#but i want to take a pair of clippers to him here so badly | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

waltwhitmansbeard · 1 year ago

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Critter Genfic Bingo: Mystery

VETH.

The woman in question jumps, the disembodied yet familiar voice in her head startling her so badly she drops the wine glass she's holding.

THIS IS AN EMERGENCY. I THINK FJORD IS BEING MIND-CONTROLLED. WE NEED TO INVESTIGATE IMMEDIATELY. HOW FAST CAN YOU GET HERE?

There's silence, but Veth waits.

Tell Yeza hi!

There it is.

Veth has just finished her return message—I'll be there in fifteen. Assemble all your evidence; we're gonna crack the case!—when Yeza pops his head into the kitchen. "Are you okay? It sounds like something broke in here."

She looks down at the shattered wine glass. "Jester," she offers as an explanation, before quickly conjuring an unseen servant to clean up the mess. Once that's taken care of, she darts around the Brenatto house, packing her bag with whatever accoutrements might be needed for freeing Fjord of the alleged mind control he's under.

Yeza, patient, understanding Yeza, merely leans against the door frame and says, "Well, I guess I'll get Luc from school."

"You don't mind?"

"I mean, this seems like an emergency."

Veth pauses. "Well, this is Jester we're talking about, so there's a...sixty-two percent chance it's not."

"Better not take the risk." Yeza snags her by the waist as she tries to dart past and kisses her. "Go solve the mystery, detective."

Veth grins. "She says hi, by the way."

"Tell her I want you back in one piece."

"The only one who gets to split me in two is you." She slaps his ass, and then she's off and out the door toward Jester and Fjord's.

Jester has chewed all of her fingernails to the quick by the time Veth arrives. "Finally!" She doesn't wait for pleasantries, just drags her friend by the arm to the back of the tiny house that she and Fjord have claimed as their home when they're not on the high seas. There's a window overlooking the postage stamp of a back garden, where Fjord is trimming a hedge—or rather, he's opening and closing a pair of hedge clippers in the same spot, over and and over and over, even though there are no longer any branches to cut.

"See?" She gestures emphatically toward the window. "He's being weird!"

Veth frowns. "He's always weird, Jester. Remember that time he ate a fucking ball?"

"This is different. He's been…distracted all week. Erratic. Two days ago, he put all the clean towels in the icebox. And he keeps muttering under his breath." She takes a deep breath. "What if it's Uk'otoa?"

"Uk'otoa," Veth whispers obligatorily, before shrugging. "I doubt it, because we killed him. Listen, you've had a good run. But so much time on the sea is enough to drive anyone crazy, and he's long gone." Veth pats her arm in sympathy.

Jester frowns. Veth isn't taking her seriously. "I am telling you, I know him, something is—"

She's cut off by a strangled shout from outside, and they both whip their heads to stare outside. Jester's stomach sinks as she watches two figures in head-to-toe black and masked, one tall and broad and one shorter and slimmer, wrap their arms around Fjord from both sides. The smaller one claps a hand over his mouth as the larger one pins his arms together, and the two start to drag him away, not deterred by his thrashing.

"FJORD!" Jester spins around and bolts for the front door. She feels so foolish; Fjord told her that this place was a fire hazard, with only the one exit, and now it might mean she doesn't get the chance to tell him he was right.

"Holy shit!" Veth is on her heels, but Jester is taller, faster; she whips open the door and runs along the side of the house. She stumbles into the back garden, but it's empty, the clippers half-sticking out of the hedge.

"Oh no, FJORD!" Jester's heart is pounding in her ears. She whips her head around, but there's no sign of him or his attackers anywhere.

Behind her, Veth pants, "Where are they? We can take 'em!"

Jester can barely think. Someone took Fjord. And because he's been so cagey these past few days, she doesn't know who or why. She drops to her knees, the panic setting in.

"Hey, Jes, we'll find him." Veth squeezes her shoulder. "No mystery that you and I can't…hang on."

Jester watches her scurry over to where Fjord had been standing and crouch down to rifle in the dirt. "Look at this!"

A sharp spike of hope pierces Jester's chest. She scrambles over. "What is it?"

Veth's holding up a small, shiny piece of sea glass, foam green and about the size of Veth's fingernail. It glints in the sunlight. Jester frowns. "It's sea glass, Veth. We're by the ocean. The garden must be full of it."

"No look!�� Veth turns it, and Jester can see now that the piece of glass is perfectly smooth, each of its edges even and carefully beveled. “This sea glass was cut by a jeweler.”

Jester frowns. She’s right, but she hardly sees how that’s relevant. “How does that help us find who kidnapped my boyfriend?”

“One of the campers at Wilde Out! has a parent who does this kind of work with sea glass. They’re right here in Nicodranas!”

Jester’s starting to pick up what Veth’s putting down. “Maybe one of the attackers dropped it! Maybe the jeweler knows who it belongs to!”

Veth grins from ear to ear. “Brenatto and Lavorre are on the case!”

“Yeah!” Jester is now also grinning, until she remembers that Fjord was violently kidnapped not two minutes ago. She schools her expression into something more somber. “Let’s go get my fucking boyfriend.”

The jeweler is a little hole-in-the-wall place on the first floor of an apartment block. Jester presses her face up against the glass of the door, right over the Heflin Fine Jewelry written in gilded script. The store is dark inside, which makes asking the proprietor for help difficult.

“Maybe they live upstairs?” Jester offers hopefully, stepping back from the door.

Veth takes the opportunity to whip her lockpicking kit out of her bag. “I’ve got this.” After about a minute of grunting and low cursing, the door to the jeweler’s swings wide open. Jester looks up and down the street, but there are no Zhelezo around, and no one seems to notice the tiefling and the halfing breaking into a shop in broad daylight.

They slip inside and close the door. “Okay, what are we supposed to do now?” Jester whispers. “There’s no one here!”

“Then why are you whispering?”

Oh. Right. In her normal voice, Jester says, “Maybe there are papers in the office? Some kind of purchase records?”

“Right.” Veth leads the way toward the door that they presume to be the office, and after picking that lock, they’re inside. There are rows and rows of filing cabinets, and Jester groans. “This is going to take forever.”

They each take a filing cabinet and start digging. Jester learns quickly that the easy solution she’d been hoping for, a picture of the piece of sea glass right next to the name of its purchaser, was a pipe dream. Apparently this jeweler does a lot of work with sea glass, and there’s no telling which of the hundreds of rings, bracelets, necklaces, or watches the piece they found could have come from. After about half an hour, Jester throws herself into the office chair with a frustrated groan. “This is useless! We need to try something else.”

Veth slams shut the drawer she’d been rifling through, and the movement causes a gust of wind to shuffle the papers on the desk. One such scrap drifts off the desk and onto Jester’s lap. She picks it up and reads out loud, “Fifty gold to glass pirates at wharf. Stone’s Throw won’t deliver under threats.” She gasps and leaps up out of the chair. “Stone’s Throw! That’s Fjord’s company!”

“Let me see!” Veth snatches the paper from Jester and reads it again. “So…Fjord worked with the jeweler?”

“Or the company did! Glass pirates…” Jester begins to pace. “Maybe this sea glass is valuable. Maybe Stone’s Throw has been shipping it for the jeweler, and maybe these pirates want a cut of the action. Maybe that’s why they took Fjord!”

Veth snaps her fingers. “We’re cracking the case!”

“We’re cracking the case!”

“To the wharf!”

The Restless Wharf is restless indeed. There are dozens, hundreds of people, sailors and dock workers and entertainers and Zhelezo and customs agents, all intermingling in a dance that, frankly, smells really, really bad. Jester has a hard time imagining pirates getting away with much with this many eyes and ears around, but then, she knows well enough by now how sneaky pirates can be.

Veth seems to be on her same wavelength. “We could be looking for anyone. Everyone looks suspicious here.”

“You think that because they work on boats.”

“Never trust a sailor!”

Jester frowns. “Well, my sailor was taken, and someone here knows something about it.”

They start to skirt around the edges of the chaos, catching what scraps of conversation they can. It’s so loud, and the talk Jester hears is mostly of shipping dates and locations. It’s all becoming overwhelming, until Veth tugs hard on her sleeve. “Jessie! Look!”

Jester follows her pointing finger until she sees a pair of dock workers half-hidden beneath an awning. They’re shrouded in shadow, but Jester can just tell that they’re up to no good. Still, she has no idea if they know anything.

“They’re ne’er-do-wells,” Veth whispers dramatically. “I can feel it.”

She’s getting desperate, so Jester casts a furtive glance around to make sure she’s not being watched before going invisible. She scurries over to the dock workers, and she just manages to make out their low conversation—“damned green menace wouldn’t stop fighting, heard his tusks pack a nasty punch”—before the invisibility ends and she’s grabbing one of the dock workers, one with shaggy, dirty red hair, by the shirtfront and slamming him against the wall. “TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW!”

“Holy shit, Jester!” Veth scurries over, snapping, “Mind your business!” to the gawkers around.

The other dock worker, with dark skin and pale eyes, barks, “Hey, crazy lady, what do you think you’re—”

“Shut it!” She slams the guy she’s holding against the wall again. “The green menace! Where is he?”

The redheaded dock worker’s eyes are wide. “Fucking hell, where did you come from?”

Jester hovers her face an inch away from his. He smells like fish and sweat and, weirdly, ink? “From your worst nightmare. Tell me where he is, now.”

The other one reaches for something behind his back, but Veth yanks a dagger from her bag and aims it straight for his balls. “Stay still or shore leave is gonna be a lot less fun going forward.”

“Fuck, they don’t pay me enough for this.” The redhead looks around briefly before muttering, “They took him to a cave along the eastern shore. Something about gold and glass, I don’t know, I was just keepin’ an eye out for the Zhelezo. Contract work, am I right?”

Jester releases him and steps back. “A cave along the eastern shore?”

He shrugs. “They use it to house people they want to smuggle out of Nicodranas. It’s still light out, so he should still be there.”

“See, was that hard?” She points a finger at one, then the other. “Don’t follow us!” Then she spins around and marches off to the east.

“Jester, wait!” Jester knows that’s she’s going too fast for Veth to keep up for long, but she’s so close to getting Fjord back she can taste it like salt in the air. “We should get back-up!”

“Back-up?” Jester frowns down at her. “Why? We know where he is, and they won’t be smuggling him until later.”

“Yeah, according to those two dumbasses. What if they’re wrong? What if it’s a trap?”

“A trap for me?” Jester thinks about it for a moment. “But this has nothing to do with me. Fjord didn’t even tell me there were pirates after him.”

“A trap for someone. Jester, it’s a cave. By the ocean. Anything can happen in there!”

They’re almost at the end of the docks now, the rocky beaches stretching out ahead. Jester comes to a stop, puts her hands on her hips. “If you want to go get help, go get help. I’m going to get Fjord.” And then she starts running.

As she goes, she doesn’t hear any footsteps behind her over the crashing of waves, so she assumes that Veth did in fact go get help. That’s fine. She’ll save Fjord on her own. She runs along the beach, slipping and tripping through the sand and rocks, until she catches it around the curve of the shoreline: the slim opening of a cave, maybe only a head or two taller than she is. She slows, trying to catch her breath, and peeks inside. It’s dark and narrow and very scary. She grips the symbol around her neck and whispers, “Traveler, guide me,” before stepping inside.

The cave is damp and cold. Soon, she’s out of the range of the sunlight from the cave entrance, so she digs around in her pocket until she finds a paintbrush she doesn’t remember putting in there. She casts daylight on it, illuminating the cave with warm, bright light. She blinks rapidly, her eyes slow to adjust to the light, but a muffled sound reaches her ears from deeper in the cave.

Fjord.

"I'm coming!" She stumbles her way forward, and finally, when she can see without squinting, a shape emerges on the cave floor: Fjord, hands and feet bound, a gag in his mouth, a bruise blooming spectacularly over one eye. "FJORD!"

Jester crashes to her knees beside him, paintbrush scattering aside, heart pounding as she yanks the gag from his mouth. "Thanks, Jessie," he pants. "I knew I could could on you."

And yes, her hands may be shaking as she works at the knot tying his hands and feet together, but she still preens, just a little. "I saw them take you! It was really scary, but it's okay! We'll get out of here." The rope falls to the rocky floor. "Come on!" She grabs Fjord's hand and tugs him up to his feet.

"Jessie, wait." Fjord tugs his hand from her grasp.

"Fjord, they could come back at any minute! We have to go!"

"They took something from me." He starts to root around in his pocket.

"What is it?"

"My last name. Can I have yours?"

Jester blinks at him in confusion, and before she can have a single coherent thought, Fjord is on his knees, a small, velvet box in his hand. He opens it, his bruised face blushing furiously, and it isn't until she sees the ring, a silver band worked around gorgeous, glinting shards of sea glass, that it hits her.

Her scream echoes, magnified by a thousand, and Fjord winces. "I'm gonna take that as a sign to continue." He clears his throat. "I've been a bastard and a sailor and a hero and a pirate and a god's soldier, but the most important thing I've ever been is someone who gets to love the most lovable person in the world. And if it's alright with you, I'd like to keep doing that...well, forever. Jester Lavorre, will you marry me?"

In all of her years of chaos and trickery, Jester has never been so taken aback by someone else's scheming. All of this, the kidnapping and searching and panicking and running—this was a proposal? Part of her wants to dash his head against the cave wall for letting her think that he was taken by pirates who wanted to kill him.

But...he's looking up at her, his big eyes shining and so very sweet, and the ring really is so beautiful, and how well he knows her to know that her favorite thing is a good mystery to solve. Oh, she's defenseless against him, the most charismatic captain on the high seas. "Okay," she squeaks out, wiping at her eyes, which are obviously wet from the ocean. "Yeah, that sounds good."

Fjord grins like he's just been set loose in the biggest candy shop on the continent. "Really?"

She nods vigorously, and then launches herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck. "I can't believe it!" she sobs. "I can't believe how mad I am at you, and I can't believe we're getting married!"

Fjord laughs. From the direction of the mouth of the cave, hoots and hollers and applause draw Jester's attention away from Fjord. All of a sudden, four globules of light dance along the path, and all of their friends are there, waving and cheering. "What..."

Fjord stands them both up and steers her toward them. "You don't think I did this alone, did you?"

"I got to punch him in the face!" Beau announces, clearly ecstatic.

Caduceus grips his staff. "And I healed him up a bit when she went way too far."

Yasha and Kingsley are wearing all-black clothes, and the latter dangles a black mask in the air. "Tip your local kidnappers."

Jester looks to Caleb and Essek, who, she now notices, are wearing the exact same clothing as the dock workers she'd interrogating not ten minutes ago. Her jaw drops. "Even you, Essek?"

He shrugs. "Subterfuge is my specialty."

Veth rubs her hands together conspiratorially. "I love it when a plan comes together. Congratulations, Fjord: this one's almost as good as Fluffernutter."

Fjord ducks his head in a bow. Jester squeezes his arm. "I can't believe you did all of this for me."

"An over-the-top woman deserves an over-the-top proposal. Which reminds me..." He takes the ring out of the box, which goes back into his pocket. "May I?"

She holds her hand out, and the ring slips perfectly onto her finger. She extends her arm so it catches the sunlight peaking into the cave. "It's beautiful," she breathes.

"Just like you." And Fjord kisses her, and Jester has never been happier in her entire life.

#critter genfic bingo #critical role #critical role fic #cr fic #mighty nein #mighty nein fic #fjorester #fjorester fic #my fic #a little shaky on the dismount but this was supposed to be a DRABBLE #only four more to go!

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candleshopmenace · 2 years ago

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don't say a word. | chapter two

SUMMARY

He’s tried being good, has tried pretending that being alone doesn’t bother him, has tried being the best in class all the time so that his mother would say, Good job, but nothing works.

Nothing ever works.

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[ao3 link]

[discord server]

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The first thing that Present Mic does when they get back to the dorms is find a pair of nail clippers. He gets them from the bathroom connected to the room that Katsuki has been staying in, searching through the drawer beneath the sink for several long moments before he holds them up, triumphant. “Here they are!” he says, clicking off the light and pulling the door shut behind him as he steps out into the bedroom, walking over to where Katsuki is watching him from the bed. “How are you feeling, bud?”

Katsuki shrugs, looking away. White flashes out of the corner of his eye but he ignores it, not wanting to look at the bandages wrapped around his arm, which at least doesn’t hurt anymore but still feels kinda numb, heavy and tingly all over from whatever was in the shot that Recovery Girl gave him before she stitched up the biggest cut.

If Present Mic is bothered by the lack of response, he doesn’t show it, just gives Katsuki a smile as he settles across the bed from him. “Yeah, I bet you’re tired, aren’t you?” he asks, reaching out to take one of Katsuki’s hands, and the only reason Katsuki doesn’t jerk away is because Present Mic is so obvious about what he’s doing. “You should get some sleep after this.”

“I’m not tired,” Katsuki says, but he has to look away because that’s a lie and he thinks they both know it. He’s really tired, but he also doesn’t think that sleep is going to help at all, not unless he doesn’t ever have to wake up. “I’m just…”

Present Mic hums, giving his hand a gentle pat before he starts to clip his nails. “That’s fine,” he says. “You don’t have to sleep if you don’t want to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You could read or draw or watch something, if you’d like, and I took the rest of the day off, so you won’t be alone.”

Katsuki feels sick with a mixture of relief and guilt. “You didn’t have to do that,” he mutters. Then, because he doesn’t want to sound like he’s ungrateful, he adds, “But, thanks.”

“It's no problem,” Present Mic says, and sounds like he really means it. “You shouldn’t have to be alone.”

Katsuki feels a bit angry at that, but not a lot, because everything feels muffled, like that one time his mother was yelling at his father instead of him and so he put a pillow over his ears so that he didn’t have to listen and he could still hear his parents’ voices but not as much. It feels like that, like everything is being smothered, and he can’t even make himself sound upset when he says, “I can take care of myself.”

… But can he? Really? After what he just did today?

If he had been alone while he was throwing that fit, what would’ve happened? He hurt himself so badly that he had to get stitches, and people who know how to take care of themselves didn’t do that. He could’ve died, maybe. Maybe one day he’ll hurt himself so badly that he does die, and what’ll happen then?

Would anyone even care?

“I know that,” Present Mic says, but his voice is quiet and Katsuki’s pretty sure that he’s only saying it to make him feel better. “But if you don’t want to be alone, I’m not going to leave you alone, okay?” He pauses, Katsuki’s hand still held gently in his, and looks at him. Very seriously, he asks, “Do you want to be alone?”

Katsuki gives a frantic shake of his head, throat tight. “No!” he says, but is painfully aware of the fact that Present Mic could leave him by himself at any time and Katsuki would be able to do nothing to stop it, he doesn’t even know if the door locks from the inside or the outside, he doesn’t know anything. “No, no, no no no no, please -”

“Alright,” Present Mic says, and Katsuki falls silent, breathing hard. Everything is so far away and way too close, all at once, and it makes his chest hurt, makes him feel like he’s going to start crying at any moment. “Katsuki, I’m not going to do anything that you don’t want. I promise.”

And promises mean something, they have to mean something, and so Katsuki nods, scrubbing at his eyes with his free hand and taking shaky breaths as he tries to calm himself down. “Okay,” he mumbles, feeling embarrassed that he’s acting this way and scared by the fact that he isn’t able to stop. What would his friends think if they saw him like this, crying like a baby over shit that wasn’t really a big deal? What would his parents think?

Never should’ve trusted you alone for a second, his mother would say, and his father would give him that disappointed look, the one that said, I thought that you could handle this, but I guess I was wrong, and then everything would go wrong and it would be all his fault.

He winces, shutting his eyes so that he doesn’t have to see Present Mic’s expression and also because he can feel the hot press of tears building behind them, and actually crying would be way more embarrassing than almost crying, and he’s cried way too much today, anyways.

“Maybe we can go to the park again after you get some rest,” Present Mic says. “You had fun the last time we went, right?”

“Mhm,” Katsuki says, thinking about how he went to the park with Present Mic a couple days ago. It took a while to get there - personally, Katsuki is pretty sure that Present Mic just got lost a few times - but the park was really big, even bigger than the one he plays at with his friends. He spent the night there, once, huddled in one of the slides because it was raining and his mother had said, Just go, Katsuki, get the fuck out of my house, and it was cold and wet and he’s hated thunderstorms ever since then.

“Katsuki,” Present Mic says, and sounds a bit worried, like he’s been repeating his name for a while, and Katsuki realizes that the hero has been talking this entire time.

“Sorry,” Katsuki mumbles, tugging his hand out of Present Mic’s grip and replacing it with his other one without being asked, inspecting his newly-trimmed nails and wondering if he’ll still be able to see blood under them if he looks hard enough. “I didn’t hear you, what did you say?”

“I asked if you were feeling alright,” Present Mic says, frowning slightly. “I really do think that you need to get something to eat after this, okay?”

And he words it like it's a question but Katsuki is pretty sure that there’s only one right answer, but it doesn’t feel right to say, and so he just shrugs and says nothing at all, watching as Present Mic sighs and starts clipping the nails of his other hand.

“We should paint these,” Present Mic muses, and Katsuki blinks at him, uncomprehending. Present Mic feels him watching and looks up, smiling so kindly that it hurts somewhere deep in Katsuki’s chest. “You know, just for fun. Your favorite color is orange, right?”

Katsuki nods, fighting the automatic urge to deny it, to deny that he had things that he liked. It was stupid to do that about a color, because it's not as if a color could be taken away from him. It was just a color. It didn’t mean anything.

“I’m sure we have some orange nail polish somewhere,” Present Mic says, and gently turns Katsuki’s hand from side to side, inspecting his work. “Eri loves painting her nails, I can hardly get her to wait for one color to dry before she’s trying to wipe it off to do another.” He smiles as he says it, undeniably fond, and Katsuki feels rotten, somehow, because he’s sure that his own parents don’t talk about him like this to other people. “What kinds of things do you like, Katsuki?”

And now Katsuki shuts himself up, yanking his hand away and snapping, “None of your business,” before he realizes exactly how close Present Mic is to him, how easy it would be for him to reach out and hurt him, and he swallows as he feels his heart pick up, pounding against his ribs. “I - I mean -” He takes a shaky breath, dropping his eyes down to the sheets so that Present Mic doesn’t think he’s being even more rude and also so that he can watch his hands. Quietly, he says, “Sorry.”

“It's alright,” Present Mic says, and Katsuki shrinks back further, every bone in his body screaming that this must be a trick, that Present Mic is just waiting to catch him off-guard, and he doesn’t think that Present Mic would do that - he is a hero, after all - but he wants to be prepared on the off chance that he does. “You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to.”

Katsuki’s head spins with all the confusing emotions that swirl through it at the words. Present Mic is being so nice to him and he doesn’t know why, it's not as if he’s done anything to deserve it. All he’s been lately is a nuisance, and some horrible part of him wants to keep pushing, to see how far he can go before the hero’s patience dries up, just so that he’ll at least be in a situation that he’s used to.

Everything’s so different.

Present Mic clears his throat. “Alright!” he says, back to being cheerful as he straightens up. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing up and offering Katsuki a hand to help him do the same. “So, what do you want to do now, kiddo?”

“Dunno,” Katsuki says, looking around the room in search of an answer. There are a bunch of shelves lining the walls, and they’re all filled with a mixture of books and toys, bright colors that scream out at him as he scans his eyes over them. He bites at his lip, hesitating, then says, “Your daughter has a lot of stuff.”

Present Mic shrugs. “We love her,” he says simply. “I, for one, want to give her everything that I can.”

“Oh,” Katsuki says, then falls silent. Present Mic still hasn’t let go of his hand, and he stares at the point of contact, wondering whether it's intentional or not.

Present Mic seems to be waiting for him to speak, but Katsuki can’t think of anything to say, and so he says nothing. After a few moments, Present Mic seems to realize that Katsuki isn’t willing to talk, and he sighs just slightly before looking down at him with a bright smile. “Well,” he says, “why don’t we go to the 1-A dorms, then? That’s where Eri is, and she’s around your age, so you guys probably have a lot in common!”

Katsuki nods in response, and Present Mic looks relieved, tugging him towards the door and into the hall. He lets Katsuki push the buttons on the elevator, launching into a story about how Eri once pressed all of the buttons and forced them to stop on every single floor before they could get out.

“I think that Deku did that once,” Katsuki offers up, wanting to contribute something to the conversation. “I was super pissed because he lives on the top floor and so it took forever to get to the bottom, but Auntie Inko didn’t even get mad at him!” Frowning at the unfairness of it all, he says, “My mom would get really mad if I did something like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Katsuki confirms, nodding his head. “She hates having her time wasted.” He pauses, considering, then adds, “There was this one time when one of the picture-takers for a photo shoot was running late, and we ended up having to stay at the studio until, like, midnight! Mom was super mad, and so was my dad, I think. And I couldn’t even sleep because it was too loud, and it smelled weird.” He wrinkles his nose. “It smelled like a bunch of plastic.”

“That’s… interesting,” Present Mic says. “Why didn’t - what do you call her? - Auntie Inko pick you up? You and Izuku are friends, aren’t you? Haven’t you ever had sleepovers?”

“No, not really,” Katsuki responds, and sighs. “Not anymore, at least. We used to have them all the time, but then Auntie Inko stopped letting Deku come over to my house.” He glances up just in time to see Present Mic frown, and hurriedly adds, “But that’s okay! Deku’s kinda annoying, anyways.”

But Present Mic’s frown just deepens, and his eyebrows furrow like he’s thinking hard about something. “Why did Auntie Inko stop letting Izuku go over to your house, Katsuki?”

Katsuki hesitates, then gives a small shrug. “I don’t know,” he says, even though he does. “I can’t remember.”

The elevator dings!, and the doors slide open. They make it all the way outside of the dorm building, but Present Mic still doesn’t respond, and they’re halfway to the 1-A dorms - with Katsuki wondering what he’s doing wrong the entire time - before he speaks. He asks, “How old were you when he stopped going over?”

Katsuki considers saying I don’t know again, but then he looks once more at where his hand is being held in Present Mic’s and finds himself saying the exact truth, because it’d be so easy to bend his arm back, or drag him around, or hurt his wrist. “Four,” he says quietly, staring down at the concrete of the sidewalk as they head toward the 1-A dorms. “Auntie Inko doesn’t like it when my mom yells at me, and Deku said that she said that moms aren’t supposed to hit, and…”

“They aren’t,” Present Mic says, and he’s staring straight ahead when Katsuki glances up at him, startled. “They’re supposed to take care of you, not hurt you.”

Katsuki shakes his head, frustrated. “She only does it when I’m bad,” he protests, and he doesn’t know why he feels upset about this, because it's not as if he likes being hurt, but he is. He is, and everything is so confusing. He clarifies, “I’m bad a lot,” and then freezes, because why did he just say that? He’s managed to trick Present Mic into thinking that he’s not a bad kid, but now he just ruined it, just like he ruins everything else.

Present Mic sighs, “Well.” He looks down at Katsuki, and he doesn’t look angry, which is what Katsuki had been expecting. He just looks a bit sad, like he’s heard something he doesn’t like and is trying to put on a brave face for it. “For what it's worth, I don’t think that you’re a bad kid.”

“That’s not true,” Katsuki says, and the part of him that is still thinking rationally wonders, briefly, as to why he’s being so insistent that Present Mic sees the truth about him. He’s enjoyed these last few days, spending time with real-life Pro Heroes and not getting yelled at even when he’s being irritating, and he doesn’t know why he’s trying so hard to ruin it. “Even my dad said it. He thought that I couldn’t hear him, but I could, and if he said it, it’s got to be true. My dad never lies, ever.”

Present Mic stops walking, then, and drops Katsuki’s hand. The loss makes his chest ache, for some reason, but the feeling is swallowed up by the fear that freezes Katsuki in place, and he thinks, This is it. This is the part where I get what I deserve.

But then Present Mic doesn’t hit him at all, just kneels down in front of him so that they’re eye-to-eye and holds him by the shoulders, grip tight but not painful, and says, “Bakugou Katsuki, you are not a bad kid.”

“I am,” Katsuki says, because his father has never lied to him. “I am.”

“You’re not,” Present Mic says, and the insistence should make Katsuki feel better but all he feels is scared, and guilty, and a million other things that he doesn’t know the names of. “You’re the kindest little boy that I have ever met. You bake things for your friends even though you can’t eat them, you always try to be brave about everything, and you’re not a bad kid, Katsuki. I know that your parents say that you are, but they’re wrong.”

“You’re lying to me,” Katsuki says, and his eyes are getting watery again and his breaths are shaky and he’s not going to cry, not where everyone can see him. Not where anyone can see him. “Stop lying to me. You don’t have to lie to me.”

Present Mic starts, “Katsuki,” but then his hands shift on Katsuki’s shoulders and Katsuki’s mind just goes completely blank, thoughts sizzling out as his heartbeat roars in his ears.

And then he’s running, wrenching out of Present Mic’s grip before he can stop himself, and he shouldn’t run away, he’s just making things worse, he doesn’t have a bedroom here, not one that belongs to him, but that doesn’t make a difference. Maybe Present Mic will just lock him in his daughter’s room instead, since she had so many sleepovers at the 1-A dorms and she probably wouldn’t miss it, anyways, and he can’t do this. He’s not strong enough. He’s not strong at all, he’s small and weak and stupid, and he’s so tired of pretending that he’s not.

He bursts through the doors of the school building and doesn’t stop running.

He has no idea where he’s going, and he thinks, What am I doing?, but can’t make himself stop. It's better this way, better that he leaves before anyone can hurt him. It doesn’t fucking matter that nobody has hurt him here, not yet, it was bound to happen at some point because there’s something so bad about him that it made everyone get upset at him, and then they hurt him, or they left, and he doesn’t know how to change that. He’s tried being good, has tried pretending that it doesn’t bother him, has tried being the best in class all the time so that his mother would say, Good job, but nothing works.

Nothing ever works.

He sobs, stumbling to a stop in the middle of the empty hallway, allowing himself to cry freely now that there’s not anybody around to watch him. He used to do this back when his parents left him alone for all those months. He would come home from school and the house would be so cold and empty and he would feel so lonely that he’d just crawl into his bed and cry until he ran out of tears.

But that’s what he deserves. He’s a bad kid, he’s always been a bad kid, he’s so horrible that his own parents don’t want to see him. Sooner or later, Present Mic will see that, and then he’ll be just like everybody else.

It's only a matter of time.

#de-aged bakugou week 2023 #boku no hero academia #bakugou katsuki #present mic #tw child abuse #tw neglect #fic

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mimisempai · 3 years ago

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Love is in the hair

Summary:

Loki and Mobius trust each other, of course. But do they trust each other enough to let the other cut his hair?

Notes:

10th day of my 30 Days of Domestic Fluff. - 10: Hair

List here : X

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33541030

1002 words - Rating G

"Are you sure you can do it?"

"And you Mobius, are you sure you want me to do it, because I know I want to and I can. But only if you trust me enough."

"Yes, of course I trust you!" protested Mobius.

"Then come." answered Loki with a tender smile.

His brave and courageous lover was for once hesitant and nervous.

Mobius joined him in the bathroom where Loki had prepared everything to cut his hair.

"Love, need I remind you that you were the one who asked me to do this in the first place."

"I know, I know..." sighed Mobius as he sat down in the chair that Loki was standing behind.

Mobius had asked Loki to cut his hair that had a certain length, Loki had agreed on the only condition that he could leave a little length because he had discovered that he loved running his fingers through his lover's hair.

Loki gently ran his fingers through Mobius' hair, kissed the top of his head and dampened his hair before asking, a pair of scissors in hand, "Are you ready?"

Mobius nodded slowly. "I guess so," he said.

Loki took a towel and carefully wrapped it around the back of Mobius' neck, pressing his lips to it as he went. Mobius hummed in appreciation as he relaxed under his lover's hands.

Loki took his time trimming the ends of Mobius' hair and showing him the evolution with a mirror, then he did the finishing touches with the help of the clippers and the trimmer, still very quietly.

Once he was satisfied with his work, Loki put down the clippers and ran his hand through the freshly cut hair before gently brushing through it to remove the remaining cut strands. He looked at Mobius' expression as he turned the mirror around to let him appreciate the entire cut. Mobius nodded and a smile spread across his face, "Thank you sweetheart, it's perfect," Mobius said softly as he grabbed Loki's hand and added, "Is there anything you don't excel at?" before kissing the hand in his own.

Loki blushed slightly. He took a clean, dry towel and began to gently finish drying Mobius' hair. He preferred to dry it this way, because it gave him the opportunity to touch his love a little longer. Loki loved the fact that Mobius let him touch him like that and judging by the soft sighs of satisfaction that came out of Mobius' mouth, he was enjoying it as much as he was.

When he was done, Loki stood in front of him and asked, "So, will it be just once or will you want me to do it again?"

Mobius put his arms around Loki's waist and pressed his face to his stomach, "Sweetheart, if you think I'm going to set foot in the barber shop again after the way you just took care of my hair, you're kidding yourself."

He pressed a kiss on Loki's belly.

Loki sat on his lap and pressed his face into Mobius' neck, feeling the short strands tickle his cheek, then kissing him under the ear, he whispered, "I can't wait for your hair to grow back, so I can start again."

They both laughed and stayed like that for a few more minutes, enjoying this moment of bliss.

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

Loki had always cut himself his hair, mostly with his magic, but since he had cut Mobius' hair himself, he wanted really badly Mobius to do the same.

It was no secret that Mobius loved to touch his hair and that Loki was extremely happy to feel Mobius's hands and delicate touch in his hair.

As in this very moment when Mobius passed his fingers gently in the locks, massaging the scalp lovingly. Loki sighed and hummed softly at the touch.

Then Mobius took the brush and began to gently detangle his hair.

Therefore, as Mobius had taught him to simply ask if he needed anything, Loki asked softly, "Mobius, love, would you be willing to cut my hair?"

The brush stopped for a moment before it began to move again.

"It would be an honor Loki, but only if it's what you really want," Mobius replied reverently, with almost a touch of wonder in his voice, as if it was a favor Loki was doing him and not the other way around.

"I want you to cut my hair. Now?"

"Let me get everything ready in the bathroom and join me, sweetheart."

Mobius headed to the bathroom and a few minutes later, Loki sat down and the positions were reversed.

They discussed the length that Loki wanted to take off and Mobius began to cut Loki's hair, showing him from time to time where he was at.

Loki watched Mobius in the mirror, loving the way his face was focused, biting his lip when he was unsure, as always thorough and detail oriented.

It was hard to explain what he was feeling right now as Mobius finished carefully trimming the tips of his hair.

It was the first time he'd let someone other than himself do it.

It was another thing that belonged only to them.

He let himself be lulled by the sound of the scissors and by Mobius' fingers in his hair. He hummed his approval when Mobius showed him the result in the mirror.

He put his head back and stretched his lips towards Mobius, silently asking for a kiss that Mobius gave him, before drying his hair in the same way that Loki had done for him.

Mobius cleared his throat, a little hesitantly, "You... Uh... Is that to your satisfaction, sweetheart?"

Loki replied, a small mischievous smile on his lips, "I think I'd be willing to magically grow my hair back in a minute for you to do it to me again right now. That says a lot about my satisfaction doesn't it?"

Then he pulled Mobius onto his lap and proceeded to show him without words how satisfied he was.

_________

30 Days of Domestic Fluff - Lokius

Next day : 11- Coffee or/and tea

As always, bear with me as it is not beta'd and english is not my native language I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless🥰

#established relationship #30 day otp challenge #lokius fics #lokius #loki series #loki #mobius m. mobius #moki #wowki #domestic fluff #hair #haircuts

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loulougoingsolo · 5 years ago

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DIYing a Bold Hair Choice

So, as we all know, we live in troubling times. I've personally been living in quarantine-like arrangements for about a month now, and although I've been mostly doing alright, some things have proven to be hard. I was supposed to have my hair professionally cut and dyed this week, but I had to cancel the appointment, and at the moment, I don't know when I'll get to visit the salon for the next time. So, I had to take matters (or scissors) to my own hands.

I'm a DIYer, but I've never cut my own hair. I've also had it professionally dyed since I was 15 or so. For a short period, I only had it bleached and cut by a pro, but then dyed it myself with a pretty intense cool shade of red - but other than that, and a few toner touch ups, I've always relied on professionals. So I was in a bit of a pickle, when I realized that I'd have to either DIY or have my grey roots grow wild for months. And because my hair is short, the roots way too grey for my age, and I had all this time ln my hands, there was really only one way this could go.

When I go about a DIY project, my first step, always, is thorough research. I had an idea for what I'd attempt to achieve, so I went on Youtube and searched for diy haircuts. I got some good tutorials, but most of them were for long hair - and I also got suggested GMM episode #989, in which Rhett and Link battle in cutting their own hair (wigs). Can I just say, they predicted the Tiger King craze long before Netflix:

So, I immediately figured I would not be able to follow yhe hair styling tutorials of this GMM episode. First of all, I could only find one pair of scissors even remotely sharp enough to cut hair. They were not sharp enough. Secondly, the longest part of my hair barely reaches my chin. I would need to really commit to every snip I make, or I'd end up with a bald hair style, instead of bold. As attractive and gorgeous some people are with a fully shaved head, with my head shape, that was something to avoid at all costs.

Another thing I was worried about was that I'd probably end up cutting my own finger, like Link. I've always found it extra difficult to see my own reflection in a mirror and try to do accurate motions according to the reflection. Simply put, my brain gets confused. Also, I don't really have a way to see the back of my head through the mirror at all. How the crap am I supposed to cut anything?

At this point, I understood that the actual haircut was going to be the tough part, so I decided to focus on the dye. Since I cojldn't just go to a big supermarket to buy the equipment, I had to order the dyes online. At this point my plan was simply to buy a multitude of wild colours to mix and match according to my mood, so I ordered a tub of Midnight Blue, Daffodil Yellow, Flamingo Pink and Cerise dyes, all by the brand La Riche Directions. These dyes are semi-permanent, sonI knew they wouldn't cause permanent damage to my hair, and at this point, that was kind of my goal - whatever I do, I don'g want to ruin things too badly. But, because I'm familiar with semi-permanent dyes, and I've had pretty much every shade on the spectrum on my hair at one point, I knew I might require an extra step to see results. Which is why, "just in case", I added a hair lightening kit to my order. I figured, I'd make some lighter strands on top, to have some colours show properly.

By the time the dyes arrived, I was already pretty fed up with my grey roots. I watched the GMMore which followed the hair cut episode. Rhett, who won the haircut challenge, got to decide what colours would go in Alex's hair. Alex had done the smart thing and bleached his hair professionally to be dyed in this episode, but he somehow agreed to letting Rhett and Link add the colours.

When Rhett explains everyone how he and Link used to dye eachother's hair back in the day, I realize that even though I'm technically watching a DIY hair tutorial, they aren't actually doing it themselves. It's quite different to put dye on someone else's head than your own. (Also, something I didn't notice back when I first saw this episode: Link says it would be crazy for him to have his hair dyed, but looking back, he most certainly had his hair dyed at this time.)

It was slightly alarming to see that Alex was worried about how things would go. I could hardly expect to achieve anything much better than the guys, since at least they had the studio lighting and a full team to help rhem not screw up. I had a mirror in my dark toilet, which is barely big enough to stand in.

I also forgot to buy vaselkne, which was a big mistake - although I don't think it's even possible to buy a container that big here. Why would they have that at Mythical in the first place? But something about seeing how much trouble the guys were having controlling the unmixed streaks of dye and all that vaseline made me worried.

At this point, I need to tell you that seeing the blank canvas which was Alex's hair, I, now the proud owner of a 40 % bleack kit (which apparently is the strong stuff), decided I was not going to waste energy by trying to dye my hair without bleaching, only to find out that the colours didn't show. So, I mixed the bleach, put on a worn-out t-shirt, used hand lotion to vas up my forehead, neck and ears, and then just went for it.

I did watch quite a few proper tutorials. They taught me, firstly, that 40% was a no-no. Secondly, never bleach something that has already been bleached, especially, if your hair has multiple colours. Forth, never start from the roots, as they get bleached faster (this ended up being the only rule I followed). And, above all, go to a professional.

So, I added the bleach to my hair. First I tried sticking to just a few strands, but then a blop of the bleach fell on the wrong spot, and I figured, why not just go full head. I did. I left the stuff on for maybe 20 minutes, and after that I got scared and rinsed it off. Then, I used a silver toner, and was left with a fascinating mix of orange, yellow and white hair - and a strand of persistent green from my previous dye. But it was blond enough for my plans.

Alex had a beautiful mix of blue, pink and purple in his hair - and that accidental splash of green - and after considering thoroughly, I decided to go for these colours, too. I mean, pink, purple and blue are my jam. Also, as much as I wanted to go full rainbow, I figured it would be an impossible task to keep the different colours from mixing, and that might result in brown, which is the colour of defeat. So, I went with midnight blue, flamingo pink and cerise, and wasn't too concerned aboit getting the colours mixed together.

This is how Alex's hair looked on the episode, before he rinsed the extra dye off:

I couldn't find any good photos of his hair after it was rinsed, but tgere was one which suggested only a faint shade of blue stuck.

And finally, here's what happened with my hair. Now, I'm not posting my face here, just the hair. Imagine a white blop with green eyes below the hair, and you'll get the idea. In the first two pictures is my hair during normal times, and just before I diyed it. It looks particularly nasty in the just before hack job pic, because it was adviced not to wash your hair before bleachkng to save the scalp - but as you can see, this was not a fun thing to see in the mirror each morning:

After I had dyed my hair, I did some snips here and there, and also, because I was able to borrow a hair clipper from my dad, some clipping - which in my books, saved the day. The haircut is pretty botched, but I actually absolutely love the colour. And the criss-cross shave despite it being pretty bad - it also looks badass in real life. The picture taken outside shows the pink colours more accurately, but the cut shows better in the other pic. There are a couple of ways I can style this later on, but I kept styling to minimum for starters, because I didn't want to cause extra damage to my hair:

So, this has been the story of how I diyed my hair during quarantine. My mom loves the whole thing (I showed it to her yesterday while taking them groceries), and although there are some spots in the back which could have more colour in them, I'm pretty satisfied. I know my hairdresser is going to weep when she sees me, but she'll get over it.

So, in conclusion: Would I do this again? Yes, but I'd definately leave the cutting and bleaching to the pros. Also, now I can't really bleach again for a while. But I'm actually thinking about taking the dyes I have to my hairdresser so she can dye my hair properly with them, in a healthier way, once all this chaos settles and it's safe again. I'd probably need a slightly darker, permanent colour to the roots, but I absolutely love these insanely bright colours. And I'm so going to try the full rainbow this summer, too.

Would I recommend this to others? Yes, but with caution. The direct semi-permanent colours are safe and won't damage the hair, but bleach does. My hair is naturally a tad too dark to show bright colours properly, so I took the risk. I was also mentally prepared to shave the whole thing off and wear my mythical hat for the summer - but I'm happy that wasn't necessary. If you aren't willing to risk damaging your hair, stick to semi-permanents.

To end this post, here's a selfie I took yesterday on my grocery store trip in full safety gear (I have a paper mask under the scarf):

Stay safe! Do things that make you happy! BYMB! 💗💗💗

#diy hair #bold hair choice #inspired by #gmm 989 #diy hair cut #diy hair dye #quarantine glam #pink purple and blue hair #bymb

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realityhelixcreates · 5 years ago

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Lasabrjotr Chapter 56: Breaking the Fast(Over Someone’s Head)

Chapters: 56/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up Warnings: none Relationships: Loki x Reader (There We Go) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Thor(Marvel), Stephen Strange, Tony Stark, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Vision Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent), Bitches Gonna Bitch, When Shall We Three Meet Again, Here Have Some Foreshadowing

You woke in incredible comfort, tucked into Loki's arms. You'd never been in a more comfortable bed; the pillows and blankets were like clouds, and the company even better. Loki lay silent and still, his hair mussed, his pale face serene. You'd spent so much time kissing, and caressing, and cuddling that you had just eventually fallen asleep holding each other.

You stared into his sleeping face, absorbing everything that had happened. The way he had cupped your face and kissed you with such sweet ardor. How he'd held you in his lap and let his hands roam over your body, enthusiastically praising you, telling you about how he had been falling for you over all this time. You couldn't help but to babble about how you felt about him, in between kisses.

What it all boiled down to was that Loki Odinson, Crown Prince of Asgard, Scourge of New York, royalty, alien, and god...was totally into you. Somehow. And it sounded like he had been for some time.

In hindsight, it was really kind of obvious.

You smooched his nose, and he yawned, his eyes opening into an expression of delight.

“It wasn't a dream.” He whispered, and held you even tighter. “We're going to stay right here all day.”

You giggled. “As much as I'd love that, you know we can't. There's stuff to do, and royal guests to see...”

Loki mock-frowned. “You just had to bring them up, didn't you? And it was such a perfect morning. Speaking of, did you sleep well, my darling?”

“Um, yeah. Really well, actually.”

“Good, that's good. I want nothing but pleasure and comfort for you, when you are in my arms.”

He began kissing you again, heedless of any pointless little concerns like morning breath, but you knew from how he'd acted last night that you really would be here all day if you didn't do something.

You let it go on for a few more minutes-he really was intoxicating, after all-then pushed at his chest.

“Is something wrong?” He asked as he pulled away.

“We've gotta get up. Get some breakfast. Bathe.”

A sly smile broke across his face. “If you insist...”

“Not like that!” You slapped his chest. He released you, and you rolled out of bed. Your had slept in your dress, and it was badly rumpled now, the metal clasps cutting into your skin. Loki was up and out of his tunic in one motion.

“You know, it's okay to bathe together.” He said. “We do it all the time. I won't try anything.”

“Yeah, but...” But today was not the same as yesterday, and there wasn't any reason not to, was there? And Loki's hunger for intimacy was still clear and present. “Well...okay. But no funny business!”

“Yes, my Seidkona.” He breathed. His voice sent a shiver spiraling down your spine. You might be the one needing to keep a rein on yourself. You had seen Loki naked before, and it was a sight to behold.

You both changed separately, and Loki turned his back so that you could get into the bathtub. He was very gentlemanly, and you allowed him to scrub your back, which he did reverently, kissing the little marks the metal in your dress had left on your skin.

Watching Loki wash his hair was very distracting; the soap and water trickled down his body in the most alluring way.

This was so much like a fairy tale. The handsome prince, the steamy bath, the myth, the magic. Were you sure this was real?

“Is something wrong, dear?” He asked, soaping your arms. “Are you...rethinking?” The nervousness was palpable in his voice.

“No, no, nothing like that! It's just...What are we now? How will we make this work? Do we have to keep it secret? Will this cause a huge scandal?”

“Of course it will cause a scandal!” Loki laughed. “Why, when Thor brought his mortal home to Asgard, I was in solitary confinement in the dungeons, and even I heard about it! Such a thing had never happened! But once people got past the initial shock and outrage, they were mostly fine with it. Not entirely, of course, but he didn't have the whole of Asgard against him. This is where we have an advantage; we aren't the first to do this. For once, I'm not the lead in a scandal. And we are here, on Earth, surrounded by humans. Mixed relationships won't be uncommon. We shall be pioneers, you and I.”

You took the soap from him and shyly rubbed the suds over his chest and shoulders.

“So...does that mean you're my boyfriend now?” It was a strange word to apply to someone like Loki.

“You're my inamorata, yes, if you would like to be. I would like you to be.”

“And is this, um, is this an exclusive thing? I'd prefer that personally, but I get it if you want to keep your options ope-”

Loki snatched you into his arms with fierce speed, squishing your body against his slippery torso.

“I would have no one but you.” He nearly hissed. “I will not split my affections. I couldn't even think of it.”

“Oh. Well that's very reassuring.” You said, heart pounding. He had said he wouldn't try anything. “I just kinda want to know where we stand, what we are, you know, all that.”

“What we are is glorious.” Your skin slid against his, the muscles rippling under the soap, bringing a pink heat to his face. “And very slippery. Please pardon me, I got a little carried away.” He released you, stepping away. “I just wanted to assure you that I take this seriously. I am not toying with you; I would have this relationship grow, if you also would.”

You nodded, satisfied for the moment. This was real, not a fluke, not a seduction, not a dream.

The dress that awaited you was a soft and luxurious thing of green, orange, gold, and red, snake and floral embroidery trimming the hem. All of the warm layers had been taken in for you; you could tell from the brand new stitching.

Your book of sagas had illustrations in it as well as stories and, true to Saldis' explanation, all the women dressed like you now did, all the way down to the big, oval brooches that fastened to your shoulder straps, and the beads strung between them.

You still found it rather sweet that the tailors here were trying so hard to put you in what they thought would be 'familiar' clothing, and to dress you like what they felt was a fine, high class human lady.

High class American ladies didn't dress like this. In fact, nowadays, classy clothing was almost indistinguishable from everybody elses' clothes, just better tailored. It was less about the garment itself, and more about the name on the label. And the jewelry too, but the jewelry you wore with these lovely clothes was also very different from the classy ladies back home. A simple, minimalist approach was the preferred method for displaying wealth and importance back home. A diamond tennis bracelet, pure gold studs, a delicate chain with a single diamond drop.

Your jewelry, though no lesser in quality, definitely reflected an older approach. The oval strap brooches were large to you, the size of an egg-though the illustrations in you book showed that such brooches had one been much larger-and delicately engraved with elegantly knotted horned serpents, green stones winking from their eyes. Three strands of beads were strung across your chest between them; one of gold and silver, one of amber, and one of pearls. These were different than your usual strands of glass beads, or brightly colored yarn braids. In fact, everything was top of the line today: there were charms hanging from your beads, little moon-shaped crescents with intricate granulation, multi-looped clasps shaped like swans that you were meant to hang your chatelaine from. That consisted of your tiny, cylindrical emergency sewing kit, made of bone and silver, a silver, scallop-shaped hand mirror, a silver and shell compact containing tweezers, nail clippers, a file, tiny scissors, and a weird little spoon shaped object that you didn't yet know the function of, and the key to Loki's quarters.

Your apron was decorated with many strips of woven ribbon; red, orange, and yellow in geometric patterns, and the seams of your sleeves were trimmed with thick, clearly visible contrasting stitching, your belt embroidered with birds, their long necks and long tails interlocking, flower-shaped silver buttons tacked on along its length, the ends clasped in decorative metal tips.

It was very cold this morning, so a warm, woolen cap, and a pair of gloves had also come along with the ensemble, just as finely made as the rest of it. The cap had shimmering beads embroidered all around the rim, looking to you like a crown.

Everybody in this whole palace complex knew what you had gotten up to last night, didn't they? And now they were pulling out all the stops, or at least, as many as they were allowed to. They had sent you earrings, matching the little crescent moon charms on your bead strands, and an entire separate necklace, made of amber beads, and yet more crescent charms. Your slippers were embroidered velvet, and the stockings underneath were so soft and smooth that you almost couldn't stop touching them. Even the little phone holster that clipped onto your belt was touched with small details, the leather embossed with the image of a tree.

You wondered if the clothiers had beads and brooches and charms just sitting around in piles, or stashed in boxes. If, every day, they strung beads and charms onto strings and paired them up with whichever dress they had chosen for you that day. These brooches, with their green-eyed, horned snakes, seemed awfully specific for them to have had already made, and you wondered if Loki had had them commissioned. And if so, when?

Loki met you at the door, almost as decorated as you were. Asgardian men did not tend towards jewelry, beyond the occasional bead in their hair or beard, or the coronets that you assumed only Thor and Loki had the privilege of wearing. Instead, most of their precious metal and jewels were embedded into their clothes, in the form of armor or strap embellishments. Loki himself seemed to prefer asymmetrical hems and diagonal elements, and he was properly decked out in both. In fact, the cut of his black overcoat made it look like some kind of odd, tailed tuxedo, trimmed in silver and covered in embroidery, also black, that was only visible when the light struck it in a certain way.

“Ready for breakfast, precious?” He asked with a smile.

“We're laying it on a bit thick just for some oatmeal, aren't we?” You laughed, and he offered you his arm.

The banquet hall was full, for the first time since you had been there, full of Aesir and Avengers, Icelandic officials and Asgardian nobles. They all stopped talking, turning to look at the two of you, Loki standing tall and proud, his expression bright, you hanging off his arm, wearing something that evoked the image of a crown, and you were suddenly very aware of how all this must look.

Today was very different than yesterday.

“Good morning friends.” Loki said. “I hope the day finds you well.”

“Not as well as it finds you, evidently.” Tony grumbled. Pepper elbowed him in the side.

Nobody else said anything about it, going back to their conversations, but the sly looks, knowing grins, and glares followed you to your seat at Loki's side.

Breakfast was an elaborate affair that morning; to reflect the importance of the guests, you thought. Fruit carved like flowers, the fluffiest eggs and pancakes, plump sausage links, lingonberry preserves, and hot, sweet coffee. There was oatmeal and toast for those who wanted it, milk and juice as well.

Thor and Brunnhilde had seated Dr. Banner next to them, and were chatting amiably away. Banner looked a bit rougher than you expected him to, but you assumed that makeup and hair gel were a regular part of the photoshoots. Dr. Banner was notorious for not making live appearances, interviews, or PR tours, and you supposed you couldn't blame him. If anyone prized their alone time, it would be him.

Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton had been seated next to you, though Clint seemed less pleased by the proximity to Loki. He kept shooting wary glances at the prince, who made no indication that he noticed. But as Natasha chatted with you about daily life in Asgard, Loki pressed his leg against yours under the table, gently nudging your foot with his.

He would become shameless, if you let him.

It was tempting.

After breakfast was a time of mingling, Aesir, Avenger and officials. Many of the nobles left, but those that stayed were drawn to the Avengers; new faces, reputed to have been strong and resourceful enough to pose a challenge to their prince. The language barrier posed a problem, but there were enough of them who could speak English to provide translation to their fellows.

Several of the officials approached you for various reasons; to inquire about your health and safety, to ask about the human encampments and the recent fight, and even to compliment you on your dress. You weren't sure how much information you were meant to give, and kept your answers short and polite. You didn't want to cause any trouble by being too loose-lipped.

The dour, somewhat scruffy fellow you recognized as being the Winter Soldier-but not anymore?-approached you on Steves behalf. “He wants to say he likes your dress, and that he's sorry for causing you problems last night. He didn't know you were involved.”

“None of that is his fault.” You pointed out. “I asked him to dance, and Loki wasn't communicating as effectively as he could have. Neither was I, I guess. I'm pretty sure it's safe for Captain Rogers to talk to me himself. Sorry you've gotten tangled up in this, but I'm putting an end to it now, Mr....?”

He paused, wearing an expression somewhat like a confused dog. He must have expected you to know his name already, but you only knew him by his former moniker.

“...Barnes.” He said, after along pause.

“Mr. Barnes. I don't want anyone playing this silly 'telephone' game. People are allowed to talk to me face to face, Loki doesn't actually control that. If he wants to get jealous about it, I'll just remind him why he shouldn't be.”

One corner of his mouth ticked upward, giving his sleepy eyes a rakish look. If he really was the same age as Steve, then he was probably a charmer, in his day.

“Couldn't happen to a nicer guy, I'm sure.” He said, then threw a look over his shoulder, to Steve. “Hey!” He called. “Talk to her yourself!”

You snorted in held-back laughter as Steve put his face in his hand, and Loki perked up like a cat who had just heard the scratching of a mouse. This was so much like something Tara would do.

Speaking of which...

“Excuse me for a moment.” You said, finding an unused corner of the hall and snapping a selfie, which you sent to Tara and your father, with a morning greeting. The phone was a godsend of the most literal kind, allowing you contact back home, so you didn't have to worry about how everyone was doing, and they could know how you fared as well.

The bakery at the grocery store you used to work at was apparently famous now. They sold baked goods themed after you and Loki, Thor and Asgard. It was ridiculous and goofy, and you were utterly charmed by the pictures Tara sent you; of cupcakes with sparkly icing to represent your magic-the cat was out of the bag on that-of croissants in Loki-themed packaging.

You were profoundly relieved that the people back home had decided to celebrate all this, rather than condemning and hating you, and you hoped the bakery would be wildly successful. You had to show Loki those croissants, though. He would love them.

You noticed Loki, the wizard Strange, and one of the Avengers you hadn't been formally introduced to-a tall, but relatively average looking man-all slipped into one of the banquet halls' many smaller side rooms, and wondered if you were supposed to be with them. But no, if you had, Loki would have come to collect you. They were probably just discussing something about magic. Maybe that unknown fellow was another mage? It seemed like there was always someone new on the team, however temporary.

“My mistress says that you are even more a fool than she first thought.” Said a barely familiar voice. You turned away from Mr. Barnes to the unwelcome sight of Gloa, and her maidservant.

“Oh, it's you guys again. Were you at the table? I hadn't noticed.”

Gloa spoke; her servant translated.

“She had believed that humankind was without manners or decorum, but you have proved it this morning by flaunting yourself so shamelessly. Who do you think you are?”

You heard Barnes shifting uncomfortably behind you. An Asgardian catfight was probably beyond his experience.

“I am Loki's Seidkona.” You said simply.

The servant sighed at her mistress's words. “You are Loki's harlot. You think it gives you importance, but you are nothing more than a powerless, decorative, and above all, temporary creature.”

“You know, the last person who called me something like that ended up in jail. So, what does she hope to get out of this? Is she jealous or something?” You were tired of this already, and it wasn't even lunchtime yet.

Gloa went red in the face.

“She says she would never have a creature so low and debased as Loki, that, prince or king, he will always be beneath her, and that only mortal slime would accept such as him. She says that he should start preparing your funerary boat early, and learn what it really means to mourn.”

You drew yourself up as tall as you could-still shorter than both Gloa and the maid-suddenly aware that you had at least as much jewelry and at least as fine clothing as Gloa did. She was probably stinging at your status being elevated to hers, as if she had done anything other than being born to earn hers. You were also aware that Mr. Barnes was no longer behind you, and was, in fact, nowhere to be seen.

You were alone in this.

“Your threats are pointless, and you are wasting my time, you useless, catty bi-”

*****

“We need to keep in touch.” Strange said.

“I disagree.” Loki answered.

“Let me guess; it's because you hate me.”

“Very astute! I did not think you had it in you.”

“There are things we must discuss.” Vision interrupted, calm in the face of the other's ire. “About the stones.” In this private room, he had abandoned his human appearance, the yellow gem sparkling brightly in his scarlet forehead.

“Well, I've got mine, and he's got his, and you clearly have yours. What is it that we need to discuss?”

“Do you have yours?” Strange asked. “It's obvious that Vision has his, and quite clear that mine is still in my keeping.” He gestured to the pendant resting against his robes. “But all we have to assure us that you still have yours is your word, which, you understand, holds about as much water as a sieve here on Earth.”

Loki glared, holding out his hand. A ball of blue ice glowed in his palm, which also slowly turned blue.

“Just because I do not flaunt it like you fools, does not mean I don't have it.” He dropped his hand, the icy orb gone. “So are we done? You showed me yours, I showed you mine, are we a secret society now?”

Stephan grimaced at the innuendo, but Vision just tilted his head, not comprehending.

“There have been some odd fluctuations that I cannot quite explain.” He said. “I can sense when they are happening, but not what is causing them, nor whom.”

Loki took a seat, brow furrowing. “Fluctuations in the stones? What can you tell us about it?” That was indeed something worth discussing. Four of the stones were on Earth right now-something Loki thought very dangerous, but it couldn't be helped. The stones had chosen their own guardians, finally settling into balance. Loki didn't have any say in it.

“As near as I can describe it, since the stones are all at least somewhat sentient, the Mind Stone can sense them, perhaps even communicate with them. I cannot; I believe the higher functions of the Mind Stone work at a higher frequency than my matter-based body can reach. But I can feel it sometimes, and I believe what I am sensing is someone utilizing the power of at least one of the stones.”

Strange and Loki stared at him.

“That is very concerning.” Loki said. “Well. It's not me. I have not used the Stone for most of a year. I will use it again, but only to help better our Bifrost, and only when our engineers have worked out more of the stabilization problems.”

“Haven't used it at all.” Strange said. “No need for it.”

“And I use this only inasmuch as it allows me to exist.” Vision stated.

“The space pirates?” Strange ventured.

“Impossible.” Loki said. “It took all of them together just to contain the Power Stone, and they can no longer safely wield it without the flora colossus at full strength.”

“And our...ally on Vormir has not contacted us.” Vision pointed out. “He is not very loquacious, even with the technology we left him, but I am certain that if someone made an attempt at the soul stone, he would tell us.”

“Damn.” Loki said. “My brother is going to kill me.”

“As entertaining as that would be...why?” Strange asked.

“Because I believe we are going to need to contact Dr. Foster.”

“Ah, the sting of lost love.”

“Do they not get along?” Vision asked.

“Well, no...it's not that. It's a little complicated. But my brother has been extravagant in his vows never to bother her again.” Loki explained.

“You however, have taken no such vows.” Stephen pointed out.

“I have not.” Loki confirmed.

“So what is it with Asgardian royalty, and human women?” Strange asked. “Is it a fetish, or...”

“That's none of your-”

The door popped open, and Bucky peeked in. “Hey, Merlins. I think your girl's gonna get in a fistfight with some other lady. Tall dame, acting like a real pill. Doesn't speak a word of English, had someone other lady translating for her.”

“Gloa...” Loki said darkly. “Excuse me gentlemen... and Stephen. I have to go head off an incident.”

#lasabrjotr #loki x reader #loki (marvel)

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insfiringyou · 5 years ago

Text

BTS - Pillow Talk (Suga x Jeong-sun)

Set a few days after their coffee date was interrupted. Yoongi realises it is Jeong-sun’s birthday and visits her apartment to give her a card.

This is part of our ongoing story line in our headcanon universe & mentions several key events from Yoongi and Jeong-sun’s past relationship together which you may wish to read first. Most importantly, the events of ‘Making a sex/intimate tape with gf’, ‘Boat Party’ and ‘Suga and Jeong-sun break up’.

To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM / Jin / Suga / J-Hope / Jimin / V / Jungkook & Our full masterlist can be found here

Rated content below cut

Jeong-sun scooped up the paper party plates which cluttered the kitchen island, their surfaces sticky with the remnants of chocolate cake, iced cookies and sandwich fillings. They joined the cocktail sticks from miniature sausages in the bottom of a black garbage-liner. The kitchen, which opened onto her living room, was too small to accommodate more than two people at a time, but she had tried her best; the evidence of her efforts laid bare for her now to see. She mopped up a small puddle of spilled soda before taking a large gulp from a red party cup, finishing off the few mouthfuls of Cherryade Yu-jin had left behind, before turning to another cup half-filled with Prosecco.

She was interrupted by the low drones of the electronic doorbell which badly needed its battery replacing. The chiming sound, slower than usual, was both incredibly creepy and disturbing and she wondered who was calling so late in the evening, if her dad or Yu-jin might have left something behind. She descended the stairs to unlock the front door and, as always when answering at night, she left the safety chain on and peered out through the gap.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was curious and a little surprised as she quickly closed the door and unlatched the metal clasp, opening it fully, her heart racing a little.

“I didn’t know if you were busy.” Yoongi explained, hovering on the doorstep a little awkwardly. He was dressed casually in a black zip-up jacket and a pair of dark jeans paired with a navy beanie, but Jeong-sun couldn’t stop her eyes from roaming over him. Knowing she wasn’t going anywhere that day, she had opted to wear an old pair of faded skinny jeans and a dark David Bowie T-shirt.

“I wanted to give you this.” He held out a cream coloured envelope which she took a little warily.

“What’s this?” She asked, turning it over in her hands. Her name was written on the front in Yoongi’s spindly, neat handwriting.

“It’s your birthday.” He shrugged. His voice was gentle but it made her frown nonetheless as she wondered how he had remembered; she didn’t think she had mentioned it to him the last time she saw him.

“Thanks.” She said, a little guiltily, suddenly wondering whether she should have invited him around after all. The thought had very briefly occurred to her as she made the phone call to Yu-Jin, but she knew her dad and brother would also be there and didn’t want him to feel awkward. Furthermore, she hadn’t really planned the get together herself; her dad had told her two days before that he was travelling to Seoul for the weekend and she invited Yu-Jin at the last minute.

“Do you want to come in?” She asked hopefully, standing aside to allow him into the hallway. They walked up the stairs in silence until they reached her apartment. “Sorry for the mess.” She apologised, closing the wooden door behind them.

“Did you have a party?” Yoongi asked, eyes roaming over the red plastic cups and balloons which had been sellotaped haphazardly to the walls. The number ‘30′ adorned several in bold, gaudy colours.

“Not really...” She shrugged, moving to join him by the messy counter and putting down her jumble of keys and the envelope on the table. “Just my dad and brother. Yu-Jin came by for a bit.”

“She’s back in Seoul?” Yoongi turned to look at her with casual interest.

She nodded. “She’s got an interview tomorrow for a lecturer post.”

“Which university?”

“Seoul National.” Jeong-sun stepped past him to pick up the black bag she had discarded.

“Where’s your dad staying?” Yoongi asked, his eyes following her as she picked up a few empty red cups and stacked them before throwing them away.

“With my brother. He said the sofa was too small to sleep on.” She murmured.

Yoongi automatically looked over the kitchen island towards the sofa which, as usual, was covered in a pile of clothes waiting be ironed. He smirked. “He has a point.” Turning back, “Do you want some help?”

She shook her head, picking up the cup of Prosecco and taking a sip. “It’s nearly done.”

He ignored her refusal and beat her to a couple of stray party streamers which had been set off earlier in the evening, dropping them into the black bag which had been placed over the edge of a chair before turning his attention to the handful of balloons. She watched him with interest as he collected them, standing on his tiptoes to reach the higher ones her brother had put up, and bringing them to the table by the ribbons which had been tied around the end of each one. He glanced at one with a smile, turning it over so the number showed.

“How does it feel being thirty?” He teased, sliding the beanie from his hair and placing it on the table. Jeong-sun put down her Prosecco and reached for her keys, bursting the balloon with a quick, stabbing motion. Yoongi’s grin widened and she finished the alcohol in the plastic cup in one, long gulp, her mouth contorting at the taste.

His gums flashed in a smile which made her heart skip. “Does it taste good?”

“It did the job.” She replied drily, turning around to pick up the bottle which still had a few mouthfuls left. She grabbed a fresh red cup from a stack by the cooker and poured Yoongi the remainder. He took a hesitant sip and grimaced a little at the flat taste. The bottle had clearly been opened some time before. Jeong-sun didn’t notice as she finished clearing the rubbish and filling the bin-liner.

“There’s some cake in the fridge if you want a slice.” She offered.

Yoongi smiled, putting the half-full cup down. He was finding her floundering attempts to accommodate him strangely charming; her talents as a hostess no better now than when they first met.

“I’m okay.” He murmured good-naturedly as she turned back to him.

“How did you know it was my birthday?” She asked, meeting his gaze.

“I didn’t. I must have set a reminder on my phone.”

“Three years ago?”

He shrugged. “I kept forgetting to delete it.”

There was a pause between them as she let this sink in and found herself unable to keep her eyes on him, instead dropping them to the counter. They fixed on the cup of Prosecco which she took from the table and poured down the drain. “Do you want a hot drink?” She asked.

“Anything...” He murmured gratefully as she began to fill the electric kettle with water from the tap. He grabbed a wooden chair and sat himself at the make-shift table, watching as she grabbed a royal-purple container from the cupboard above her head and scooped three spoonfuls of brown powder into the two patterned mugs in front of her.

“I’m sorry I had to leave the other day.” She said without turning, pouring the boiling water and mixing the powder with a teaspoon.

“It’s fine.” He murmured, watching her.

“Hae-won would have been up all night if she didn’t have her painkillers.” She rambled with a small sigh as she picked up the mugs. “I’m going to have to ween her off them before she gets addicted.” She placed one beside Yoongi and the other on the opposite side of the island, hovering a little awkwardly beside him. “You can smoke if you want.” She finished, nodding towards the visible rectangular outline in his jacket pocket.

He paused before nodding and slipping the pack from his pocket. “Thanks.” He murmured.

She turned away and grabbed a little ceramic teabag holder from beside the kettle, placing it on the table to use as an ashtray. He flipped open the cardboard lid and hesitated before offering her the pack, stretching out his arm as she took one with a quiet thanks. She held it a little clumsily between her fingers. While he knew she wasn’t a smoker, he sensed she was looking for something to do which would calm her down. She had been surprisingly jittery and restless since he had stepped foot through the door and, if he was honest, her feelings and nerves were perfectly mirrored in himself; he had always just been better at hiding it.

He pulled his disposable Clipper from his pocket and lit the end for her, subconsciously waiting to see if she would cough and change her mind before turning to his own. They smoked for a few seconds in silence, the silver plumage filling the small room quickly. He found himself wondering whether she had smoke alarms fitted before remembering they had been disabled. His memory of her telling him this was hazy and he couldn’t quite remember the circumstances surrounding it but, either way, they weren’t going off now.

Jeong-sun watched the end of her cigarette blankly as the white paper turned to ash between her fingers as Yoongi eyed her silently, inhaling deeply and waiting for her to finally reveal what was troubling her.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this.” She eventually muttered, tapping the cigarette against the ceramic dish gently to flick the excess ash away.

“What?”

Her gaze was fixed on the stick between her fore and middle finger, as though in a daze. “Turning thirty.”

“What did you think it would feel like?” He asked gently.

“Like I’d accomplished something.” She took a quick drag, pressing the filter to her lips and exhaling hurriedly. “I just thought I’d have things figured out.”

He looked at her across the table. “It’s okay if you don’t.” He said soberly.

She ignored his comment and pressed on blankly. “I was in the pharmacy the other day and just thought about walking out.”

“What stopped you?”

She hesitated, frowning before answering. “I don’t know how to do anything else.”

Yoongi shook his head. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

She sighed heavily. “It’s just frustrating.” There was a pause before she finally looked him straight in the eye. “Do you ever feel that way sometimes?”

He nodded. “Sometimes.” He murmured quietly, finishing his cigarette. There were countless times over the past decade when he had felt as though he were stuck in a loop; doing just enough to keep himself satisfied with his career but unable to reach his potential. While most people were unable to grasp how someone so successful could also be so unhappy at times, Jeong-sun had been one of the few people he had allowed to see that side of his life. He continued. “Have you spoken to anyone about it?”

“Like a shrink?” She asked, wide eyes.

He smiled a little. “Like your dad.”

She nodded, taking a final drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out on the make-shift ashtray. “He says I can do anything I put my mind to.” She murmured, unconvinced as she blew out her last trail of smoke in messy, discordant bursts.

Yoongi was silent for a moment, believing her dad to be right but knowing she wouldn’t see it that way. “You’ve got people that care about you.” He said gently.

“I know.” She sighed, suddenly sounding more self-aware and like her old-self. “I’m sorry, I’m just being mopey.”

He shook his head. “I felt the same.”

She looked at him, internally calculating when his thirtieth had been and realising that he would have still been in service. “Did you have anyone to talk to?”

He half-shrugged before falling silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on his interlocked hands resting on the table in front of him. “I thought about calling you.”

“While you were away?” She asked gently, unable to hide the trace of shock in her voice.

He nodded steadily. “I didn’t have your number.”

Remembering why, she smirked without much humour. “Idiot.” She joked.

“I wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.” He admitted quietly.

“Why?”

“I thought you’d moved on.”

She hesitated before asking. “Had you?”

Raising his head, he collectedly met her gaze. “No.”

Her heart pounded in reply, voice trembling slightly. “Wasn’t there anyone else?”

He thought for a moment, wondering what she was asking. “Did I have sex?” He clarified.

“Yeah.”

He nodded. “Twice.”

There was a pause. “How was it?” She sounded inquisitive; genuinely curious and he realised that while he had known about her dating the accountant, this was all new information to her.

“Fine.” He confessed, not knowing whether it had been best to be honest until she reacted, nodding once.

“Good.” Her expression was soft and genuine, without much more than the smallest trace of jealousy. He realised that she was relieved to hear this. That while he may have not moved on emotionally, he was at least not masochistic enough to remain celibate for all that time.

There was a pause before he returned the question. “What about you?”

Her mouth curled at one corner as she gestured with her fore and middle finger, signalling two in a V shape.

“How was it?” Yoongi asked, mirroring her earlier question and making her laugh.

“Not that great.” She confessed with a grin, shaking her head. He couldn’t help but smile back.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

“It’s fine.” She calmed down her chuckles and gestured to his mug. “How’s the hot chocolate?” She asked.

“Hot.” He quipped, feeling slight relief at the change in topic. He took a sip and set the mug back down while she echoed his movement, drinking some of hers and letting out a little approving murmur at the taste. She had recently taken to drinking cocoa before bedtime, figuring it would help her sleep a lot better than her usual cup of milky coffee.

“I got it from the corner shop, it’s a British brand.” She explained casually, taking another few sips.

“I thought it tasted sweeter.”

That reminded her. “How was London?”

“They drive on the wrong side of the road.” He said drolly, taking another drink as she smiled in reply.

“I’ve always wanted to go.” She said wistfully.

“Maybe you could book some time off.” He suggested.

“Maybe.” She sounded doubtful as she finished her hot chocolate and placed the mug back down on the counter which served as a table.

“Are you working tomorrow?” He asked curiously.

“No, they gave me the weekend off.” She looked at him. “Are you tired?”

“No, are you?” He met her gaze, observing that, like the last time they had met, she was looking overworked.

She shrugged. “A little bit.” Standing up, she walked around the edge of the counter and collected his finished mug along with her own, placing them carefully in the plastic bowl which sat in the sink.

“Do you want me to go?” His eyes followed her as she ran a little hot water into the bowl to soak the cups. While he was enjoying her company and wanted nothing more than to spend more time with her, he didn’t like the thought of keeping her awake when she looked so tired. He had deliberately waited until the evening to visit her after realising it was her birthday, the first reason being that he needed to go out and get her a card and the second that he didn’t want to interrupt her if she had any special plans. Now, however, he felt guilty for keeping her up so late after what had clearly been a busy day.

“I like having you here.” She admitted, her reply taking him by surprise and making his stomach flutter a little. He cleared his throat which steadied his heart-rate a little and allowed him to breathe a little better. The kitchen and living room still had a hazy quality to it caused by the smoke from the cigarettes they had smoked earlier.

“How’s your boiler?” He asked with interest.

“It’s rattling a bit.” She admitted with a remorseful blush.

“Do you want me to take a look?”

“You don’t have to...I’m just happy it’s working.” She said, already feeling he had done enough for her where her run-down boiler was concerned.

“I don’t mind.” He stood up before she had time to protest and started walking around the counter, heading for the door at the end of the living room which led to her bathroom and bedroom. “The screw’s probably just loose.” He explained as he waited for her to catch him up and grant him access to the room at the end of the narrow corridor. She had attempted to tidy it in anticipation of her dad and brother’s visit earlier in the day and Yoongi thought it was possibly the most un-chaotic he had ever seen it. Her bed was neatly made with dark blue bed-sheets and her bedside table, usually covered with a jumble of assorted tokens and trinkets, was bare save for her cell phone which laid in the centre.

He made a beeline for the white boiler unit which sat in the corner of the room. Despite his comment one night during their time together that it was not really safe to have it in the bedroom and that she should complain to her landlord, she had dismissed his concern, saying there wasn’t enough room to have it elsewhere in the apartment and that he was fussing over nothing; that she had been fine so far. He glanced at the carbon monoxide alarm he had placed on the carpet below the pipes as he unclasped the front of the unit, and considered that he should have bought her one years ago to keep her safe.

Jeong-sun watched with a smirk, sitting on the edge of her double bed as he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his keys, fiddling with the various useful tools he kept on his key-ring before he found the miniature screwdriver. Pushing it into the side of the unit carefully, he tightened the screws around the air pressure switch before replacing the covering and turning to face Jeong-sun.

She looked up at him from her place on the sheets, her body still as he edged closer and sat beside her when he realised she wasn’t going to get up. A moment of silence passed between them before she leaned forward and slipped off her socks, discarding them one at a time on the carpeted floor.

“I’m sorry, my feet stink.” She joked, breaking some of the nervousness before shuffling backwards onto the bed and slipping quietly under the quilt. His eyes never left her as she nestled against the pillow, leaning on one side in her usual sleeping position.

“Can you stay?” She asked gently. Yoongi couldn’t quite gather the tone of her voice and wondered whether she was asking or requesting but his heart sped up nonetheless at the sound of her voice and the implication of her words.

“If you want me to.” He looked back at her, over his shoulder, from his seated position on the covers. In the moment of silence which followed, Yoongi wondered whether she was going to change her mind before she spoke.

“Turn out the light.”

He complied with her request and flicked the switch on the wall by the door before slipping his low-topped Converse from his bare feet and leaving them by the edge of the bed. From her position against her pillow, Jeong-sun heard the sound of a zipper being unfastened as Yoongi removed his outer jacket and placed it on the spare chair in the corner of the room before moving onto the bed. She felt his weight beside her and could just about make out his shape from over her shoulder as he laid beside her on the duvet. The curtains she had recently bought did a good job of blocking out the obnoxious glare of the street lamps outside her window and cast the bedroom into darkness.

Her pulse coursed through her whole body; trembling in the tips of her fingers and soles of her feet as they laid there in silence. Over the past few years, many of the restaurants and takeaway houses near her apartment had closed and been boarded up, meaning the area was now much quieter than it had been in the days when she had been with Yoongi. Along with the sound of her heart racing in her ears, only the low churning of water in the pipes from her boiler and the steady, comforting sound of his breathing behind her cut the still silence and she wondered whether he could hear her; whether he was just as nervous. She knew that when she finally spoke, her voice would tremble but, in that moment, she needed him to know.

“I never told you I’m sorry.” She said, her voice louder than anticipated in the otherwise quiet space and making her recoil a little.

“You don’t need to.” He murmured quietly, his voice appropriately personal.

She shuffled, lowering her voice. “It wasn’t easy.”

“I know it wasn’t. I don’t blame you.” He admitted, pausing. “I didn’t think I would see you again.”

The reality of how likely this outcome had been suddenly hit her, making her ache. “You neither.” She agreed. “I saw the news reports when you first went in, but I didn’t feel like I could just call you.”

He thought about this for a moment, considering his own brief urge to tell her about his enlistment when he saw her in the supermarket two years before. “It would have just made things harder.” He realised with a heavy heart. “If I had felt like I was leaving someone behind...”

Despite wishing she could take back the pain and anguish she had caused him three years ago, she knew he was right.

“I’m glad you came over.“ She said honestly. “I didn’t expect you to.”

She felt Yoongi move in closer, his breath close against her neck. “I wanted to. After the park...” He purred, remembering the way she had momentarily taken his hand in hers, and the way it made him feel. Reaching out now over her covered waist, he brushed his palm over the back of her hand, holding it in place against her stomach. In response, she curled her fingers against him, slipping them through his.

“It felt nice...” She whispered breathily, knowing he would be able to feel her pulse in her fingertips. “And this feels nice.” She confessed, gently squeezing his hand.

“Mm.” He murmured in agreement, his body naturally moving closer against her back, fitting against her curves and spooning her gently as she clutched his hand to hers, tightly nestled against her covered stomach.

“I still have your jacket.” She said after a moment.

“The leather one?”

She smiled to herself. “I don’t remember you giving it to me.”

“Me neither.” He admitted.

“Do you want it back?” She asked.

His breath brushed the back of her neck as he cuddled her, making the tiny, fine hairs there stand on end. “It always suited you better...”

She felt him shift behind her, finally un-tucking the bed-cover from his side of the mattress and sliding beneath it to join her. She internally sighed at the loss of contact as he let go of her hand to adjust the covers, before he returned to her. He snuggled close against her back and caressed the backs of her knuckles with his thumb, wrapping his arm against her stomach.

“Are you cold?” She asked, feeling the chill of his body against her back through both their t-shirts.

“Do I feel cold?” He asked with a murmur.

She smirked. “A bit.” Brushing her hand affectionately along his forearm, she appreciated the soft, fine hairs which grew there, along with the outlines of his tendons and veins, with her fingertips. She had forgotten how easily his body seemed to lose heat and how he would often shiver through the night if she didn’t wrap him up in her arms and share her warmth with him. “I’ve got a hot water bottle if you want it.” She offered.

“I’m alright.” He mumbled against her ear, his lips brushing her lobe delicately as he spoke. “You’re warm...”

She couldn’t remember the last time she had been held like this; with someone’s body wrapped so lovingly around hers in a way which felt both agonisingly familiar and excitingly novel.

“Did you think about me while you were away?” She whispered as she cradled his arm against her torso, stroking the soft skin there gently.

“Mainly memories.” He murmured in a low voice.

“Like what?”

He paused for a moment, thinking. “You making me birthday cake.”

She grinned in the darkness though he couldn’t see her. She hadn’t thought of that day, four years ago, in years and his answer took her by surprise. “The one I burned?” She asked, misremembering the finer details of which version of the cake she finally presented to Yoongi.

“It tasted great anyway.” He shrugged, his voice dreamy in thought. “I remember you had flour in your hair. I saw the pictures on your phone later.”

Jeong-sun smirked. The detail of the many photographs, documenting the evolution of the cake she did remember, along with another titbit...

“Did you watch the video?” She asked.

Yoongi let out a breathy laugh, remembering. “The first five minutes.”

“Why just five?” She quipped, eyebrow raised to herself. “It got good after that.”

He brushed his thumb over her back of her hand warmly. “I didn’t need to watch it, I remembered just fine.”

His confession made her feel breathless and tingly all over. It felt strange to hear him talk about something so private they had shared so long ago. “What do you remember?” She asked, her voice nothing more than a whisper ringing in the dark.

He laughed softly against her ear, his breath warm and lulling and giving her goosebumps along her arms. “Do you want me to draw a diagram?” He quipped, making her grin.

“It’s dark...” She laughed.

He waited for her to calm down, for her body to stop quivering with exhalations before he spoke. “You looked really beautiful.” He recalled candidly.

Jeong-sun’s breath hitched. The eerie silence of the night and the cosiness of his body against hers under the covers was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. “I realised I loved you just before...when you were on tour.” She confessed. While, half an hour before, she would have felt awkward and bashful giving Yoongi this information, it suddenly didn’t seem strange to speak so earnestly. The memory of that day came flooding back and she remembered sitting on the floor in her bedroom with tears in her eyes as she realised; unable to tell him and not knowing what to do with this brand new emotion.

“For me it was just before that.” Yoongi revealed. Like Jeong-sun, the memory suddenly seemed clear. “The thought of two months without you was...” He drifted off, unable to find the right words to finish. Jeong-sun nodded against him, letting him know she understood.

“I wish we’d have had more time to spend together.” She finished for him, whispering sorrowfully as her fingers once more found his and slipped through them.

He nuzzled against her, shifting his body slightly to rest his chin against her shoulder. “We have it now.” He purred against her lobe.

She felt a wave of alleviation wash through her as she realised he was right and closed her eyes; the low rumble of his voice sent a pleasant tremor through her body. “I always felt like I was being pulled away from you.” She said, finally able to vocalise her frustration after so long.

“It bothered me to.” He agreed, instinctively pulling her closer by the waist. “I couldn’t get enough of you.”

The slight shift in his body alerted her to the fact he was a little hard beneath his jeans; the soft swell of him comforting against her backside. “Like on the yacht...” She breathed.

“In the closet.” He finished, agreeing.

She licked her dry lips. Her throat suddenly felt hoarse. “I wouldn’t have cared even if we did get caught.” She realised as she said it that she meant it; that it was a sentiment untainted by nostalgia and, while she hadn’t realised it at the time, being caught would have been a relief and would have solved some, if not all of their problems. She let go of his hand and rolled around slowly to face him; his outline clear now that her eyes were well adjusted to the darkness. Reaching out, she touched his waist gently, her breath warm against his face as she spoke in barely more than a whisper. “I just needed to have you inside of me.”

His breath was strained but his movements controlled as he ran one palm up her side slowly, thumb briefly brushing the edge of her breast before curling into the back of her hair, holding her close to him. “You felt so good. I wouldn’t have cared either...” He pressed his forehead against hers, the tops of their noses touching. “When you came around me...”

She moved her palm slowly away from his waist, feeling the ragged, breathy exhalation of his breath against her cheek as she felt between their bodies, across his thigh and, briefer than brief, over his strained outline before finding his spare hand. She held it in hers as they cuddled in silence, the sound of their breathing lulling and comforting in the otherwise quiet and dark space. Eventually, just as he was about to drift, he felt her fingers squeeze his reassuringly.

“I missed you.” She whispered and he sighed heavily, pulling away to rest his chin gently on top of her head and nestling her face into his neck. She breathed in the sweet, comforting scent of his skin, her cheek against his collarbone as they fell asleep.

***

They had naturally moved apart at some point in the night and it was Yoongi who grabbed her phone first when the opening synthesised beat of Blue Monday began to play, waking them both up with a jolt. He reached over to the bedside table to palm to device and handed it to her.

“Thanks.” She murmured sleepily, swiping the screen and turning off the alarm. She discarded the cell on the sheets as her body slowly woke up.

“You moved your table.” Yoongi murmured casually.

“The streetlights were waking me up so I switched sides.” She explained with a yawn. “How did you sleep?”

“Good.” He looked over at her briefly, feeling his breath hitch despite her dishevelled morning appearance, before rolling on his back to face the ceiling. They lay in silence for a few minutes as they remembered the events of the previous night; how perfect everything had seemed as they whispered sweet-nothings, clinging to each other in the dark. The room in the stark morning light felt worlds away from that dreamy atmosphere and they both felt a little awkward and bashful.

Eventually, Jeong-sun sat up and perched on the edge of the bed, bare toes skimming the carpet as he watched her in silence.

“I should put on some coffee...” She murmured, standing up and stretching before plodding out of the room. She paced around the island in the kitchen, pushing her tangled hair away from her forehead with both hands as she breathed deeply, trying to calm the fluttery sensation in her chest and stomach. Reaching out, she filled the coffee machine with fresh grounds and, feeling restless while waiting for it to brew, moved over to the fridge and pulled out the crumby remainder of her chocolate cake. There was a sealed packet of napkins by the microwave and she slipped one out of the covering and wrapped up a large slice for Yoongi.

In the bedroom, Yoongi pulled aside the quilt and sat on the mattress, brushing his dark hair from his eyes and trying to smooth it a little with the ball of his palms. He hadn’t bothered to cut it in the past few weeks and it had grown back to the length it had been before he enlisted. He could hear the splashing sound of the running tap from the kitchen and couldn’t help but allow his mind to wander over the events from the small hours of the morning, his stomach filling with butterflies as he remembered the way she held his waist as she turned to face him, her hand finding his hand in the dark. He recalled the familiar way her body smelt; of oats and coffee and roses and sighed as he got to his feet. He slipped on the jacket he had removed the night before and put on his Converse before heading down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Do you want toast?” Jeong-sun asked as she finished adding sugar to her own coffee. He saw she had already slipped two rounds of bread into the polka-dot toaster which sat on the side and nodded. She smiled, turning away from him at the sound of the machine popping and placing the pieces of brown bread onto two small plates.

“You like marmalade don’t you?” She murmured gingerly. “My dad saw it in my cupboard once and keeps bringing me the vile stuff.” Turning around, she held up the orange-coloured jar and smirked. He nodded and watched as she spread it thickly onto two slices. He had never liked it that much but didn’t have the heart to tell her. Instead, he ate in silence, without fuss, washing down the taste by taking a large gulp of coffee from the mug she placed in front of him. She ate her toast plain, nibbling at it without much vigour.

“I hope you didn’t have to be anywhere last night.” She said. “I just...I didn’t want to be alone.”

Yoongi met her gaze and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to be alone on your birthday.” He said quietly, reassuringly. She felt sad as she realised that he was thinking of his own thirtieth and how he had been away from those he loved. “I don’t have anywhere to be until eleven.” He confirmed.

“Photoshoot?”

"A surveyors coming to assess the roof.”

“Oh.” She muttered. His reply took her by surprise as she remembered the level of commitments he had had during their time together; how his schedule never seemed to end. She checked the little, rectangular pearl face of her watch. “That’s in forty-five minutes.”

He shrugged, finishing his last bite of toast. “I walk fast.”

“Here...” She reached for the folded napkin on the counter. “Take some cake home with you.”

He took it from her and unfolded one corner, peering at the brown lump.

“Thanks.” He grinned a shyly, it didn’t look that appetising and had started to lose its shape in the napkin, but he found the gesture thoughtful. He remembered how skittish she had been the previous evening while trying to make him feel welcome and how that awkwardness hadn’t quite dissipated. Refolding the package, he slipped it into his jacket pocket along with his cell and keys and, taking a final gulp of coffee, moved towards the door.

“Do you know how to work the lock downstairs? You just push it.” She fretted, hovering behind him.

“I remember.” He murmured as she unhooked the safety latch and opened the door. He stepped onto the other side and paused. “I’ll text you...”

“Okay.” She looked at him, her eyes roaming over his features as they stood a little fumblingly on either side of the doorway, unsure on what else to say. He fidgeted with the edge of his jacket, adjusting the collar.

“Happy birthday.” He added, his voice soft.

Her eyes were wide, jaw a little tense as she looked at him. If he looked close enough, he would have seen her jugular vein twitching as her heart worked overtime. He turned to leave.

“Don’t I get a birthday kiss?” She blurted, feeling her entire body cringe with embarrassment as he turned back to face her. She hadn’t been aware she was going to speak until the words left her mouth and her face features soured at the realisation. A small, gummy smile tugged at Yoongi’s lips as he looked at her, realising she was chastising herself for her outburst.

He glanced at his shoes timidly before stepping closer, bridging the gap between them. She let out a small murmur of approval as his lips met hers softly, his hand moving to lightly touch the back of her head as they kissed. They both felt weak as they moved slowly against one another, their lips caressing each other as they found a comfortable, leisurely rhythm. The kiss, while intense, was brief and all too soon he moved away, having to leave. She felt her knees tremble beneath her.

“Okay?” He asked softly, pulling his hand from her dark hair as he stepped back.

“Okay.” She confirmed with a nervous laugh, nodding her head as she looked up at him with large, expressive eyes.

He smiled in reply, adjusting the zip on his jacket as he waved delicately. “Bye.” He murmured, reluctantly moving away to make his way down the stairs.

“Bye..” She replied weakly, watching from behind as he reached the top step at the end of the narrow hall.

Slowly, she closed the door behind her and refastened the safety latch, listening to the sound of the front door downstairs opening and closing before retreating into the kitchen. She hovered by the island, unsure what to do with herself and unable to process what had just happened. She clutched the hair on her scalp in her palms, tugging the hair away from her skull a little roughly as she tried to calm her breathing. Unable to keep still, she walked over to the counter and flicked the electric kettle on out of habit, pressing her fingers into the cold mock-marble of the tops to ground herself as she waited for it to boil.

She found a single chamomile teabag at the bottom of her enamel caddy and placed it into a clean mug, pouring the hot water over it before sitting at the table, clutching the vessel between her palms as the sweet memories of last night came flooding back, merging with the soft, tingly feel of his lips against hers as they kissed in the hallway. Although it had happened only ten minutes before, the memory was already starting to feel unreal, as though it had happened to someone else and not her. There had been a time, not so long before, when she had been confident she would never feel his touch again.

Looking down at the table, she noticed the cream coloured envelope she had discarded and reaching out, she took it between her fingers and read her name in his delicate, gentle script. Her drink lay forgotten as she trailed into the bedroom and flopped down heavily onto the bed, feeling exhausted as well as elated. She teased open the corners, sliding the card from its confines and glancing at the cover for a moment. It was the type of card you could pick up at any convenience store or gas station, the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY were written on a pink balloon held by a teddy bear, but the feel of it in her hand and the thought of him going out to buy it for her made her stomach flutter. Carefully, she opened it to read the message inside. HAPPY BIRTHDAY was once again typed in the centre and, below that, he had simply written Yoongi. She starred at the page for some time, fingers gently tracing the thin, black lines of his name, as though they were fragile and might break.

She remembered, with heated cheeks, how he had recalled the previous night the detail about his birthday cake she made him four years before, and how he had described the way she looked as they made love on the sofa. Hearing him call her beautiful, after so long, had made entire body ache fiercely; she couldn’t recall when she had last felt this way, if ever. After Yoongi, there had been two others; the accountant she had dated for several months and one man she had met in a club on one of her last outings with Angel. The experience had been a calamity and she had sneaked out of his apartment when he disappeared to use the bathroom, halfway through sex. She realised as she leaned over to prop the card on her bedside table, that she had never made love with anyone but Yoongi and, listening to him detail how she made him feel; remembering the details so vividly after so many years, had brought her own memories back in full flood.

She reached for her forgotten cell phone and found herself pulling up his name in her contacts, wondering whether it was too soon to call him and whether he would be home yet. She read through their last messages, remembering how she had texted him after finishing their date prematurely.

“It’s okay, the store had the right pills.” Her text read, followed by his reply: “That’s good. I hope she’s okay.”

She opened a new chat window and began typing: “thank you for”, she quickly deleted it and started again “I liked the card, thank you.” Feeling foolish, she tapped the back key before she had time to send and sighed. Her heart was still racing in her rib-cage, she could hear its thud echoing throughout the otherwise silent room and she regretted drinking her morning cup of coffee. At this rate, her blood pressure wouldn’t slow before midday.

Remaining on his name, she clicked on the camera icon and starred at her reflection on the screen; her dark hair fanning out around her face against the duvet and her cheeks and chest flushed pink, as though she had recently reached orgasm. Her fingertips felt tingly and her stomach refused to stop churning with fluttery butterflies as she tugged on the hem of her t-shirt, pulling it over the soft curves of her stomach and chest before allowing it to pool beneath her throat. She used her spare hand to slip her breasts over the top of her plain black bra and ran her thumb briefly over the nipples, sighing at the contact as the pink buds hardened to her touch. Adjusting the phone to the side to capture this view and pushing her breasts together with her arms, she clicked on the camera icon. Her face wasn’t visible in the shot, but she knew he would recognise her regardless. She wondered whether she should take it from a more flattering angle, before realising if she didn’t send it now, she would back out altogether. She clicked the send button and watched as the photograph moved into the chat window, below their last message.

She starred blankly at the screen, the giddiness in her chest being replaced by nerves as she realised what she had done with slight disbelief. She waited to see if Yoongi would reply, her eyelids growing heavier by the second as her body sank into the bed covers, but soon fell asleep waiting for a response.

***

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the-roadkill-cafe · 6 years ago

Text

Throwing a Stone in a River Part 5

Summary: When Sakura graduates from the academy, she suddenly finds her head invaded by the ghost of Uchiha Shisui. Her inner is gone, but not forgotten, and she struggles with impulse control more than ever before. But also, Shisui gives a lot of unsolicited advice - useful and otherwise - and does not shut the fuck up. He’s not thrilled about current events.

Rating: T

Characters/Pairings: Haruno Sakura, Uchiha Shisui (not Shisui/Sakura or SasuSaku)

Word Count: 3.5k

Chapter Warnings/Squicks: graphic torture, severe eye trauma and torture, body horror, violence

Author’s Notes: Firstly, please take the warning seriously for this chapter. If you would like to skip the scene where these apply, this is the very first scene. Jump to the scene break, which has the opening line “Sakura woke up with a gasp.”

Secondly, I would like to give an enormous thanks to @jaycrowind for betaing, @thriceandonce for being an excellent cheerleader, and @stormwind13 and @hiruma-musouka for talking me through the difficult parts of this chapter (which was basically everything after the opening scene, ha).

Also, I would like to remind everyone that I have no plans to discontinue any of my fics at this time. Please do not send any comments/asks/reviews/messages either asking me if I have or implying that I have. If I do come to such a decision, I will make a public announcement.

Finally, I am now available on twitter! My handle is _roadkillcafe_ . I also have given an official blanket statement for anyone wishing to do podfics/translations/remixes/fanart/etc of my fics. Just leave me proper credit for the original fic, and send me a link for me (and others) to enjoy! Thank you very much :)

Previous Part: Part 4

“Shisui, please.”

Ragged breathing filled her ears. There was a burning ring around her wrists and when Sakura glanced up, she saw that she was chained in too tight cuffs that had rubbed her wrists bloody. Even before she could catch her breath her heart was already pounding in her chest with fear.

“Please,” the voice broke into a sob. “I can’t take this anymore, just kill me. Don’t let them have my eyes, Shisui, please.”

Sakura’s head turned without permission and every iota of her being rebelled at what she saw.

A young shinobi was literally pinned to a chair, stakes driven through his hands and arms to the chair. Below, his ankles and legs were similarly staked. Blood dripped everywhere from him, but the most horrific part of the scene was his face. Her eyes were unwillingly drawn to the eyeball that dangled freely from the socket, only connected by a strand of nerves. Dimly, Sakura realized that the boy was a Hyuuga.

“Nikkou…” Her voice was raspy and yet familiar to Sakura, despite not being her own. Shisui. She was reliving Shisui’s memories.

“Nikkou, I can’t – there’s no way out of this. I’m sorry.”

“C’mon Shisui, you’re a genius, you’ve gotta think of something. Anything, I don’t care, just don’t let them take my eyes, please.” Nikkou’s remaining good eye rolled wildly in his head. It occasionally fixed on Shisui, teary and wide eyed with terror and pain. Sakura struggled to look away from the sight of his bruised face, but Shisui’s gaze remained focused on Nikkou and his ruined eye, and so did Sakura’s.

Before Shisui could reply, the door to the cell banged open. Both of them startled badly, Sakura’s heart beating a sharp staccato rhythm in her chest.

A Kiri shinobi strode into the room. He was older than Shisui and Nikkou, with the beginnings of craggy lines on his face, and his hair styled into something resembling a fin. Sakura had no idea who he was, but there was a foreign swell of resignation and fear and hatred in her chest.

She watched him circle around the room like a shark, slowly closing in on Nikkou. Nikkou’s breath escaped him faster and faster until he was almost hyperventilating, his good eye hyper focused on the foreign shinobi. On his hands specifically, which held clippers. The shinobi considered Shisui.

“Well, Konoha? Do you have anything to say yet?”

Nikkou’s eye snapped to her. “Shisui, tell him something! Tell him what he wants to know! Please!” When she remained silent, Nikkou tried again, his voice becoming a ragged scream. “Shisui, please!”

Her mouth moved. “I will not betray my village.”

The Kiri shinobi smirked. “I didn’t think any of you Konoha shinobi had it in you.” He jabbed Nikkou in the shoulder with his elbow in a seemingly friendly gesture. “Too bad for you, kid.”

He reached forward to grasp Nikkou’s dangling eye. When his fingers made contact, Nikkou began screaming, the sound echoing in the cell.

“Not my eye! Please, not my eye! Take anything else, please!”

Revulsion rose, with Sakura unable to tell if it was hers or Shisui’s. There was a layer of understanding that Shisui had that wasn’t hers; an understanding of the fear of losing an eye. The hatred was turning to outright loathing as the shinobi pulled the string of nerves taut and brought the clippers close to the end where they were attached to Nikkou’s skull. He took his time, drawing it out, stroking the blades along the length of nerves. Nikkou was wailing and Sakura was unable to look away when, with a quick snip, the shinobi took his eye.

Her upper lip curled with a rage such that she had never known. She memorized the way the Kiri shinobi casually dropped the eye and its attached nerves into a sterile bag. Nikkou sobbed brokenly, defeated.

“Thanks for the eye, kid. It’ll come in handy. I’ll come back for the other one later, unless your teammate here decides to talk. See if you can convince him while I’m gone.” The shinobi spun the clippers around his fingers in a goodbye, and left them alone once more. Sakura tracked his movements the entire time.

If it was the last thing she did, she would kill him.

Sakura woke with a gasp. Before she even fully understood what she was doing, she was moving, ripping her blankets off her body and stumbling to the bathroom. She made it to the toilet in time to vomit her dinner violently. Her stomach heaved over and over, even after there was nothing left, and only strings of saliva and bile clung to her lips. She barely had the strength to spit into the toilet. She pressed her face against the cool porcelain and wept.

When her shoulders had stopped shaking, enough time had passed that Sakura could address the silent presence in her head.

“What the hell was that?”

Shisui was silent for a long time, long enough that Sakura started to doze with her face on the toilet. And yet every time she drifted off too much, the image of Nikkou’s eyeless socket surfaced. With the image came the foreign tangle of emotions that had to be Shisui’s association with that memory. Sakura had certainly never hated someone so much in her life.

‘I never would have wanted you to see that memory,’ Shisui said at last.

But I did, Sakura thought to herself, and felt Shisui’s slight flinch when the stray thought reached him.

She stayed silent, and so did Shisui, as she struggled to process the nightmare. She didn’t even know what she wanted to ask Shisui first or if she even wanted to learn more about it at all, and as she thought, his words from before floated across her mind, I was on the Kiri front during the Third War.

There was the unspeakable horror of Nikkou staked to the chair and the Kiri shinobi clipping out his eye while Shisui watched. There was Shisui’s absolute, resigned refusal to give over any information to the interrogator. There was the question of how he escaped. There was the niggling wonder of why the hell bad things happened to eyes around Shisui. But most of all…

‘What happened to Nikkou?’ Sakura asked at last.

‘He’s dead.’

Despite her exhaustion, the images from the nightmare - Shisui’s memory - drove Sakura out of bed to avoid enticing their return. Which is how she ended up running laps in Konoha before dawn, before pre-dawn even, the sky still blanketed in stars. She had several canteens of water buckled to her waist as the only things weighing her down. When her lungs burned for air and her legs felt limp, she stopped to drink. All too soon, the vivid images would return and spur Sakura into continuing her laps.

Sakura turned towards home once the sky began to lighten. The first rays of dawn once again swept away the worst of the night terrors until she felt almost normal again. At least, normal except for the dead jounin haunting her. She kicked off her shoes and made her way towards the shower to wash away the sweat and the remnants of the sickly feeling from vomiting.

Showering led to redressing, which led to breakfast. By now Sakura was ravenous and dreading the day’s work. What had she been thinking, running laps for hours? How was she going to be able to train? How was she going to complete the mission?

‘Oh, relax,’ Shisui said in the face of her fretting. ‘Training should always push you to your limits. The run was good for you. You should do it every morning.’

‘I should’ve known you would suggest more running,’ Sakura grumped. She hated doing laps. And yet, this was the second night in a row she had nightmares from Shisui’s memories. She would have to do something to keep them from lingering. At least running had long term benefits. ‘I’ll think about it.’

It wasn’t long before Sakura was ready for the new day. She eyed herself in the mirror. There was no outward hint of the nightmare she had suffered last night, nor of her ghostly tenant. She just… looked like herself. Sakura leaned forward so she could peer at her eyes. They did say that eyes were the windows to the soul. But there was nothing.

She shook herself. At this rate, she was going to be just as obsessed with eyes as Shisui was. She needed to get to training. Hopefully it wouldn’t be as bad as it was yesterday.

When she arrived, Sakura found that she was earlier than any of her teammates. It was a pleasant change from being late the day before. It also gave her time to sit and relax. The weather was warm and breezy, but thankfully not humid. All in all, a good day for training. If only Sakura had any idea of where to even start.

‘I can help guide you through a few things. You should work on your conditioning and basic taijutsu and weapons skills before you think about fancy ninjutsu or genjutsu,’ Shisui offered.

Sakura narrowed her eyes at the sky. ‘What’s in it for you?’

‘I don’t die again because of a genin’s stupid mistake,’ Shisui said dryly.

That sounded believable, especially after his insistence yesterday that he wouldn’t teach her anything.

‘You start with conditioning first, to prep your body for the strain of jutsu, right?’ she asked.

‘That’s part of it. But there will always be a time when you don’t have enough chakra for any jutsu, and how well you know basic taijutsu can save your life.’

Sakura looked down at her hands thoughtfully. ‘Alright, I’ll listen to what you have to say. But nothing too hard! Who knows what kind of training Kakashi-sensei is going to make us do.’ Sakura said.

‘That’s the spirit. Now get up. There’s no time like the present.’ Shisui urged her.

Sakura rolled to her feet. There was a moment’s pause when she pondered what exactly she should do to condition herself. Then, with hesitant strikes, she began working through the Academy practice routine. Neither of her parents had styles to call their own, not like clan children. They had always encouraged her to make the best of her intelligence and what the Academy taught her. That had been enough to get them to chuunin, after all.

Shisui didn’t speak, or even give any indication he was paying attention besides a sense of watchfulness that Sakura couldn’t explain. Since he didn’t stop her, she continued with the series of simple katas that she knew. The style was mostly built around redirecting a stronger or faster enemy’s force, under the assumption that the user was smaller and less experienced. Sakura definitely counted as that.

As her routine came to a close, Shisui began to offer her pointers. They were, to Sakura’s relief, far more useful than the ones he had given her yesterday.

‘Your stance weakens when you punch with your left hand. Watch the placement of your feet,’ and ‘Lead with your opposite foot to strengthen that strike,’ and ‘If you follow through, you can turn this kata into a hold,’ were all patiently explained to her. It was at odds with his patronizing attitude the day before. Sakura couldn’t decide if it was because Shisui was, contrary to first impressions, actually a good teacher, or if he still felt bad for the nightmares his memories had given her. Either way, she didn’t question it.

Shisui hummed thoughtfully. ‘Your grasp of the Academy basics is solid, though you do need lots of conditioning. But I only know how to teach speed.’ Sakura got the impression of a shrug. ‘So I will teach you what I know. My style is far different from the Academy’s. At its most complicated, it is a very fluid style that requires a lot of flexibility and makes equal use of every part of the body. I combined it with my speed to dispatch enemies as efficiently as possible. At your level, you will need to do the same.’

‘Okay, makes sense. So where do I start?’ She was tired and her thighs weren’t exactly happy after her impromptu morning run, but she also wasn’t bone dead exhausted. She could do this.

‘With stretches. Lots of stretches,’ Shisui said. From there, he talked her through several exercises that were new to Sakura, and that were barely even the beginning of Shisui’s personal style. There was a lot of ground for her to cover, and not much time to do it in. Training wasn’t going to be something she did just with her team, but a new hobby that she did constantly.

That morning, Shisui only had time to teach Sakura one of the beginning forms. But combined with the other stretches and his advice on her use of the Academy style, it was enough. She even felt ready to go another round with Kakashi. There would be no way that she would win, but she wanted to try out what she had learned against an unsuspecting opponent.

Sasuke soon arrived at the training grounds as Sakura finished her stretches, and then Naruto showed up five minutes later. She had timed it so that her teammates wouldn’t spot her. She had no idea how to explain to them how she was suddenly learning non-Academy forms. Besides, this way, if Kakashi was anywhere near as late as he was yesterday, she would have plenty of time to rest before more training and possibly another mission.

Sakura peeked under her lashes at Sasuke. He looked so cool, leaning back against a tree, the sun catching his pitch eyes just right so that the pupil was discernible from the iris. She felt her heart flutter against her ribs. He was so smart and talented, sure to be the brightest star of their generation. Heat rose to her face.

‘So...what do you actually know about this kid?’ Shisui asked.

Sakura startled out of her musings. ‘What?’

‘Well, you keep going on and on about your infatuation with him. So you must know a lot about him, right? What is it that you like about him besides his talent? Konoha has plenty of talented and skilled shinobi,’ he elaborated.

‘Well…’ Sakura paused to organize her thoughts. ‘He likes tomatoes, I think. They show up the most consistently in his lunch. He’s not very cooperative on teamwork tests at the Academy, but that’s only because he can do everything himself! And…’

She frowned. What did she know about Sasuke? Why had she started crushing on him? He wasn’t always such a loner. In fact, a few years ago, he had been...friendly. Competitive, certainly, but outgoing and playful. She had liked him because he had never bullied her or avoided her. He didn’t go out of his way to talk to her, but he had never been cruel, not even in the thoughtless way that kids could be. And then Sakura found out that Ino had liked him too, and that was the final straw.

Sakura shook herself. Things about Sasuke. ‘He says he doesn’t really like or dislike anything, or have any hobbies. He doesn’t have a dream, but an ambition. To kill a certain man, he said, and restore his clan.’

‘That’s ominous.’ Shisui’s presence seemed to ripple a bit. It felt weird, like her brain was tingling.

‘It is,’ Sakura agreed, subdued. She wondered why Sasuke wanted to kill someone so badly. What was it that this person did that made Sasuke think only of killing him? What did it take for a person to feel that way?

‘Clearly, you need to train more,’ Shisui interrupted, his voice lighter now. ‘And learn more about what happened. And then you can go along with Sasuke on his little field trip to kill this man. If you’re actually serious about your crush on him, that is.’

Sakura narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘Why do you care if I get a chance with Sasuke-kun?’

‘I don’t,’ Shisui said flatly. ‘But it just so happens that training kills two birds with one stone. You get to impress your crush, and I get to stay in a body that won’t die on the first C rank mission it goes on.’

‘Does it really matter if you’re already dead?’

‘Who doesn’t want to stay alive a little longer? This is my second chance. Besides, I’m a ghost, and like all stories about ghosts, I have some unfinished business that I’ll probably need your help with,’ he said.

‘What kind of unfinished business?’ Sakura perked up. This was interesting. She hadn’t had anyone to gossip with since her friendship with Ino became a rivalry.

Shisui huffed. ‘The kind you don’t need to know about yet.’

Sakura fidgeted with the hem of her dress, feeling a bit like Hinata all of a sudden. ‘Does it...does it have anything to do with Nikkou?’

He hesitated, and Sakura got a brief flash of quick thinking on his part. Maybe deciding how detailed he wanted to be, though after that nightmare, she didn’t see why it mattered. ‘I...yeah. That Kiri nin, he’s still alive. His name is Ao. And I’m going to kill him.’ There was a rush of hatred and intense focus, almost obsession. Shisui wanted to avenge his mutilated teammate and bring home the last part of him that never made it back.

Nikkou’s screams echoed in Sakura’s mind again, causing her gag reflex to rise. She swallowed down the bile. Shisui didn’t even have to ask.

‘Of course I’ll help you kill him.’

Sakura easily committed Ao’s face to memory. Blue hair styled into a fin, slightly craggy face, Kiri fatigues. She would know him the next time she saw him.

“Wow, Sakura-chan, I didn’t know Kakashi-sensei being late made you this angry.” Naruto’s voice jolted Sakura out of her head.

Sakura glanced around. She had forgotten that she was at training with her team, waiting for Kakashi to show his face. While she had been talking with Shisui, her gaze had focused on a far off tree, and her face had done little to disguise her emotions. Even Sasuke was looking at her with a little interest. Sakura flushed. Just what had her expressions revealed to them?

“Well,” Sakura blustered. She seized upon the excuse Naruto had gift wrapped her. “Well, it’s rude! And a waste of our time! What’s the point of meeting so early if he isn’t going to be on time to help us train or supervise missions! He’s so irresponsible. We all managed to be here, didn’t we?” She gestured redundantly.

“I know!” Naruto exploded. He was suddenly in Sakura’s face, expression animated. “I could be learning a super cool jutsu! Or, or, protecting a castle from a mutiny! Not just hanging around here waiting.”

“You sure you’re up to protecting a whole castle?” Sasuke said. The fact that he was drawn into their conversation spoke volumes about how bored he was. Luckily, it had the advantage of not only getting his attention, but pulling Naruto away from her.

“Of course I am. I’m gonna be the Hokage, you know.” Naruto posed proudly. “Do you even know what you’re gonna be?”

Sasuke folded his arms. “I’m going to be an elite jounin of a village, and bring honor to my family name.” His tone made this sound like it should have been obvious. Sakura nodded along. And it should have been. Sasuke was the best.

To her surprise, they both turned to her next. After yesterday and the way they so got caught up in their rivalry, and Sakura being lost in her thoughts with Shisui, she thought they would ignore her.

“Ne, Sakura-chan, what about you? What are you going to be?”

Sakura licked her lips. Her eyes wanted to dart to Sasuke, but he had nothing to do with her being a shinobi. She had, after all, joined the Academy two years before she even started to have feelings for him.

“I…” she clenched her fists with embarrassment. “I don’t know what I want to be.” She glared down at the ground. Sakura didn’t want to see the expressions on her teammates’ faces.

‘We all start somewhere, kid. Chin up.’

She breathed out through her nose and ground her teeth together. Shisui was right. She was brave enough for this. She looked up. Sasuke and Naruto were still waiting for her to finish.

“But I am going to be strong! And useful! I won’t be someone’s tag along or left behind.” Sakura nodded decisively. It was too soon for her to tell what she would specialize in, or what she would like best. Maybe she would be a chuunin like her parents, or an elite jounin like Shisui or Kakashi. Maybe she would go into Intelligence, or the Academy, or Research and Development. For right now, she was a genin. She had time.

#roadkill writes #haruno sakura #uchiha shisui #throwing a stone in a river #sakura ft shisui

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leaveharmony · 6 years ago

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It's sad how you've allowed these white men take over real estate in your heard mortgage free. You used to be really cool before you allowed your bitterness to take over. I've unfollowed you and am probably going to block you because while i respect that you don't have to like any one you constantly shitting on people just because you dislike it is sad and seeing as my life is hard enough I don't need your negativity in my life.

Um...Ok? And you should? If my TIDAL WAVE OF NEGATIVITY AND BITTERNESS during the maybe 7 seconds per week I'm forcibly reminded that whoever it is you're talking about exists outweighs whatever it was that caused you to bestow the honour of "really cool" on me in the first place then godspeed, nonners. Go seek your bliss.I'm not...sure why you feel the need to tell me this tbh, as the tragedy of being Deemed Uncool by an anonymous stranger who's never interacted with me in any way is a comparatively minor one, but if the acknowledgement makes you feel better about it than I guess you gotta do what you gotta do.Farewell, follower number...uh...follower who had a number probably, idk I don't know how many I have.

------

All clowning aside though, I genuinely don't understand why someone would send a message like that. And I had no idea how to respond to it...or if I should. If they're looking for attention, isn't that just giving them what they want? But then...if I ignored it, would that make them send more? Can you block an anon? I have no idea. For the terrible crime of vocally disliking certain popular wrestlers in her own space, I've literally seen people spend over a month relentlessly harassing a friend of mine in the most vile and vicious manner, while the person that triggered it all egged them on and laughed about it.

So...I never know what to do. Probably it wouldn't lead to anything that bad, but how do I know? If they've been around since I was “really cool” (I'm sorry, that's still funny. I've never been cool in my life) then they'd know I'm seeing a therapist. They'd know I have pretty crippling social anxiety disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, severe depression. Were they trying to set it off?They did, actually - messages like that always spike my anxiety badly when I see them. Heartrate went right up, stomach sank. It isn't the content so much as the intent, you know? Random message out of nowhere RE hey I think you're awful: what's the point of that? Why take the time?Is that what they were trying to do? Somehow...get me to correct my fiendish refusal to *looks at smeared writing on hand* um, tailor my space to their exact specifications? Did they unfollow me a few days ago and get frustrated when I didn't mention it (or indeed, notice)? Were they looking for attention? Validation? Just acknowledgement? I don't keep any track of how many followers I get tbh, except to check that new ones aren't porn bots. How many people are here or why doesn't affect my life in any way.

It's...I don't wanna use the word triggering, necessarily. But like. As I say...if they've been here however long, they know I have anxiety. They know I live in an active abuse situation. They know I get extremely defensive over my space bc I've got a history of people coming into my spaces both real and virtual and taking things. My father's sold or given away or thrown out or destroyed my things on more than one occasion, once or twice while I literally sobbed and begged him not to. That time it was a doll cradle. I was maybe 6. He sold it to a lady for five dollars while I cried in the driveway.When I got home from a school trip to New York one day, I came into my room to find he'd been in here and rearranged all my furniture even up to moving the bed from where I had it...and of course, he got furiously angry when I burst into tears. I couldn't move the bed back, it was too heavy for me and I wasn't strong enough...and he wouldn't do it, so I just sat there sobbing hysterically until he finally came raging back in, shouting abuse and calling me everything under the sun, and moved it back.Imagine coming home exhilarated from a great experience to find out people you were meant to trust had come into your space without your consent or knowledge and reorganized everything in it, then had an explosion of temper because you weren't “grateful” they'd done it. There's a reason I have a hoarding problem I'm just now trying to address, after decades of being terrified to let anything out of my sight lest it be gone when I go to look for it. There's a reason I'm protective of my space.

This blog is my space. I don't know what nonners thought I started it for, but it sure as fuck wasn't for anyone else's pleasure or interest; hell, some nights when I'm really plugging away I can churn out like 60 gif posts in a single sitting, and most of them end up with less than ten notes. It's not for the attention. Half of why I have alternate tags for wrestlers is so I'm not constantly clogging their tags w/ my nonsense - and I don't tag my hate at all, on the rare occasion I bother with criticisms. You're looking at the repository of the hyperfixation I use to keep myself alive. If other people enjoy it, that's super! But at its heart, it isn't for other people.

They wanna know about the white man who has real estate in my head? It's my abusive piece of shit father, who has all but beaten the ability to express negative emotion at all out of me over a period of decades.

Compared to him, some coward I don’t know from adam hiding on anon trying to chide me for occasional snarky comments about their faves looks like a pair of nail clippers next to a goddamn threshing machine.

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tisfan · 7 years ago

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Hi, tisfan! I'm going to drop a prompt/request in here, feel free to ignore it! I know you're busy, and you have so many stories already! Anyhow, I'm reading a fic where Bucky is...well, fixing his hair (you know, brushing, blow-drying, etc), because hair just isn't that pretty without some serious maintenance. And now I really, really want a fic where Tony is helping Bucky with his hair. Like a comfort thing (or a sex thing, I like both). If you feel like it. Thank you!

justalurkr said: Headcanon: Bucky keeps his hair long because Steve's hair is still going strong with the 40s vibe. Clint' s hair sorely tests his resolve, tho!

gothgalahoy said: Are you still taking prompts? If so, here's a WinterIron one. They're both touch starved. One of them figures it out during matinance on Bucky's/James' arm. Epic cuddles and feels ensue.

A/N: So, we’ve got a three-for-one fic here; it’s about 3,000 words, tho, so I don’t feel too bad about it... WinterIron, pre-slash, pining Bucky, touch-starved, Tony helping, hair care, panic attacks, etc.

Bucky’s Bad Hair Day

There was nothing wrong with long hair, Bucky told himself. Men woretheir hair long these days, just as often as women wore their hair short.

Hydra had let his hair grow; thick and luxurious, because for thebetter part of the fifties and sixties the Asset had angry, red scars on hishead and they were both noticeable and memorable. They’d faded over time, butby the time they did, his handlers didn’t bother to look at him anymore with aneye toward fashion. As long as the Asset was relatively clean, no one seemed tocare.

The scars, when he could see them through the thick hair, weresilvery and flat, these days. It wouldn’t draw so much attention, if he cut hishair shorter.

And it wasn’t like anyone had said anything -- much -- to himabout it. Steve had ruffled his hair one time, and said he looked like a mop.But that was Steve, and he was always being a little punk, even though hewasn’t that little anymore.

Natasha had fingered the ends of his hair at one point, scowling,and then a box of hair care products had shown up in his next delivery. Oiltreatments and mend-the-ends care, and enough goo and gel and spritzes to makeup a haberdashery counter display.

So, there was nothing wrong with long hair and Bucky was prettymuch okay with that.

Right up until Barton got a haircut.

Bucky was used to Barton being a little on the scruffy side; notquite the “murder hobo” look that Bucky himself sported. (He’d lost track ofwhere the murder hobo comment started, but someone had said it, and theneveryone had said it, and Bucky just gave people his murder glare and went on withhis life. He really, most of the time, did not care what other people thoughtabout him.) Barton had a mop of sandy-blonde hair, scruff on his chin and healways, always missed a patch of bristles on one side of his jaw or the other.He was frequently unshowered, sometimes went for days at a time in the samepair of broken-string sweatpants, and often had his shirt on inside out.

Avengers… were not fastidious people, really. If you could fightwhen you were in your combat gear, you could lounge around in the common roomin a terrycloth bath towel with cucumber slices on your eyelids. No judgements.(Tony. And yeah, okay, so Bucky was totally judging that. Mostly. Excepthe had to admit it did wonders for the bags under Tony’s eyes from lack ofsleep and if Bucky borrowed some cucumber slices for himself once in a while,no one had to know about it.)

So when Barton came in with his new haircut, Bucky noticed.

He was cleaned up, his hair was gelled to perfection and the sideswere spiked and weirdly soft-seeming. Bucky… had the weirdest urge to rub hishand over Barton’s head and test the texture of that hair.

And just as he was thinking that, Tony came into the room, one ofhis unbelievably vile smoothies in one hand. He wrapped his lips around thestraw and took a deep suck from the cup. Bucky tracked Tony’s every movement --helpless against his obsession with the man -- watching the flex of hisbackside as he walked, the way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled and said,“still the prettiest, Legolas.” Tony ran one bronzed hand through Barton’shair, smiled even wider, and did it again.

Barton stropped his head against Tony’s hand, practically purringlike a kitten. “You think I look hot?”

“Oh, my god,” Tony said, lowering his sunglasses to give Bartonthe once-over. Slowly. “You look like a billion bucks, and believe me, I knowwhat that looks like.”

(more below the cut, or catch the whole thing on A03)

Barton chuckled and looked down at himself. “Feel like at leastfifty-thousand, so it’ll have to do.”

“I’d totally do you,” Tony assured him. He grabbed a banana fromthe basket, rubbed Barton’s head one more time. “Save some kisses for me.”

“You got it, sugar-daddy,” Barton said.

Bucky watched, dumb-struck, until Tony was out of the kitchen andback into the elevator. What the fuck was going on?

“Maybe I should get a haircut,” Bucky mused, fingering the ends ofhis long hair, then flipping them out of his face. He wondered if Tony wouldrub his hair like that, if it were short and spiky and soft.

You cannot teach fearlessness with terror.

It wasn’t… it wasn’t… it shouldn’t have been… Bucky was notafraid.

The barber shop had a row of windows that let Bucky look insidewithout actually approaching the counters or barbers. There were shiny silverchairs that tipped backward to let a customer get a shampoo. Another row ofchairs had loud dryers where women and men alike sat, flipping throughmagazines or poking at their phones while they waited for their hair to dry, orfor various chemicals to finish processing.

Bucky’s overly sensitive nose caught the whiff of harshastringents and bleach, colors and curl-relaxers. It was overpowering, evenoutside, making his eyes sting and the inside of his nose flare and ache.

His ear caught the delicate sound of scissors, metal against hair,snip snip. The buzz of clippers, the harsh burr of hairdryers. The clickand hiss of flatirons.

One stylist thumped the chair’s pedal a few times. Another leanedher client back into the sinks and the woman under the cape and towels moanedwith almost sensual pleasure.

Bucky shivered all over, his flesh crawling.

Too many people. Too close to him.

Sharp blades; Bucky could identify dozens of potential weapons.

He… could not do this.

There were too many risks; not to himself. If it was just his ownsafety, his own comfort, maybe he could manage it. He’d done so much worse,allowed it to happen.

You couldn’t teach fearlessness with terror. But you could become numb to fear. There was nothing else thatHydra could have done to his body, to his mind, that was half as terrible aswhat he’d already experienced.

It wasn’t what it would do to him. Bucky could lie to himself ifit gave him comfort. But it was also what Bucky might do, if someone came tooclose to him with those scissors. If they tilted him back. If… if…

He…

He might hurt someone.

Bucky clung to that idea. And then turned away.

The one time, Bucky thought, that he wanted to get into theelevator, go straight up to his floor and take refuge in the back of hiscloset, would be the one time that Tony would stick an arm in between the doorsbefore they closed and cram himself in the elevator, a whole horde of paparazzinot inches behind his heels.

“Hey there, Ghost in the Shell,” Tony said, punching the buttonfor the common floors with unnecessary force. “What a day, don’t tell me, I’lltell yo-- are you all right?”

And Bucky was just weak enough to admit the truth.

“No.”

Tony blinked at that, brown eyes full of worry, that subtle flareat the corners. He opened his mouth, maybe to make some sort of smart-assedcomment, and at this point, Bucky would welcome it. Would welcome the spark ofheat, the frisson of anger. Instead, what he said was, “Is there anything I cando?”

“I… need a haircut,” Bucky confessed. He shook his head, lettingthe long tresses swing, illustrating the need. “An’ I can’t… I jus’ can’t. Getin one of those chairs.” It hurt, confessing. Like pulling out his fingernails.Admitting it. He was the goddamn Winter Soldier and he couldn’t fuckin’ sit ina chair and let some harmless little gossipy woman cut his fucking hair. Heatbloomed over his cheeks, across the back of his neck.

“I couldn’t take a shower,” Tony said, apropos of nothing. Ormaybe it wasn’t quite nothing. “After Afghanistan. For months. Couldn’t… havewater in my face.”

“How’d… how’d you cope?”

“Badly,” Tony said. “Wouldn’t ask for help. Knew I needed it,but…” He shrugged a shoulder. “Thought I could do it on my own.” He gave Buckya direct look. “And I know you can. But the thing is, you don’t haveto.”

Jesus fuck, did the guy mind-read, too, on top of everything?

“All ears,” Bucky said, “if ya got a suggestion.”

Tony flicked a quick look at him. “You trust me?”

Bucky shrugged. He didn’t not trust Tony, which was more than hefelt about most people. He and Tony, well, they’d already seen the worst ofeach other, hadn’t they?

“Come on,” Tony said. “Come up to my place, I have a set up from--well, it’s what I do, isn’t it? Change my environment to suit myself.”

The whole reason this had become a thing for Bucky was because hewanted Tony to touch his hair, to joke and flirt with him, the way he had withBarton, right? He trusted Tony not to hurt him. Trusted himself to not to hurtTony; never again.

Wordlessly, Bucky nodded.

Tony’s bathroom was some sort of miracle; huge, larger than thefreaking house Bucky had grown up in, nearly. There was a deep jacuzzi pool, asauna, a few different showers. One of those chairs that tipped back into asink and Bucky was frozen at the sight of it, until Tony lifted it, bicepsstraining, and moved it out of the room without even asking what was up withthat. Bucky loathed himself, mocked himself for being afraid of a goddamnchair, but he wasn’t about to deny that he felt worlds and away better with itgone.

Tony reached out, hesitated. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, roughly.

Tony fingered Bucky’s hair, rubbing one lock together. Tipped itup to inspect the ends. Peered at his scalp. “You’ve been taking pretty goodcare of it,” he said. “Bet Nat sent you one of those boxes of hers; I have onefor skin care. She seems to think my hands need to be soaked in moisturizertwice a day.”

The way Tony’s fingers felt, running over Bucky’s scalp, he wouldagree. Tony’s skin was like velvet, heavy and soft at the same time.

Bucky shivered, goosebumps scrawling over his head and down theback of his neck. Tony pulled back and Bucky reacted without thinking, grabbinghis wrist. “No, don’t…” he said. “That… feels good.”

Tony chuckled. “Well, I’ve been told I have magic fingers, in moreways than one. So, what are you looking at doing to your hair? I mean, rightnow it’s just kinda ragged. We could trim the ends up, make it all one length,just kinda get your toes wet, as far as the hair cutting business goes.”

“Do you know how to cut hair?”

Tony gave him a flat stare. “I built a new element in my workshop,I think I can give you a trim, Edward Scissorhands. I might not be able to getreal fancy, but if you can handle this, I have a hairdresser, and she doescall-ins.”

“Start slow,” Bucky said, nodding.

“Yep,” Tony said. “So, you can wash your hair, or just get it wet,or I can help you with that, whatever you need.”

Bucky chewed on his bottom lip. Tony had been so, so kind, andBucky wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask any further.

“My… back when I was a kid, my Ma washed my hair, bent over thesink,” Bucky said, hesitantly. There weren’t any bolts of fear or apprehensionwith that, just the faint, old buzz of annoyance when she got water in hisears, or sometimes it would drip down his back. And, of course, the oldimpatience for being a boy of eight or nine and having to be clean, some sortof anathema to his normal way of life. Stickball and paper-waxed horehoundcandies.

“I can do that,” Tony said. His hand was still in Bucky’s hair,fingers soothing on the back of his neck. “Might want to lose the shirt, and…yeah, suit’s probably not the best for that, gimme a minute.”

Which was how Bucky found himself on his knees in front of TonyStark, the back of his neck horribly exposed and vulnerable.

Except he kept waiting for the panic to rear up -- how was itpossible to have a panic attack about the possibility of having a panic attack?-- but it didn’t.

The water was warm, soothing, and Tony’s voice was constant andcalm in his ear. He didn’t talk about anything urgent, or even anythingimportant. A little bit about Edwin Jarvis, his father’s butler who’dpractically raised him, a couple of pranks he’d pulled in high school. Some ofhis past with Jim Rhodes, back at MIT. Good stories. From a simpler, happiertime.

The shampoo Tony used on him, working it through the long locks,smelled like Tony.

By the time Tony rinsed him out and tied a towel around thedripping mess, Bucky was almost completely relaxed, just the soft, warm feel ofarousal -- not even urgent, just a bittersweet thread of wanting that ranthrough his contentment -- keeping him awake.

Tony brought him into the dressing room, a huge showcase with afew dressers and clothing racks, but mostly mirrors. “I thought you might bemore comfortable if you can see me the whole time I’m near your head with apair of scissors.”

Bucky nodded, took the chair that Tony offered. He was shiveringminutely, and Tony kept a hand on his shoulder until he calmed.

Tony ran a comb through his hair, the various conditioners anddetanglers making that task ten times easier than it had been whenever Buckytried it. His hair was stupidly thick.

“I’m just gonna even it out here, okay?” Tony said, parting it alittle to the left, and then checking the length by running his fingers downit, standing just in front of Bucky and leaning back a little to look. He wasshirtless, as Bucky was, but Bucky hadn’t noticed the scarring on Tony’s chestbefore, where his arc reactor had been. The source, Bucky knew, of everythingthat had come after; Tony’s own missile that had nearly killed him, that he hadused to rise from the ash. Becoming Iron Man.

Bucky wanted nothing more than to rest his ear against that scar,listening to the heart underneath, feeling the heat of Tony’s skin. He didn’t.

Tony showed him a pair of scissors, sharp as they had to be forcutting hair, let Bucky feel the weight of them. They were a weapon, althoughit hardly mattered. Bucky’s entire body was a weapon, it wasn’t like one pairof blades was going to make a difference.

“You ready?”

“Go ahead.”

As a supersoldier, Bucky could hold his breath for about elevenminutes. He was pretty sure he stopped breathing as soon as Tony opened thescissors and remained in that state until Tony was done. He exhaled in a rushas soon as Tony stepped back, vision flecked with speckles of black and red,head spinning. Tony put the scissors down and was back to standing in front ofBucky, one hand on either shoulder.

“You okay?”

Bucky wasn’t sure what to do; he was… he thought he was okay, but…“Yeah,” he said, “but… stay?” He wasn’t sure what he was asking for. It wasTony’s room, if anyone would be leaving, it would be Bucky.

“Touch-starved,” Tony said. “Check. You know that’s a thing,right? Neurologists have discovered that skin-to-skin contact is vital tomental health.” The whole time he was talking, Tony’s fingers stroked downBucky’s shoulders, raising trails of gooseflesh in their wake. “Physicalcontact is necessary to being human, almost as much, if not moreso, than food.There’s nothing wrong with it; that you can even miss it shows that you’restill a person inside.”

Bucky found himself suddenly on the floor, arms around Tony’swaist who was sprawled, undignified. “It’s okay,” Tony repeated, and Buckypressed his cheek to Tony’s belly, listening to his heart racing under hisskin. “It’s all right.”

They sat that way for a good twenty minutes, Bucky letting hishand wander, touching as much of Tony’s skin as he could reach, his back, hiship, across his shoulder, let his finger trace the lines of Tony’s face. Whenthe pad of his index finger brushed Tony’s mouth, his lips pursed and hepressed a kiss gently to Bucky’s fingers.

Finally, Bucky was able to get himself under some sort of control,some semblance of sanity. He was blushing, furiously embarrassed, ashamed ofhimself and his weakness. “Tony, I’m…”

“Don’t say sorry, honeybunch,” Tony said. “Consider it doctor’sorders. We can make it part of your recovery. One hairwash and cuddle sessionevery few days. Do you a world of good.”

Bucky ducked his chin. “You don’t gotta take care of me.”

Tony put his finger against Bucky’s jaw and gently and lifted hisface. “It’s good for me, too. Helps me, knowing I’m making a difference. If youneed it, I’m… honored. To help.”

Bucky considered that for a long moment. “Okay… okay.”

“Then I’ll see you in --” Tony glanced down at his wrist, whichdidn’t contain a timekeeping device at all “-- tomorrow, same time?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice rough. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

#prompts #wineriron #tony x bucky #tony stark #bucky barnes #hair washing #cuddles #touch starved #panic attacks #celtic7irish

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insomniac-arrest · 7 years ago

Text

A Place for Things

words: 2k

summary: A woman goes to her mom’s funeral

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So, mom is dead. That’s not what you say funerals, that’s not what you say when you show up in a dress you bought at Macy’s the other day with your girlfriend’s credit card.

Mom isn’t supposed to be dead either, but you’re at least supposed to say something nice when she is. I forgot my eulogy in the car anyway, it didn’t start like that.

She was an angel, a light, a caregiver, nice words stuffed into an open gaping maw and you want to summon them so badly it feels like a throat burn. I wished I could pluck them out of some sort of word jar, loaded with just the right phrases- I would make a killing selling those.

An image burns a hole in my forehead.

My mom had jars, jars on jars on jars, she put fruits in them and jam and sewing supplies and ‘good things that happened to me’ this year slips of paper. It was the first thing people joked about when they tried to remember her.

You’re supposed to joke and say something meaningful, I can’t just stop thinking: she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.

I don’t even know what that means.

I brought a granola bar in my bag, I never liked granola and maybe that’s why I bought it, I have my student's old tests shoved in my dashboard and my car keys down the front of my shirt. I have on two gold rings.

I show up with a toothache from some wisdom tooth removal that happened fifteen years ago, the soles of my heels are basically shredded but I wouldn’t sit down now if they paid me. My mom would have liked that, not in a direct way, but in a way that no one would have stopped her from nodding in my direction.

I have on two gold rings, I didn’t mean to put on two but some things slip your mind when you're jamming objects onto your persons the morning of a funeral. I had already driven two and half hours and walked another twenty minutes because I couldn’t find free parking and maybe I wanted to walk.

She’d call it ‘waist saving’ and maybe put it in a jar.

Cousin Ben looks at me first, he takes my hand, the right one with the two gold rings on it and gives me the most tightly crisp smile I’ve ever seen. My own teeth show up like a snarl.

“Helen,” he greets and then bows his head, “We were just talking about you.” I tilt my head, I have places to be- like anywhere but here. “All good things I hope.” I laugh like the sound might get stuck in my throat.

“I won’t spoil it then.” He laughs too and the temptation to be a musical villain is there. I want to turn, I want to be angry at a lot of people at that moment.

My cousin Ben brought his best tie from a New Jersey suit shop he found, it’s blue because it’s sad and he likes sad things. He brought three cents in his pocket, he likes to rub them together when he’s nervous and count the number of times he’s rubbed them.

He’s trying to make it less, I know that. My cousin Ben brought mouthwash and breath mint, he doesn’t kiss people, he doesn’t like the feel, but he became very self-aware of his mouth when he was a kid and still had a dead tooth.

He liked to be aware of things, though this wasn’t something he would brag about at any farm to table restaurant he visited. He just rubs his coins together in his pocket.

He knows my mom is dead in the way that she sent him canned peaches when he was six, they said it was a bad birthday present, but that’s how he remembered her because no one else was going to give him canned peaches for his birthday.

He also has a faux-crocodile wallet, an iphone 7 shoved in his back pocket, and a short eulogy just in case one of us faints on the spot and he has to take over. My other cousin Jenny would like that. She loved things like that.

I wave and try to converse through my teeth, his smile made me have to smile. I wish I was walking again, ‘waist saving’ as my mom would say.

I go in once another guest grabs his attention, I don’t know her, she’s not in the family and I can tell she might like kissing in the way he doesn’t.

I walk the other direction and the utter cool of the house overwhelms me as I enter. I briefly close my eyes.

I brought one black purse with one long black sash across my shoulder and a tiny wallet that fit inside that. It was also black.

I want to go stuff cheese in my face, someone said there was cheese on the group chat: ‘Nancy’s Funeral.’ I had done enough walking.

My aunt Flora is standing in the dim green hallway of the entranceway, she catches my eye, she has green eyes too. She opens her mouth, her lips moving without any words coming out.

She had been to many more funerals than I had, maybe she wanted to say ‘sorry for your loss,’ but it was both of our loss, the words die there.

I offer her a nod, “how are you doing Aunt Flora?” More silent words come out, she purses her thin lips and tries again, “better than Nancy I suppose.” She laughs a throaty guttural sound and I join in, it’s a sitcom sound. You’re supposed to make a few jokes at funerals, like you’re making it meaningful.

My aunt Flora brought one padded purse with extra handkerchiefs, not for anyone else, she knows she’s prone to crying and they are a stern warning to herself not to.

She brought one accessory, red lipstick that smears her teeth every so slightly and the hope that maybe someone will hint at her about it. No one does. She brought a lumpy black dress and two terribly comfortable looking shoes, she knows about shoes and would talk to you about them if you asked. No one did.

In the purse was fifty-five dollars in cash because she’s trying to save up as much physical money as possible to carry around, she doesn’t trust banks, but she’s not very good at it.

I offer her my hand, “to us then,” I almost toast, “slightly better than the grave.” She laughs this time too, the type of wheeze that meant her handkerchiefs were trying to threaten her. I turn around without ceremony.

Me and my brother always said one of those jars had tears in it, that was the story and my mom was making a deal with a great witch down the street. That’s why she sometimes took us by the ear and kicked us out of the house for a few hours.

Before dad came home, it was never long, not long enough to be a thing, later in life times like those that felt like I knew her, she locked us out for a few hours and I almost understood her.

Everything else was a mystery, a hole, and if it wasn’t a hole then it certainly was now.

That’s also what I thought of when I looked at my aunt Flora. We toast to the wind and trade condolences before I duck my head and scurry off.

There was cheese, or maybe another walk.

I have to see my brother next, I know I do because sometimes the world is never predictable but it ends up that way anyway. I see him in the cheese room inside the church reception hall inside the sweaty damp heat of the Atlanta spring.

He’s talking to his wife, who I like, and she’s not talking at all. I can see why.

My brother is moving faster than the winds could catch and maybe he remembered being locked out of the house for a couple hours too.

My brother brought tea, not on purpose, but because his daughter bought him some as a condolences present and they were the type of family to buy each other presents. He accidentally tore one of the bags when opening it and stuffed it in his pocket to hide the fact.

He brought his reading glasses but he was trying not to show that he needed them.

He brought a suit jacket he got after a promotion last year and a pair of pants that were a slightly darker hue but he hoped no one noticed (no one did but cousin Jenny. She found it in poor taste).

He had on an undershirt that was a little too small, my mom would say he should do more ‘waist saver’ walks. She’d say it with a smile.

His wife brought Advil in her purse, sticks of gum, four of the family credit cards, a water bottle for her daughter who was in the other room, a lozenge, a nail clipper, a book about Helen Keller, and headphones- taken from her daughter. Then some granola bars, she for one actually likes granola bars.

I want to eat another hole through my shoes, a gaping ones the matches the one in my heels, they were from Nordstrom Rack and also black. But my brother was talking.

“She never really could let go of those keychains we made her every year, I bet she still has them in a box somewhere! Or probably a jar,” polite laughter, “I think she never found a glass container she didn’t like. I would have cut her off and switched her to cardboard if it wasn’t at least a little charming.” Polite laughter, “I wish she knew when to stop. She never knew when to stop. With some things! A follow through-er, my mom was a follow through-er, haha, she would hate if I called her that.” Polite laughter.

Interjected words across words leave my brothers mouth. I narrow my eyes and I decide not to head right out to the cheese portion of my afternoon, Family Friend Tamara was standing there and I could tell she wanted to ask me advice about her son.

I keep my eyes on my brother, he jumped from one place to another.

“She taught me my words with those damn recipe books, and then those stupid Monkey Phonics, God, I should have told her I hated those. But then she’d make me help can peaches! I think I still hate peaches.”

Friend Tamara brought baby wipes for her hands, Mom’s old college roommate brought expired raffle tickets, my brother’s daughter brought tea and her meds. The woman talking to cousin Ben that I didn’t know brought breath mints too, Cousin Jenny brought her entire set of keys and Cat’s the musical discography.

Someone brought flowers, everyone brought flowers. I brought two gold rings, a pair of pantyhose I forgot to put on in the car, a tiny wallet, I walk across the room.

I barely get his attention, “Mom’s dead.” I put my hand on my brother’s shoulder, it’s the first thing I say. Maybe that’s why my brother always got let back into the house first.

He turns to me and the words die in his mouth, maybe he would make another joke. I shake my head and we both feel the gaping open words a little wholer than they were.

I wish we both started to cry, but he stops talking. I don’t show him my eulogy because I left it in the car.

I finish what I’m saying, something, something, and we move to take our seats for the ceremony, the priest brings a napkin in his pocket. My mom lies, lovely, gone, someone left a jar- I wish they hadn’t.

I forgot my eulogy in the car, I make a joke about it on the way up.

#original story #death/#funerals #writing #original piece #I wrote something that wasn't a romance

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maximumsuckage · 7 years ago

Text

Satan goes to the store

Word count: 1815

There are a lot of odd things that go on in the parking lot of the average Walmart. Over there, in the back corner, you can see a couple of teenagers. Look at them, all greasy, their faces covered in the red blemishes of puberty. One of them is counting cash- he thinks he’s being surreptitious, but in reality, the way he glances around, his floppy hair flopping with every motion of his head like a black and red streaked flag, is a beacon to any cop that might be sitting around that something shady is about to go down. Oh, look! There’s the cop now! He’s sitting a few parking spots away, noshing on a pastry he’d just bought, eyeballing the woman walking by with a look of disdain. And no wonder- she’s walking down the parking lot, enormous hips swaying in the tight yoga pants she has pulled up to just under her sagging bosom. She wears no bra- her nipples are currently fighting a winning battle to bust through the transparent fabric of the wife-beater she wears with the pride of a queen.

Although, the cop can’t really judge her, considering that he’s missed the drug deal that just transpired in front of him. Perhaps he’ll notice when one of the boys pulls a badly wrapped joint out of the paper bag? No, he doesn’t notice.

His attention, however, is turned to the sleek black car that speeds down the row of the lot. It’s a beautiful car, something old and yet well cared for, with a trunk large enough to fit a dead body in. There is no exhaust, no purr of engine. It speeds, and yet it is silent. Odd, I’m sure, but, like I said, a lot of shit goes down in a Walmart parking lot.

The cop considers flagging the car down, but there’s a dark feeling in the pit of his stomach, an ancestral fear that borders on genetic, it’s so old. Who is he to flag down such a glorious car? Who is he to stop the king of the road, the lord of the highway, the sultan of the interstate?

The black car slows, and pulls into a handicap spot.

What a scumbag, honestly. There is no handicap tag hanging in the windshield. I hope the cop works up the courage to go and ticket that asshole with the silent cool old car.

The door of the car opens, and out steps a man.

Well- I think he’s a man. He’s certainly man shaped- what a man, oh, what a man. His shoulders are rounded with deltoids of the gods; his white button-down clings to his pectorals. His waist is as slim as a woman’s, no doubt with more abs than Captain America himself, and his face- his face looks as though it was carved by God himself, with perfect cheekbones and a strong chin and lips that could only be described as soft, yet firm, kissable, and yet untouchable.

His eyes though- how can I describe those eyes? They are like…

No. I must refrain.

The scumbag parked in the handicap, remember. He is, somewhere beneath those muscles that any sane girl would love to run her hands slowly over as they glisten with sweat, the hole of an ass.

He reaches into the pockets of his jeans, which cling to his perfectly formed gluteus, and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. Let’s zoom in a bit to see what it says-

No, too close. Don’t let me get distracted by the perfume of sweetly burning incense that hangs around him like a fog of heavenly breath.

Too far, now I can’t see the paper.

There we go. Now let’s read together.

Eggs. Bread. Headphones. Pencil sharpener. Pens. Party lights. Chips. Salsa. Guac. Greeting cards. Knife sharpener. Stain remover. Nail clippers. Eyeliner. Toothbrush/toothpaste. Hair gel.

Wow, that’s a solid list. Let’s watch him try to find all the items. After all, there’s nothing more fun than watching a sexy beast of a man try to traverse through your average Walmart.

The greeter is an elderly woman who looks like she would be better off using the parking lot he stole. “Hi, how’s it going? Can we help you find anything?”

He ignores her and attempts to walk past. He’s not a very nice person, as we’ve already established. Perhaps this would change if he were to meet a nice girl, in her early twenties, who works hard in college and enjoys writing on the side. But, alas, that is not to be.

The greeter follows him. Her hair is like a wild white mane; her face is too wrinkled to even discern where her eyes once were. “Sir, it’s a beautiful day out! Let one of our friendly staff members help you find-”

“I know where everything is!” He whips around, and there’s fire in his eyes. Literal fire in his eyes… hmmm, that’s odd, wouldn’t you say? Now that I think of it, are there horns curling from between his luscious locks of thick black hair? Weird… but weird stuff happens at Walmart, so who are we to judge?

“Okay then.” The old woman raises her hands innocently, but there’s a sassiness to the flick of her wrists that belies her enormous age. “Just trying to help. You didn’t need to go all crazy on me, but who am I to try to do my job?”

“Who are any of us to do our damn jobs?” He mutters to himself, stalking towards the toiletries section.

What an odd thing to say? Would it seem that the hunky piece of man candy is not satisfied in his current career path? Let’s zoom in closer and see what else we can glean from his errand.

He’s standing in front of the tooth paste selection now. Apparently he can’t decide which one to choose. That’s an understandable conundrum- there’s so many! You can have whitening toothpaste, non-whitening tooth paste, toothpaste for sensitive teeth, generic toothpaste, toothpaste with baking powder, sensitive and whitening toothpaste…

He settles for regular Crest toothpaste. A solid choice sir- I applaud you! And then he moves to the toothbrushes. This time, he doesn’t spend that much time, and simply grabs a package of four cheap ones. That’s also a good choice. I, personally, don’t see much difference between toothbrushes, but I know some people care a great amount.

Now he checks his list and sighs, heading across the store to the food aisle. He takes a little detour though, jogging his path to cut through the makeup aisle, thereby avoiding the greeter. Hey, remember you need to buy eyeliner, you beautiful douchebag!

Nope. He forgot. He’ll have to make another detour.

He pauses to pick up a basket on his way to the bread, hanging it off his lean forearm so he can carry more items at once. Clever boy!

There’s a woman already at the bread. Hey, it’s the woman from earlier- remember her? Her nipples are like a second pair of eyeballs pressed against the fabric of her shirt. She studies the bread, picking up every loaf and reading the labels carefully, like getting the wrong loaf might make her blow up.

Our anti-hero walks up to the bread, his triangle-tipped tail flicking in irritation at being there. Did you see the tail before? I didn’t, but I was distracted by his pecs. I know, I know. It’s a weakness. But I’m a reliable narrator. I swear.

It’s a nice tail. It’s all feathered, with a sleek black that match his wings-

SHIT! I forgot to tell you this guy has wings too!

I’m just failing you here. I’m sorry. I’ll do better from here on out. Really, it’s just such an odd thing to see, even in such a place as Walmart.

He reaches around the woman for a loaf of whole wheat bread, and she turns so suddenly that her bosoms are set a-swinging. One enormous breast hits the end of its swing, bounces back, and smacks our hero right in his perfectly sculpted arm.

He freezes, and is that- it is! His cheeks, pale and white as a corpse in a coffin, pink a little, like the setting sun tinting the sky with rose, when he feels the nipple touch the bare flesh exposed by his folded sleeve.

“Excuse you?” The woman puts her hands on her hips, drawing herself up to her full height, which, to be frank, isn’t that impressive. “I was over here, trying to shop, and you just shove on through?”

He takes a half step back, taken by surprise, no doubt, by the suddenly irate woman.

“The nerve of people! You think that just because you’re a man, you can have whatever you want? Well fuck you!"

Now he’s had a moment to regroup. The blush vanishes and his feathers fluff up dramatically. “Do you dare berate me, woman? Be gone, foul slut! Take your admonishments elsewhere!”

“Are you yelling at me now?” She crosses her arms now, sticking her hip out like she’d seen somebody trendy do on the TV. “How dare you. How dare you? You think you can just come into my store and yell at me when I have just as much a right to shop here as you? Fuck you! Fuck you and fuck your life!”

“I want to buy a loaf of bread!” His eyes flared, and the woman suddenly gasped, bug eyed, clutching at her throat. “I came here to buy a loaf of bread, and-”

“Hey, uh, Satan?”

What’s this? Another person has entered the scene. He’s not a large man, and he looks a bit awkward interrupting the encounter that has been going down. Our delicious scumbag pauses, hand raised in the air, feathers fluffed in fight mode, and looks down at the newcomer, who happens to be wearing Walmart blue.

“What do you want?” His voice is a low growl, a sneer in vocal form.

“I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, man. You can’t choke out any of our customers again.”

“She yelled at me!”

“I know she yelled at you, bud, but sometimes you just gotta take the hit and keep moving.” The employee points. “You can come back tomorrow.”

Satan glares at him, and then glares at the woman, who is floating about four feet above the ground and gasping as her cheeks turn blue.

“Drop her, Satan.”

Still, he hesitates, as the woman clutches at her neck.

“Satan.”

Finally, he drops her. She falls to the floor, gasping, and then gets up. “You think you can just choke me? You pervert, I’ll have you know-”

But what she’ll have Satan know, he’ll never know, because he’s gone,leaving only the lingering stench of brimstone behind. Oh, unhappy day. I shall never see such beautiful musculature again.

#writing #writer #amwriting #nanowrimo #nanowrimo day 1 #satan #humor #fiction #original writing #idk even #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #spilled words #prose #artsy #aesthetic #story #words #my writing

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junker-town · 5 years ago

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The 10 least consequential athletes of the decade

Some rules before we begin:

This list is arranged in no particular order, because my definition of “inconsequential” is somewhat arbitrary and varies from case to case. It might mean that the athlete’s career was a meaningless blip on the radar, or brilliantly brief and terrible, or impressively invisible. If you take issue with anything you read here, I pledge to rewrite it to your satisfaction and mail you $100.

This list is nearly entirely made up of athletes competing at the top echelon of their sport, as fun as it would be to mock four-year-old T-ball first basemen who stood directly on top of the base, wore their glove on the wrong hand and cried.

This list is entirely made up of men. Women’s sports made enormous strides in the 2010s, and even those who played, say, two career minutes of WNBA basketball still contributed to something meaningful. None of the guys below were doing anything important.

If you’re one of the guys on this list, and you read this, please take some satisfaction in the knowledge that in 2012, I had to seek medical attention after injuring my knee playing Wiffle ball.

Chris Pettit

Pinch runner, Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, 2011

In this decade, Chris Pettit came tantalizingly close to playing the least amount of baseball a Major League Baseball player can possibly play.

Pettit appeared in exactly one 2010s game. On April 8, 2011, the Angels trailed the Blue Jays by a run with two out in the bottom of the ninth. After slow-footed catcher Hank Conger singled, Pettit, who had shown impressive speed in the minors, was sent in as his pinch runner. Up next was 24-year-old Peter Bourjos, by no means a power hitter. In this situation, Pettis likely took a fairly conservative lead off first.

Bourjos struck out on four pitches. Pettis walked off the field and was never seen in the major leagues again.

Baseball’s classic cup-of-coffee story is that of Moonlight Graham, the rookie who famously trotted out to right field, never saw anything hit his way, and ended his career without ever getting to bat or field a baseball. In his farewell game, Pettit did even less: he walked fewer steps to take his position, he was only out there for a minute or so, and he never once wore a glove or held a bat.

Hypothetically, we can imagine an appearance less meaningful than this one, but only barely. Changing Bourjos’ result to a line-out on the first pitch is no good, because if that happens, our man Pettit becomes a baserunner with a ball in play, if only for a second or two. His heart rate probably spikes. Can’t have that. No, this needs to be a strikeout. The only tragedy, then, is that Bourjos struck out on four pitches and not three.

If we want to get greedy, we can imagine the Angels as the visiting team. Playing at home, their dugout was on the left side of the field, meaning Pettit had to jog all the way across the diamond to take his place at first. As the visitor, first base would have been just a few steps away from the bench.

Pettit stood there for a minute with bare and empty hands. That was his Major League Baseball decade. It might very well be the most meaningless decade a major league baseball player has ever experienced.

Darius Johnson-Odom

Shooting guard, Los Angeles Lakers and Philadelphia 76ers, 2012-2014

In contrast to Darius Johnson-Odom’s storied career at Marquette and his years in China and Italy, his NBA life lasted 21 minutes. They were a very, very busy 21 minutes. His 11 shot attempts came from everywhere on the floor — a layup, a scattering of mid-range shots, and a couple of heaves from at least 26 feet out. All 11 of them missed. He was once sent to the stripe for a pair of free-throw attempts, and he missed both of those as well.

Across NBA history, 14 players have attempted at least three field goals and ended their career with zero points. Johnson-Odom left them all in the dust.

He did everything else, from rebounding to stealing to assisting to fouling. He was all over the floor. In the end, his career usage rate stood at 28.4 percent, higher than that of Patrick Ewing, Blake Griffin, and Damian Lillard.

This is perhaps the greatest testament to the inconsequential nature of Johnson-Odom’s career: even if we decided to rewrite the record books and rule that every one of his 11 shots went in, it would not change the result of a single game. He never even attempted a shot that mattered.

His full name, Darius Earvin Johnson-Odom, sneaks in the names of two fellow Lakers with considerably more notable careers. The two names appear to have canceled one another out entirely, a phenomenon we also see in a man named ...

JamesOn Curry

Point guard, Los Angeles Clippers, 2010

In the 2010s, the NBA revolved around LeBron James and Stephen Curry. The two megastars spent four consecutive Finals smashing their teams against one another. Before the opening tip of every season, at least one of them was correctly presumed destined for the Finals as though they were sitting presidents running for a second term.

“James on Curry” sounds like the god of the NBA guarding the other god of the NBA. “JamesOn Curry” is the name of a guy whose entire career can fit in a GIF. Welcome to the start of JamesOn Curry’s NBA career.

Welcome to the end of JamesOn Curry’s NBA career. It lasted 3.9 seconds, making it the shortest in the history of the league.

Curry had been through it all just to get here, and now lives a life as a youth basketball instructor that makes him happier than he guesses an NBA career would have. We’re free to laugh at these 3.9 seconds all we want. God knows I am. Curry has better things to do. Besides, as he pointed out, he probably got paid more per second than anyone else in NBA history.

Glenn Winston

Running back, Cleveland Browns, 2014-2015

After assaulting a hockey player while in college, spending six months in jail, and going undrafted, Glenn Winston had found his way into the NFL. A running back by trade, he appeared mostly as a special-teamer for the Browns before finally receiving his first career carry on Dec. 13, 2015.

Some GIFs make a sound. This one says, “bloop!”

The 49ers’ Ian Williams doesn’t just strip the ball, he punches it out like a golfer trying to negotiate a sand trap. It shot eight yards downfield. Fumbling away one’s first career carry is bad enough, but this ensured an extra indignity. Because the ball wasn’t recovered until it was eight yards downfield, this play went in the books as a negative-eight-yard run, a result that usually implies a ball carrier unwilling to cut his losses or a catastrophic jet sweep. Winston didn’t even get the satisfaction of trying something crazy. He bet $10 and lost $100.

Winston never carried the ball again, cementing his career line: one carry, negative-8 yards, one fumble. Among pure running backs, it is the lowest career yardage total in the 100-year history of the NFL.

Also among pure running backs, Winston is one of just four players to fumble away their only career rushing attempt. Another of those four, incredibly, was Winston’s teammate. Fullback Malcolm Johnson had been placed on injured reserve a few days prior, and would go on to drop his only carry the following season.

This was a meaningless late-season game featuring two teams that finished last in their respective divisions.

It was reported Winston suffered a concussion on this play.

Baxter Price

Guard, Mississippi State, 2010-2013

The fans in Starkville wanted so, so badly for Baxter Price to take a shot. He would not.

“I think it goes without saying, when I get out there on the court, I’m not there to score.”

In basketball, the box score practically begs a player to somehow register, to prove you did indeed exist at some point and weren’t a mere bookkeeping error. Some can’t or won’t. “Club Trillion,” popularized by Ohio State’s Mark Titus, is a fraternity of players who have finished a game with 1 in the minutes column and 0 in every other, forming a box score that reads 1000000000000, or one trillion. Many can claim membership in this club, but Baxter Price is an especially valued shopper. In the 2010s, he finished with:

17 one-trillion games,

four two-trillion games (in other words, two minutes played and no other stats),

a three-trillion game,

a five-trillion game,

a six-trillion game, and

an eight-trillion game.

That eight-trillion game fell on Feb. 13, 2013, during a 78-36 clobbering at the hands of Missouri. Price, a walk-on on his home court with a cult following, had every reason to attempt a shot; the Bulldogs were down 34-10 at halftime and none of his teammates could hit a bucket to save their lives. If a guy named Craig Sword is permitted to go 0-for-8, surely Price is allowed that indulgence. Instead, he spent eight garbage minutes — 480 seconds — on the floor without notching a shot attempt, assist, rebound, steal, block, foul, or turnover. Did he at least touch the ball at some point? Probably, but we have no evidence of it.

Price did score one bucket in 2009, but in this decade, he was almost entirely invisible. He spent 118 minutes on the floor and totaled 30 basketball things (six shot attempts, six rebounds, two assists, one block, nine turnovers, six fouls, and zero points).

That’s one basketball act every four minutes or so. It’s the faint signal of a distant star we will never visit. Price played basketball billions of years ago and billions of light-years away, but we are nearly certain that at one point, he was there.

Joel Rechlicz

Right winger, New York Islanders and Washington Capitals, 2010-2012

Thank heavens for arbitrary cutoff dates. Take stock of Joel Rechlicz’s career as a whole, and you find an enforcer who played a scattering of games. But if we focus specifically on his 2010s, we find something really special.

It was his job to start fights, and he did it with flair. His first fight, in April 2010, resembles a video game with poor collision detection.

Rechlicz earned five minutes in the penalty box for this one; later that night, he would receive another 15 minutes for a much more boring fight against Eric Godard.

It would be nearly two years until Rechlicz appeared in another NHL game. In 2012, he was quiet during a couple of brief appearances for the Capitals on Jan. 31 and Feb. 1. On Feb. 13, he hit the ice for 90 seconds, drew a 10-minute misconduct penalty, and left the NHL for good.

In the 2010s, he totaled 30 minutes in the penalty box and just nine and a half minutes on the ice playing actual hockey. That is absolutely as bizarre as it sounds.

This decade, NHL players spent a combined 12 years and change on the ice playing regular-season hockey, and they spent a combined 151 days in the penalty box, yielding a ratio of 3.2 percent. Behold the penalty minutes ratio of Rechlicz:

This man spent the vast majority of his 2010s NHL career sitting in a little room by himself. They shouldn’t have bothered to issue him a hockey stick. He was not a hockey player. He was a brave wanderer. He did not play the sport he played, and I celebrate him for that.

Joseph Sandoval

Bantamweight fighter, UFC, 2011-2012

Sandoval went 6-2 as a fighter, with both losses handed to him in the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Forty-five seconds into his UFC career, Joseph Sandoval got kicked in his penis and balls. It was an accidental low blow from Walel Watson, and things like this just happen from time to time, but the broadcast heaped on an extra indignity. You might wonder why in the world this is captured in slow motion:

Well, during the stoppage, they pulled up a slo-mo replay just so announcers Joe Rogan and Mike Goldberg could laugh at him.

ROGAN: A replay, because America loves these. There you go, folks.

GOLDBERG: [laughing] We show it ‘cause we can.

ROGAN. Yes. Sit at home on your couch and be happy that’s not you.

GOLDBERG: [laughing]

Seconds later, Sandoval took a dozen hammers to the face and was knocked out just over a minute into the fight. He returned to the octagon in 2012 for a prelim bout against Nick Denis, who threw some devastating elbows at his head and knocked him out in just 22 seconds. That was it for his UFC career.

Typically, entry-level UFC prelim fighters get $10,000 to show up and fight and an additional $10,000 if they win, which is an absurdly low level of compensation. Accounting for the gym fees, training, licensing, nutrition, and everything else a fighter like Sandoval has to pony up for, he quite possibly actually lost money on this venture, essentially paying for the privilege of taking a thrashing in the octagon, getting kicked in the wiener, and being made fun of by the Fear Factor man.

Mike Trout

Outfielder, Los Angeles Angels, 2011-2019

Don’t get mad at me. This is exactly what he wants.

I recently set up a poll of my Twitter followers to ask them whether they know who Mike Trout is. These people, of course, are far more likely to be sports fans than the average person. Even then, of the approximately 7,000 responses, a full third — 33.8 percent — responded that they’re either only vaguely aware of him, or they have no idea of who he is.

The same people who are unfamiliar with Trout are certainly also unfamiliar with Wins Above Replacement, or WAR. This baseball metric is an effort to estimate how many more wins a team won with a given player than they would have with a replacement-level player in his place. Remember that this is a counting statistic, like home runs or RBI:

Trout is only 28 years old. Even if he retired today, his WAR of 72.5 would eclipse 68 percent of all players in the Hall of Fame. Earlier this year he surpassed Derek Jeter, who played until age 40. If his next season is anything like his last eight seasons, he’ll sail past Frank Thomas, Reggie Jackson, Joe DiMaggio, and Pete Rose before his 30th birthday. The season after that, he’s very likely to pass Nolan Ryan, Ken Griffey, Jr., and Chipper Jones.

Forecasting WAR is a pretty stupid game to play, so let’s at least stay conservative. If Trout immediately regresses to playing 5.0 WAR seasons, rather than his usual 9.0, and retires 10 years from now, he’ll move just barely above Lou Gehrig. Babe Ruth is probably the only guy out of reach. Apart from him, there’s no telling where he’ll end up, but we’re headed for a future in which Mike Trout is considered one of the very greatest baseball players who ever lived.

He is not as well-known as Tim Tebow, who hit .163 in triple-A last season, has never appeared in the major leagues, and is probably the most well-known active baseball player in America.

This is a triumph for Trout, who is getting exactly what he wants. MLB commissioner Rob Manfred recently took the unusual step of criticizing Trout for not putting in the effort to market himself, but Trout responded with one of my favorite character traits: genial, kind, and yet absolutely, immovably stubborn. All good, man! Cool! I like to play baseball and spend time with my family. Good luck with your business ventures.

He’s accomplished the impossible. He’s the greatest player of his generation, he’s played in Los Angeles for nearly a decade, and he’s less famous than every member of the Kars 4 Kids band.

Trout’s career is also a case study in how little individual greatness can matter in baseball. In terms of ability, he stands above his peers like Lamar Jackson and LeBron James do. Jackson has transformed his team into the best in the NFL. The NBA orbits around James. Nine years into the Trout era, the Angels have never won a playoff game, and have finished with a losing record in each of the last four seasons.

Many great athletes have been thought of as godlike, but being great is only half the idea. To be a god, you must also be invisible.

Maurice Simpkins

Special teams, Green Bay Packers, 2010

Maurice Simpkins was a computer programmer who made some extra cash playing linebacker for the Green Bay Blizzard, an Indoor Football League team. A block up the street, the Packers were plagued by injuries. Desperate to shore up their special teams unit, they signed Simpkins. “He was added to camp as just a body, basically,” explained Joe Buck, just after Simpkins registered one of the unlikeliest kick returns ever.

It’s unclear exactly how many plays Simpkins was on the field for. He was certainly never meant to touch the ball. Near halftime on Oct. 10, 2010, Washington kicker Graham Gano squared up and kicked the ball right at A.J. Hawk’s helmet.

Whether he did so intentionally, I can’t say, but it’s what allowed Simpkins to go into the books as a kick returner.

He did the smart thing, which was to fall on the ball and lie there until tagged. Simpkins never touched the ball again. He now runs a tech consulting firm, and I hope to God that when those 2010 Packers went on to win the Super Bowl, they gave him a ring.

Rico Richardson

Wide receiver, Tennessee Titans, 2014-2015

In football, a “target” refers to an instance of a player being thrown the ball, whether or not he catches it. It’s been tracked as an NFL statistic since 1992. In the decades since, only 11 players have ever received five or more targets without ever actually catching the ball once in their entire career.

For most of these men, this wasn’t such a big deal. Micah Ross, Isaiah Burse, Mitchell Galloway, and Terrence Warren were listed as receivers, but really spent most of their time as kick and/or punt returners. Dominique Davis, Kion Wilson, Khreem Smith, Jeff Smith and Tim Johnson played other positions entirely, and were largely targeted in gimmick plays. The only true receivers ever to suffer this fate are the Patriots’ Anthony Ladd, who played briefly in 1998, and the hero of our story, Rico Richardson.

Richardson was a former high school track and field champion who ran an impressive 4.38 40-yard dash at an NFL Combine. After going undrafted in 2013, he became a practice-squad regular who bounced from team to team. In 2014, he landed on the Titans’ roster, and on Nov. 1, 2015, he was thrown his first-ever NFL football.

Fourth-and-4. The Titans are down by two scores with just under five minutes left in the game. Their quarterback, Zach Mettenberger, puts it on the money, but when the Texans’ Johnathan Joseph swoops in to knock it out of the way, there isn’t much Richardson can do about it.

Minutes later, with the game all but conceded, Mettenberger leads Richardson straight into double-coverage. He has zero chance of hauling this in, and is clobbered.

Two weeks later, the Titans are once again wrapping up a loss in the final minutes, this time with Marcus Mariota behind center. Wideout Justin Hunter is injured, pressing Richardson into action. Mariota tries to find him deep, but sails an uncatchable ball way over his head.

It’s now Nov. 19. Titans at Jaguars. It’s the last NFL game Richardson will ever play. Near halftime, Mariota drops back into his own end zone on third-and-14. Richardson has shaken his man and set the table for a wide-open first down.

Mariota puts it even further over his head, and the Titans punt.

We’re late in the fourth quarter now. The Titans trail by six. With 1:10 remaining, Mariota is forced to scramble out of the pocket. Since Richardson is within 20 miles of the throw, he goes in the books as the targeted receiver, but he can do nothing but watch as a nameless staffer catches the ball several steps out of bounds.

Five seconds remaining, Titans still down by six. Richardson is about to get an opportunity no one like him ever, ever gets. Titans head coach Mike Mularkey calls a play that specifically calls for the ball to be thrown to the wideout on the right side.

That’s Richardson.

A timeout is called before the play, giving Mularkey every opportunity to switch him out for any one of his other receivers. He doesn’t! On the play that will decide the game, Mularkey is sticking with a guy who has never caught an NFL pass.

Richardson’s odds aren’t great. The Jaguars have pulled seven guys all the way back, essentially making this a short Hail Mary. What’s important is that he has a chance. There would be no better way to establish his place on an NFL roster than to haul in the game-winning touchdown.

This time figures to be different. Every other ball he’s ever been thrown has been impossible to catch, whether out of bounds, 1- feet over his head, or directly into double-coverage. We can say this much about the Hail Mary: it’s almost certainly going to be inbounds, with a high, slow arc that will give Richardson enough time to make a play on it. No matter what happens, no matter how much traffic there is in the end zone, he will finally have a chance. That is all we, his biggest fans, are asking for. A chance.

Mariota takes the snap. Richardson races upfield, hits the goal line, breaks left, and turns to see that the Jaguars’ four-man rush has somehow eaten the Titans’ line alive. Mariota is looking, looking, looking, and chased down from behind.

He didn’t even make a throw.

At the end, the coaches’ camera catches Richardson in the corner. He’s standing bolt upright, arms at his sides and feet right next to each other like a toy soldier, watching his career arrive at its end.

The Jaguars, a bad team that will finish 5-11, have beaten the Titans, another bad team that will finish 3-13, in a game immediately forgotten.

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totallyrhettro · 7 years ago

Text

Adrift, chapter 4

Word Count: 2243 Rating: This chapter: PG; overall story: explicit Warnings: None Summary: After almost drowning in the Cape Fear River as a young man, Rhett can’t seem to get over his fear of swimming. Link is a swim instructor who offers to help. Notes: AU. Rhett and Link have never met and are in their late 20s. Based on the events described in GMCL 24, but Rhett was there alone.

Chapter 1 Previous Chapter

Rhett had never been big on working out. He never really had to. His metabolism had treated him well over the years and all his basketball playing during high school had kept his waistline fairly slim. Still his love of fast food, and food in general, gave him a less than flat stomach and he worked hard over the next few days at the gym to rid himself of that unwanted flab. Not that he was expecting a huge change in less than a week, but it gave him just enough confidence to buy a brand new bathing suit. Standing before the mirror in his pitch black speedos, he turned and twisted about, trying to see his body from every angle. He didn’t think he looked half bad. Hopefully Link would like the view, as well.

It was brave, it was stupid, it was optimistic and ambitious, but Rhett was determined to wear the speedos to his first lessons at Link’s house. He also grabbed up his clippers and trimmed his hair and beard, making sure he was at his absolute best for this encounter. He thought about waxing his chest and stomach, but that had never really been his thing. He wanted to show off his best qualities, not pretend to be someone else. Finally he threw on his board shorts, one of his favorite tees, and he was ready to go. He grinned at himself in the mirror.

‘You got this.’

He pulled up to the address that Link had given him around ten o’clock in the morning. The two story white stucco house seemed rather plain, for a house in Pacific Palisades. It had a very modern look, all square and framed with columnar trees. He pulled into the curving stone driveway, hoping he was in the right place. It seemed too rich a neighboring for an engineering consultant, but the address matched the one he had written down.

It wasn’t until Link answered the front door that Rhett was sure he had come to the right place. The blue-eyed brunet smiled when he recognized his visitor and offered his hand to greet him.

“Hey, Rhett,” he began. He had his glasses on, which framed his face nicely, and was wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a dark tee with no shoes. “You’re early. Come on in.” He led the way down the front hallway towards the living room beyond. “The pool’s this way.” Rhett could see it from here. Pass the huge living room, lined wall to wall and ceiling to floor with huge windows, was the backyard. The in-ground pool was of decent size, the sunlight reflecting beautifully off of the smooth surface. The living room itself was sparsely decorated, with a couch and a few matching chairs facing a dark stone fireplace. Just before the living room a open air staircase rose up to the second floor, and a hallway that led to the kitchen he could just barely make out.

“Nice place,” he managed, quite taken aback.

“Oh, thanks,” Link answered, surprised. “Most of the cost is from the view, though.” He continued on through the living room and opened the sliding glass door leading to the back.

“View?” Rhett didn’t have to hear Link’s answer as he followed him outside. Passed a short hedge and an ungroomed grassy hill, the world fell away. The steep hill overlooked the town below and beyond that the ocean. It was a breathtaking sight and he couldn’t imagine being able to see it every single day. It was incredible. “Wow.” Link smiled bashfully.

“How do you want to start?” he asked, gesturing towards the pool. Rhett hadn’t taken more than a few steps out of the door and just looking at the still waters made his heart beat faster. Sensing his friend’s discomfort, Link motioned towards the living room. “Maybe we should start at the beginning.”

“I was a senior in high school,” Rhett began, “at Harnett county high. You remember the Cape Fear river?” Link nodded. “I used to love going swimming there. I’d explore all along it, trying to find new places to swim and explore the woods past it.”

“All by yourself?” Link marveled.

“My brother was three years older than me, so he wasn’t gonna hang out with me. My friend, Ben, sometimes came with, but not this time.” He shifted in his seat. Here, in Link’s living room, on his comfy couch, he knew he was safe, yet just remembering that night brought back… unpleasant tingles in his chest. “It was late February. I’d been chomping at the bit to go swimming and, outta nowhere, a warm sunny day. Seventy five degrees, easy. I thought, ‘I’m goin’ go explore a new part of the river.”

Link just nodded, listening closely. He had a sense of where this story was going, but he neither wanted to jump to conclusions or interrupt his friend’s tale.

“It was after school. I got in my car and headed straight for the river. Now- you know, you’ve lived near there- not all of the Cape Fear river is wide. Some parts of it where it thins out and becomes more of a creek, it’s easier to cross.” Another nod from Link. He had done his fair share of exploring through the backwoods of North Carolina. He wondered if he and Rhett had grown up as friends, what it would have been like to hang out there together. “I figured, you know, it’s a creek. What could happen? So I slip out of my shirt and just go for it. I took about two and a half steps…” Rhett paused. He could remember the area of the river so clearly, even after all this time. “I thought it’d be, you know.. I’d land in about two feet of water.”

Rhett is shaking now, ever so slightly, remembering the sensation of falling off the world into the icy river. He doesn’t notice as Link places his hand over his, listening intently to his every word.

“The water was frigid, forty degrees, no doubt. My body went into complete shock almost instantly. It was like trying to swim in concrete that’s setting. I couldn’t breathe, I could barely move, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get back to the surface. I couldn’t…. I couldn’t…”

“But you made it,” Link commented, holding Rhett’s hand tenderly in his own. “You survived.”

“I was swept downstream. It was only for a minute or two, but far enough. Some guys fishin’ pulled me out and gave me CPR. I don’t remember that part; I had gone unconscious by that point. The next thing I remember I was in the hospital. The doctors kept telling me I was lucky to be alive. My mother wouldn’t stop fawning over me.” He shook his head as his own stupidity. “My father told me how lucky I was. He was right.”

“And ever since then,” Link asked, gently. “You’ve been afraid?”

“It wasn’t just the fact that I could have died,” Rhett explained. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my lifetime to rival that. It was what happened before I passed out. It was like…” He paused, trying to find the words, recalling the events with perfect clarity. “Time didn’t exist for me. I dream about it, every now and then. It was like being suspended in space… and then I was dying. I could feel myself dying. ”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” Rhett hadn’t even noticed he had been crying and now he tried to wipe them away with his palm. Link rubbed his back, wishing he had a tissue to give his new friend. “I know that was hard for you to talk about.”

“I only told my brother what really happened, how it felt. I didn’t want to worry my parents anymore than I had. Didn’t want them to know how badly it affected me.”

“Thank you for sharing it with me, for trusting me, and believe me when I say I think I can help you.” Rhett turned his reddened eyes towards Link, his heart full of hesitant faith. “But I think we need to start small. Do you trust me?” Looking into Link’s caring face, Rhett trusted him completely, but part of him was still scared. He knew was trusting this man entailed, what it would lead to. He wished facing his fear didn’t involve actually facing his fear.

“Yes,” he whispered. More than anything he wanted Link to help him.

“Come with me.”

“A bathtub?” Of all the things Rhett thought Link was going to suggest, sticking his feet into a filled bathtub wasn’t one of them.

“I told you,” Link explained kindly. “We need to start small.” There was a twinkle in his eye that made Rhett think he was being pranked, but he did promise to do everything Link told him. Besides, it wasn’t like being near a bathtub didn’t give him a slight tingle of fear. As the porcelain basin slowly filled with lukewarm water, he found himself slowly inching towards the far end of the bathroom.

The downstairs bathroom, like the rest of Link’s house was larger than it perhaps needed to be. Connected to both the living room and Link’s personal workout room, it was large enough to hold the traditional toilet and sink, as well as a bathtub and separate shower. Decorated with a simple elegance, it almost exuded uptown modesty, as if someone was trying to pretend they weren’t rich and failing horribly. Rhett did appreciate the size of the room as it gave him more space between the tub and himself than his own bathroom did.

“Am I going to be taking a bath?” he asked, nervously. Link chuckled as he checked the temperature for the second time.

“We’re just gonna see if you can put your foot in.” He looked Rhett up and down, his eyes scanning a bit too thoroughly for just a casual examination. “Good thing you wore shorts.”

“You don’t have anything smaller?” He chuckled as he spoke, but his nervousness was still there, and very obvious. “Like maybe… a bowl?”

“You’ll be fine,” Link assured him, turning off the tap. He held out his hand, offering Rhett help and comfort. “I’ll be right here.” Rhett chewed on his lip, ran his fingers through his hair and adjusted his feet. He felt like a complete dork, being afraid of a bathtub of water, and he really did feel better having Link near him. For him, he wanted to be brave. For him, he wanted to succeed.

Taking Link’s hand in his own, Rhett crept up to the edge of the tub, looking down at the still-rippling water. He could see the bottom clearly, that helped. Kneeling down he sat on the edge of the tub. Link didn’t let go of his hand and there was no way in hell Rhett was going to let go of his.

“I haven’t taken a bath since I was a child,” he noted. Showers always felt safer, less confined.

“Well, we might work up to that.” Was he flirting? No way he was flirting. “Why don’t you try touching it first?” Tightening his grip on Link’s hand, Rhett leaned slowly forward. Very slowly. He felt nervous, but he should have been terrified. Ever other time he had tried to touch water like this it had ended in him pulling away, or worse. He dearly didn't want to have another panic attack. “I’m right here,” Link reminded him. “You’re doing great.”

Rhett’s fingers trembled as they brushed the water’s surface, but he didn’t pull away. His fingertips broke the surface and still he didn’t pull away. It wasn’t until he felt the warm water on his palm that he began to breath shakily.

“Rhett?” Link pressed, carefully. “What are you feeling?”

“Scared.” So scared. “I can’t…”

“It’s okay, I’m here.” Rhett was grateful for that, so, so grateful. “Go ahead and pull your hand out. Slowly.” Rhett wanted to whip his hand out and run away. The instinct was surging through his veins. Link could sense it. “You’re in control here,” he assured Rhett. “Not the water, you. You choose to leave the water, it doesn't force you.” Fighting ever fight or flight instinct in his body, Rhett eased his hand out of the water. He held his breath until he was completely out, then let it out in one long relieved sigh.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, looking at the drops dripping from his hand. He didn’t even feel the slightest bit faint. He still had adrenaline running through his bloodstream and he very much wanted to get away from the water, but the darkness wasn’t there. The tunnel closing in around him wasn’t there. He turned to Link, his hand still holding on to his own.

“You did it.” Link helped Rhett to his feet, one hand on Rhett’s the other at the small of his back. “You’ve made the first step. How does it feel?”

“Pretty good,” Rhett admitted, shaking the droplets from his hand. “Can we leave the room now?” Link gave him a brief side hug.

“Sure thing, Rhett. You did good today,” he added, leading them out. “Hungry?” Rhett shot him a wild grin.

“Starving.” Suddenly practically famished.

“Me, too,” Link chuckled. “Let’s go have lunch.”

Next chapter

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