “relationships.” What it’s actually about is Myles’s feelings. We’ve established before how much I’ve come to distrust writing about how we feel about major developments in politics or about disasters like climate change, rather than the developments and disasters themselves. And at least Elisa Gabbert’s The Unreality of Memory is a genuine attempt to explore something, even if there are moments when the essays in it drift into ponderousness or sentimentality. In fact, I’ve come to feel less harshly about Gabbert’s book as I’ve thought about the pandemic the last few weeks—how unreal a number like 400,000 deaths feels to me, and how I struggle to know whether this is a natural response. Is a pandemic, with its enormous scale of death, a hyperobject, a phenomenon so vast it can’t really be countenanced by a single human mind? Do large-scale tragedies ever feel real and not abstract to those living through them, when they’re this diffuse? Or is this flatness I feel unique, a sign of some special psychic damage in those of us who are alive today, from social media or the ubiquity of news in the times we live in? I’m more willing to grant that this, how to countenance disaster, is Gabbert’s question; she certainly engages it thoughtfully.

Myles is not thoughtful. It’s striking to read their contribution after you read, say, Hamrah’s brief, potent account of the streaming services’ ascendance in the COVID era, now that we’re all stuck at home and at the mercy of whatever pricing schemes the streaming giants want to set for the movies they release if we want any (legal) entertainment, and how this reflects similar moves last century by studios to force theaters and theater-goers to pay for shit movies as well as better ones. Or Mike Jaccarino’s recent history of tabloids: how Trump depended on them to inflate his image in the 90s and aughts, and how the dynamic reversed over the course of his presidential race and term, with the task of tracking changes in Trump’s image now sustaining them—revealing again the inversion of structures like the media over the course of neoliberalism’s evolution and aftermath. Myles’s piece, so focused on them and how they felt about Joe Biden winning the presidency in 2020, is just so narrow by comparison. Even Charles Yu’s account of the damaging effect the Trump presidency has had on (consensus) “reality” is more interesting. It’s flawed, to my eye, because it so often presents what Trump supporters or QAnoners believe as merely an inferior narrative, a fiction they’ve subscribed to at least somewhat consciously and don’t want disturbed, as though they were all ostriches sticking their heads in the sand rather than people inhabiting the same physical space as Yu himself. And you’re never going to succeed at changing someone’s mind if you’re just convinced they’ve subscribed to a false and inferior narrative—because, as Lauren Oyler notes in her contribution to “Life After Trump,” differences in opinion often come down to different interpretations of the same facts. But even Yu’s contribution is interesting, because it’s not just Yu talking about himself as though his own experience is ours.

Myles’s piece, on the other hand, is just “I, I, I, I, I.” “I was crossing lower Broadway to look at a show,” they write: “I’m a fan…of the work of the artist named Sky Hopinka,” “I had allowed that monster”—Trump—“into my body,” “I went inside the gallery,” “I could hear [the spoken parts of the Hopinka exhibition] pretty well,” “I was in Texas during the earliest parts of COVID and I stayed there for a while and I was keenly aware that this was the first true crisis I had missed in New York”—and on it goes.

And Myles is so irritatingly convinced that their “I” is heroic, or part of a heroic “we,” standing in opposition to Trumpists and to the people in Chelsea, bourgeois and apolitical, who aren’t happy when they see a friend of Myles’s, Joe, pumping up the crowd at the election celebration:

He put his Biden-Harris T-shirt on which was brilliant. Everyone cheers when they see him. He’s like a sign. He starts acting like a sign, saying yay to everyone. Women always say yay, some couples won’t. Or they say a little. Not everyone in Chelsea is happy. They’re doing their Chelsea thing. Shopping, getting some food. This is a disruption. It’s like they didn’t even know there was an election.

I’m not on the side of the Chelsea shoppers here. I’m not on the side of anyone who’s indifferent to their environment, or who sniffs at a public display of any kind of emotion, enforcing some arbitrary idea of seemliness. But how radical is an election, really? How much does this one ultimately change? It’s a minor fluctuation in a long interregnum. I see these lines of Myles’s and I think, If you were really radical, you’d know that. You’d know that, and you wouldn’t devote this piece that professes to be about relationships to celebrating yourself and your milieu as though it speaks for the Chelsea shoppers’ or for mine. You’d think about the world you were in. The whole world, not just your part of it.

Some of the frustration of reading “Relationships” in the larger context of “Life After Trump” is the frustration of watching someone practice a mode that’s been outmoded as though it were still revolutionary. It’s part of Myles’s project as a poet to write from their own perspective. And it was likely groundbreaking or at least interesting when they first began writing: a way to speak to the experience and subjectivity of artists and creatives in late 20th-century America and make that real to those who did not know that world. Or a way to speak to those who wanted to join that world. It’s a poor mode now, in this time. Artists have long been integrated into the mainstream and the market—they’re no longer a vanguard. They’re not even people whom the mass media organs of the culture consciously turn to for a reflection of what life looks like now and what it could look like in the future. (Here, I’m thinking Sontag, Mailer, Dwight Macdonald, whoever—a small and biased set of examples, but the ones that come to mind.) The work of artists now feels like just another kind of content you might prefer to consume, just another piece of fodder for an identity (say, “literary person”) that you can espouse—and the presence of even critical artists and creatives is a marginal one that you, again as an individual consumer, can pay attention to if you like or just as easily ignore.

What’s more, in a time marked by widespread use of social media, everyone’s a poet of Myles’s type today. Everyone’s a relentless “I,” broadcasting their feelings and impressions of situations and history, talking about what everything and anything that happens feels like for them and what it means for them. I’m doing it right now! And I read magazines like Harper’s and Bookforum and the London Review of Books and more for a break from that mode—or a practice of it in which the “I” is a starting point, not the sum total. That is, when it comes to writing about the culture, I’m looking for writing that goes beyond the “I” to say something genuine about the world we’re in. Something that helps me understand that world better and then to change it.

#harper's magazine #eileen myles #a. s. hamrah #christian lorentzen #jane hu #charles yu #lauren oyler #elisa gabbert

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myaekingheart · 4 years ago

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116. The Protegee

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Get me out of here so I can breathe It's all become so clear What lies beneath your skin, it's thin You're never going to keep me down Get me out, just get me out of here - Get Me Out, No Resolve

Rei chewed her lower lip as she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her gaze was focused, sharp, scared. She fixed her gauntlets to her forearms without breaking her gaze. She narrowed her eyes as if her own face was becoming foreign to her, as if there were parts of herself that she no longer recognized. A voice called from behind. “Big day today, huh?”

Kakashi leaned against the doorway, arms crossed with a tender smile on his unmasked face. Rei’s tense expression faltered as she dropped her head. An airy, tired chuckle broke past her lips. “Unfortunately” she replied.

“Are you nervous?” Kakashi asked. He strolled closer to take a seat on the edge of the tub. Rei shot him a questioning glare over her shoulder—the kind that said are you dumb? Of course I’m nervous. Chuckling, Kakashi replied, “You’ll do great. Everything is going to be fine.”

“You say that” Rei said, slumping beside him, “as if I’m not a magnet for disaster.”

“That’s okay” Kakashi assured her. “You’ll have Yugao there to negate the charge. One to attract”—here, he pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her rapid heartbeat beneath his palm—“and one to repel.” A satisfied grin touched his face, as if he was wildly proud of his little analogy.

That was, perhaps, the one saving grace of this whole situation: Yugao. They had said nothing more to each other of their new roles but the change was strongly felt. It was present in the way they looked at each other, in the way Yugao would wave goodbye to her in the locker room at the end of the day and help her fix her vest when a strap came undone. They were a team now, there to support and unlift one another. One to attract, the other to repel. If anything was to go awry and Rei felt herself beginning to lose her nerve, Yugao would be there to catch her, to reassure her that there was always a way out. Or at least Rei hoped.

Yugao did not strike her as the type to be cynical or coldhearted. Faced with this brand new challenge, however, she hoped her lieutenant would at the very least retain the confidence that Rei so sorely lacked. And within that confidence, hopefully Rei would feel far less doomed. As of right now, she didn’t have a ton of faith in all of this. She pressed a hand to her stomach and sucked in a deep breath, trying to swallow back the thoughts of what could have been.

When Rei arrived at the administration building, Toshio by her side, Yugao was waiting in the hallway. Rei idled for a moment, cursing her own anxiety, before clearing her throat to attract her attention. Yugao met her gaze and even from behind her mask, Rei could tell that she was smiling. “It didn’t feel right to go in there without you, Captain” Yugao replied. Rei gave a single nod, suppressing nervous laughter. If she was going to make this work, she needed to wear a persona. She needed to appear cool, confident, collected. She needed to be tough and intimidating. She needed to be a captain.

Without another word, the two women burst into the hokage office side by side. One to attract, one to repel. The new recruits were already lined up awaiting their arrival. There was no turning back now.

“Sorry we’re a little late” Yugao apologized softly as she and Rei stood attention beside Tsunade’s desk. Toshio sat dutifully between them, sniffing the edge of Tsunade’s desk in hopes of finding a crumb of breakfast or a drop of tea.

Tsunade shook her head. “No, you’re actually just in time.” Her eyes surveyed the batch of rookies standing before her and a sly smile twitched on her lips. “I was just giving your new recruits a rundown of the way things work around here.”

Rei clenched her fists at her sides, digging her nails into her palms, as she secretly surveyed these young shinobi. Without their masks on, she could clearly see the hope in their eyes. It was the same brand of blind, naïve optimism she had when she first joined, as well. She swallowed back the lump in her throat, willing herself not to be sick. They had no idea what they were getting into. They were so unprepared. Ishoku seemingly had not broken them down enough and for a moment, Rei cursed the entire training division. At the same time, however, a sickening realization was taking root in the pit of her stomach. They were unprepared, but she could use that to her advantage. Destiny had ripped her away from her hopes, had shoved her down the wrong path and the same could be said of these four, as well. They weren’t meant to be here. Destiny had fucked up. If Rei was to have any hope of righting the future, then she would just have to take fate by the scrote and redirect it herself. These rookies would merely be a casualty in her pursuit of utopia. Quite frankly, she was perfectly fine with that.

Yugao clasped her hands behind her back and chuckled under her breath. “Have you scared them off yet?” she asked Lady Tsunade.

“Not quite” Tsunade replied. “I was saving that responsibility for their captain.”

“Good” Rei said, voice low and hoarse. A snarky little laugh bubbled up from deep within her chest. “I’d hate to disappoint them.” She hadn’t expected to sound so sharp, insinuating that perhaps she did her killing before breakfast, but the effect was clear in the way the new recruits looked upon her now. Joke’s on them, Rei thought to herself, I didn’t even eat breakfast this morning.

An inkling of pride bloomed in the back of Tsunade’s mind at Rei’s sudden haughtiness. As talented as she knew Rei was, that meant nothing in the stead of confidence and for leadership positions such as this, confidence was a hefty requirement. A captain needed to garner respect not just for one’s protegees but for the sake of the mission, as well. An anxious captain made for a much larger margin of error and in increasingly tense times such as these, there was no room for second-guessing. Tsunade was well aware of Rei’s issues in the past, of Naru’s death and the way Rei blamed herself. She knew placing Rei in situations with similar risk was dangerous but Rei was also a different person now. Stronger, smarter, and more outspoken. If nothing else, Tsunade had faith.

Rising to her feet, the hokage looked to the new recruits with confidence, pride. “These will be your new team leaders” she announced. “Rei Natsuki, codename Aisuru, will be your new captain and Yugao Uzuki, codename Kasha, will be your lieutenant. Together, the six of you will make up Team Ku.”

Team Ku. There was something so final about the sound of it. To think that they had a name, this ragtag group of strangers. They were a collective, a unit. Team Ku.

Before Rei could make her harsh introduction, however, a tall girl with choppy blonde hair in pigtails cleared her throat. “Don’t you mean seven?” she asked. Tsunade blinked despondently, following the girl’s pointed finger to Toshio standing guard beside Rei. Toshio barked and wagged his tail in attendance.

“Oh…right” Tsundde muttered. It was so rare that Toshio accompanied Rei on missions but she understood the logic. Toshio was a guard and a companion, not to mention a shinobi in his own right. His presence was likely on Kakashi’s suggestion. Of course Kakashi had faith in his fiancée’s abilities but that was not going to stop him from worrying. At least with Toshio by Rei’s side, Kakashi knew she would always be dutifully protected even in Kakashi’s absence. Especially in Kakashi’s absence. After all, that was the purpose that the copy ninja had thrust upon himself so many years before: to keep Rei safe at all costs. If that meant extending the responsibilities to Toshio, as well, then so be it. The dog had already avowed to do the same, anyway.

“What’s with the mutt?” another new recruit, a towering bald man, asked. Meanwhile, a scrawny brunette boy with glasses sneezed into the crook of his elbow, eyes watering.

“His name is Toshio, and he’s my ninken” Rei snapped. “He’s just as much of a ninja as you all are, if not more, so I expect you to show him respect.”

“Great!” the blonde exclaimed in frustrated disbelief. “Now we’re being compared to a fucking dog.” Taking great offense, Toshio’s upper lip curled and a monstrous growl vibrated from deep within his chest.

Rei rested a tender hand on his shoulder to soothe him, muttering with a slight smile, “Calm down, Toshio. You can sic them after they show us what they’re made of.”

Rolling her eyes, the blonde mumbled a frustrated “Absolutely ridiculous” before Tsunade called order with a sharp glare and slam of her fist upon the desk.

“Do we have a problem?” Tsunade asked through gritted teeth. The wood began to crack beneath her fist. Legend of Tsunade Senju’s strength was not lost on these new recruits and, sensing imminent danger, they quickly backed off. “That’s what I thought” Tsunade hummed, settling back into her chair.

“Well!” Yugao exclaimed cheerily, attempting to break the tension. “Seeing as we’re all going to be spending a lot of time together, why don’t we all introduce ourselves?” The new recruits looked to one another suspiciously, unanimous flashbacks of the first day of school running surely running through their minds. Memories of cold sweats and fun facts and underhanded sneers. “You already know Rei and myself” Yugao continued. Toshio barked in interruption, if not wanting to be forgotten. Yugao cleared her throat, adding under her breath, “And Toshio….” Pleased with the recognition, Toshio craned his head around so as to lap at Yugao’s fingers happily. She swatted him away, not unkindly, in an effort to maintain composure. “But we don’t know anything about you and I think we ought to so by all means, please!” She motioned for them to commence with all the encouragement of a kindergarten teacher. Rei stifled laughter—she never expected Yugao to be so upbeat and accommodating. Kakashi’s words from that morning echoed in her ears: You’ll have Yugao to negate the charge. God, was he right. He must have known from conducting missions alongside her during his own time in the ANBU.

The first to step forward was none other than the outspoken blonde girl. Rei studied her features intently, already getting a rather clear image of the type of person she must be before she even opened her mouth. “Arai Kawakubo” she introduced, “But for codename, let’s go with Dokyou.” There was a certain arrogance to her, an unrefined quality that truly fit her name. She was tall, nearly as tall as her bald comrade, with a build suggesting her discipline in training: broad shoulders, flat bust, muscular arms and legs. Her skin was tan and toned, eyes calm but sharp like aw amethyst. Her face reflected her coarse nature by way of pronounced cheekbones, a squared jaw, and an aquiline nose. Rei could already tell that out of all of them, Arai was going to be the catalyst for the most problems.

Beside her stood the skittish brunette, sniffling as he wiped his nose wih the back of his hand. Rei wondered whether he was a member of that clan with the snot jutsu, the one she always saw the Third Hokage’s grandson hanging around with. “I-I’m Hitsuji Akado” he announced. “For my codename, I’ll go b-by…by….” He gasped for breath as his watery eyes squinted, preparing for another sneeze. His achoo mixed with his preferred name, however, causing Rei to cock her brow in confusion.

“Sorry, what was that?” she asked.

Smiling sheepishly, Hitsuji replied, “Sorry about that. It’s Chishiki.”

“That should be easy enough to remember” Yugao jested, elbowing Rei comically in the arm.

Deep down, Rei wondered how old this boy must be. He loked like he could be no older than fifteen or sixteen with big eyes and a baby face. There was no way someone like him would ever last in the ANBU. “By the way, are you sick or something?” Rei asked as HItsuji’s nose began to drip with snot. He panicked a moment, searching the room for a box of tissues, before Arai unenthusiastically whipped an embroidered hanky from her back pouch and shoved it in his face. Hitsuji took it gratefully, blowing into it like a foghorn. When he went to hand it back to Arai, she winced and raised a hand, shaking her head as it to tell him to keep it.

“No” Hitsuji sniffled in response to Rei’s inquiry. “I just have a dog allergy.”

Toshio narrowed his eyes, offended. So far, these new recruits werne’t winning his approval. They could all do so much better. If only they knew they were being judged so harshly by a dog.

The next recruit to step up to the plate was a rather jaunty blonde boy. “Hello, beautiful!” he exclaimed, taking Rei’s hand in his for a princely kiss. “I am Sukui Yukio, your knight in shining armor! But please, call me Kishi!”

Disgust crossed Rei’s masked face as she gingerly took her hand back and wiped it on her pants. “The pleasure is all mine” she muttered sarcastically. This boy had to be roughly seven years younger than her and, truthfully, seemed far too optimistic and charming to ever have been accepted into the black ops in the first place. Rei glanced to Lady Tsunade and wondered how desperate she had become. Or if she had set them up to fail from the beginning.

“You know” Sukui said, striking a flirtatious pose, “Some people say I bear a striking resemblance to the sexy actor Keihaku Goman from the Icha Icha films! I’m always so flattered but really, how could I ever compare?”

“You don’t” Arai interrupted. Sukui glared back at her, offended, before the bald man pushed him aside.

“Alright, let’s get this over with” he rasped. Sukui stumbled, narrowing his eyes in displeasure. “The name’s Kikkake, I’ll go by Janome, great to meet you. Okay, let’s leave.” His voice was so monotonous, so dull, with a demeanor to match. Out of everyone, he was likely the most prepared for a position such as this. He was clearly older than the others with an age far closer to Rei’s or even Sekkachi’s. The optimistic youths had clearly left him weary and jaded. You and me both, Rei thought to herself. At least there was one person she was beginning to like.

Arai snickered from behind and Kikkake whipped around to glare at her. There was a fire in his eyes but Arai seemed completely unphased. “Are you sure a more appropriate codename wouldn’t be Cueball?” she asked, stifling laughter. Kikkake’s hand immediately flew to his bald head, a flicker of self-consciousness quickly making way for fury.

“No, I don’t” he snapped.

Clearly Arai, however, was not prepared or willing to quit. Shrugging, she replied casually, “Well, sorry, I just thought codenames were supposed to be easily identifiable an Cueball just seems to fit.”

Kikkake clenched his fists at his side, his temper flaring. “Keep it up and I’ll cue you” he growled through gritted teeth.

Before they could start an all-out brawl in the hokage’s office, a kunai flew straight between them, sticking in the wall and leaving a monstrous crack. Rei strode forward and shoved the two of them away from each other. “If you both don’t shut the fuck up right now, your necks will be the next thing that kunai hits” Rei sneered, voice low and dangerous. After a moment of silence, Arai burst out laughing. Rei wasn’t a threat in the slightest to her. How could she be? Displeased with her disobedience, Rei whipped another kunai out of her holster and within five seconds, had pinned Arai against the wall with the blade to her neck. “Don’t test me.”

Arai calmly rose her hands in surrender and smirked. “You’ve got it, boss.” Rei certainly did not appreciate the sarcasm, but she knew her limitations, at least right in front of Tsunade. She slowly released her grip on the girl, who readjusted her pigtails as she sauntered over to the others.

Turning around, Rei glared at the new recruits and added darkly, “That goes for all of you. Step out of line even once and you’re Toshio’s next meal, guaranteed.” The dog barked in agreement and in that moment, Rei had never been more grateful for her ninken’s support.

Yugao blinked as she surveyed their new protegees’ faces, unsure what to make of Rei’s leadership skills. Tsunade glanced toward her and it was clear that even behind her mask, all the color had drained from her face. “It seems like you both have your work cut out for you” the hokage murmured.

Sighing despondenly, Yugao ran a hand through her dark hair and replied, “Unfortunately.” She was beginning to question how capable she truly was in a position such as this. Rei was so crude, so harsh, so different from the way Yugao conducted herself. She had never expected Rei to hold quite so much darkness in her heart but then again, that was likely how she had made captain in the first place.

Rei tried to remain composed as she returned to her spot beside Yugao, but deep down she was spiraling. She should’ve known that sinking feeling in her gut that morning meant something. If only she had just gotten her period.

Truly, what had she gotten herself into? This was undoubtedly a recipe for disaster. She watched the four of them bicker and complain as they departed the hokage office together. The day was still so young and yet the introductions alone had already depleted her social meter to near empty. She squinted up at the sun and braced herself for the mind-numbing orientation they would all have to sit through for the rest of the day. Five hours wasn’t that bad, anyway…right?

As much as she wished she could just sleep through the whole thing, Rei knew this orientation concerned her, too. She pulled a small notepad from her back pouch and idly jotted down some notes—it was the least she could do to remain conscious. Every so often, she’d look up to survey her new protegees sitting at the table in front of her. Kikkake listened intently, arms crossed and eyes focused. It warmed Rei’s heart to know he was taking this seriously. Hitsuji was dutifully taking notes, as well, complaining softly under his breath with every sneeze that Toshio’s presence triggered. Every so often, Toshio would crawl forward to begin licking at the boy’s elbow just to spite him. Hitsuji would gasp and shoo him away every time, his eyes tearing up as he suppressed yet another sneeze. Beside him, Sukui twirled a lock of short blonde hair around his finger as he stared off into space. He was likely dreaming of some romantic escapade a la Icha Icha Paradise. Rei’s stomach flipped at the thought. He really did resemble Keihaku Goman and that was likely where at least half of her hatred for this boy stemmed. As for Arai, she leaned back in her chair with feet propped up on the table, the personification of apathy. If everything was such a chore for her, then why was she even here to begin with? Rei couldn’t comprehend it. Huffing her long bangs out of her face, Rei hoped that these recruits would at least retain something from his longwinded lecture. Or at the very least realize that none of them are fit for this after all and back out altogether. Either would suffice.

By sundown, Rei was completely drained. She undressed in the locker room silently, her mind wandering elsewhere. It felt so weird to be here now, as a captain. She glanced to her comrades, to Mikazuki and the others whose name she had forgotten who she had worked alongside before. She di’n't feel like one of them anymore. She was above them now, an outsider. Rei raked her bangs back out of her face, caught her reflection in the small mirror affixed to the inside of her locker door. For a moment, she idled there surveying the roundness of her face and the curves of her body. Her hand skated to her stomach and her breath hitched in her throat. I need to get out of this. Get me out of here…please. A tinge of despair struck her chest. She swallowed it down hard. There was no time to sulk or second-guess.

“So what do you think so far?” a voice asked from behind. Snapped from her daze, Rei stumbled as she turned to face Yugao. There was a sly smile on her face as she tugged her undershirt up over her head, revealing her toned abs and delicate breasts.

“They’re alright” Rei said bluntly. She shoved her vest into her locker, scrunching it up to make it fit. “I give them two weeks, tops.”

“Your skepticism is very refreshing” Yugao commented and for a moment, Rei was unsure whether she was being sarcastic or genuine. “You have to admit, though, they have some potential.”

“Yeah…” Rei muttered. That was a dangerous word: potential. No, they were not allowed to have potential. They were not allowed to have any positive attributes whatsoever. Any promise in them was a threat to Rei’s true purpose, her villainous plan. She slammed her locker door shut, sucked in a sharp breath. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Well, tomorrow will give them the perfect opportunity” Yugao nodded. A shiver ran down Rei’s spine, horror and hope intertwined. Come morning, they would all traverse to the 44th Training Ground for a final exam of sorts. Their last chance to prove now to their captain and lieutenant that they were truly meant to be here. The moment that could make or break their career. Rei toyed with the drawstring on her uniform pants and tried to steady her breathing. She would not let herself think about the repercussions this would all have on their lives if she chose to fail them. She would not let herself humanize these brats in her mind. She needed to keep herself cold and distant, to practice restraint. This was all or nothing. Ready or not, the fork in the road was rapidly approaching. She had to make her choice.

Forty-five minutes. Since Rei returned home, she had gone a total of forty-five whole minutes without speaking. Kakashi watched her quizzically from behind his book: watched as she shifted restlessly in her seat, brushed her bangs back out of her face, read a few paragraphs of her own book, sighed and then shifted again. “Rough day?” Kakashi finally asked.

Rei glanced up at him for only a moment. She didn’t want to tal about it. She didn’t even want to think about it. It took every ounce of her mental energy to focus instead on the words on the page, the images they evoked, the syllables of which they consisted. She tightened her grip on the book. “Just tired” she muttered.

It was clear to Kakashi, however, that there was far more to this than just exhaustion. Setting Icha Icha Violence down, he scooted nearer to give her his undivided attention. “Did something happen today?” he asked. “How were the new recruits?”

Rei kept her eyes locked hard on her book, attempting to ignore his inquiries, but she couldn’t bring herself to keep up the charade. She knew he deserved an explanation, even if she didn’t want to trudge through all of the complicated thoughts swirling around her head. It was too much. There was no way she could ever possibly organize it all into something even remotely coherent. “Problematic” she finally said bluntly. “They are very problematic.”

“Oh?” Kakashi asked, cocking a brow. “How so?”

Rei released a sharp exhale through her nose. She narrowed her mossy eyes, concentrating very hard on a single word in the text as if that was the key to ending this conversation altogether. Kakashi was unfortunately not going to let her slide that easily. Something was troubling her and he needed to know what. With index finger extended, he reached out and tilted her book downward so as to better view her face. She was utterly defeated. She couldn’t ignore him anymore. She slowly lifted her gaze to look at him and in her eyes, he saw exhaustion, uncertainty, fear.

“Now why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

There was no avoiding it further. With a pathetic groan, Rei buried her face in her hands. “Oh god, Kakashi, it’s so bad” she complained. “I can’t do this. I never should’ve agreed to do this. These kids are…absolutely terrible.”

“How so?” he asked. “What did they do? Stick a frog in your locker? Ice down your back?”

Rei stared at him blankly, unamused. “You think you’re really funny, don’t you, Kakashi?” she asked.

Kakashi shrugged. “I try” he jested.

Rei shook her head and sighed, resting her chin on her drawn-up knees. “I just don’t think I have what it takes for this” she explained. “There’s only one who I think has some real potential, and I’d hate to ruin it for him, but everyone else…my god, I don’t think I can go through with this. They’re not cut out for this.” And I’m not, either, she thought to herself.

“Well, they had to have shown some potential to get to this point in the first place” Kakashi mused.

There was that word again: potential. Why did there always have to be potential? Groaning, Rei threw her head back against the arm of the couch. Her legs extended out across Kakashi’s lap. Toshio sauntered forward to lick at her feet but Rei barely even noticed. “I hate that word so much” she whispered. “There’s not an ounce of potential in any of this.”

Kakashi sighed. She reminded him so much of when he was first assigned Naruto, Sakura, and Sasuke. He had so little faith in them. Besides, what made them any different than any other team of spoiled brats he had been assigned? He fully intended to fail them right from the getgo but then…something changed. There was something strange and new about these kids. He had, for the first time, faith. Kakashi reached out and rested a tender hand on Rei’s stomach. Her entire body electrified, sending blaring signal flares throughout her brain. Reminders of what she was hoping to accomplish here. She couldn’t take it. “Maybe you’re just not giving them enough credit” he offered.

“I’m giving them plenty credit, Kakashi” Rei snapped, flicking his hand away. Dejected, he drew his victim hand up to his chest, his gaze softening. “But I’m only going to give credit where credit is due” Rei continued. “I’m not going to sugarcoat things for them and make them feel like they can do this if they can’t. They have no fucking clue what they’re up against.”

“Neither did you when you first started” Kakashi sharply reminded her. A kunai to the chest, sharp and stinging. The last straw. Rising from her seat, Rei tossed her book on the table and approached the kitchen. She stood over the sink and let the water run until it was scaldng hot. Steam rose up to warm her cheeks. Kakashi watched her intently from the couch, unsure of what she was planning. “You can’t get mad at me for the truth, you know” he called after her. She said nothing. For a long moment, aside from the sound of rushing water, they stood in utter silence. Then, heaving a sigh, Kakashi rose to his feet to follow her, wrapping his arms around her from behind. She felt his embrace warm and certain around her lower stomach and it took all of her strength not to cry out. “Give them a chance, Rei” he pleaded. “You might be surprised with what they’re capable of.”

Rei dropped her head, rested a hand atop Kakashi’s against her stomach. “Do you really think so, though?” she asked. “I don’t want to waste my time. I don’t want to put these kids at risk of…of something bad happening just because they’re not prepared for this. Or because…I’m not prepared.”

“Do you think taking this on was a mistake?” Kakashi asked. She wasn’t sure she knew how to answer. Her heart beat faster and faster in her chest as she tried to think of a proper response.

“This just…wasn’t the way things were supposed to go” she finally whispered, voice strained.

Kakashi rubbed her lower stomach, tightening his embrace. “I know” he whispered. “But it’s the way things are. This is the path we’ve taken now. We can’t go back.”

“How do you know?” Rei asked. A sick sense of hope was bubbling up her throat now. “Maybe we can try again and…and this time we’ll be successful. I can get out of this, and we can make things right. Do things the way it was supposed to be. Have our little family.”

“Rei…” Kakashi sighed. She could hear the disappointment, the regret, dripping in his voice. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, hot breath against her skin. “You’ve made a commitment to these kids now. You’re responsible for their futures. You can’t give up on them.”

“There will be other captains…” Rei whispered, though deep down even she knew that was wrong. “I just don’t know how to do this, Kakashi. I’m not prepared. And they’re so…needy. And dumb. They’re not cut out for this. They can’t do this.”

Kakashi nuzzled her cheek, kissed her jaw tenderly. “I said the same thing about you, and look at you now” he reminded her. She hated when he did this. Mainly because he was always right. “If change is what you want to see, Rei, then you have to initiate it. You’re the captain, remember? You’re the one guiding them. Their success in this relies completely on you. Rei…you’re not powerless.”

As reassuring as his words were, his reminder was not entirely comforting. With great power there was always great responsibility. She was in charge. Everything relied on her. She held these kids’ futures in the palm of her hand and, much like a flower, she could either nurture them or destroy them. She knew what the right decision, the moral decision, was but…why did it have to be her responsibility? Why was she required to decide their fates when she wasn’t even given the chance to decide her own? Rei swallowed hard and tightened her grip on Kakashi’s hand. At the end of the day, the only one who could change the course of fate was her. She was responsibility for guiding the destinies of herself and now everyone else who was involved in this twisted little clusterfuck. All of this rested solely on her shoulders. If only the weight of that responsibility was easier to swallow.

#rei natsuki #kakashi hatake #the scarecrow and the bell #naruto #naruto oc #fanfiction

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komaeda161 · 4 years ago

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Now I realize we’ve been at this for some time already, but at the risk of derailing the dialogue you initiated, and may I just say how thrilled I am that you did, Karkat, I would just like qualify my entire analysis of your “Alternian culture” by saying that in contrast with life on Beforus, while your people may have been engaged in violent, lethal class struggle for millions of sweeps, by no means does this imply that the Beforan way of life was entirely without problematic elements, perhaps even more disturbing and insidious for their lack of acknowledgement and open discussion, particularly as a consequence of what in my view were widely and dismayingly unexamined systemic social injustices resulting from the entrenched power dynamics in play, dynamics strikingly similar to those of your planet’s markedly more bellicose iteration, which has only served to fully vindicate my hypothesis that such a hierarchy is really predicated on intrinsic dysfunction, and failure to shift all the usual narratives and undiagnosed problems into an open, judgment-free discourse through which problematic issues are constructively channeled into more intelligently problematized avenues of discussion. Now before I continue, it is only decent of me to warn you about certain triggers that are surely ahead in this essay. I mean conversation. Triggers include but likely will not be limited to class oppression, culling culture and violence against grubs, lusus abuse, complementary and analogous hate speech, pail filling, slurries and other concupiscent fluids, lifespan shaming, ableist slurs, prolix dissertation… Actually, maybe it would be easier for you to list your triggers, and I’ll do my best to avoid those topics, or navigate them more delicately, if at all possible? Great. It sounds like you don’t have any triggers, at least none that you know about. I’ll proceed with caution nevertheless. Just please let me know if you start feeling triggered by anything I’m saying, and we can take a brief time-out while you summon your moirail to help pacify you, assuming you have one. Not that I’m presuming you do, But I heard that you did, is that correct? If not, I apologize. I further apologize if your orientation precludes the possibility, as a pale aromantic, panquadrant demiromantic, something in the gray palesexual department or such, and hopefully you are not triggered by such presumptuous concillianormative language. It wouldn’t be the first time I was guilty of such an inexcusable microaggression, and I am not so oblivious to my own romantic privilege to believe it will be the last time either. I’m glad I brought up the subject of unexamined privilege, because it dovetails beautifully with the point I was about to make regarding beforan society and its savage umbral potentiality which later manifested through the kind of Alternian brutality you are all too familiar with. Those in the higher echelons of the hemospectrum such as the ceruleans, or “blue bloods” (careful, being loose with such terminology is opening the floodgates to a whole host of toxic signist language and hemophobic slurs), when addressing the challenges faced by those lower on the spectrum, such as the midhues or in particular warm castes like umbers, ochres, or “rust bloods” (another slur, highly problematic, deeply offensive and triggering terminology, strongly imploring you steer clear of this term), they would be well advised to check their cerulean privilege, particularly before dismissing hardships or marginalizing claims of oppression, which can be difficult for them to identify or empathize with from their advantageous position within the beforan//Alternian power structures. And some may argue that in our peaceful “utopian” culture that we have freed ourselves from injustice and disparities in privilege in a post-scarcity economy, largely equal rights distributed across the hemospectrum, and therefore exist in a “post-spectral world” (laugh out loud), and therefore there is no need to champion important social causes and there is nothing left to debate, but really nothing could be further from the truth. You just need to educate yourself and carefully investigate the longstanding power dynamics in play. For instance, a seemingly “harmless” remark from a cisblooded cerulean toward an umber or God forbid a burgundy or yes even a warm-identifying physically-cooler caste, about their very long term future plans such as on the order of centuries, then this may prove to be a very hurtful microagression due to the fact that lowhues cannot possibly live that long themselves, and the more priviliged caste could easily outlive dozens of generations of midhues or hundreds of generations of BUOYs (burgundy-umber-ochre-yellowgreens, note please avoid describing the lattermost as “lime bloods” as it has historically been used as an especially vicious epithet). Such remarks can further trigger painful reminders of how cooler castes, to some extent OJAs, but CIPs and Royal-Vs in particular, have been able to use their tremendous lifespans over the millenia to gain a stranglehold over the social order, have been able to completely dictate our societal evolution by ensuring only their cultural agendas and narratives receive the dialogue’s air supply, assuring the codification of those resultant ideals and deciding what “normalcy” entails, and sadly these absolutes become internalized across the full spectral range, even within those of most compromised privilege, and so you begin to see the cyclical nature of the dysfunction and the resulting inertia against positive change and raising awareness of the most underproblematized issues, which I think we can agree, is pretty problematic. And really, it’s everyone’s business to examine their privilege, even burgundies, who may be subject to the pitfall of believing incorrectly there are none on the scale beneath them whom they enjoy certain privileges over, which off-spectrum trolls will never know, such as those identifying as otherbloods or caste-multiples, “polyblooded”, any who hemoglobically ID as having a caste which manifests nowhere (as yet known) in anyone physically, or for that matter offspecs who physically do possess such a blood type, or “mutants” (VERY problematic term, highly triggering to some, be warned), such as you and I, Karkat. but this puts us both in a situation which to our knowledge uniquely allows us to understand and empathize with tragically underprivileged and unempowered groups across all scuttles of life, thus affording us both what I like to call a “uniquely underprivileged privilege”, which, yes, is a kind of privilege we should both strive to check as well, whenever we can. This same uniquely underprivileged perspective as I’m sure you know was disadvantaged upon my post-scratch iteration as well, and while I have no doubt you justifiably came to revere that figure of your planet’s rich history and your personal lineage, and while his goals of peace, equality, and a truly spectrablind society, I’m afraid I personally have trouble condoning his methods. I don’t like to use the term “problematic” lightly, but, well, his tactics were nothing if not massively problematic, to say the least, employing violent uprising to effect change, and emblazoning his mark upon history and his faithful followers with the salty flourish of a single rude, shouted swear word, it’s not to my taste even though he is who I would have grown up to be in another life. but no, I prefer to effect social change through rational, honest discourse and contributing to ongoing dialogues, focusing on what should be the real goals, through keen adherence to the discipline of Problematics, ensuring that we stay focused on successfully problematizing a wide range of direly undercomplicated social dilemmas. It’s nice to see we agree on so much. Maybe we are not so unalike, despite our drastically different upbringings. Anyway, as I was saying, the story of your ancestor, and more importantly my exhaustive list of misgivings with his approach to social change, is quite a long and elaborate one, but it actually fits brilliantly within the larger mosaic which captures the broad strokes of my post. I mean our discussion. Trigger warnings for the following content include: ancestor bashing, faith shaming, loud swearing, torture, burn wounds, ship sinking… again, seriously, just let me know if you begin to feel triggered by anything, even slightly. We’ll pause and see if we can really explore those issues, and identify exactly how I may have invalidated your struggles. Without further ado, the story is as follows:

#copypasta #kankri vantas #homestuck #long post

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violet-knox · 5 years ago

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The Red Carpet Down Memory Lane

Year 6 - Chapter 41

Summary: Unable to fall asleep, Severus moves to the common room where the flames of the fire indulge him in a trip down memory lane.

Word count: 2482

Warnings: mention of blood, mention of possible death (recollection of what happened in chapter 22)

A/N: Sorry my heart wasn’t in the last chapter. Hopefully this one is a little better. Thank you @living-in-margins for helping me get over my writers block and for the suggestion that inspired this chapter.

Previous Chapter - Chapter 1

Severus rolled over in his bed, eyeing the shared clock on the wall of his dorm. He could barely make out the hands in the darkness of the night, but the distinct shadow of the big hand told him it was some time around two in the morning. He closed his eyes once more, shifting over on his back, hoping his body would have mercy on him tonight, allowing him to indulge in a peaceful sleep.

He’d assumed that his sleeping schedule would click back into place when he got back into his regular daily schedule, but he’d unfortunately been spending most nights staring at the ceiling while he listened to his dormmates sleep soundly in their own beds. The last few weeks had been especially hard on him. In fact, he’d noticed that ever since he’d bought that locket, draining his entire summer savings, he’d barely managed to sleep at all. He’d thought that day had helped bring him clarity, helped him face the reality of his situation, but because he was unwilling to accept the truth, he’d only managed to find himself in a constant state of sorrow.

Opening his eyes, he stared up at the ceiling in frustration as he gave up finding sleep tonight. The wheels in his head were spinning too quickly for his liking and the sight of that locket haunted him. He slipped his left hand under his pillow and tugged on the chain his fingers found. The locket swung from his left hand as he brought it forward, capturing it with his right. He stared at it, holding it so close to his face, he could feel the cold metal of the chain wrapped around his wrist graze his nose. Each time he picked it up, he found himself concentrating so hard on it, as if the mere glimpse of his intimidating stare would scare the locket in displaying the name he wanted to see. Of course, it hadn’t, though he could swear your name had become more crisp compared to the first time he’d seen it battle Lily’s. He could at least clearly make out the last two letters of your first name now and if he squinted hard enough, he could read your full name without the sight of Lily’s trying to overtake it. Yes, it was clear to him that his heart had begun leaning toward you, although he suspected it was out of pure anger and determination rather than love.

Thinking through what happened that night, he couldn’t help but try and find ways to blame Lily for it. He knew it was absurd, she had nothing to do with the situation and he wasn’t even sure she’d known that you were together, but that didn’t stop the burning ball of furry in his stomach inflate to a concerning size.

Severus sat up in his bed, looking around the dorm in envy of his sleeping mates. He wanted so bad to ease those heavy bags under his eyes, to find some manner of rest tonight, but he knew he wouldn’t. He’d had enough nights like this to recognize when his mind would refuse to shut off for the night. So, in the heap of frustration and endless torment, he removed the covers from the bed and grabbed his bag, making his way to the common room.

It was so peaceful here, and he loved the crackling of the fire, especially during harsh winters such as the one that had manifested this year. He approached the couch near the fireplace, slugging his bag over it as he sat on the floor, leaning his back against the frame. He felt the heat warm him as he brought his knees to his chest and hugged them while gently playing with the locket in his hand. He could still remember the day you’d brought him into the Gryffindor common room, cuddling up next to him. Though the Slytherin’s fireplace was much larger than yours, the warmth he felt right now was nothing in comparison to that of which he felt that day.

He peered into the raging red flames and sighed. He’d always loved this deep coral color, and he could still remember the first time his chest inflated with comfort when he fell in love with the soft warmth the color had to offer. He was nine at the time, taking a walk to a park nearby, the same one where he’d met up with you over the summer. He’d been heading towards an old tree simply hoping for a place to sit without the sound of his parents shouting ringing in his ears when his eyes caught a glimpse of a red sea, carelessly floating in the air. He was stunned to say the least. It was an overwhelming sensation he’d never felt before. One he’d grow to love and cherish. But that day, that day was the first time he’d feel the sting of an unreturned love, the first time he’d felt unworthy, the first time he’d felt the need for company, the first time he’d seen Lily.

It had taken him so long after that to build up the courage to talk to her, and when he finally set his plan in motion, it didn’t go as well as he would have liked. He remembered how disappointed he’d been when she’d thought he’d insulted her by calling her a witch. He felt like he was chasing a friendship he knew wasn’t meant to be that summer, but he didn’t give up. He stayed by her side even after he watched her get sorted into Gryffindor.

Was that how you’d felt the first time he met you? That day you slide open the compartment door, he’d never even considered speaking to you, let alone befriending or dating you. Then you’d actually tried to pursue a friendship with him, one you patiently waited a year for as he had no interest in being any closer than acquaintances back then. Oh how foolish he’d been, how ignorant and stupid he’d been. How could he treat you like that when he knew just how awful it felt to be on the receiving end of rejection?

Severus blinked, snapping his mind back to the common room as he let out a long frustrated sigh. He wanted nothing to do with you two year ago, and now he felt like he couldn’t live another day without you in his life. He pulled on the strap of his bag, allowing it to swing over the couch before unzipping it. He removed his book from it and set aside the bag as he opened it on his lap, placing the locket over the right page as he peered at the note on the left.

You once handed me your most loved book to show me how much I mean to you. I carry that book with me every day to remind me that there is someone in this world that cares about me as much as I do them…

Why did this note cause his mind to spin so much? What was it you were trying to tell him? What part of this note did he need to finally realize what it was he was supposed to realize?

His fingers lingered over your signature. With all my love. You put so much care into this note. The entire gift was so thoughtful and what had he done for you? He’d turned his back on your friendship, betrayed you, he’d even invented a spell that resulted in your near death. His mind brought him back once more to a past memory as the red flames of the fire settled into his sight once more, only this time, the red curtain that appeared was splattered across the floor, seeping from the broken figure before him. Fear had never prickled him harder than it had that day. He couldn’t bear the thought of watching you bleed out in his arms, the life in your eyes slowly slipping away. You’d remained so calm, focused on fixing his mistakes and as he healed you, he waited. Waited to hear the rise of your voice as you shouted at him, telling him you never wanted to see him again. But it never came. He’d instead heard those words from Lily not long after when she’d explicitly voiced her disapproval in the friends he’d chosen, not wanting to hear the apology he had after letting that awful word slip his lips. She hadn’t even asked him if he shared the interests his friends did, she merely assumed he did.

Though she wasn’t wrong, he realized you’d made no such assumption and even offered him the benefit of the doubt, letting him explain himself. You’d stuck by him after that horrible incident while Lily simply abandoned him, defending his tormentors instead.

… I carry that book with me every day to remind me that there is someone in this world that cares about me as much as I do them… with all my love

He read that sentence over and over again. “Because I care for you, I am willing to wait for you to see that I’ll always be here for you.” Why? Why would you wait for him again after what he’d done because, no, this wasn’t the first time he’d hurt you.

The fire crackled once more as the flames reach for Severus, the crimson in its core overtaking his thoughts. He saw a spot of red surrounded by an ocean of green as he heard angry footsteps rushing away from him. He hadn’t even given you that rose, nor had he explained its purpose. But you’d figured it out, you knew exactly what he was thinking because you knew him so well. It was strange how close you two had grown over such a short period of time. Well, two years wasn’t short, but it was in comparison to the amount of time he’d spent trying to get close with Lily. He’d never managed it of course. She’d pushed him away before he got the chance to, but you remained. You stuck by him, waited for him, forgiven him.

Severus felt his mind fog as his body began to shut down. He was so tired, he just needed a few hours of sleep, but that irritating click at the back of his head just wouldn’t allow it. He looked back into the flames and waited for it to pull him back into another memory, one he hoped would be more pleasant than the last two.

The red that appeared before him was uniformed and accompanied by the same toned gold, stripped against one another. The Gryffindor common room. He’d been here once and though he hated the decor of the room, reminding him of how horrid a house Gryffindor is, he would gladly endure it again to be in your company. Though he’d safely kept your pin in his trunk, he could still feel its outline beneath his thumb. You’d put so much trust in him, much more than Lily ever did.

…there is someone in this world that cares about me as much as I do them…

Severus woke up a few hours later, confused as to where he was. He sat up and looked around to find himself on the floor of the common room. He then remembered what had happened last night and looked down to see his book, open, face down on the floor. He quickly picked it up and turned it over, only to panic at the sight of the folded first page. He felt devastated as he tried his best to flatten it, but the crease in the page remained. Closing the book, he reached for his bag and very gently tucked the book back into its place. He swung the strap over his shoulder and was about to head back to the dorm when he caught a glimmer of a very familiar necklace on the floor. The locket. That damn locket, how could he forget?

Picking it up he watched as your name etched its way to the front cover and he simply waited for Lily’s name to appear overtop. But as the seconds went by, it never did. His eyes widened as he began to wonder if the light of the fire was playing a trick on him. Or perhaps this was a dream, though he remembered waking up in the middle of the night and sitting in the common room. It can’t be a dream. He held the necklace by its chain and waited for your name to disappear completely before cautiously placing it in his palm. Once again, your name appeared. Your name and yours alone.

It was a beautiful sight he had only dreamt of seeing these last few weeks. The cursive writing so clear and bold, displaying the name of the girl he wished nothing more than to have beside him right now. His eyes watered as his lips twitched in joy. It was surreal what he felt in this moment, and he silently hoped it would never fade. Was this the right moment to talk to you? Was he finally worthy of come back to you? If he showed you this necklace, would you believe him when he said he’d love you till the day he died?

His mind replaced all those old questions with desire and need. A need to have you back, to apologize and to beg for your forgiveness, to show you his heart belongs to you alone and he’d love nothing more than to have you back in his life. Severus wiped away the tears streaming down his cheeks as he walked over to the desk in the corner, grabbing a spare bit of parchment from his bag and began writing.

He had to try. He had to at least try to speak to you now that he’d sorted out the way he felt about you, about Lily. He folded up the piece of paper and gripped the locket tightly in his hand before rushing back to his dorm to get dressed. He suddenly found his morning full of tasks he needed to get done. Things he needed to prepare before heading to see you. He first made his way to the owlery, borrowing a school owl as he tied the note he’d written to it, watching it fly away. He knew its trip would be short and that he’d have his answer sooner than later. So he quickly made his way out thinking over what he would say to you when he saw you, hoping he’d find the right words to say, showing you what the locket had shown him. It wasn’t going to be easy, but he felt ready. Ready to explain himself to you, ready to have you back in his life.

Next Chapter

@hoppingsnape @dusk-realm @a-slytherin-sin @trashandshook @gbatesx @sneezy-s @emsdroid @leah-halliwell92 @dellightfullydeceitful @xxaamzxx @sparklingkeylimepie @nameless-sovereign @living-in-margins @justanobodyinthisbigworld @soft-slytherin-sweetie @youtube4life10

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traincat · 5 years ago

Note

I saw your posts about Spider-Man on twitter but I’d rather message you anonymously because I’m shy; anyways, I saw your reaction to that video of Zendaya, Tom and Jacob to the is Spider-Man Jewish question. And their reactions pissed me off so much. They were all so dismissive of the questions and actually laughing at it. I myself am Jewish and was really excited to see so many people talking about Peter being Jewish and now I keep flashbacking to that horrible video 😡

Please don’t be shy! I don’t bite first. But I completely respect your right to be anonymous, particularly on this subject, which has garnered some heated discussion on several sides. If you saw my tweets I’m fairly sure you know my stance on it. I’m going to elaborate anyway for the unaware, free of twitter’s character limit, as to why the MCU Spider-Man cast’s reactions to being asked if Spider-Man is Jewish was frankly very inappropriate.

For those who haven’t seen the clip, it’s here. (Please don’t harass OP for posting it more than they’ve already been harassed for daring to point out the antisemitism in the clip, I just don’t feel like finding the whole Wired video.) I have multiple problems with this, starting with the fact that I personally feel like it’s a setup. The focus of this -- both from the critical and defensive sides -- has very much been on the actors themselves, but I want to walk it back a little bit, because while their reactions to the question were undoubtedly both ignorant and hurtful (there’s nothing inherently humorous about asking if a character is Jewish, so I’m not sure why Zendaya was laughing), ultimately I think the larger problem is why this was allowed on the internet in the first place. The actors themselves may be young -- though I will point out they are all adults and professionals, and this isn’t the first interview for any of them -- but their managers aren’t, and it’s hard for me to believe that if a company with as much range and influence as Disney didn’t want religion discussed in promotional material for the film that they couldn’t have that material blocked. It’s less difficult but much more questionable for me to believe that nobody saw these young stars’ reactions to the question “is Peter Parker Jewish?” and no one decided that the content needed to be refilmed so it came off less mocking or that it should be cut entirely. Let me be really very frank: a group of non-Jewish actors should not have been asked this question, even if their reactions were respectful and inclusive towards the Jewish identity, because their opinions don’t matter. The opinions of Jewish creatives matter. These actors most likely (or, based off their reactions, definitely) don’t have the tools needed to recognize the Jewish coding within the character the way a Jewish creative does, and their opinion on the subject doesn’t matter compared to that of a Jewish person. Take, for instance, Andrew Garfield’s insightful comments drawing on his own cultural experiences as a Jewish person, or Phil Lord of Into the Spider-Verse’s description of Peter Parker. This is not a flat out condemnation of Tom Holland, Zendaya, or Jacob Batalon, but it is fair to say that none of them are experts I would call upon to discuss the Jewish history of Spider-Man, given that none of them are Jewish or, based on the linked interview, apparently have given Judaism and the history of superheroes any serious thought. Which, again, is not their job or a faction of their identity, so I can’t exactly blame them for it. It’s disappointing that they are not more open minded and better spoken on the topic, but not surprising that they aren’t.

That being said: their reactions were completely inappropriate and borderline antisemitic. Let me make it perfectly clear that you don’t have to be acting with malicious intent to be antisemitic; antisemitism is ingrained in our culture, in our jokes, in our popular media, and it is incredibly easy to fall prey to it without realizing what you are doing, and these three young and very influential stars reacted to the notion of Peter Parker being Jewish as if you’d asked them if he was Martian. I’ve seen a lot of people attempt to excuse the comments by saying that the actors were “taken aback” or “surprised” by the “randomness” of the question, but there’s really nothing random about it when Andrew Garfield was quite outspoken about Peter Parker’s Jewish identity and when Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse had Peter B. Parker very notably have a Jewish wedding, which for me lends some doubt to Zendaya’s claim that she’d “never heard anyone ask” that particular question, all the while giggling like something was funny. It’s quite possible she’d never heard it before, but that means she’s divorced herself from greater discussion involving other adaptations of the story, including discussions that took place six months ago when Spider-Verse was in theaters. I’ve also seen plenty of people attempt to let Tom Holland off the hook for his comments, saying that he only said “I don’t know” when in fact he prefaces that with “I don’t think he is.”

Let me be very clear: that these young actors lack of knowledge about the Jewish coding of Peter Parker and the long Jewish history of superhero comics isn’t the problem. They are being paid to portray roles, not to know everything about the history of those roles they are portraying. The problem is the language they employed when the question came up. It was dismissive, it was insulting, and it was antisemitic, whether or not that was the intent of the speakers. Again, you don’t have to be actively malicious to be antisemitic. “Is Spider-Man real” was treated with respect while “is Spider-Man Jewish” was hurriedly and thoroughly dismissed. Let me be very clear: I would not have a problem with this clip if Tom Holland had simply said “I’m not sure”, or if Zendaya had said “I hadn’t heard that before, but that’s interesting,” or anything along those lines, being inclusive about the idea of Peter Parker being Jewish even if they weren’t hardline approving of it. The fact was there was no support for the concept of Peter Parker’s Jewish identity, only giggly or confused dismissal, and that is not the way to treat any marginalized identity, and I frankly can’t believe that people would rather side with the actors in a moment of ill-spoken and insulting dismissal of Jewish people -- acting as if it’s a total impossibility that Peter Parker could be Jewish -- than with the Jewish people who rightfully feel hurt by their insensitive comments. They’re fine, people. They still got paid far more than anyone taking offense at their careless words. They didn’t go down a hundred points in the secret Jewish gold stock market. They probably didn’t even notice the backlash from Jewish fans among their 18,000 other social media notifications. Nobody is quote-unquote “canceling” them for being ignorant of Jewish history in superhero media and pop culture and for speaking carelessly. Perhaps there should be greater consequences, like, at the very least, a public apology for their careless language and laughter, but honestly, that’s very unlikely, so you don’t need to defend them. They’re probably fine.

I said this on twitter, but I’m going to say it again: a lack of knowledge about Peter Parker’s Jewish coding or the long history of Jewish creators and subtext in superhero comics, especially when Marvel was getting its start as we know it now, is not a bad thing. It is not bad to not know this. If you didn’t know this, you’re not a bad person and you shouldn’t feel bad or guilty for just learning it. We all have things we are unaware of or that we don’t possess the cultural tools to recognize. That’s part of having an individual human and cultural experience. The problem becomes when this is brought up and instead of being interested or at the very least inclusive in their language, young influential stars dismiss it outright. Tom Holland’s “I don’t think he is” could have easily be “I didn’t think he was, but that’s an interesting point to look into”, whereas Zendaya claiming she’d never heard that could’ve easily been “I didn’t know that.” Simple as that. Minor changes, but a world of difference. These stars may be young, but they are professionals, and they should be expected to act in a professional manner. Instead, they chose in the moment to dismiss it entirely. And like I said, this is not entirely their fault, because I do think that upon their reactions either a reshoot should have been ordered with their handlers giving them tips for more inclusive and less offensive language, or that the question should have been cut entirely if it wasn’t going to be taken in good faith or discussed seriously. But it wasn’t. This was viewed as appropriate discussion and aired. And, as inappropriate as the actors’ words were, and as much as I personally believe they should apologize for those statements, that is not their solely their faults. Someone should have corrected them for their own good and for their own growth. There should have been people looking out for their images who should have said, “hey, this doesn’t look good, this is coming off like you’re dismissing the Jewish identity and experience.” But there weren’t, because the Jewish interest is not viewed as marketable, and therefore insults to Jewish people -- intentionally malicious or not -- are not viewed as things that need to be managed. And that is deeply unfortunate and very telling of how people in Hollywood, an industry that wouldn’t exist without Jewish people, currently views Jewish people. And I have to say, I expect better of young professionals in 2019 than when faced with a question about marginalized identities like Jewish people to either dismiss or laugh through the inquiry instead of paying it the minimal amount of respect by at least pretending to entertain the notion, even if they don’t personally believe it.

Ultimately, I have to say, none of this is surprising if you view Disney as thoroughly managing their own brand (and know that their own brand is heavily antisemitic), when Spider-Man: Homecoming contained several depictions of Jewish people that either unsettled me or struck me as inappropriate. The first is the black hats on the subway who glare at Peter -- poor little MCU Peter, who people are endlessly willing to woobify and excuse -- and then, in his school, the kid in full Orthodox attire, when a child at that level of religious dress would never have been at that school because a secular school could not properly address his religious needs and when the New York Orthodox community is famously insular. No, everything the MCU did in Spider-Man: Homecoming, in my personal opinion, reflected the harmful opinion that you can “spot” a Jew, by having men in full Orthodox dress glare at Peter Parker on subway, by having a child in his multicultural school in full Orthodox dress instead of simply wearing a yarmulke or a Star of David necklace like, say, Kitty Pryde was famous for during her debut. There’s nothing wrong with highlighting the Orthodox community, but when that is all the Jewish representation in your film, with no plot reason for doing so, it strikes me as distinctly odd, as if you’re trying to separate the Jewish contingent from the rest of your audience. When Marisa Tomei, who looks a certain kind of ethnic, is identified in-universe as “the hot Italian woman”, lest anyone think her Aunt May and therefore Peter Parker might be Jewish. The message then becomes: you can spot a Jew. And you can’t. That’s harmful. That’s what led to me in my grandmother’s rented apartment while she was dying while her nurse ranted to me about her landlord the “evil Jew”, afraid to say anything in case she harmed my grandmother while I wasn’t there. That’s how that ends up. So I’m sure Tom Holland, Zendaya, and Jacob Batalon didn’t view their comments in the moment as harmful, and I’m sure the people who are defending their naivete and ignorance about Jewish culture and the Jewish history of comic books are only trying to speak out towards their favorite actors, but there are real consequences towards this type of language and this type of behavior and this lack of respect for the Jewish identity, and this isn’t something that can just be brushed off. And those are my thoughts on the subject.

The MCU already took careful decisions to erase to the Judaism from Spider-Man, notably following Andrew Garfield’s open declarations about Spider-Man’s Jewish identity. Now its actor are following suit. It’s hard for me to pretend it is a total coincidence, especially following Into the Spider-Verse’s Peter B. Parker with his Jewish wedding scene, voiced by Jake Johnson, who is from a Jewish family, which came out barely half a year ago. It’s both fine and normal to be unaware, especially if it’s not your background, of the Jewish history of Spider-Man. It is not fair or appropriate, especially if you are not Jewish, to dismiss the notion that the character could be Jewish without any kind of consideration, and it is especially not fair to laugh at the notion. I don’t have a lot of faith that the actors involved will learn from this, but I sincerely hope that they do and that they behave better in the future, because they did hurt and insult a lot of real Jewish people whose feelings should not be ignored.

#peter parker #spiderman #marvel comics #traincat talks comics #judaism #mcu critical

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