#but pretended to dick that he did early in their acquaintance and now it's too embarrassing to say he doesn't actually

[silverwhittlingknife]

Hey I was stalking ur page just now and tripped over the “dick and tim and food” posts and it made me think of how, during the “Robin in keystone city” arc, pizza is brought up at least twice, and both times tim specified that he doesn’t want pineapple on the pizza. BUT iirc tim normally enjoys or at the very least tolerates pineapple on pizza, and I wanted to know if you thought maybe tim was avoiding pineapple pizza bc it’s a tim and dick thing for him and he’d miss his brother or something

Or maybe I’m just being weird or something idk

HEADCANON ACCEPTED I LOVE THIS

(the context of the panel is that dick ordered pizza, and alfred told him that he could've made food, so dick is saying "uh huh but i bet you wouldn't willingly make anoudille and pineapple pizza though" and alfred is all "no i would NOT and i can barely tolerate that you're eating it in front of me")

anyway so YES clearly tim can't eat andouille or pineapple pizza without Dick!! it'd be lonely

[relenafanel]

Dicks (in every definition): a fake-relationship AU

Geralt/Jaskier

Find it on Ao3:  Dicks (in every definition) by relenafanel

FOR THE MODERN AU CHALLENGE. WEEK 1: Fake-Relationships

Tag: witcherauseptember

________

“I can’t believe anyone could be such an unmitigated puss-filled dick,” Essi said, staring at her phone in disbelief. Jaskier groaned and let his head thunk on the bar.

“I can.” His sticky forehead was the least disgusting part of the evening.  He'd just come out to forget his ex, and maybe celebrate being free a little (as fucked up as that was) and quite frankly felt attacked by his social media.

“If I believed it from anyone it would be that narcissist,” she conceded, biting on her lip.

“I know,” Jaskier agreed. “That’s the worst part. I feel like it’s my fault being blindsided by this, as though I should have known something was going to happen today.”

Essi snorted. “It’s not your fault your ex is the worst.”

“No, but I was with him for almost 3 years. I don’t know. That’s my fault.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “Look at this desperate fucker. Do you actually think he’s winning? He might be in a new relationship but the look of this guy makes my vagina want to shrivel up and die.”

Jaskier took her phone from her and looked again. Yeah. Yikes. Valdo was definitely scraping the bottom of the barrel with that one. Jaskier hadn’t even tried to join any dating sites post-breakup, but he was pretty sure there were better options. It wasn’t even the guy’s looks so much as he just screamed skeevy douchebag. It was making Jaskier’s metaphorical vagina also want to die.

“You need to get drunk. Maybe laid.”

“No,” Jaskier said, an idea starting to form as he looked at the relationship status change. “No. I need to match pettiness with pettiness. I need to find someone so hot that I’d have trouble getting him - let alone Valdo with his sad, small dick - and make sure to post a picture on Facebook.”

“Would that make you feel better?”

Jaskier smiled with teeth. “I think it would.”

***

It was their third bar of the evening and Essi was definitely sick of the manhunt. She probably hadn’t realized that when Jaskier was judging men fully objectively and not looking for matching personalities (relationship goals) or a willing body (one night stand goals) he had incredibly discerning tastes.

Probably too discerning.

“How about him?” Essi asked, barely looking up from her phone. She gestured to a guy sitting at the bar trying to make eye contact with a woman across the room.

“Ehh,” Jaskier said. “Sweater vest.”

Essi rolled her eyes. “But cute.”

“I’m not looking for cute. I’m looking for eye-searing hot.”

“I’m having trouble remembering how you’ve ever been in any relationships with these unrealistic expectations.”

“Valdo thought I was hot.” Jaskier thought about that for a moment. “Did I stay with someone for three years out of flattery?”

“Probably. Fuck. Get therapy.”

“I am.”

“You’re going to be working on tonight for a while.”

Fucking true. “Oh god, we just saw Valdo’s taste in men. Tell me true… am I ugly.”

“You’re spiraling.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“You’re spiraling!”

“Yes,” Jaskier agreed, pulling at his hair. “I’m so aware.”

“Based on the guy in his status update I’m going to guess you’re the hottest guy he could get.”

“You’re a good friend.” Jaskier pressed his head against her shoulder.

Then, a table opened up across the room, revealing the man sitting on the other side of it. “Holy shit.”

Essi looked up. Then she looked up. “Wow.”

“I hope he’s into men,” Jaskier said. “Or at least willing to play along with pretending to be for long enough for you to get a picture.”

“You’re going to walk up to that?” Essi asked. “You have more balls than brains.”

That was probably true.

***

“Hi, I’m Jaskier,” he opened with, dropping into the seat across from the gorgeous man. Up close he was even more startlingly pretty, with a chin dimple that highlighted his strong jaw and drew attention to his mouth. “And my boyfriend broke up with me two months ago, only to post his new relationship on Facebook today. Our three year anniversary. It’s the dickest of moves, right?”

The man hummed in agreement, but otherwise didn’t stop frowning in Jaskier’s general direction. Like someone waiting for him to get to the point. Jaskier saw that frown often.

“The reason for the oversharing is that I just forced my best friend to follow me to three different bars to find someone so phenomenally hot for me to spend time with and get picture proof, and here you are. I’d do jazz hands but you don’t seem like someone who responds well to jazz hands.”

“What are jazz hands?”

Whoa.

What a voice. What a sexy, sexy voice. Jaskier knew what he was talking about. He was a connoisseur of voices.

Jaskier wiggled his fingers at him. Tada! “Jazz hands.”

“Huh.” The man took a drink of his beer. “You want to use me as a revenge plot?”

“Exactly. Can I buy you a drink?”

The man gestured to his mostly full beer. “I’m not drinking to get drunk tonight.”

That was only a no to the beer. “Nachos or some other foodstuff?”

The guy seemed possibly interested in food.  

“Fine,” he agreed.  

****

Facebook: Julian Alfred Pankratz is in a relationship with Geralt of Rivia.

“Who’s Julian Pankratz?” Geralt muttered, staring at his phone.

“What?” Jaskier groaned, coming out a shitty sleep to a few realizations:

He’d gone home with the hottest guy on earth, which he should be pleased about, AND WAS PLEASED ABOUT

He might throw up

He’d done something last night. Something he’d said “that’s up for tomorrow Jaskier to sort out” because his drunk self was apparently a fucking masochist, and now Jaskier wasn’t really sure what that was.

Only Geralt was still scowling at his phone and seemed to know his real name.

So.

“Fuck,” Jaskier groaned. His mouth tasted like nachos and the regret of doing shots too late in life. He was 28 years old, not dead, but his hangover didn’t seem to know that.  “We didn’t get married , did we?”

“...”

Jaskier risked the light filtering in through the edges of the blinds to look at Geralt. His hair was beyond mussed - Jaskier didn’t know hair could get that tangled overnight. He was still frowning at his phone.

“I’ve been calling you Jaskier.”

“I go by Jaskier,” he promised. He was too busy having his own crises to deal with Geralt’s! For fucksakes. “Now, back to the marriage thing??”

“No.”

Phew. That was probably on him. He wasn’t sure people could actually get fake married overnight. Legally. He’d seen a lot of movies, though.

Ok. Next problem.  “I might throw up.”

Geralt turned his head slowly to look at him. Yikes. Too much beautiful-man-face in his face for this early in the morning.

“It’s eleven,” Geralt told him in the dry tone that told Jaskier he’d said that all outloud.

“Eleven after getting to bed at what? Five? Eugh, boo. Do you have any food?”

***

Geralt did have food.

Well, Geralt had protein bars and electrolytes, which was basically the same thing. Jaskier could always fall on top of a burger on his way home if he had to.  He’d finally looked at his phone by the time he was halfway through his breakfast.

107 new notifications.

What the fuck?

Julian Alfred Pankratz is in a relationship with Geralt of Rivia

Geralt and I were going to wait until announcing this wasn’t an asshole move, but now that it doesn’t really matter, I just wanted everyone to know that I’m doing GREAT.

Attached to it was the picture of the two of them together that Essi had taken with the caption of “I wouldn’t feel too sorry for Jaskier tonight”

His drunk self had a lot to answer for. No wonder Geralt had been scowling at his phone.

“I can’t believe I went Facebook Official with someone I haven’t even had sex with yet,” Jaskier mourned. “What is it, 2007?”

***

It took Jaskier almost the full day to recover enough to actually look through his comments on Facebook. By the time he had, they’d almost doubled and he’d made the mistake of clicking into Instagram to find one of those quintessential happy-relationship-our-feet-are-cute-together bullshit pictures. He had a different following on Instagram, mostly using it for pictures of himself singing.

Yikes. Yikes. Yikes. This wasn’t a contained problem, if you could call their mutual friends and families on Facebook that had been gathering in the wings for 15 years a contained problem . Fucking Facebook. Jaskier friended people he’d met once. He had a database of acquaintances. It was great for - you know - being a musician looking for gigs. He’d done 15 weddings in the last year.

It was pretty shitty when he’d faked having a boyfriend so people wouldn’t feel bad for him.

But, as he read through the comments and realized that some of them weren’t for him, he realized that maybe he wasn’t the one with the biggest problem.

Jaskier: Did you just come out?

Jaskier: Are you EVEN INTO MEN?

Jaskier: I REMEMBER YOU THINKING THIS WAS FUNNY AND AGREEING TO IT

Jaskier: BUT

Jaskier: I REGRET COMMITTING TO CAPS SO SOON BECAUSE I MEAN THIS IN CAPS AND BOLDED

Jaskier: WHOEVER LAMBERT IS JUST CONGRATULATED YOU ON FINALLY GETTING DICKED DOWN BECAUSE IT MIGHT MAKE YOU LESS GRUMPY

Geralt: I see you’ve read the comments

Geralt: my brother

Jaskier: YOUR BROTHER?!

Geralt: bold and caps?

Jaskier: and italics what the fuck. Why’d you let me do this?

Jaskier: wait.

Jaskier: WAIT

Geralt: there it is

Jaskier: this was your idea

Jaskier: did you use me to tell everyone you know that you’re gay or bi or whatever you identify as?

Jaskier: what a brilliant opportunity last night was for both of us

Geralt: you went back to sleep and didn’t process any of this yet, didn’t you?

Jaskier had been seen with that, fuck. He made a face at his phone even though Geralt couldn't see it.

A few moments later a response to Lambert popped up from Geralt himself.

@Lambert who says I haven’t been getting dicked down this entire time you heteronormative asshole

Followed by someone named Yennefer posting a picture of a strap on.

Who were these people? Could you love someone based on how their friends reacted to their ill-advised fake-relationship status change? Asking for a friend.

Geralt: for context, that’s my ex-wife

Geralt: we’re ok

Geralt: especially when she’s helping me fuck with my brother

***

Jaskier was debating the merits of asking Geralt if he wanted to come up with a break-up plan or just date when another comment showed up.

Vesemir left a comment:

You’ll bring him to brunch tomorrow?

Geralt left a comment:

We’ll be there

Vesemir left a comment:

Leave the frightening device at home

Geralt left a comment:

He doesn’t need it

This was followed by a string of variations of LOL and OH SHITs from about 7 different people. Jaskier watched it all unfold feeling like he’d stepped into the middle of something he didn’t understand - yet. He was definitely in trouble, if the way his heart rate increased at Geralt’s he doesn’t need it was any indication. It wasn’t even the dick reference, though that was amazing. It was the snappy, quick response. The underlying sarcasm.

Jaskier had a type. He could end a fake relationship that was based on seeing a searing hot guy across a room, but it was a bit harder when the guy had a personality he liked. If Geralt turned out to have a heart of gold, Jaskier was screwed and would probably be proposing marriage by year’s end.

Yeah, we’ll be there , he commented.

Geralt: my dad

Geralt: thanks

Jaskier: no problem

Jaskier : gonna call

“So I’m thinking,” Jaskier said the moment Geralt’s face showed up on the video call. He was squinting at his phone like no one had ever tried to video call him before.

“Hi,” Geralt replied, looking amused.

“I’ve been debating the merits of planning a breakup for our fake relationship or just… dating? I’m thinking maybe we should date? Do you have input?”

“Dating’s fine.”

“But do you… are you even attracted to me? Would you pick me?”

Oh fuck, what was that?! Something new to bring up in therapy.

Geralt tilted his head.  “You don’t know this about me yet, but I’m capable of saying no. Overly capable, some of my family might tell you.”

“So you’re not saying no?”

“I’m pretty confident I said yes instead.”

***

“As Jaskier’s best friend and the only witness,” Essi said into the microphone, holding up a glass of champagne to salute the two of them. “Our happy couple gave me full permission to tell the story of what happened the night Geralt and Jaskier met. Like Jaskier himself, the story is partially an embarrassing tale of bad decisions, half-cocked plans, and a lot of heart.”

Jaskier grinned, and nudged his shoulder into Geralt’s.

“And,” Essi continued with glee, “dicks in every definition.”

[incongruousstrawberry]

Magnets pt. 1 (Kuroo Tetsuro x f!reader)

Word count: 1.9k.

Tags: none.

Summary: During your third year of high school, you get acquainted with a very charming boy. How will things evolve?

Kuroo Tetsurou was definitely a popular guy. Tall, athletic, with beautiful but weirdly cut hair, he always had a predatory sneer that made everyone shrink in his presence. Everyone except you. The reason was that, unlike most other people, you had fortuitously got the chance to discover that under that cocky and strict air he always showed around there was something else.

After your second year of high school, you had to transfer to a new school, Nekoma High. On the first day you had left home a bit too early, so you decided to take it easy on the way there, walking slowly and observing your surroundings in order to get a better view of your new city. While doing so, your attention was caught by a voice coming from your left. You turned your head toward that direction and saw a small green space, in the middle of which stood a crouched boy and a tiny white and brown dog. The boy had a weird haircut that reminded you slightly of a rooster and he was talking to the puppy while petting him profusely.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you? My little good boy, you like when Kuroo pets you, don’t you? What a good boy you are.” The tone of the boy was the usual ridiculous high-pitched tone people use when they talk to puppies and babies, and the thing clashed hilariously with his outer rebellious appearance.

After a moment of affectionate tones, the boy noticed that you were observing him and his face darkened briefly. After leaving the dog alone and after inspecting you from the bottom to the top (he was still crouched), he stood up and walked toward you, assuming an attitude that you soon discovered was his default one.

“You attend Nekoma High, don’t you?” he asked confidently, recognising your uniform.

“Yes,” you simply replied.

“How is it that I’ve never seen you before?” His tone was inquisitional and somehow it seemed like he deemed it impossible that he could not know every single person (or maybe girl) in the school.

“I’ve just transferred. Today will be my first day,” you replied, a little annoyed by the way the boy was towering over you now that he was standing and scanning you.

“Oh, which class?”

“3A.”

A pensive expression played across the boy’s face. “You don’t say…” Then he started walking, turning distractedly toward you with a gaze that you immediately recognised as a way to say “follow me”.

Since you had to go in the same direction, you were left no choice but to walk together with him, but you felt a bit strange about the change in the attitude of the boy. You wondered if he was the type of person who constantly wanted to make an impression.

In truth, you had soon discovered that to simply put it, Kuroo Tetsurou was a person with a thousand facets. Sometimes he was arrogant, but other times he was extremely humble; sometimes he could be a bit of a dick, but at times he could also be surprisingly kind; sometimes it seemed like he didn’t care about people that much, other times he almost seemed maternal. There was one thing that was constant, though, and that was that having to deal with him was always fun. And it was particularly fun when the boy was dumbfounded by the fact that you, unlike most of the girls in the school, didn’t hang on his words.

It wasn’t like you didn’t notice the remarkable charm of the boy, but you had imposed upon yourself to keep a certain distance at least until you had the chance to get to know him better.

Being classmates had been a source of information, but you had the impression he wasn’t completely himself in that environment. New clues started to arrive the first time he invited you to watch one of his friendly matches. He had heard you telling a friend and classmate that you were free that afternoon and he had immediately taken advantage of that, saying that you couldn’t miss the chance to see the great volleyball team of Nekoma High.

Sceptical, but curious, you had accepted the invite and followed the boy to the gym, where he had briefly introduced you to his teammates, and particularly to Kenma, who you later discovered was his best friend.

While the boys had gone into the locker room to change, you had found a place on the bleachers and shortly after a parade of boys in red had appeared in front of you. Needless to say, red suited him. The other team arrived soon and, after a bit of warming-up, the match began.

You had watched some matches on the TV, but looking at the movements of the players from up-close was rather exciting and you soon realised that Kuroo was a very good player. He had scored many points with his serves, strikes and blocks, but that wasn’t all. Even if he had neglected to mention it, he was the captain of the team and you had had the chance to overhear the speech he had delivered to his teammates. It was something about blood and bringing oxygen to the brain. It had seemed quite peculiar but at the same time…

BOOM. You got hit by a ball in the face, on your left eyebrow to be precise. You hadn’t had the time to avoid it because you were completely lost in thought and you had seen it just at the very last moment. The boy who had hit the ball last - you discovered later that it had been a receive gone bad - apologised over and over for a while and then the match continued normally, but you had noticed the worried expression of your voluminous haired friend.

After the match, Kuroo had insisted on walking you home and, as soon as you had gone far enough from the school, he had taken you aside and caressed your temple gently, making you stare at his dark eyes in surprise.

“Does it hurt?” he asked you, concern clouding his eyes.

“No, I think it’s just slightly swollen. I haven’t had a chance to check my face in a mirror yet, but maybe it’s better this way,” you said with a chuckle.

“Damned Yaku, of all the days he had to make that mistake today…” Kuro seemed upset and moved his hand, gesturing while talking.

You stopped one of his hands by gently taking his wrist in your hand. “Kuroo, everything’s alright. By tomorrow I won’t even remember this happened.” You smiled. “Furthermore, that guy played like a god today, so I really don’t think you can get mad at him.”

Kuroo gave you a suspicious look and started walking again. “Is that so? And what do you think about me then?”

You followed him, walking side by side. “Mmh… let me think…” You were playing. You knew that Kuroo wanted to hear you said that he was good, but it was funny to make him suffer just a little.

The boy looked at you sideways. “If you talk like this, you make me start to think that maybe you deserved being hit by that ball.”

You laughed and then finally replied. “You’ve played very well, Kuroo. I’m no expert in volleyball but watching you play was very interesting.”

While you walked and looked at the little shops you were passing by, you smiled and the lights of the windows reflected in your eyes. “Mmh…” you pondered for a moment.

“What is it?” he asked, interested.

“That speech about blood… could you explain it to me? I couldn’t hear the whole of it.” You turned briefly toward him and glimpsed a hint of surprise in his eyes.

“Oh… it’s just a speech I make before we start the match to psych up the others.”

“Yeah, I got that part, but what does it mean?”

“Well, in our team the essential element is Kenma. Not just because he’s the setter, but also because he has an incredible analytical capacity that allows him to always choose the best strategies.” Kuro looked at you for a moment and then brought his gaze in front of him again. “For this reason, he is the brain. And we, his teammates, have the responsibility to make the ball arrive at him in the best way possible, like the oxygen must flow in the blood. This way he can play to the best of his capabilities. That’s all.” The boy put his hands in his pockets.

You pondered for a moment. “I understand. It makes sense now that you say it,” you paused for a second, already smiling internally, “you surely couldn’t have been referring to yourself when you talked about the brain.” You had pronounced the sentence in a perfectly serious tone, so serious that Kuroo had needed a moment before understanding that you were teasing him.

“Y/n!” he exclaimed in a scolding tone, turning at you.

“Hey, I have never given you the permission to call me by my first name, you know?”

The boy said nothing and replied with a crafty expression instead and then turned his gaze back in front of him, sighing and walking faster, as if you weren’t there anymore.

You quickened your pace in order to keep up with him and nudged him lightly. “I was kidding. As much as I’d like to affirm the contrary, you’re not dumb.”

The boy didn’t turn at you, pretending to be offended, but slowed down his pace so that you could start walking normally again.

After a while, you arrived in front of your house. “We’re here,” you said gesturing at your house. “I still don’t get why you wanted to accompany me home since you live on the opposite side of town. It will take you forever to get home now.” You were close to your gate, the feet together and your gaze towards your shoes.

“I clearly did it because I like you. Wasn’t it obvious at this point?” the boy replied with a candour only he could muster.

You felt a clench in your stomach and raised your eyes, meeting those of the boy. For a moment you had thought that he was joking – you had always thought that the interest he had shown to you was just a friendly fondness – but his face was terribly serious.

You tried to say something, but your voice got stuck and your mouth remained half-open,  without a single sound coming out of it.

“I’d like to kiss you now, y/n,” said Kuroo, his eyes intense and fixed on you.

You remained speechless once more, your breathing passing quickly in and out of your mouth.

Kuroo leaned forward – his dark eyes hadn’t left you a single instant – and kissed you. The kiss lasted about three seconds and it was a simple kiss, just a contact between your lips, but it was enough to make your head spin. Then the boy straightened himself, shot you his signature sneer and took a step back. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I expect you to be a bit more… talkative.” The sneer got bigger and even before he turned around and started walking home a red hue began to spread across your face and a smile rose slowly until your cheeks started looking like small knobs.

Part 2

[burnedbyshoto]

Sickness and Afflictions

todoroki shouto x reader; bakugou katsuki x reader

warnings: angst, fluff, cursing

a/n: one crushes your heart. the other one fills it. pick your poison. bitch... this made me sad and happy....

Part Two ; Alt Ending

todoroki shouto

You had been happy in your relationship with Shouto. Happiness and longevity seemed to be something coined for the two of you. But you knew that you were the first real relationship he had.

Recently, Shouto was becoming better acquainted with his family. Often spending his free days with his family instead of spending it with you. Which wasn’t an issue in your opinion, but it was three months since this started… and you only ever saw Shouto at night when he would come to bed past midnight. You were becoming upset by this, and whenever you voiced your emotions he was quick to ignore you.

The reality of your relationship was that you were not happy at this moment. You were also sure you did not wish to break up with him… but you wanted effort. Today was your birthday, and you hadn’t received a single acknowledgment from him about it. Today was your day off and he didn’t so much as kiss you goodbye today when he left for work as you woke up.

Today, you sat at the kitchen table at nine at night, waiting for him to come home. Your fingers play with a gift you bought for the two of you as a way to get him to go somewhere with you.

Some part of you wishes that he isn’t here because he has some elaborate plan. That these past few months, he’s been making you insecure for this very night. That Shouto’s waiting for you to cave first so he can expose his birthday celebration plans. But you know better to assume that, Shouto has never been spontaneous like that.

So today, instead of celebrating with friends, you waited for Shouto to come back home.

One hour passed.

Two hours more.

It’s no longer your birthday when the front door opens and closes. Your weary eyes staring at Shouto who walks in, slippers on his feet, exhaustion on his face.

Your eyes lock with his, and you break the gaze to continue down his body. There’s no card in sight.

“Why are you coming home so late?” You ask placing your chin onto your hand. Your eyes boring into your boyfriend’s ambivalent aura.

“Long day at work.” Was his response and it irked you.

“Midoriya-san posted a video of you and your classmates at a bar. Why are you lying?”

“We only went in celebration of—“

“Bakugou’s early birthday celebration, yeah. I know.” You snark back, your hand dropping on the table and a frown on both your faces.

“I’m not in the mood to have a lecture right now. Especially since you know everything there is to know.” Shouto voice drips with sarcasm as he tries walking away.

“Only because if I don’t you won’t ever talk to me!” You exasperate standing up. The sounds of the chair scraping against the floor echoes through the apartment.

Shouto stares at you, his heterochromia eyes feeling empty, lifeless.

“You don’t talk to me anymore.” You repeat, your bottom lip quivering. You try not letting your feelings overwhelm you. Desperate not to give him a reason to walk away. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Keeping your business to yourself?” Shouto steely response. His upper lip presses into his bottom one. “Why do you need to know everything?”

You blink many times, your mouth dropping with failed sentences.

“You’re my boyfriend,” You’re slow to respond. “I’m curious and concerned because you’re my boyfriend.”

“If you’re going to be telling me things I already know, I don’t see the point of me listening to you.”

You laugh, unsure of what was wrong with him. In your inability to speak, Shouto begins walking away. His arm hitting your shoulder causing you to stumble.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” You seethe, your eyebrows scrunched as you push his back. He stills, not turning around. Your mind now in overdrive. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you! A conversation, Shouto! Something we haven’t done in fucking months! And you’re— you’re ruining it!!”

Shouto turns around, his face dark, his own eyebrows crunched as his lips are curling into a scowl. “Let’s make this clear, I’m not ruining anything here. I’m busy, y/n, I have a fucking job that requires utmost concentration and dedication. I can’t be waiting on your every demand and need. Don’t pretend that you didn’t know that coming in.”

“Of course I fucking knew that coming in! I’m the damn best fucking support employee Japan has! I’ve dealt with shit for you fucking heroes! I can see that you’re busy! But you’re not always busy! You just don’t spend any free time with me! And that’s what’s bugging me!”

That one complaint sends both of you over the edge. And insults pour out of both of your mouths. Eventually, you’re both just saying things to make the other upset.

You were too clingy. Demanding. Impatient. Unclean.

He was too bitchy. Completely unavailable. Dense. Opinionated.

He scrutinized what you had gotten him for Christmas. Claiming it was insensitive and embarrassing to open in front of his family.

You retorted that at the very least you had gotten him a present! You further added to the fact that he refused to meet your family.

He fought that you shouldn’t be too sensitive all the damn time because you’re a grown adult. Not some child.

It circles back to him not being attentive, the two of you in each other’s faces.

Red.

Angry.

Yelling.

“I don’t owe you anything. I don’t owe you my time, my energy, or my presence. If you’re not happy with it, why the hell are you here?” Shouto growls at you, his face dark.

“Because you mean everything to me, you fucking dick?! Something I’m not ready to give up! Is it that hard to fucking see that I want to be here?!”

“I don’t owe it to you to spend my free time with you,“ Shouto repeats. “You’re my girlfriend, not a pet!”

“Oh, no, sorry!!! I forgot because if I was a pet, I would be getting much more love and affection than this!! You know what, Shouto? This is my place. This is my apartment, and you still have the fucking audacity to show up with this attitude? For someone who loathes Endeavor as much as you do, you sure don’t act any fucking different from him.” You hiss centimeters from his face.

Your mind doesn’t even register the terrible words that come out of your mouth. All you know if that pure rage manifests upon Shouto’s own.

“Don’t you dare fucking compare me to him. You know nothing about what it was like living up with him.” Shouto seethes, as his body stiffens, his eyes dark and angry.

“Let me guess, always distant and cruel? Emotionally manipulative? Using the people in his life for his own advantage? Seeing only his own fucking feelings and no one else’s? Hm, and the real question is who am I describing?! Pro-Hero Endeavor or Shouto?!”

Shouto’s right-hand grips your forearm, shocking you at the sudden movement from him. But Shouto’s too angry to notice that his quirk activates in his moment of anger and frustration. Ice cold burning pain shoots down your arm. It not until you’re sobbing out in pain does he see the blistering ice burns on your forearm and the tears in your eyes. And fear fills his being.

You rip your forearm from his grasp. Baffled and choking sobs leaving your lips as you examine the blistering skin. You tremble as you cry.

He burned you.

Shouto burned you and he wasn’t even apologizing. All he was doing was staring.

Your eyes rip away from your burned arm and stare at Shouto. A new sadness burning through you. “I only wanted you to show me that I mattered today… it was my birthday today. No yesterday Shouto… it was my fucking birthday! But… I get it now, how much I annoy you, and how much you’re unhappy with me but… still. It was my birthday and you didn’t speak to me or acknowledge it at all yesterday.” Your voice resonates with broken, cracked, and defeated tones.

Your throat tightens with overwhelming sadness as pain throbs through your arm. But it’s nothing in comparison to the pain in your heart. You cry as you walk to the table grabbing the white envelope in your hands as you give it to him.

“Take this, it’s yours…! I’m… going to the hospital to get this fixed up… please don’t be here when I get back. …we—we are…” Your voice cracks again as you know what you have to say, but don’t want to say. It’s too late to fix these mistakes. “We’re done. Please have Midoriya come pick up your things. I don’t want to see you, ever again.”

You don’t even conceal the flowing tears as you clutch your burnt arm to your chest. You want him to say something, anything! Anything to convince you that this has only been a few bad months, but that this was the extent of it.

But still, even in defeat, he won’t budge to your will. “Leave the key under the mat, goodbye Todoroki.” You whisper completely defeated as you turn on your heel and leave the apartment.

Shouto goes to open the envelope you gave him, unsure of what it is. But he freezes at the sight of the address. ‘for shouto so that you can have fun with boring old me!’

Shouto unravels a letter within the envelope and reads it over.

‘dear shouto, I don’t know how to start a letter! is it like this? oh well!!!! I figured you were going to get me something I would love for my birthday. so I went ahead and got us this! two tickets to go, drumroll please, see the All Might museum that just opened!!! yes! you read it correctly!!! so I know you and all your friends somehow lost the lottery system for getting it among the Pro-Heroes. don’t panic, we support techs are smarter. we bid on them like feral animals. this ended up costing me ¥125,000!!! totally worth it in my stance. I know somethings been off with us lately, and I’m not all that sure what it is, but I do love you. like a lot. I’m just at this point unsure if I did anything in specific to make you mad? god, I hope not… anyways!!! I know we’ll get over it, we always do!! I love you Todoroki Shouto, and I’m so excited to get to go to this museum with you!!!! love - y/n’

A splitting headache overcame Shouto. His heart is frozen as he stared at the two tickets for special entrance to this museum. It was made out for today, the day after your birthday. A birthday that slipt his mind until your choked up voice reminded him of it.

Shouto sank to the ground, tears falling from his eyes. Oh.

He fucked up big time.

bakugou katsuki

On god, you were going to murder your boyfriend.

How could someone so smart be this dumb?

This entire day he had been avoiding you like a ninja and simply ignoring your every action to get him to open up. It was pissing you off! He was acting like a damn cat instead of a human being.

“Katsuki, I swear, if you don’t eat this goddam soup and medicine, I WILL murder you!” You snap through the bathroom door.

The countless amounts of dry heaving coughs, sniffles, and sneezes heard from the door. You still continue to bang the on wall despite him ignoring you. “Soup is fucking disgusting, and medicine can suck my balls!” Bakugou’s voice weakly snaps back. The sickness heavy in his throat. You can hear him retching just a little bit.

How the mighty fall when they’re sick. But Bakugou fell hard. Plus he refused anything to make himself better! He was more typically relying on his own body to make him better. Which was dumb! But this was week three of him being this way, he needed something stronger than his own immune system.

“If you don’t open this door, I’ll find someone who can kick the door down. Like Deku!”

“Like hell, you would, shitty woman. Even like this, I can kick his ass across the country and—and—ACHOO!!” The crackling of his quirk goes off.

Yes, the worst part of Bakugou being sick was that he was no longer as in control of his quirk.

You grumble as you place the piping hot soup and medicine bottle onto the hallway counter. You walked to the kitchen grabbing your spare bathroom key. You opened it up to find Bakugo sweating profoundly. His body shivering, yet wrapped up in five blankets. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose was plugged up with a tissue.

He looked disgusting.

“Don’t you dare,” He croaks slightly, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

You grab the damn soup and medicine and put it on the bathroom counter. Bakugou was trying to escape. But he was weaker than he typically was only because he would get a migraine from standing up. “Oh no, you’re not going fucking anywhere, dumbass!” You snap at Bakugou as you put your full weight onto his hips, trying to keep him pinned down.

Bakugou won’t let you challenge him like this, and is very quick to fight back. So there the two of you were, wrestling in the bathroom. Your healthy body pressed against his clammy and sweaty one, but still, he’s able to keep up with you.

“Let go of me, shitty woman! I don’t fucking need that crap!”

“Your nose is just about dripping on me, idiot! You’re taking the damn medicine!”

Bakugou’s hand clutched your forearms, ready to throw you off him. But he freezes, and your eyes widen in the horror of having his hands on you. And as he sneezes before he can pull away, his sweaty hands exploding against your arms.

“OH MY GOD!” You scream, scorching pain exploding against your skin. You pulled away from Bakugou, your arms quivering as you watched red blisters form on your arms.

“Shit, babe, I’m sorry!” Bakugou sneezes again, his fingertips exploding.

“You burned me!” You shriek, unsure on how to feel about your boyfriend using his quirk on you.

“Well, I told you to leave me alone!” Bakugou throws back at you, and youthrust your burned arms his way.

“Yeah, still! Also, WHY do you have zero control over your quirk when you’re sick?! YOU’RE SO ANNOYING!” You cackle despite the pain as Bakugou blows his nose before crawling over to you grabbing your arms.

“Stay here, shitty woman,” Bakugou says after examining your burnt arms.

You watch as Bakugou stands up and goes to the medicine cabinet and pulls out some burn salve he owned. He often got burns from overexerting his quirk, and it seemed that you were going to be the one using it today.

“This is why you need to leave me alone when I’m sick,” Bakugou grumbles as his clammy fingers touch your arms. The soothing balm kicking in at the slightest touch.

“NO, what you need to do is to let me take care of you, dumbass!” You counter, shoving him with your foot. “You’re sick, and you could’ve been better five days ago had you just let me take care of you.”

His eyes look up at yours when he’s done applying the balm, and he presses a kiss to your cheek. “Fine.”

Within a day you get him to feel better, but now it’s your nose that’s running. Chills running down your spine as Bakugou shoved soup down your throat.

"You’re gonna eat this damn soup.” Bakugou snaps as you groan.

Why was this soup literally the worst?

[mgg-theprettiestboy]

cross my heart (pt. 4)

spencer reid x oc

‘to secure peace, is to prepare for war.’ 

karl von clausewitz

cross my heart masterlist

word count: 2836

Spencer decided he didn't want to just be a casual acquaintance any more. He had almost died on his most recent case, and while this was a more common occurrence, something about this time was different. And he decided not to waste any more time, and to stop being such a chicken.

He offered a small smile to Raye from across the cafe once he saw her. It was ten at night, which was fairly early for both of them to be there. She held up the book she was reading, making him grin as he saw it. She had finally agreed to give War And Peace a read, and was slowly making her way through it.

He could only pretend to read, his own thoughts distracting him. There was an open lecture that he knew she would be interested in, and had already reserved two seats. Now, he just had to build up the confidence to ask.

It took him an hour.

But eventually, Spencer had finished his book a hundred times over, and his coffee had gone cold. There was no more avoiding it. He stood, walking over to Raye’s table. Her tongue was sticking out of the side of her mouth as she focused on her book, and Spencer had to bite back a laugh when she jumped in surprise, “oh! You scared me!”

“Sorry, I’m sorry. You were very engrossed,” he said with a fond smile. She smiled in return, “yeah, well, a book like this requires all my attention. I still have to google what half the words mean.”

He chuckled, before they fell into a kind of awkward silence. Spencer cleared his throat, before speaking again, “I was actually wondering... uh. There’s an open lecture on this weekend, it’s called ‘The Queen of English Literature Debate,’ Jane Austen versus Emily Bronte. The guest lecturer is flying in all the way from Scotland to travel around America, giving the lecture in different universities, and from the reviews I’ve read on it, it’s supposed to be amazing. Is that... something you would be interested in going to? Maybe with me?”

Raye blinked up at him, before her lips parted, as if she was going to say something, but then didn't. She repeated this a few times. Spencer was confused if he had rendered her speechless, or if she was having a stroke.

“Are you asking me out?” She eventually managed to choke out. He furrowed his eyebrows, before nodding, “yeah, I am. If thats okay.”

As if she finally realised what was happening, her eyes zoned in on hid face, and her expression softened at seeing his confused one, “I’m sorry, I just... it’s been a while. I don't go on a lot of dates. That sounds weird, I just mean that I don't get asked out a lot.”

His lips quirked up at her nervous rambling, before shaking his head, “I didn't think it sounded weird. I don't either. Go on a lot of dates, that is.”

She sighed softly in relief, before smiling softly, “so, Austen vs Bronte, huh? What do you think? Who’s the Queen?”

“I like to go into these sorts of debates with an unbiased opinion. I don't really favour one or the other, and I like to see if the lecturer can sway me. They usually can't, but its always fun,” he said with a chuckle, “it’s on Saturday, at Georgetown University. I could meet you here, say at three, and we can walk together?”

Raye smiled and nodded at the suggestion, “that sounds perfect.”

“Okay, perfect, great,” he said with a grin, “I will see you then.” His choice of words was not reflecting his intellect right now. He had a stupid grin on his face as he fumbled his way back to his table, collecting his things to leave and go home, and actually sleep for once. But the butterflies in his stomach thought otherwise, and he figured he it would be a struggle to fall asleep. Not that he was complaining.

–

“That was intense. Seriously, Spencer, that had me sweating!”

Spencer laughed as he walked alongside Raye as they left the lecture hall, “right? The professor was flawless with his criticisms. I don’t think I can decide who wins though, Bronte or Austen.”

“Hmm, me neither. I mean, I’ve always had a soft spot for Austen, but Bronte is just so damn good,” Raye said with a frown, “but in saying that, I wrote my college dissertation on Austen, so I guess the at already picks for me.”

“You wrote your dissertation on Jane Austen?” Spencer looked to her in surprise, as she grinned and nodded, “mhm. A cross analysis of Darcy and Elizabeth’s relationship, to the relationship of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth. It was genius, to be honest, an easy A. There was so much content, I could write for days on end and never run out of things to say.”

He laughed as she did, nodding in agreement, “that’s.... wow. I would love to read it, sometime.”

She glanced to him in surprise, nodding slowly with a blush, “I mean, it’s not brilliantly written. It didn’t get top marks or anything–“

“Hey,” he cut her off by taking her hands in his, looking down at her as her wide eyes looked up to him, “I bet it’s amazing. It sounds interesting, really.”

She bit her bottom lip, and tried to ignore the way Spencer’s eyes darted down to her mouth when she did, “okay. I’ll print off a copy of it for you sometime.”

“Great,” he said with a smile. He moved one of his hands away, but kept his other hand on hers. She blushed lightly, moving her hand to curl around his and hold it. He felt his heart leap at her returning the gesture, smiling softly at her, before looking down at his feet, “I had a good time today. I know we didn't exactly do a lot of talking for a first date, but...”

He didn't know what else to add, but he didn't have to, as she laughed, “don't be silly, I had fun. Besides, I already feel like I know you... is that weird to say?”

“No, not at all. I feel like I know you too. I suppose it’s from the books,” Spencer said as they left the lecture hall. He didn't know where they were walking to, but he wasn't about to complain. He didn't want the day to end. She furrowed her brow, “what do you mean?”

“I mean, from reading the books you enjoy, I feel like I know you,” he said with a shrug. Raye hummed, “oh yeah? Go ahead then. What am I like?”

He laughed slightly, looking ahead of them as he spoke, “you're a romantic; thats an obvious one. You love adventure, you love to escape through books. You hate horror, and anything scary, and you hate sad endings. You empathise with the bad guys. So, from all of this, I can tell that you’re sweet. You probably love animals, and definitely love children. You won't do something big unless you're pushed to, because as much as you love adventure, you only get it through reading. And you’ve... you’ve probably been hurt before, maybe by someone you care about or someone you know. Because you empathise with the villain, even when they're in the wrong. You’re considerate. And definitely a scardey-cat.”

Raye stayed silent as he profiled her through her book choices, and afterwards. Spencer immediately felt regret rise in him. He couldn't believe that he already screwed it up on the first date. He tried to apologise, “I-I didn't mean to-”

“I haven't been hurt by someone close to me, but I have been hurt, in a... in a strange way. But... I mean, I always try to see the best in people, no matter what. As difficult as that sometimes is,” she said. She rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb lightly, a look of curiosity on her face, “how did you figure all that out from the books I read?”

He relaxed at seeing that he didn't offend her, offering her a small smile, “I’m good at what I do.”

She was about to ask what he meant, before he let go of her hand to open the door for her. It was only then she realised they had managed to wander back to The Hideout. She smiled and went inside, going over to find a free table. It was busy, considering it was Saturday afternoon, and not the middle of the night.

He ordered two hot chocolates, figuring it was a safe bet, before going to the table to sit across from her, “I ordered two hot chocolates, I hope that’s okay.”

Raye smiled and nodded, “of course it is. I have a sweet tooth.”

“Me too. I always add an unhealthy amount of sugar to my coffee,” Spencer said, and she gasped, “me too! Tamara always scolds me, she says all my teeth will fall out. I also put a bunch of milk in it too. God, I don't know how people drink it without milk. It’s gross!”

“I completely agree!” He said, as they both laughed. He had the urge to talk her hand again. “I had a lot of fun today,” she hummed happily, resting her head in her hand as the hot chocolates were delivered to their table, “seriously. It was so much better than ‘dinner and a movie.’”

“Well, I didn't want to be stereotypical. And the first time I met you, you were literally buried in books, I figured this would be a good idea,” he said with a grin, as Raye scoffed and spluttered, “that wasn't my fault! Tamara loves to mess with me, but I’m too stubborn to give in. Hence my struggle with the bookshelf.”

Spencer laughed, and they continued to talk until they had finished their drinks. While he initially thought they were so similar, he was beginning to see that he wasn't entirely right. Yes, they had their similarities. But she was so much more than he expected. He found out she had a cat, called Dickens (she called him Dick, for short), and he was a ginger tabby cat. He found out she loved house plants, but struggled to keep them alive. Her favourite movie growing up was Peter Pan, and she had a bad habit of buying candles that she doesn't need.

Spencer never wanted the day to end. But sooner rather than later, the sun set on the drizzly November day, and the conversation seemed to come to a natural pause. Raye glanced outside, and cleared her throat she she saw it was dark, and used the moment of silence to say, “I should probably head home. My sleeping schedule... its a little backwards. I’m usually awake at night, and sleep during the day. Because of my work hours.”

Spencer didn't want to, but nodded, “oh, yeah, of course. I never asked, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m in accounting,” she said, smiling slightly. He could tell it was forced, “not my dream job, but hey, a job’s a job.”

“Oh. I could've sworn Tamara said you worked with the stock market, or something,” he frowned. She shrugged it off, “sometimes I do an odd job.”

“Okay. Well... I can walk you home. Which direction are you headed?” Spencer asked as he stood alongside Raye. She began to shake her head, lifting her bag and clutching it to her chest, “no, don't. I mean, I don't need you to do that.”

“No, I insist, really. It’s dark outside, and you never know,” he stressed, as Raye continued to shake her head, reiterated, “I’m telling you, I’ll be fine.” 

“I just want to make sure you get home safe,” Spencer insisted, feeling kind of defeated at her rejection. She didn't seem to notice his reaction, snapping, “I said no!”

They stared at each other for a minute, before Raye just looked away, stuffing her purse and phone into her bag. Spencer tried to ignore the hurt he felt, speaking softly as he put his hands in the pockets of his coat, “I-I’m sorry. I wasn't trying to... to go home with you, or anything, I swear-”

“No, I know,” Raye said, her tone now gentle. She sighed softly, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “I’m just pretty paranoid about my security, I guess. I live alone.”

He nodded slowly, reaching into his satchel and pulling out his badge, “I don't suppose this would ease your worries?”

She furrowed her brow, taking what he handed to her to see what it was. He couldn't ignore the way she seemed to become even more tense at seeing what it was, and the way her hands gripped the badge just a little bit tighter.

All she could say was, “I thought you were a doctor?”

“I-I am. I have three PHDs. None of them are medical, though. I’m with the Behaviour Analysis Unit,” he explained. Raye’s voice was small, “you're a profiler. That explains how you were able to figure me out through books.”

Something about her tone unsettled Spencer. He thought that she would feel safer, knowing that he worked in the FBI. So why was she more alarmed than before?

“I’m so sorry for getting angry,” Raye apologised, smiling guiltily as she handed him his badge back. She ignored the warmth she felt when their hands brushed. Spencer smiled at her, “it’s okay. I’m sorry for trying to force the matter. But you can imagine why.”

She nodded fervently, before growing some confidence and taking his hand in hers, “would you walk me home? I live about three blocks away.”

Spencer felt his heart skip a beat, intertwining their fingers and nodding, as his cheeks began to glow. He stuck close by her side, as they walked down the streets of the city towards her apartment block. They came to a stop outside an old red brick building, but from the front door, Spencer could tell it must be renovated on the inside.

“Today was great,” Raye said tenderly, a warm smile on her face, “really. I had fun. If you’d like, we could do something like this again sometime.”

Spencer returned the smile, “I would love that. As long as you promise to have read War and Peace by then.”

She gawped and laughed, before groaning playfully, “oh come on, it’s just so boring. But for you, I will try. That’s all I can promise.”

“Good enough for me,” he chuckled, looking down at her as they stood face to face. She bit her bottom lip, before letting out a sigh.

“Are you going to kiss me, or am I going inside?” She quipped, as Spencer raised his brows. He smiled ever so slightly, moving to cup her cheek and lean down closer, “I will...”

Raye smiled softly, leaning into his hand as he moved closer so his lips were merely an inch away, “...once you finish the book.”

Her jaw dropped as he moved away, a triumphant smile on his face as she stammered, “you-! I just... that was cruel. Truly, and sincerely cruel. You will pay for that, Doctor, mark my words.”

“I will,” he laughed, lifting her hand that he held to kiss the back of her hand, “but until then, I bid you farewell.”

“Farewell. God knows when we shall meet again,” Raye said, taking a step backwards to walk to her building, as Spencer took a step back too, “Wilde?”

“Shakespeare,” she giggled, as they continued to walk their separate ways. Spencer made sure to stay within sight until he watched her walk through the door. She glanced back once she reached the door, smiling and waving goodbye to him, which he returned with a smile of his own. He was able to walk home with a peace of mind once he had seen her go into her building.

Raye scaled the stairs of her building with a stupid grin on her face, practically skipping up the stairs. It had been so long since her life had felt so normal. So long since she felt like she did right now; like a school girl crushing on a cute boy. She would do anything to make this feeling last forever. She should have known it wouldn't last.

She slowed as she approached her apartment, seeing the door open an inch, her cat sitting at the door.

And just like that, her good mood was completely gone, as she felt her heart stop, and her palms grow sweaty. She never forgot to lock her door. Ever.

She didn’t even bother to go inside, didn’t care to see if anything was missing or gone. She scooped up Dickens into her arms and ran back to the staircase, running all the way down while diling the number of the one person who could help.

–

cliff hangerrrrrr >:)

taglist: @slutforthegubes @pinkdiamond1016 @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto @fallinallinmendes @beyonces-breastmilk @spencerlikesapplejuice @pastathighs @gcblers @hushfakebitches @ijustcomeheretoread @thelovelyrose @187-reid @madison-malfoy @averyhotchner @haylaansmi

[dancedelion]

Where You Are

Genre: angst and fluff Word Count: 3391 Summary: When Geralt finds Jaskier in a tavern, he knows he has to stay, just to watch, just to listen, until Jaskier leaves town or gets fed up with him. Whichever comes first. ao3: Where You Are

Jaskier left and took Geralt's senses with him. He'd dulled them to anything else. Food tastes like nothing. He wears grey clothes and fights grey monsters with grey swords, on a brown horse. He doesn't hear when someone approaches him - he is dead a thousand times over, caught off guard -

He misses the times when it was just him and Roach and the road - when he didn't know and he didn't miss - It's just him and the road, but... he knows.

There's a buttercup by the side of the road. He picks it up and braids it into Roach's mane. The road is grey and so is the sky, but he has a brown horse with a yellow buttercup. It's enough.

He requests fewer baths. He can't smell the blood or the dirt or the sweat on his skin. He can't smell the flowers. He orders more ale, but it tastes like water. People who approach him are braver now, if they are not deterred by the look on his face. He touches – the cold, dead skin of monsters with no faces. The world is dark when the sun is up, darker when it is down.

He doesn't walk towards a town or a monster – he just walks. Sometimes there happens to be a kikimora. Sometimes a drowner. Sometimes a barmaid. Sometimes someone pressing a bag of coin in his hand, someone flinching away. He walks, but he doesn't hear the laughter in the tavern or the slicing of his blade or his own footsteps. It's a blur of grey. The only thing clear is the yellow buttercup. It wilts after a while. Geralt keeps walking.

He is somewhere – in front of some tavern, some monster's blood in his hair - when something slices through the muffled sounds – through him.

It's Jaskier's voice.

He freezes and stops whatever he was doing, if he was doing anything at all. He follows the voice into the tavern and a barmaid says something and he says something back but the only thing he can hear clearly is Jaskier's voice.

He is led to a grey table and sits down. Then he sees him, turned away from him. Wearing a blue tunic, like the sky. Jaskier turns a little more and Geralt can see the side of his face.

He remembers what red looks like. Geralt can't hear – but he can hear Jaskier.

So he stays.

***

Jaskier has told them to call him Julian, so they don't know about his most popular songs. So long as no one recognizes him, he's in the clear. No one will request any songs that will throw him back ten years into the past – violently.

He's in the middle of a song about a shepherd who's losing sheep when he turns and -

He stumbles over his words before he catches himself enough to pretend like nothing's changed. But there he is. Stoically sitting in the corner, like he's made of marble.

Jaskier didn't expect this – to run into him by accident, like you'd run into an old acquaintance. There is no protocol for this. How do you act when you meet someone who meant the world to you – means the world to you – was your friend – wasn't your anything – probably can't stand the sight of you? Maybe Geralt didn't see him. Maybe he'll leave once he does.

But then Geralt's gaze is on him – just for a moment – and Jaskier sings the chorus for the third time in a row -

Then Geralt is looking away again. Right. Right. That's how you act when you meet again – I've never calmed you after a nightmare in the dead of night, I've never tended to your wounds, I've never learned the meaning of the noises you count as language.

Jaskier pretends not to watch him out of the corner of his eye.

And now we're right back at the beginning - back to square one. I'm a bard singing and you're sitting in the corner. Just like it was always meant to be.

Jaskier's wrist is stiff and his fingers are tense and the sounds of his lute come out strange. But he keeps playing. What would you do if I walked over to you? Would you let me? Would you let me love you for a little bit? Or only from afar? You've ripped out my heart before, do you want to have anther go? Well, no thanks. Jaskier's had his fill of it.

He finishes his set a bit early. He has the brilliant idea to get outrageously drunk, so he sits at the bar.

The barmaid has curly hair and lovely brown eyes. “Sixteen pints of ale, please,” Jaskier says politely.

“That's a bit rash, isn't it?” she says, but smiles.

“Oh, believe me,” Jaskier murmurs, “I'll need it.”

“Not if you're not a mutant you don't,” she says. “That much alcohol will probably kill you.” “Eh, worth the risk.” “Sweetheart, I think at that point it counts as a suicide. What's going on? Lover's quarrel?”

“No, I...” Jaskier starts and then pauses. “You know what? Yes. Yes, it was. You wouldn't believe what he said to me, that brutish, stubborn oaf of a man -”

Jaskier goes on to describe a vicious fight over half an hour in which they had both traded scathing insults. Only exaggerating a little bit.

“And that's how we broke up,” he finishes. “Twenty years of a loving relationship down the gutter. I was going to propose, I had a ring and everything.” He had gone through two pints of ale already and he takes another swallow.

“We were going to settle down by the coast,” he says more quietly. “But alas, it was not – not meant to be...”

“That was just one fight, it's not the end of the world,” the barmaid says kindly, “maybe you can still talk about it.” “Ah, no, see... fight was a long time coming. We wanted different things.”

He's aware that somewhere behind him, Geralt is still sitting. Jaskier is sure he'll be gone in the morning and this time, Jaskier won't follow. He's angry, yes, but more bitter.

The burly man on the seat next to him nudges his arm.

“Lad, I don't mean to alarm you, but that man in the back has been staring at you for a while,” he says, “you want me to talk to him before he makes trouble?” Jaskier turns into the direction the man is pointing. It's Geralt. Looking at the table. He almost laughs.

“No, it's fine,” he says dismissively and waves a hand. Why is Geralt watching? To make sure he keeps his distance? Won't be a problem, sir. I don't even know you.

“That's the witcher,” the tall man two seats over chimes in. “They say he's strangled a man with his own laces.”

“No, no,” the burly man says, “that's the one from the songs. From what I've heard, he's killed two ghouls unarmed.”

Jaskier snorts. The barmaid leans over the counter. “I've heard he got swallowed by a selkiemore and survived.”

“I've heard he's a dick,” Jaskier says. Three pairs of eyes land on him.

“What,” the barmaid says, “you know him?” “Ah, no,” he denies quickly. “I've stayed in an inn he was before. They told me he didn't take his boots off in his room. Got selkiemore guts everywhere.”

Tomorrow he'll be gone. It'll be fine.

Before he leaves for the night, he can't resist turning around one more time. Geralt is sitting there exactly like he did when Jaskier first saw him tonight. Exactly like he did when Jaskier first saw him at all. Like he hasn't aged a day. Like in twenty years no one has gained or broken his heart. Still lonely.

***

Jaskier was going to leave town the next day, but there's a chance – a small chance, but a chance that the seat in the corner of the tavern won't be empty tonight. He has an argument with himself over it that lasts all morning. It's one thing to follow someone into battle who doesn't want you to, it's another to go into the same tavern again for the chance that he'll be there, just to see him. Once the sun sets, Jaskier gives up the pretence and heads back.

As soon as Jaskier's through the door, his gaze skitters to the seat Geralt occupied the day before. There he is, the great pretender. Less blood in his hair this time. Jaskier feels a little lighter when he starts his new song, lighter and a little heavier, but all worth it.

Why are we strangers again? I can't believe there was a time when you let me touch you.

“Your usual?” the barmaid says later, “sixteen pints of ale?” “Only fifteen today, please,” Jaskier says and winks. “I'm feeling a little better.”

“That's the spirit,” she answers.

All night, Jaskier can feel Geralt's gaze in his neck.

***

Geralt returns to the tavern, even though he doesn't know if Jaskier will be there. He can't not return. He sits in the spot furthest away from the people, from which he can best watch Jaskier. He knows Jaskier can't forgive him and worse, he can't ask for forgiveness. He wants to. But he can't bring himself to step up to Jaskier and just - talk. Not after how the last time turned out. He knows Jaskier saw him, so maybe that means he won't come back, but the memory still lingers in the tavern and it appeases Geralt a bit.

Then Jaskier is there and Geralt almost catches his eye. Just let me have this. Jaskier won't come over, he knows. So he sits and he drinks and he watches. Geralt is frozen in time, frozen in that moment in the tavern two decades ago - he is an ink drawing of a future that shouldn't have happened. Please don't smudge the ink. Please don't cry on me, I think I'll wash away - Geralt's fingers clench around his jug. He quietly watches as Jaskier goes to the bar again, talks to the barmaid. He doesn't get Jaskier's words any more or his smiles or his touches – but this. This he can have. If you will let me return to the distance of you, I will. Every time.

***

Jaskier keeps returning, and curiously, Geralt does too. It's strange. Geralt must know why he stays. It's much less clear why Geralt is still in this town.

He's right there, right across the room, but walking over to him would be like walking through a snow storm with no clothes. Swimming across the ocean with missing limbs. Climbing a steep mountain with half a lung. He could do it, but... shit, it would be painful.

He fantasizes about it, though.

“You look familiar,” he'd say. “You look like a friend I used to have.”

He fantasizes about yellow eyes on him and the amused curl of his lips.

It's too late, Geralt. I already know all your secrets. I know that under the big muscle mass and the frowns and the tense jaw, you have buried a heart. I know you have kindness hidden away in your yellow eyes. I have seen the soft lines of your body that you hide in your skeleton.

Geralt never moves from his spot, never talks to anyone.

If I come any closer, will you still insist that we are strangers? All Geralt gets are curious glances. Everyone is asking themselves the same question.

Why are you still here? Is there a monster in this tavern you are looking to kill?

***

Geralt rarely stays in one place for this long. But he has a good reason, he does. If he leaves, he won't hear again. Jaskier is at the bar and he's laughing. He doesn't need Geralt. He has five friends in this tavern alone. There's twenty strangers he could meet in this tavern, each of them with a nicer voice and a brighter smile than Geralt has.

And if Jaskier stays, he must have a good reason to. The girl behind the bar has pretty hair, Geralt can tell. And warm eyes. Geralt doesn't know what he'll do when his coin runs out. Find a monster near by, hope Jaskier will still be here when he returns.

Why are you still here? Where is the pretty girl that has caught your eye?

*** Geralt's breath hitches in his throat when Jaskier makes a step in his direction. He's had enough. He's not putting up with Geralt any longer. He'll point Geralt in one direction and tell him to stay far, far away from him. Worse, maybe he'll want an explanation.

Geralt's throat gets tight and he tries to think of anything that won't make him sound like a creep.

I didn't think you would stay for so long.

When the world turns dark, I will follow your voice. (And fuck, it's dark.)

The closer Jaskier gets, the more nervous Geralt becomes. He doesn't belong into this corner of the world, where Jaskier has decided to stay. That's where pretty barmaids and humans with normal eyes belong. Jaskier won't let him have this any longer.

Go and take with you the colors of the world. I've survived it before.

Geralt remembers the first time Jaskier talked to him, like he wasn't scary at all.

Here's your second chance, you can get it right this time. Say "I'm here to sing alone," and I will answer with "Ah. I know who you are. You're the bard I let in.” Walk away and I won't follow. Jaskier leans against the wall and crosses his arms.

You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm the worst thing that ever happened to you. Geralt has locked himself in a small room with no windows, only there is no lock and there is no door. “I was just going to stay one more day,” Geralt wants to say, but the words are stuck in his throat. From inside his self-made prison, he can still hear the gentle sounds of Jaskier's lute. So, he listens. Can you blame me? "I hear someone ordered a pie with no filling,” Jaskier says, his voice cold. Geralt nearly flinches. Jaskier saunters over and sits in the seat opposite Geralt. “Here to drink alone?” “Something like that,” Geralt says. He prepares for the inevitable accusations. He prepares his excuses. It's just your voice. A voice like amused smiles and no nightmares.

“I've seen you, you know,” Jaskier says. “Around.”

“Yeah, well, it's,” Geralt pauses, “the usual.”

“Right, right. Here's the thing though,” Jaskier says and leans forward across the table. “It's not. It's not the usual. You never stay this long in one place. So why are you still here? It can't be the ale, because to be frank it's not that good.”

“Maybe I just like... the company.” “The company? Geez, Geralt, you've lied better before. I know for a fact that in your whole life, you've never liked anyone's company. Are you here for a case? Some monster? Because I haven't heard anything.”

Geralt drinks in the sight of him, the soft red in his cheeks, the brown hair.

“No monsters,” he says slowly and looks down at his drink. "It's the smell," he says, “you smell... like home." "It's onion," Jaskier says and Geralt lets out a soft laugh. Jaskier sways back a little.

***

Home? What does it mean? Jaskier crosses his arms, then uncrosses them again. He tips back his chair. "I wouldn't have pegged you for one to settle down in a place like this,” Jaskier says conversationally.

How come Geralt still are as much of a mystery to him as he was twenty years ago? Or, well. Again.

“Likewise,” Geralt answers and Jaskier frowns. It's clear why he is still here, after all. The same way it's always been. “It's a pretty barmaid,” Geralt says.

“Tabitha?” Jaskier frowns harder. Why are they talking about Tabitha?

“Bit early to buy a ring,” Geralt says, irritably.

“A ring?” Jaskier has completely lost track of the conversation.

“To get married,” Geralt elaborates. “It's what people do. When they stay in one place for long.”

“Not if they stay somewhere for two weeks, what the fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier says, a little indignant. “Not me and Tabitha. No. Though...” His heart is racing faster. “If I'm honest, someone... did catch my eye, in this tavern.”

He presses his palms on the table and leans in closer.

***

“Oh,” Geralt says quietly. “I see. Someone... important, then.” He feels terribly cold, suddenly. “Yeah.” “Right. I should... I should go. I should stop bothering you.” He doesn't belong here, in this place where people talk and fall in love and are happy.

“Bothering me? That's what you call bothering, sitting in the corner and brooding? Not even an apology,” Jaskier shakes his head.

“I... I'm sorry, I should have left -” “Not for that,” Jaskier says quietly.

Geralt stares at him for a moment. He doesn't quite understand. Does Jaskier want them to part on good terms?

“I'm sorry for that, too, obviously,” he says.

“That's not good enough.” I know.

“It's, it's like they say. I am... my own worst enemy,” Geralt says. “I made a mistake. Bigger than usual. First with Yennefer, and then... You. You were still there. No matter how much I fucked up, you were always still there. I thought I'd... do the hard work for you.”

“That's incredibly stupid, Geralt, you know that?”

“Hm.”

“You've never had a friend before, have you?”

Geralt mentally goes through a long list of people he's met. None of them had been like Jaskier. “No.”

“Then I'll forgive you,” Jaskier says and smiles a little, “but let it be known that should you ever do something like this again, I'm going to write a very mean song about you.”

“Hm.”

“It'll involve an extremely scathing line about your smell.”

Geralt tilts his head a little.

“Seriously, when is the last time you had a bath?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow thoughtfully. “No, this is not something you need to think about,” Jaskier says, “oh Geralt, I don't know how you've survived a second without me.”

Geralt doesn't know either. Jaskier's eyes look a little brighter and Geralt loosens his grip on his jug.

“Why haven't you apologized two weeks ago?” Jaskier says then.

“You... you looked happy. Happier.”

“I think you haven't been looking too closely.”

“What about that... person. The one who's important to you? Will you want to stay?” Geralt says. “Because I can't. There's no monsters here.”

“You big idiot,” Jaskier says and clenches his teeth. “I really don't know how this is so hard to understand. I'm always in the same place. Have been for years. I'm always, always... where you are.”

Suddenly, Geralt realizes that the table is brown and so is his jug. The ceiling is blue. It's an odd color, for a ceiling.

“Oh, you,” Geralt starts, feeling like he's on the precipice of something. “You - ?” “I'd say that was fairly obvious,” Jaskier says softly.

“And -” Geralt swallows. “I -”

“That, uhm, obvious not so much,” Jaskier says, hands jittery. Geralt reaches out and covers them with his own. Jaskier stills instantly.

Let me – just let me -

Geralt reaches for Jaskier and pulls him closer. He kisses him – because as a rule, Geralt doesn't feel things, except that he does – and Jaskier smells like flowers. He tastes like something sweet. The world gets a little blurry around the edges, but this time it's okay. Geralt is thinking about a buttercup he'll pick for Jaskier, one he can put behind his ear. He can't lose this again, this feeling that's a little red and a little sweet and a little like Jaskier's voice.

Outside, the sun shines something bright again.

[himbowelsh]

imagine dick winters the same but with extreme horny energy throughout the series. terrifying.

the sheer power of thot!winters... i can’t even

Nixon has never enjoyed personal meetings with Colonel Sink. It reminds him too keenly of being called into the headmaster’s office as a boy. Sure, the gilt-carved walls and massive oak-paneled desk might be absent; he’s no longer a sulky twelve year old, wearing knee-high socks and a bow tie; but the feeling is still there. Sink never throws his weight around just to be intimidating  ---  a trait in a leader Nixon can actually respect  ---  but when he wants to, Sink can be the tallest man in the room. Everyone else looks, and feels, tiny in his shadow.

This meeting could be about a dozen things. Hopefully Sink doesn’t know about the footlocker.

“Captain Nixon.” He doesn’t look angry, which is a great start. Sink just looks tired  ---  not surprising, for a man with the entire 506th to look after. Nixon just has to deal with battalion staff, and he felt himself going grey at the temples after a week. Sink leans forward, bracing himself standing against the desk. Nixon straightens his back and makes himself attentive, ever the headmaster’s favorite student. “Now, I called you here to discuss something delicate. You intelligence men know how to keep things confidential.”

Nixon’s mind flashes through a montage  ---  humming La Marseilles in Dick’s earshot before Normandy, leaving a coffee stain right over Holland on the map on Dick’s desk, the Dutch-to-English dictionary he placed on Dick’s nightstand for safekeeping.

“Part of the job description, sir,” he replies, smiling.

Sink looks uncomfortable. “It’s… a delicate situation. You understand.”

Oh Christ, it’s definitely about the footlocker. Nixon’s shoulders tense, though his face doesn’t change. If he’s about to get demoted, he’s going to look respectable doing it.

“About Captain Winters.”

Oh.

Oh?

“The man’s a damn good soldier. Gets all the work done, is excellent with the men… you see, they respect him. These men need officers they can look up to.”

Oh.

“Not ones who get caught naked in a henhouse with the mayor of Aldbourne’s damn daughter on top of him!”

Nixon recalls that day in vivid detail — mostly because it was last weekend, but also because of the vivid red Dick blushed— presumably all over— even though he was grinning while telling it. The man has the patience of a saint, and double the virtues that come along with it. You could fill a new testament with the exploits of Dick Winters… except at least half of the pages would be torn straight from a bodice-ripper novel.

“Now, I try to make allowances for good officers, but this is the third time it’s happened... this month. When I talk to Winters about it, he says ‘yes sir, it’ll never happen again’. Then you know what he goes and does?”

It takes Nixon a second to realize Sink’s pointing at him because he expects an answer. “He does it again,” he volunteers.

Sink smacks the desk. “He does it again!”

He does plenty more that Sink doesn’t hear about, too, but Nixon’s not about to admit that to the man’s face.

“Now, you know how to handle him. If anyone in the army can wrangle the damn man, it’s you! From here on out, your job is to keep Winters out of trouble. I hate to demote a good officer, but he’s about to leave me no choice. Take care of it, Nixon.”

Buried deep down, a part of Nixon feels like cackling. Him, official Dick Winters babysitter? Christ, it’s like putting the death row inmates in charge of the electric chair, or letting a mouse run the whole kitchen! Rather than be written up for insubordination this early in the morning, Nixon just bows his head rising smoothly from his chair. “Yes, sir. I’ll look after him, sir.”

Sink sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “A model officer. A damn good man. All I ask is for him to keep it inside his pants. Is that too much to ask?”

It’s probably a rhetorical question. Nixon smiles pleasantly, and answers anyway. “Nothing’s too much for Captain Winters, sir.”

Sink waves him off with a shake of his head, settling down to focus on his next pressing issue. Nixon knows when he’s been dismissed; frankly, he can’t get out of the colonel’s office fast enough.

By the time he makes it back to the billet he and Dick are sharing, the story is burning his tongue like a sparkler. Jesus, what will Dick think? You never know what you’re going to get in a one-on-one with the brass, but babysitting duty’s something else. If Nixon’s suddenly the responsible one…

“Hey, Dick!” he calls, slamming the door to their shared house open. “Wait ‘til you get a load of —“

Nixon stops dead in the doorway, mouth hanging open. Suddenly, his mind is nothing but radio static. Dead air. A complete blank. Jesus Christ, he should learn to knock.

“Hiya, Nix,” Dick greets amiably, popping his head out from under his lady friend’s skirt. His flushed lips are almost more obscene than her wanton moaning. “Give me a few minutes, I’m just finishing up here.”

“Right.” Nixon snaps his fingers, then points a thumb over his shoulder, out the door. “I’ll just be — yeah, okay. You kids have fun.”

Yet another room he can’t escape from fast enough. This is turning into a day of uncomfortable meetings, and he’d kind of like to go into hibernation just to avoid any more.

Dick’s companion leaves first, a couple minutes after Nixon makes himself scarce. Her blouse is buttoned unevenly; she walks out on unsteady legs, face still flushed. Nixon waits a moment, just to make sure no more girls are following — he still remembers the night he got caught in a tragic jam, at least six girls filing out of their rooms as he tried to go in — but when no one else follows, he steps inside.

This time, he has the grace to rap lightly on the door. Dick turns, sparing him a close-lipped smile as he steps inside. By this point, Nixon knows he shouldn’t be surprised… still, Dick has a talent for it. “You know, I step out for an hour…”

“Veronica was just passing by.” Dick studies his reflection in the mirror, and splashed a bit of water on his face. “We’re old acquaintances. I invited her in because it’s the nice thing to do.”

“‘Old acquaintances?’” Nixon echoes, putting up a valiant effort not to laugh. “How far do you go back? All the way to last week?”

“Three weeks ago, actually,” Dick replies. By now, Nixon knows him well enough to catch the humor in his dry tone.

“Right, right.” He unbuttons his officer’s coat, surreptitiously scanning the room; Dick’s extracurriculars often leave evidence behind, and Nixon would prefer not to step on an earring again. “Well, that was nice of you. Seemed like she was enjoying herself.”

“Seemed like it,” Dick agrees, tone mild. When Nixon turns, he’s sprawled out in an armchair, head tilted back. Such exploits take a lot out of a guy… and Dick never gives himself a break. It’s not enough to be up with the sun sorting paperwork; he also puts in a different kind of work, so often that it’s amazing he hasn’t sprained anything. Burning the candle at both ends, indeed; Dick’s candle gets so much use, Nixon’s shocked it even lights anymore.

“I was going to tell you,” he says, draping his coat over the back of Dick’s desk chair, “about my meeting with Sink.” Dick makes a noncommittal noise of agreement, but at least Nixon knows he’s listening. “Got it into his head that I’m the responsible party here. Poor man. Couldn’t bring myself to prove him wrong just yet.”

Dick is quiet for a few moments; long enough to sit forward, elbows braced against his knees, watching his friend solemnly. Nixon might be the intelligence officer, but Dick’s always had a stare that can unwravel people without trying. “What did he say?” he asks, solemn.

Nixon rolls his shoulders in an easy shrug. “He asked me to keep an eye on you.” He lingers on the contents atop the dresser for a moment, pretending they’re more interesting than they are. Sure enough — a pair of ruby earrings sit forgotten. Nixon’s lips twist as he plucks them up, placing them inside a clean ashtray. Someone’s going to come looking for them eventually. “Sink’s talking about demotion, Dick. It’s crossed his mind.”

“Demotion? For what?” Dick doesn’t even sound outraged — only surprised.

“Well, the mayor’s daughter came up.”

Dick’s mouth drops open in protest; he closes it just as quickly. “Fair. Why else?”

Nixon can think of… at least twenty more reasons. Lieutenant Baldassari of the Nurses’ Corps… the baker’s wife… the waitress with the bright lipstick… that farm girl who left Dick pulling hay out of his clothes for a week… hell, when Kathy was visiting, Nixon even made the mistake of inviting Dick to dine with them. Never again. If any man ought to have it out for Dick Winters, it’s him. 

(At least Dick had the courtesy to invite him. Nixon turned the offer down — like hell if Kathy wanted him in the middle, anyways.)

The thing is… Dick’s character makes him otherwise unimpeachable. He’s so damned good. Hardworking, determined, coolheaded, sober as a judge… and filled with tireless energy towards his duty. So much energy. A frightening amount of energy, all the time, ready to lead the men in anything.

It took Nixon a while to figure out where he generates it all.

“All I can tell you is, be careful. Chrissakes, lock your doors, at least, so innocent people can’t just walk in.” Nixon turns, leaning against the dresser and crossing his arms. “I don’t have to remind you about the Sobel incident.”

“I remember,” Dick replies, lips quirking in a dry half-grin.

“Great! So you remember Sobel’s sister. And why the man was dead-set on driving you out of the damn army.”

“It was nice of his family to visit from Chicago,” is all Dick says. When Nixon just stares at him, Dick sighs and rises from his chair, turning to the desk. “I’ve got some paperwork, Nix.”

“Right.” Nixon waits for a moment, weighing the likelihood of Dick giving in and continuing the conversation. It’s not high. Shaking his head, he pushes off of the dresser and starts across the room. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Have fun. Oh, and Dick —“

As Nixon turns in the doorway, Dick looks up.

“You want me to believe you’re going to stay in and be good all night, you might wanna put some clothes on.”

Standing buck-naked in the middle of their shared room, Dick shrugs his lean shoulders, and smiles. “Will do, Nix.”

[xpouii]

Tentacletober Day 20

It’s finally here! Part three of my Intrulogical series starting with Day 6 and continued in Day 13. Things get a little dramatic--and even more shamelessly sexy this time around. I hope you enjoy!

Prompt: Established Tentacle Relationship

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Characters: Logan, Remus, Deceit, Patton, Virgil, Roman, Thomas

Warnings/Tags: NSFW, Exhibitionism, swearing, shouting, crying, moral quandaries, unrequited love, bit of awkward romance, sympathetic Remus, Sympathetic Deceit, full NSFW tags under the cut!

NSFW Tags: Deepthroating, gagging, mild dubcon sort of but not really, biting, two dicks/hemipenis, cum marking, facial, choking. Enjoy!

               The kitchen was full of the pleasant smells of coffee and bacon; Logan had made breakfast—mostly to keep Remus from burning down the kitchen. They were sitting together at the table, enjoying one another’s quirky company. Logan had foregone breakfast for coffee, and Remus ate unsurprisingly quickly between ramblings about his idea for a new horror movie. Logan let him talk, stopping occasionally to correct him for anatomical inconsistencies, and by the time Remus had finished eating they were well on their way to a fairly impressive body horror piece. It wasn’t long, though, before Remus got antsy, “So you’re not going to eat anything?”

               Logan grunted noncommittally, taking another swallow of coffee, “I’m not hungry.”

               “Are you sure?” Remus said. “Because I do have something for you, if you are. It’s your favorite.”

               Logan looked up and raised an eyebrow as Remus grinned, wide and clever like the Cheshire cat, “Are you referring to your penis?”

               “I am,” Remus said. “Interested?”

               Logan glanced to the clock. They had almost an hour before Patton would be awake, and even longer before anyone else would come looking. He cleared his throat as if thinking about it, finishing off his coffee. He pushed his chair back, then slid below the kitchen table. Remus snickered and scooted his own chair up further against the table. He spread his knees a bit and his hand went to his belt, but Logan pushed them away, taking over. It was a fun game of self-denial for Remus to keep his hands—and eyes—above the table while below, Logan had managed to free his cock and was currently acquainting every inch of it with his tongue. Remus closed his eyes but jumped and straightened when Deceit strolled into the kitchen, “Morning.”

               “Oh! Hey Dee!” Remus said cheerily, wrapping his legs around Logan’s torso to keep him from retreating. “You’re out and about awfully early.”

               “Well it was quiet downstairs,” Deceit said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Didn’t seem sensible to make an entire pot of coffee for myself.”

               “Logan always does,” Remus said. “He loves having something hot in his mouth.”

               Deceit sat down in Logan’s chair and scooted up, stopping when his foot collided with Logan; he raised an eyebrow then sighed, “He’s under the table. Wonderful, there goes my appetite.”

               “Morning!” Patton called as he stepped inside.

               Logan choked lightly on Remus’ cock and the creative side feigned a cough to cover it, “Patton! You’re awake early!”

               “Well I was hungry so I thought instead of laying in bed thinking about food I might as well get up for the day and head down,” Patton said. “Wednesday is usually cold cereal day but I’m having oatmeal!”

               “What’s life without whimsy?” Deceit said with a smirk at Remus.

               “So I’m surprised to see you here together,” Patton said as he went about making his breakfast. “You two don’t usually come to the kitchen very much… well I guess you have been Remus… never without-“

               Patton was interrupted by the microwave and he retrieved his oatmeal, sitting down at the table, “That smells divine,” Deceit said. “Flavor?”

               “Um… apple cinnamon,” Patton said, testing the temperature by tapping the spoon to his lips then taking a bite. “Mm hits the spot doesn’t it?”

               Patton scooted up and Deceit threw his legs over Logan’s back, pulling him in a bit to keep Patton from kicking him. “I’m sure it does. I’m afraid my metabolism wouldn’t let me live it down if I had much for breakfast, isn’t that right Remus?”

               Remus’ eyes opened from where they’d drifted shut as Logan swallowed around him, “Hm? Oh, yes of course, breakfast, goes right to your ass.”

               Deceit gave Remus a glare but Patton sighed, “Oh Remus don’t say that. Deceit’s body is beautiful and perfect! Don’t bodyshame. It’s mean.”

               “Sorry Patton,” Remus moaned softly, slapping a hand over his mouth and pretending to yawn as Logan let out an overwhelmed moan around Remus’ cock.

               “Don’t you think it’s about time you finished up and sank out?” Deceit said through his teeth. “I’m sure you have a lot to do in your room.”

               “Almost,” Remus said, unwilling to give up the sharp zap of lust he was getting from speaking to Patton while Logan swallowed his cock under the table. “So close.”

               Virgil came in then and both of the dark sides went still and quiet; Patton looked up with a bright smile, “Good morning, kiddo.”

               Virgil gave a little wave, scowling at the other two and walking to the cupboard for a glass. He turned around and dropped the glass; it shattered, glass skittering across the floor just as Remus came and Logan pushed off his cock to sputter and gag, getting most of the ill-gotten release on his face. “WHAT THE FUCK!” Virgil shouted.

               Patton quickly pushed back from the table and saw the scene below, screaming and jumping to his feet, “Oh no oh gosh oh no!”

               Deceit sighed, “You really should have just left when I told you, Remus.”

               “Well I was having fun!” Remus whined, tucking himself back in his pants and scooting back to help Logan up. “Sorry Moonbeam.”

               Logan took off his glasses and waved off Remus’ attempt to lean in and lick them clean. “It’s quite alright we just misjudged our window of privacy.”

               Virgil stomped past them, his boots crunching in the glass as he shoved his way around Patton, “EVERYBODY IN THE LIVINGROOM NOW!”

               “Oh goodie,” Deceit muttered, handing Logan a handkerchief. “Clean your face before we get dragged out in front of Thomas.”

               Logan nodded and quickly cleaned up as that familiar tug in the back of his mind pulled. The other two vanished, and he managed to fight it long enough to extirpate the handkerchief and fix his tie before he rose up in his usual spot. Thomas was standing with his shoes in his hand, glancing at the door, “Uh, Virgil, you do remember I have to be at-“

               “That doesn’t matter!” Virgil interrupted. “Logan and Remus were fornicating in the kitchen this morning!”

               “Great Odin’s tube socks why!?” Roman shouted, covering his eyes. “Do you have to say it out loud like that where the rest of us have to hear it, Virgil!?”

               “Yes perhaps some discretion would be appropriate,” Logan said.

               Patton was dumbfounded, wringing his hands and staring at the floor; he couldn’t stop thinking about the violation of having the deed happening mere feet away from him while he chatted with Deceit like an idiot. He whimpered and covered his eyes with his hands, shaking his head. Remus, for his part, did look a bit sheepish, likely only because Deceit had been scolding him when they popped up. “This is all very upsetting for everyone,” Roman said. “Mayhaps we could all just pretend it never happened and move on with our lives?”

               “I don’t think so. Somebody’s gonna answer for what I had to see in that kitchen!” Virgil said, his voice warped and deepened by stress.

               “Should I fetch my bowtie? Are we going back to the courtroom?” Deceit muttered from his spot between the brothers.

               “Nobody invited you, Deceit!” Thomas said.

               “I did,” Virgil said. “He was there! He was involved!”

“A dear friend of mine is on trial; of course I’m going to show up,” Deceit said, ignoring Virgil.

               “Nobody is on trial here,” Logan said calmly.

               “You’re right!” Virgil snapped, “Because we’re way past judge and jury at this point!”

               Deceit sighed, “And that leaves executioner. Logan, don’t let logic cloud your reasoning. This is a trial, or perhaps more accurately, a witch trial.”

               “Thomas can’t afford to have his Logic corrupted by-“

               “Corrupted.” Deceit sneered. “You three may think you need to wear mud boots when you come to the subconscious but I assure that—despite Remus’ best efforts—I keep it very clean and organized downstairs.”

               “This isn’t helping,” Thomas said. “Logan, please, you have to know how this looks!”

               Logan folded his arms, “Thomas, I thought we’d been through this. Remus isn’t dangerous to you anymore than the rest of us. Too much of anything is dangerous, but worrying about me being corrupted is baseless and hypervigilant. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

               “Fuck you, Logan!” Virgil snapped. “You’re just dick-crazy and you have no idea what you’re talking about!”

               “Language!” Patton squeaked. “Can we please keep this civil?!”

               “Nothing short of an apology on his knees is gonna make this go away, Pat,” Virgil said. “Logan betrayed us—on his knees!”

               “Virgil don’t be ridiculous,” Logan said. “You’re acting like a child.”

               “I caught you blowing him under the kitchen table! Patton was sitting two feet away! We eat there!”

               “Virgil please I’m getting lightheaded!” Patton said, covering his ears.

               Roman sighed, “Can I just say I’m incredibly uncomfortable with the subject matter too? Can I just duck out please?”

               “No!” Virgil said. “We have to be a united front!”

               “It wasn’t my intention to engage in any exhibitionism,” Logan said. “In my defense the kitchen was empty when we started, and Patton came in half an hour earlier than usual.”

               Thomas winced, “Oh god I don’t think I need to hear this either. It explains the… weird dreams I’ve been having lately.”

               “I’m not in charge of dreams,” Remus said.

               “N-no that was me,” Roman said with a blush. “Sorry about that. The new season of the Bachelorette has been a little intense.”

               “You see Thomas? Blaming everything sexual that happens in your mind on Remus is not only naïve, it’s rude.”

               “Oh I don’t mind rude,” Remus said. “I’ve kind of developed a persona around it, you know.”

               Deceit rolled his eyes, “So are we going to burn Remus at the stake or learn to be adults and mind our own business, Virgil?”

               “When one of my friends is doing his job with a cum-addled brain I have a right to take issue!”

               Patton and Thomas both whined, “Ok Virgil seriously Patton’s gonna pass out!” Thomas scolded.

               Logan’s hands curled into fists and he spoke through his teeth, “You have no right to complain about the quality of my work. I am always professional and I would never let something as trivial as… as semen affect my job! Just this morning I stopped you from convincing Thomas to go to the doctor after he hiccuped and sneezed at the same time because you decided he had brain cancer!”

               “He might have it!” Virgil said. “And this isn’t about me!”

               “It’s about all of you,” Thomas said. “Is this… is this the first time any of you have… have hooked up like this?”

               Roman glanced nervously at Deceit, turning a bit red, but the snake interjected, “If I may, Thomas? You’re going to be much happier if you retract that question immediately and live in blissful ignorance.”

               “Ok never mind,” Thomas said. “Just… I want to hear from everybody… Patton?”

               Patton was picking at a loose thread on his cardigan; he looked up at Logan and frowned. “Logan… I know you don’t feel anything for Remus… I just can’t understand.”

               “You don’t know what I feel, Patton,” Logan said. “I… would rather not discuss it publicly, but to suggest our relationship is merely physical… well would be incorrect.”

               Patton gasped softly, but only Deceit heard the tiny intake of air, “You… have feelings for him?”

               “I do.”

               “You do?” Remus asked, hand on his heart. “Really, Moonbeam?”

               “That is disgusting!” Virgil shouted, “Thomas, wh-“

               “Shush Virgil I wanna hear this,” Thomas said, waving him off as he leaned in.

               Virgil growled and sunk out; Roman winced, “I’ll… I’ll go talk to him.”

               Once Roman was gone Logan continued, “Yes, Remus, really. I’m not good at expressing myself. I know that, and you know that… but I have deep, complex feelings for you that I’d rather not unpack right now, or maybe ever.”

               Remus’ face broke into a grin, “Oh Moonbeam I love you too!”

               Thomas stared at them for a moment then threw his hands up, “Ok, alright, fine. If you actually want this, and this is… this is real then I couldn’t forgive myself if I got in the middle. As long as you—both of you—promise to keep doing your jobs the same as ever then—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—you have my blessing.”

               “Very good Thomas,” Deceit said. “And I’m being sarcastic. You’re so mature.”

               Thomas looked over baffled but Logan cleared his throat, “Ignore him, and… thank you Thomas. Although I have a tenuous relationship with right and wrong, I appreciate your support.”

               “You’re welcome, Logan. I meant what I said, though. Don’t let Virgil catch you slipping.”

               Logan smiled, and once Remus had sunk into the floor, he followed, leaving Patton and Deceit alone with Thomas. “Well,” Patton said softly. “This was… very different.”

               “Yeah… I’m headed out for the day,” Thomas said. “Are you ok, Pat?”

               Patton nodded, closing his eyes, “Shaken up but I’ll be alright, Thomas. Have fun, kiddo.”

               Thomas sat to put on his shoes, and Deceit followed Patton into the mindscape, “You don’t look so good, Daddy.”

               Patton shrugged and forced a little half smile as he stepped into the kitchen, walking to the sink, “I’m fine, Deceit. Just um… dishes need doing, right?”

               “I’m not entirely sure that’s important unless it comforts you,” Deceit said as Patton turned on the water. “I’m all for avoidance when it has a purpose but I think a good dose of the truth might set you free.”

               The white noise of the sink running stretched out a few long seconds before it was shattered, figuratively and literally by Patton dropping a plate to the floor. He spun around, tears running down his cheeks, “Why didn’t he pick me, Deceit? I thought I had more time! I was… I was flirting, a little. Logan’s so closed off. I was taking my time.”

               Deceit cooed as he stepped forward, hands on Patton’s shoulders, “There there, dear heart. Sometimes love doesn’t turn out how we want it to, does it? It’s going to be alright.”

               Patton leaned forward and cried into Deceit’s chest, feeling the comforting pressure of Deceit’s hands spread down his arms and around his back—more than just two hands, and Patton sank fully against him, “Thank you.”

               “That’s quite alright,” Deceit said. “You know, I can empathize with your predicament. I spend a lot of time alone now too.”

               Patton blushed as he took half a step back, and Deceit let him, releasing him completely, “Deceit I… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable but… I’m upset, and lonely and very very confused. Would you please touch me?”

               Deceit was surprised at first, then the look melted into a subdued smile, “Of course sweetheart. But, unlike Logan, let’s not get caught with our hands in the cookie jar, hm?”

               “My room?” Patton offered.

               “How about the subconscious,” Deceit said. “In the imagination. Roman and Remus are busy. We’ll have the place to ourselves and it’s neutral ground.”

               “Deal,” Patton said, his cheeks turning red as Deceit took his hand.

                 The subconscious was quiet, dark and it gave off an unmistakable feeling of security, secrecy. It would have made Patton a little uncomfortable, but it was exactly what he wanted now. He followed Deceit into the imagination, inhaling the fresh air of the little forested path they stepped onto. “Don’t worry,” Deceit said. “We don’t have to rough it.”

               Patton giggled and let Deceit lead him up along the hillside until they came across a small cluster of cottages. “Does anyone live here?”

               “Not often,” Deceit said. “Remus likes to use the place when he plays giant monsters so it’s abandoned unless he’s rampaging through it. Come on.”

               They ducked into a well-furnished, clean cozy cottage and Patton couldn’t help but sigh happily, “It’s so cute in here.”

               “Not nearly as cute as you,” Deceit said. “But that’s an unfair standard isn’t it? Is there anything in the entire mindscape as cute as you?”

               Patton blushed deeply and bit his bottom lip, “Maybe you?”

               Deceit laughed and pulled Patton into a sweet kiss. It lingered, then it deepened, and Deceit pulled Patton against him, teasing his forked tongue against Patton’s full, soft lips. Patton relinquished, parting his lips and moaning around the sweet intrusion. He untied his cardigan and tossed it aside, untucking his shirt from his khakis as Deceit swallowed away his soft sounds. Deceit took over then, hands going to Patton’s belt and unbuckling it, sliding it slowly—maddeningly so—out of its loops.

               Deceit broke the kiss and Patton’s breath came out shallow and quick; he held onto Deceit so he could step out of his shoes, his legs already a bit trembly. “Is there a bedroom?”

               Deceit swept Patton up into his arms and carried him into the small bedroom, laying him down on the bed. His expression was a mixture of lust and sadness that Deceit was determined to kiss away. He leaned in and their lips met again. Patton wrapped his arms around Deceit’s neck, taking every ounce of comfort he was offered until he had to break, sucking in a breath as Deceit’s lips moved to his neck. He fumbled with Deceit’s capelet, pushing it off and gently removing his hat before he set his focus on Deceit’s gloves. The kisses on his neck turned to gentle bites as he pulled the gloves off and interlaced their fingers, tracing the soft, smooth scales along Deceit’s knuckles with his fingertips. Deceit sucked a deep mark over Patton’s pulse point, humming pleasantly when Patton gasped and arched up against him, “Deceit.”

               “Yes darling?” the snake muttered against Patton’s neck.

               “Please,” Patton whispered. When Deceit pulled back and met his gaze, his eyes were wide and burning with lust undeniable. “Please I want more.”

               Deceit chuckled, “Of course, my dear. All you ever have to do is ask.”

               Patton released Deceit’s hands and moved to unbutton Deceit’s shirt, “May I?”

               Deceit shrugged the open shirt off of his shoulders and sat back on his knees when Patton raised up on his elbows, “Anything you want, sweetheart.”

               Patton kissed Deceit again, then trailed kisses along his jaw and down to his left shoulder, tracing the complex pattern of scales that moved over Deceit’s modest musculature with his tongue. He closed his eyes and practically purred, not used the touch of a hand, much less something so eagerly intimate on the part of his body that usually drove people away, “They’re so beautiful,” Patton said. “You know that.”

               Deceit rolled his eyes but he was smiling, “Easy there, my dear. If a snake finds somewhere warm they never leave.”

               Patton smiled and pulled his shirt off, laying back flat on the bed, “Maybe that’s ok.”

               Deceit bit his bottom lip and kissed Patton, a little more forceful this time as he undid the other’s pants, pulling them down and off with slow, practiced movements. Patton was a bit more clumsy, but endearingly so as he relieved Deceit of his pants, giggling when his fingers found bare skin instead of the underwear he expected. Deceit let his fingertips play over Patton’s stomach, eliciting a stifled giggle as the other side shrank under his ticklish attention. “Deceit!” he panted, taking off his glasses and setting them on the little rustic nightstand.

               “Ticklish?” Deceit rumbled, kissing down Patton’s chest.

               “W-wait,” Patton panted, and Deceit did as asked, looking up at him. “I… want to see you. Don’t run away.”

               “I’m not going far,” Deceit said, but Patton’s expression gave him pause, and he moved back up, touching his face. “Alright, I’m here.”

               Patton smiled as his heart skipped, and he reached down between them, barely giving Deceit time to flinch before his palm found the reason for their little dance of avoidance. He met Deceit’s gaze, “Are you alright?”

               Deceit cleared his throat, trying to keep his eloquence intact with Patton’s hand wrapped around his cocks. “I’m used to being a man with secrets.”

               Patton smiled, kissing his nose, “I want every inch of you.”

               Deceit’s heart fluttered and his cocks jumped in Patton’s hand, “Maybe not both the first time, but I’m willing to give it a go.”

               Patton blushed and giggled, turning his face away into the pillow under his head, his mirth turning into a soft moan as Deceit kissed his neck, thrusting into his hand, “I want you, Deceit. Please?”

               “You needn’t ask twice,” Deceit said, reaching down to remove Patton’s underwear. He conjured a bottle of lube with a smirk that made Patton hide his blushing face again. He applied a generous amount to his fingers and situated himself between Patton’s legs, lifting his hips gently and dragging one of the pillows down to help prop him up. “Say it again, darling. Tell me what you want.”

               “You,” Patton whimpered. “You inside me, please.”

               Deceit smiled and teased Patton with his fingertips before sliding the first one in, slow and gentle until Patton relaxed, ready for a second. Patton squirmed and whimpered as Deceit sought out his prostate, pressing against it with his fingertips until Patton cried out. He slipped his fingers free and helped Patton roll onto his side, “Are you ready?”

               Patton nodded, biting his bottom lip and closing his eyes, “I’m ready Deceit please… please make love to me.”

               Deceit wanted to tell Patton he wasn’t sure he knew how to do anything involving love, but he bit his forked tongue, and gently moved into position, pulling Patton’s top leg around his waist, opening him up. He exhaled a slow, even breath as he pressed into Patton. The moral side moaned out, his mouth falling open as his hands fisted into the soft patterned quilt beneath him. Deceit moved slowly, holding himself in place once he’d bottomed out, until Patton squirmed beneath him, hips rocking in an obvious request. Deceit smiled to himself and pulled out before thrusting back in, not as gentle as perhaps he should have been, but he wasn’t Roman after all. His romance wasn’t to be taken completely at face value, but the sounds Patton made were unmistakable confirmation that he wasn’t bothered by Deceit’s firm hand—and firmer cocks.

               Patton kept his face hidden, and the half Deceit could see was burning bright red, but it wasn’t long before his hand was slipping down between them to wrap around their cocks and stroke them, gentle and slow at first but quickly picking up the pace as the urgency between them rose. Patton was arching and rocking in time with Deceit’s thrusts, mumbling praise and pleas into the pillow and—occasionally, when a particularly loud moan would tear itself free of his chest—biting the pillow to keep himself muffled.

               Deceit tightened his grip on Patton’s hips and slowed, but the collision of their bodies remained audible, an undeniable testament, “Look at me, darling.”

               Patton did instantly, looking up and meeting Deceit’s eyes. Tears shone in his eyes, but his bottom lip was red and swollen from biting and rubbing against the pillowcase. “Deceit,” he sobbed, torn between emotion and desire. Deceit wrapped one hand around his throat and leaned down to capture his lips, slamming into him mercilessly. Patton dug the nails of his free hand into Deceit’s right shoulder, dragging desperate red scratches into the otherwise unmarred skin.

               Deceit growled, moving to whisper in Patton’s ear, “That’s it, beautiful, let me see you. You’re so pretty when you cry.”

               “I… I want to cum. I need it… please Deceit!” Patton panted, most of the emotion wrung out of him by the animalistic fucking he was getting.

               “Cum whenever you want, darling,” Deceit purred, biting Patton’s earlobe as he moved his hand from Patton’s throat and added it to Patton’s efforts on their cocks.

               Patton arched and cried out beneath him, nails digging painfully into Deceit’s back as he came, tears streaming down his face as his chest heaved. Deceit chased his own release in earnest, no longer having to worry about comforting the fucked out side beneath him. Patton whimpered and hiccupped as his body burned with overstimulation, but it didn’t take Deceit long, and soon he was drawing in a sharp, hissing breath and biting down on Patton’s shoulder as he released, both inside and onto his new lover, marking him. Patton pulled Deceit into a desperate kiss as the thrusts slowed and Deceit came down from the orgasmic high.

               Deceit gave a few slow, deep thrusts, making a point—to Patton or himself he wasn’t sure. He then pulled out and let Patton curl around him, getting comfortable on his back. He cupped Patton’s face and kissed away the tears, “How many of these are happy?”

               Patton blushed, wiping his eyes, “I um… just cry when I feel… you know.”

               “Good?”

               Patton nodded, nuzzling his face against Deceit’s chest, “Please say we can stay like this for a while.”

               “As long as you want, sweetheart,” Deceit purred, stroking Patton’s hair.

[tessatechaitea]

The Invisibles #1

If I had to pretend to know anything about art, I'd say this cover represents how pop culture can kill. Or will blow your mind. Or feels dangerous but it's actually pretty safe because the pin is still in the grenade.

What the fuck do I know about art and why the fuck am I assuming this comic book is going to be about art anyway?! Just because Grant Morrison wrote it and I happen to think Grant Morrison has written some pretty smart comic books? Well, I'm pretty sure he's written some huge fucking turds too! It's just that I haven't read any of them that I remember. Apparently I've read a few issues of this but I don't really remember it. I don't like to tell people that I don't remember it when they talk about how great it was because that's admitting that 22 year old me wasn't a discerning critic of his entertainment. At least I also can't remember the truly garbage comic books I was reading in 1994 as well! So it's possible I read this and thought, "I'm so smart because I understand what's happening!" Now I'm terrified to read it because I'm absolutely certain I'll think, "What the hell is going on in this comic book? I'm such a stupid asshole!" Oh boy. This comic book is forty pages long. Get ready for a review that explicates the first fifteen pages thoroughly while also digressing twelve separate times before quickly summarizing the last twenty-five pages so I can go play some Apex.

I can't say for certain this is a shot at Ann Nocenti but, thankfully, I can say it's definitely not a shot at me!

This guy is Elfayed. He's retrieved a mummified scarab from the desert believing it might be a sign for the mysterious bald man with too many face piercings and the endeavor he's currently on. Which is a mystery because Grant Morrison isn't going to let the reader understand the comic book on the first page! Sheesh! The second page doesn't help explain things but it does place the word "synchronicity" burning in my brain like a buzzing, blinking neon sign.

Get it? Mummified beetle. Dead Beatles. Boy throwing a Molotov cocktail. Pop culture and violence. I think I intuitively understand this comic book so 70% of the rest of what I say will be dick jokes.

The kid throwing the explosive is one of three members of a gang called the Croxteth Posse. Every youth in Britain joins a gang no matter how stupid and lame they are. It just proves how hard they are even if they never throw one Molotov cocktail or ever even get their genitals touched. The gang members run off into the night, past some "King Mob" graffiti which will be important later, yelling, "We are the boys! We are the boys!" Is that a thing lame youth gangs in London did in the 80s and 90s? Because I remember Lister and his posse saying that shit about being the boys of the Dwarf when they thought they were acting hard on some adventure that probably involved Lister fucking a future version of himself. The Croxteth gang are from Liverpool because Croxteth is a suburb of Liverpool. It shows how imaginative these youths are. I bet there are at least fifty different Croxteth Posses bumbling about at night destroying things. The bald guys name is Gideon (and possibly King Mob. Unless the antagonist is King Mob. I should probably keep reading to find out) and he's both young and old at the same time. He's probably some kind of spirit of the zeitgeist or something, Grant Morrison's Jenny Sparks. He's looking for a new recruit for his own gang since something happened to John-A-Dreams. He might have just died of old age because Gideon's other acquaintance, Edith, is now 95 years old and sulking in her mortality. He wants her to contact somebody named Tom to let him know he thinks he found their new recruit. I think it's probably the anarchist kid because I know how stories work. I'm starting to think maybe The Invisibles are a bit like the Upright Citizens Brigade. Their only enemy is the status quo. Their only friend is chaos. Except there will be less skits with people wearing giant papier-mâché cat heads and more ultra-violence. The arsonist kid's name is McGowan and he's smarter than he acts, according to his teacher who gives him the old "you're not fulfilling your potential and your friends are just dragging you down" speech. But what kind of an anarchist would McGowan be if he gave a shit about what his teacher thinks of him? Oh, that's right! He'd be a good anarchist if he really gave a shit and a bad anarchist if he didn't give a shit but he let the teacher's words affect him anyway. That's how anarchy works, right? The problem with anarchy is that it needs a few rules to make it work well but you can't enforce any rules or else you're not living an anarchic lifestyle. Here's my definition of anarchy from Places & Predators, my roller playing game: a philosophy where anybody can do anything they want without worrying about some stupid guard putting an axe in their head. But they have to worry about everyone else putting an axe in their head all the time because there are no guards. I should probably read The Dispossessed by Ursula K. Le Guin instead of all these stupid Han Solo and Lando Calrissian adventure books.

Oh, well McGowan's mother withholds love and affection and blames him for all the ills in her life. I suppose I can now forgive him for torching the school library, right?

McGowan heads out to sit in the cold and watch John Lennon have a conversation with Stuart Sutcliffe. They joke about being dead and it's funny because they are dead. Stuart even says he wants to die young which is doubly funny because he does. Ha ha! McGowan doesn't laugh because maybe he doesn't find gallows humor funny. But some weird creature that speaks some German does laugh. He's all, "Ha ha! They're going to die young! Oh ho ho! Such jolly fun! Now join with me, you dumb kid." He also says some German stuff that I can't make sense of because I don't speak German and I don't want to ask the Non-Certified Spouse what it means. I could use Google but I'm being extra lazy right now. McGowan tells the weird German tourist to fuck off because he doesn't care about anything. But you know what kind of people actually care a lot about everything? The kind who need to tell everybody that they don't care about anything. Only people whose feelings are super hurt say stuff like that. And maybe serial killers. Later McGowan decides to prove he doesn't care by suggesting he and his friends blow up the school. Not because he cares how they think they know everything and they want him to be just like them and all adults lack affection and sincerity. No, he just wants to blow it up because he doesn't give a shit about nothing, man. The scene switches to the bald guy who might be King Mob on an LSD trip. It's nothing like taking LSD but I'll pretend it's all metaphor and analogy and spiritual nonsense. In his trip, he sees a gigantic head of John Lennon. Mostly because the whole trip was to summon this head. It's a double page spread of psychedelic images and nonsense mixed with Beatles lyrics and album titles. Strange that Morrison fails to translate an acid trip involving The Beatles when The Beatles themselves have a song that I think most feels like and describes an acid trip. No, it's not "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds"; it's "Strawberry Fields." If I had to state what my favorite Beatles song was right now, I'd say "Strawberry Fields" even though Magical Mystery Tour might be my least favorite (later) album (although now that I type it, I remember it contained "Penny Lane" and "The Fool on the Hill" and "All You Need is Love" and I guess I was wrong about Magical Mystery Tour being my least favorite album). I added the later because their early pop shit doesn't really resonate with me. I don't think I appreciate their music until after they've met Doctor Robert. Just listened to "Strawberry Fields" and now I'm crying. Fucking great song. While trying to burn down the school, McGowan is caught be his teacher. He gives his teacher a brutal beating and then answers a question he refused to answer in class, just to show he's both smart and violent.

McGowan's arrested and Hugh Laurie sentences him to hard juvenile labor.

I was speaking of acid earlier and I'd like to recommend the documentary on Netflix called Have a Good Trip, especially to people who have never done acid. It's enlightening. You might think that my favorite part was one of the crazier bits about hallucinations or one of the stories about how something odd always happens when on acid (it totally does) but I think my favorite bit is when the musician from Bikini Kill, Kathleen Hanna, tells the story about how acid made her realize that you didn't have to cross the street along the legs of the two triangles comprising the square intersection but can just cross along the hypotenuse. It's not that the idea is mind blowing or even close to an "A-ha!" shower thought; it's just that's the kind of mundane thought that seems like a fucking magic revelation when you're on acid. It's the epitome of the acid experience. LSD makes the mundane profound which is way more exciting than you might think. If you've never done acid, you might have fucked off to the comment section just now to point out that the universe is a wonderful and magical and profound place even without acid. And I fucking agree. But LSD makes everything profound. Every single thing you see or think combines with the fabric of the universe and it all becomes staring at the stars and wondering how it all fucking fits together. But you don't need space or infinity or philosophy; you just need LSD, a stapler, a bottle of water, and a Jack Kirby comic book from the early 70s. Dane McGowan is sentenced to ten weeks in a juvenile facility called Harmony House. It's where violent teenage boys aren't taught to stop being violent; it's where they're taught to use their violence to benefit the government! At least that's my guess. I like to pretend I know what's happening in the comic book as I write the review and then later I delete the wrong assumptions I made and replace them with lies to make me look like a Grandmaster Comic Book Reviewer! Actually, that last sentence was a lie. Normally if I get something wrong, I just write "Oops!" later and then tell readers to forget the terrible mistake I made.

This is the plot to every young adult dystopian book ever written: "Society says conformity is good. But one young spunky individual with weird hair won't submit and will save the world!"

Sometimes I feel the only people touched by stories about the individual refusing to be a sheep of the status quo are people who tend to be sheep of the status quo. To rely identify with the hero in one of these stories, the reader needs to have though of themselves as part of the status quo and felt the need to participate in some activity that would prove that they weren't. Instead of, you know, just being themselves and never actually giving their place in society a second thought. I find odd people who are inspired by a story that tells the reader to be themselves. How is that inspiring unless you never really knew that was an option? And how could you fucking not know it?! But then again, Heathers is one of my all-time favorite movies and I suppose that's got a similar message about being oneself. But it also has murder and some seriously great lines of dialogue and Christian Slater blowing himself to bits.

Oh, remember where I mentioned this comic book was basically screaming "synchronicity" at me and that I understood it on an instinctual level after page two? Grandmaster Comic Book Reader!

The leader of The Invisibles (man, I wish the comic book would just tell me that the bald guy with piercings is actually King Mob already) decides to infiltrate Harmony House to make sure their soon-to-be new recruit, McGowan, is doing okay. I'm sure he'll find he's fine because he's not buying into the whole "be a soldier of the status quo" bullshit being fed to the young boys at the institution. It's easy to be against a Headmaster who thinks arguments like "Liberals love freedom but do they want people to be so free that they can steal their VCRs." But will he be able to stand up against the techno-brainwashing and the influence of the mystical creature running things from behind the scenes?! Probably but only with help from the Upright Citizens Brigade. I mean The Invisibles.

It's surreal that this is the way we thought of controlling the populace in the 90s: turn them into content sheep without any anger or frustration. And yet the exact opposite of that is true: control them by making them angry and frustrated at as many lies and half-truths as you can.

The big twist reveal isn't that the boys' brains are cut up and messed with; it's that the boys genitals are removed as well. Yeesh! Now I'm angry and frustrated! I'm totally against this Harmony House bullshit. Is this actually happening red states?! Horrific! King Mob (yes, they finally reveal that's the bald guy's name) rescues Dane from Harmony House while shooting a bunch of people (including the Headmaster) and blowing the building to bits. It's a good thing we learned the real antagonist was some dick-eating creature called the King of Chains. Dane McGowan isn't ready to join The Invisibles which King Mob was ready for. He had a tarot reading earlier that said the kid was going to have to be put through the wringer first. So he leaves the kid in London and disappears, just so we all know why they're called The Invisibles. I guess Batman is a member? The Invisibles #1 Rating: B+. This issue was forty pages long and it felt like it used every page to move the story along. It's insane that that's one of the greatest compliments I can give a comic book. Way too many writers just fill their scripts with nonsense because they don't have a real plan for their story. I know everybody espouses the idea that a good comic book story should teach the reader something new about the character. But unless learning that Superman can punch something harder than he previously thought he could, or Batman is super resilient and can take a ton of punishment for five issues before rising to the occasion through pure force of will, most comic book writers really don't put a lot of thought into themes. Sure, sure. This sort of feels like the mystic super hero version of Catcher in the Rye which might be why I stopped purchasing it after six issues. Although it's just as likely that I stopped purchasing it at six issues because my infrequent visits to the comic book store made me miss Issue #7 and I just gave up on it. It's not bad and it's put together well and as a young 48 year old who thinks the man can go fuck himself, I'm totally into it's message about being a unique individual! Anarchy rules!

[anthropologicalhands]

this is so far past 500 words but: treat me like a comma, starting from "“I…it’s late. I should probably get going,”" through to the end of that scene

Ooh, no problem!

“I…it’s late. I should probably get going,” he says, trying not to feel like a colossal dick and failing.

“Yeah,” says Rebecca, drawing a deep breath, four counts in and four counts out. A calming breath. She clears her throat. “That might be a good idea.”

Rebecca and Nathaniel exercising control after kissing? Shocker!

More seriously though, one reason this is a law school fic and not an undergrad fic is because I wanted both Nathaniel and Rebecca to be getting increasingly walled in to their adult lives, where there is really only one path forward. This fic in particular takes place at a time where they both are extremely conscientious of their parents’ expectations in their lives and how they have fallen short: Nathaniel because he is preparing to enter his father’s firm and really start presenting as a Perfect Plimpton in a much more restrictive way than before and Rebecca because, in this universe, her first suicide attempt was just a few months before and she is still working through the fallout and its consequences (for instance, the apartment she rents is above an acquaintance of her mother’s, and part of the reason she is there is because her mom wants to keep tabs on her after the incident)

Nathaniel is especially more conscientious about being “on his best behavior” after what happened with his father earlier today, so it is not a stretch to say that Plimpton Sr is responsible for the cockblocking here. While they are both a little tipsy, they aren’t sloppy drunk by any means, so if this encounter had been a natural outgrowth of, say, their flirtation at the bar, they probably would have checked in for consent and kept going.

But Nathaniel blames it on the alcohol, and Rebecca agrees to it, and even though that is still a good reason not to go any further it still feels like a rejection; Nathaniel is aware of that but has no idea how to address it, because he is not the kind of person who would say ‘I would totally have sex with you in a parallel universe’. Rebecca, currently, is trying not to spiral, because she was the one to initiate the kiss, and she is very much for having two enthusiastically consenting parties, but it still kind of sucks. 

“Right. I have a flight tomorrow, and I need to make sure I finish a few things up, and I have a follow-up with my dad I need to tell—”

“You should tell your dad to go fuck himself,” she says, apropos of nothing.

Nathaniel is just rambling, trying to gather himself up and trying to stave off the fact that he feels bad about turning her down. And he knows he’s rambling, but he has just met Rebecca Bunch, and certain feelings have awakened that are not easily boxed up.

Rebecca, on her side, definitely did not think through her sentiment before voicing it aloud - there are a lot of thoughts flashing through her right now, the logic of not having a one night stand while feeling very vulnerable after having shared more information about Robert than she has in a while, being embarrassed and wondering if she said anything that put Nathaniel off, trying not to seem “crazy” in front of him, and on top of all that she is very sexually frustrated, so while trying to consider a reasonable parting phrase to Nathaniel, the second he brings up his dad, this is what comes to mind and then almost immediately, right out of her mouth.

Nathaniel’s glass rattles as he sets it down, nearly drops it, on the countertop.

“Excuse me?”

She looks stricken, like the words fell out of her mouth without her permission, and for a moment he thinks she might take it back and they can just pretend it didn’t happen. Then her eyes meet his again, and her mouth firms up and she sets her shoulders, meeting his gaze square on.

“Tell your dad to go fuck himself,” she says, a little louder.

Rebecca has let her true feelings out, but instead of trying to laugh it off, she decides to double down. Part of this is repressed feelings about her own parents and what she would like to say to them, even knowing that she never will, but it is also just how she feels about Nathaniel’s situation, and seeing that his first reaction is indignant surprise rather than some kind of agreement, decides that nope, this message really needs to get out.

He’s too stunned to be processing anything, really, but he knows the little thrill that shoots through him at the thought is utterly ungrateful and completely inappropriate.

“You’re out of line,” he says coolly, composing himself.

Rebecca shakes her head. “I don’t think I am. I think that whole farce of a phone call was ridiculous. Like, what, some kind of power play? You’re doing a lot, and he can’t see that, and he sucks, and he should go fuck himself.”

He would almost laugh if he wasn’t seeing red.

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not? He’s terrible.”

“You don’t know the full situation.”

As similar as Rebecca and Nathaniel’s parental issues are, they process very differently. Nathaniel, because his family is known as the Perfect Plimptons, has not made it a habit of expressing any of his anger or frustration at his father, because it shouldn’t be there - he should be able to be the perfect son, and his father is only being reasonable, after all.

Rebecca might have trouble setting boundaries and not chasing after parental expectations, but she is extremely aware of their faults and has no problem saying them; Nathaniel has been pretending that his parents’ flaws don’t exist, and that if he disciplines himself enough, he will meet those expectations and they really will be the Perfect Plimptons. So he can’t get angry at them when he doesn’t meet their expectations - if there’s a problem, it’s all on him.

“I don’t have to know it—”

“Would you say that to your mom?” he challenges.

“That’s a totally different situation—”

“Really? I don’t think so,” he shoots back. “You’re desperate to get away from her. She’s all you got, and you can’t stand the idea of spending a couple of days with her. At least I’m capable of facing mine. I paid my dues before I came here. You’re just hiding.”

She scoffs. “Yeah, right. Because that turned out so well for you. At least I avoided hating myself too much this week.”

They have their defenses up, and are lobbing accusations that actually apply equally to both of their situations, even as they try to defend their own decisions as the “right” way to handle things. Nathaniel might have framed his trip to Yale as a networking and study opportunity, but it really was a set up to escape his parents early - but he doesn’t want to think about that.

And, of course, there is the problem that they do crave their parents’ unconditional love and validation, and they aren’t inclined to react kindly to others’ criticisms of them, however well-deserved.

“I do not hate myself,” he snaps, pacing the length the kitchen. “Why do you care, anyways? Is this because I won’t sleep with you?”

“This has nothing to do with that, you sanctimonious American Psycho,” she snarls. “If I’m miserable, then so are you.”

Nathaniel is being an ass and lashing out about something he knows will get a reaction; Rebecca sees right through it but is pissed that he resorted to that kind of low blow and instead cuts to the heart of the problem - they both see each other a little too clearly, and they see themselves in the other person, and they don’t like it, so it’s a painful feedback loop. I was a little hesitant about including it, but at this moment Nathaniel is just reaching for anything to deflect, so it seemed to work well enough.

“I am not miserable.”

“Really? Because you did not see your face when I saw you outside the bar. You’re miserable and, what’s even worse, you have no idea why and it’s staring you right in the face. And you’re going to spend the summer with this guy breathing down your neck, if you meet his conditions? You’re gonna spend the rest of your life working for this guy, trying to meet whatever other ridiculous expectations he sets for you?”

Trutal. One thing that strikes me about Nathaniel’s life path is that by working for his father, he is setting himself up to be always held to higher and higher expectations without a chance of approval or reprieve. But there is nothing secure about his relationship with his father - he’s not secure in paternal love, so he chases after respect thinking that it will also mean love. He might be a great lawyer, he might do well, but it’s going to mean nothing unless he gets a stamp of approval. He is intentionally entering a situation where he isn’t going to get what he wants, while believing all the while that he is going to get it if he works hard enough. It’s pretty bleak.

That’s not true, that won’t be true, he’s going to get there, he’s not going to spend the rest of his life chasing after his father’s expectations, that’s why he’s here in the first place, getting ahead of them.

“You’re wrong.”

“Okay, I’m wrong. So you’re saying that being watched for the rest of your life will make you happy?”

“You don’t know me. I know exactly what I need to do. My path has been laid out for me and I’m happy to follow it. I know what I’m going to be and what will make me happy. I’ll make it through the firm, I’ll prove my worth, I’ll make partner, and everything will be fine. Do you even know what you want?”

Nathaniel is having his version of Rebecca’s spiral about being happy in the pilot. It’s not a breakdown, but it is a very well-rehearsed lie. He has picked up on Rebecca’s own unhappiness, and this time he does hit a nerve, because happiness is all that Rebecca wants, but the only thing she knows is that she doesn’t have it.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, I don’t care what I want!” she shouts, then looks stricken, this time for something he can’t possibly understand. It’s like watching a deflating balloon; all of the fight seems to go out of her and she puts her face in her hands, fists tugging hard enough that her hair that, despite his own anger, Nathaniel fears that she might actually pull it out.

“I want to be happy,” she says, pitiful and small, shoulders drooping. “That’s it.”

And just like that, he can feel it draining out of him too. The girl at the bar earlier this evening –she seemed happy, to some degree or another, but that definitely isn’t true of the one in front of him now.

“You don’t have anything that would make you happy now?” he finds himself asking.

“I know things that make me happier,” she says. “Working out problems makes me happier, editing makes me happier. Knowing that I banged Audra Levine’s boyfriend before she found out he was a rotten lay makes me happier. This night made me happier than I’ve been all week, until now.”

Rebecca’s outburst here scares her, a little bit, because it is a moment of self-awareness and, unfortunately, foreshadowing that she is going to be subsumed into a role for the next few years that she doesn’t want to play, but has to play very well in order to  “make it up” for all of the problems she has caused over the years and how things went so south after Robert, especially with how it derailed her mother’s plans for her (not to mention her own wishes - she seems to have really loved Harvard, and not being able to go to the law school would have really hurt). She hasn’t been prescribed the medications that will make her lose her feelings, but she definitely feels the walls being built up, and while she usually doesn’t acknowledge them, this is a moment where she really feels it and it hurts.

One thing that I think happens with them here is that they do recognize each other’s reactions in each other, which is why it doesn’t take much for Nathaniel to lose his anger instead of clinging to it from sheer pettiness. The way Rebecca looks in this moment reflects a way he has felt about himself; he doesn’t know that about himself, but its the subconscious motivation. And he already likes Rebecca, and given how playful and happy she had been earlier in the evening - he wants her to be okay.

As for Rebecca’s answer...I definitely had to work in a dig about Audra Levine somewhere in this fic, even if Nathaniel has no idea who Audra Levine even is. And even if being a lawyer wasn’t something she wanted for herself, I like to believe that she really loved being on the law review and becoming the editor - sure, it builds up her resume, but that is was something she sincerely enjoyed for herself and gives her stability later in her Yale career. Unfortunately, right now, she hasn’t yet gotten that.

The darkness of the apartment, luminated only by unfriendly fluorescent overhead in the kitchen and the more traditional table lamp on Rebecca’s side, now seems cold and uninviting rather than somewhere safe, somewhere to hide.

“Well,” he says. “It was the same for me. Until now.”

I like that description of Rebecca’s apartment, which has that crappy student apartment lighting. And it really highlights how, despite getting off on the wrong foot, meeting each other had been, for a brief moment, a very honest bright spot for both of them, because they met someone who found them attractive and interesting and laughed with them. While they are going to bite the bullet and make up in the morning, they don’t know that yet, and they are just both sad and really disappointed at how the night has turned out, when it seemed to be going in such a promising direction before.

(Side note: I think I would definitely tweak the dialogue in this scene more to hit harder. I wrote this fic on a self-imposed deadline that, while it didn’t turn out badly, ultimately could have used more time to really have the impact I wanted)

Rebecca is still breathing noisily, her chest heaving as she struggles to contain whatever force of emotion is within her, no longer clean anger but still painful. Her face is blotchy, whether from the alcohol or embarrassment or rage Nathaniel has no idea –he can’t imagine that whatever weird expression is contorting his own face right now looks all that much better, anyways, and the air is too warm and stuffy in the apartment.

Rebecca takes a deep breath that almost sounds like a sob.

“You should probably go,” she says, looking down at her feet.

“I should,” he says, his voice cold to his own ears, colder than he means.

She doesn’t move from the couch, her arms tightly around herself, as he lets himself out.

They are both cutting their losses. Nathaniel is falling back into his stone cold bastard mode to mask how badly he feels about their fight (well, trying to but failing), and Rebecca is taking initiative and trying to take control by asking him to leave so it doesn’t drag out any longer. Happily, they make up later, but at this moment they are both just very tired at being confronted with the sources of their own unhappiness, not acknowledging their own unhappiness, and hating to see it play out in someone else.

-

Metatextually, I wanted to write a fic where r/n met at an earlier time in their lives, at a moment when they both saw each other as vulnerable. It couldn’t just be a one-night stand, because that would be too easy to brush off.  I wanted law school for the reasons I listed earlier, but also it had to involve something that would have them both very emotionally bruised - very naturally, their parents. People are very good at giving advice that they don’t follow, and they are not only younger here and have less of a filter, but they also want something better for the other person because they feel like they aren’t in a place to do it for themselves.

It was also me playing with the ‘one meaningful encounter’ trope: yes, they meet and say things to each other that they have never said to anyone else, and it probably helped in the moment to have met each other. But the forces shaping their lives have been at full power for a while now, and in the end, one encounter isn’t enough to change the course of their lives, or the other person’s life, no matter how much they wanted it.

[hoe-for-daddywise]

The fiction that was never released.

As you are all aware I have been vacant and doubt I will be back. And I miss you all entirely. And to apologise for my disappearance I bestow upon you a fiction I wrote but never posted. It is unfinished, yes. But I spent ages writing it and I hope you would all enjoy it. Think of it this way, you can make up your own ending in your head. Like British films that break against the American conventions of happy endings in every film and leave you to decide how something ends. So here it is. The fiction that was never released. For this I’m tagging those who always made me feel happy to be in this fandom.

@smileysam13579 @penny-trash @pennydaddywise @robindanielle @randomcatgirl1 @trinsghost @take-a-penny-leave-a-penny @ohhh-pennywise @princess-pennywise @peenwise @pimmelwise @pennys-drool @pennywises-cum-dumpster @astrotheclown @sewer-party @sheeit-pennywise @dancing-sewer-daddy @dick-me-down-sewer-clown @desallinhada @fuckin-boiis @floatpenny @fallenchrysalis @gothguitargal @hauntedneibolt @hellodaddywise @literalslutforpennywise @capicornoo @nychowise-hl @silent-world-of-a-deaf-boi

/ /

The early bird gets the worm. This being a singular proverb used to galvanise the spectator or humour the tentative other, as what is perceived as normal for the spider would become chaos for the fly. Horror has always had its way of lurking in all times and in every corner of the world, and you, a soul drunk with isolation, were certain of this. And as the rain threw itself violently against the window of your plaintive flat in the small town of Derry, you tugged at your bottom lip, daring yourself to go outside into the misery the early morning had brought, to see, Indeed, if today would be prosperous.

Darkness had plagued itself across your room, threatening to swallow it whole like a cancer; the only light discernible was from a street light adjacent from your room and a small, dull lamp placed within it. Every slight movement you made caused your shadow to follow you like a lost boy glued to you, or like sin hiding itself from the light of God. However, you failed to make out all the shadows, as some appeared as mix matched shapes perplexing to your eyes. Yet the next thing that happened not only confused your senses but made you question your very own sanity. Upon further analysis of the shapes around your room, you had discovered your own shadow had manifested; into what, was still uncertain. Initially it started off as your own, until it started dancing and twirling, spinning randomly in a rhythmic pattern, it was almost hypnotic. And when you moved the shadow wobbled with you, you was bound by the shadow and the shadow bound by you. But this wasn’t your shadow. It was attached to you but it wasn’t yours. Then you heard it. The sweet sound of laughter followed by the gentle call of your name.

“Wh-who’s there?” Croakily you managed through disbelief still doubting your senses. A small but prominent sound rang out, the jingling of bells. Hastily you shuffled backwards, not once taking your eyes off the black mass which still moved in sync with you despite the fact it was evolving. Both you and it were slaves to each other like a demon at night, destined to do as the other does, creating the question of were your movements even yours any more or were they caused by the mass?

The black abyss before you had conjured into a full bodied apparition before your very eyes, no longer being a darkened reflection of yourself. “I’m Pennywise, the dancing clown.” The words he had spoken were mirrored by that of his actions as he jumped and swayed around, bells clattering against each other as he did so. You analysed the clowns every move, like you were trying to figure out an algorithm as you and the clown had seldom met before. Pennywise, in turn, stood before you as if waiting to gain some sort of a response from your parted cracking lips. There was almost a silence of some sort if it had not been for the ticking of the small plastic clock tucked away behind a pile of dusty books on your bedside table. Yet this ticking, no matter how quiet, didn’t go a miss, for any more silent it would have caused your ear drums to ring with the upmost discomfort.

“What’s the matter, Y/N? Never seen a shadow change before?” Pennywise cackled at you, taunting you; you proceeded to walk backwards until you felt your hand come into contact with the cold condensed glass on the window. “Come join the clown, Y/N. We all float down here. Yes we do.” It was difficult to make out his figure in the darkness and lack of light your lamp emitted, however, you were still able to register the heavy Victorian clown attire he wore and the intricate makeup he had so carefully stained on his chubby face.

“Leave me alone!” You challenged yourself to shout, astonished you were able to retain your voice from cracking yet again.

Adamant to appear unfazed by the clown, you propelled yourself off the window you had used for support and started forward; the clowns laughter increasing ever more mocking your pathetic effort of standing your ground. The next set of events, which followed after this, provoked the up most discomfort through your body; disturbing you relentlessly as the clown dissolved back into the shadows for a brief second. Instantaneously, Pennywise leaped back out at you generating supplementary shadows in the room to ricochet; they ambushed you, vaulting themselves from individual directions with edges like knives, all fleeting at you. You forced your eyes shut.

Like necromancy, the shadows were being conjured, launching a heap of black liquid on top of you. What this liquid was is still a mystery to you. It entered your mouth with force, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue and seeping down your throat. You tried to scream but found yourself gagging as it made its way up your nose, you couldn’t breathe. You had come to the inescapable conclusion that right here and now your life would come to a tragic end and your death would remain a mystery to all those who pretended to be dear to you. Panic seeped within you, tensing your fists until your knuckles were white and the bone threatened to pierce your delicate skin. Suddenly, it stopped, but at what price? Spluttering out as much of the black liquid as you were able you regained your breath and wiped your eyes free from the goo; opening them slightly the clown was gone and for this justice you, the tentative other, were thankful. However, one thing you noticed was how the shadows were no more. The mix matching shapes around your room were now gone, leaving each object unbound. Even yours, was gone.

The majority of your day, after this series of events, was spent stood in the same spot the clown had left you, eyes fixated on the wall of where your shadow once lived. Day light had spread it’s way across the room and had left once again, indicating you must have been unchanging for 12 hours. So you showered and plonked yourself on the sofa downstairs and where you would make your bed for the night as your room was uninhabitable thanks to the black goo. You hadn’t even eaten that day but your appetite was non existent. And as you laid down, ready for your slumber, you thought about the clown. You thought about Pennywise, and replayed his words over and over in your head. “We all float down here.” What was that even supposed to mean? Was it a riddle? Everything was uncertain and you hated that. Would he be back? What did he want? So many questions and no answers. But you couldn’t tell anyone as some memories are meant to stay secret and some secrets do not allow themselves to be told; if this one was, people would think you were surly mad. So you hoped, that when you woke, you room would be back to normal and that this will have all been a dream.

Morning came, as it always does, accompanied by the gentle sound of birds, tweeting as they always do. Subsequently, you almost had to question why you had slept downstairs until memories, secrets, came flooding back to you. Yet, these were memories you had hoped to have dreamed, thus, you ventured to your room to collect the evidence. As suspected the goo was unmoved. The full extent of damage your room held was remarkable with not a single item within left untouched; still you couldn’t help but listen to the nagging sensation in your mind that you had lost all sanity that was left in you, so you set about getting a second opinion. There, out of the window, a man in his 20’s walked so smoothly he could have been floating. Running as quick as your feet could take you, grabbing the door handle to reveal the outside world. “Excuse me!” The man glanced around to see who else you could be shouting at, noticed no one else was there and then pointed at himself. “Yes, you.” Laughing you motioned for him to come over. “This is going to sound ridiculous and I’m sorry, but something remarkable happened last night and I need to know if you can see it too.”

The gentleman laughed as he reached your doorstep, and it was at this instant you recognised how handsome he was. He partially opened his mouth to lick his plump lips, which were so damn gorgeous, and his ebony hair perfectly combed. And then you realised you were staring when his piercing blue eyes connected with yours causing your heart to flip. You had only just met this man. What’s the matter with you?

“Erm, should I take a look?” Thankfully he broke the awkwardness as he pointed inside your flat with a smirk on his face, biting his lower lip.

“It’s this way.” Ushering him inside you hear him shut the front door behind you and continue down the hall, leading him to your room. “I’m Y/N, by the way.” You acquaint yourself with a small smile.

“Roman.” He replied gently still smirking.

“Okay, well, here we are.” You gestured towards the closed door to your bedroom. Daintily he stalked to the door and groped for the handle in the dull corridor. With a push he was staring into your room.

“Oh my.” He glanced around.

“You...you see it too?” Hope probably too prominent in your voice.

“See it?” Silence. “Some just dripped on me.” He turned towards you, and, indeed, some had dropped onto his beautifully sculptured face. You glared at each other for a moment until you both burst out laughing at the exact same time.

“Let me get you something for that.” The bathroom was just across the hall in your apartment, rushing, you grabbed for a packet of makeup wipes and headed back to him. You held one of the moist wipes between your forefinger and thumb and held it out towards Roman. But instead of taking the wipe he presented his hands before you which, much like his face, were coated in the black liquid.

“That just sort of...happened.” He laughed. “Would you mind?” He gestured towards the wipes and then his face. “It’s just I would end up with more on me if I try to wipe it.”

The concept of touching Romans face sent butterflies scurrying round your stomach but you didn’t want to appear too eager so you replied with an unpretentious, “Erm, sure.”

“So, what exactly happened?” Roman interrogated as you cleared his face free from the goo.

“You wouldn’t believe me.” You shook your head and sighed, to this, Roman raised an eyebrow.

“Try me.” Is all he said.

Withdrawing your hand from his face, you began to explicate the details of last nights revulsion to the stranger, whom, you had just acquainted. During intervals of unsurety, Roman would nod his head when he perceived necessary, for this, you were grateful and for more than one reason. The first being that he had not absquatulated in fear of his own safety. And, the later being, he was listening and attempting to make sense of the narrative you had abruptly situated before him.

“So this clown, Pennywise, I think you named him...”

“Yes.”

“Pennywise came out of your shadow on your wall?”

“Yes.”

Romans face appeared as if it was swallowing itself, his features getting smaller. It was as if he had been sucking a Lemmon for the past year.

“You think I’m mad don’t you?” All hope you once attained was now failing.

“Mad? No, not mad. Insane? Yes. But I believe you. And I guess that also makes me insane.” He laughed at his own comment. However, you wasn’t certain what to make of this or how Roman, knowing of your situation, would benefit you in any way. One thing, however, you now had the knowledge that your senses did not deceive you and Pennywise had in fact conjured shadows to assault you last night.

SNAP

Your train of thought was interrupted from the simple click of fingers in front of your face.

“Hmmm, sorry?”

“I said, do you need help cleaning up?” He indicated towards your room. You sincerely had not contemplated the cleaning process as your mind had been otherwise occupied with a certain clown.

“Oh, I couldn’t allow you to help. That’s far too much to expect.” Thanking him, you refused him even though you knew help would be most welcome.

“I insist.” Roman disputed with you as he knew this was all talk much for you to take on by yourself.

[frozs]

Hidan gives a heart to Kakuzu as a get well soon gift because he’s a fucking dickhead  - Part  2out of 2

Part 9 of the Kakuzu and Hidan are very Australian dickheads series. Thank you to @thatshipcat for taking some of her time to edit for me so its all neat and professional 

Read the rest of the shitty fics on tumblr or AO3.

Warnings: hidan calls kakuzu a bitch, hidan steals a heart and puts it in a minced garlic jar 

“Wake up bitch. I forgot you were immortal. Heh, Jashin definitely wasn’t on your side last night. Look at that cast. Wakey-wakey, Kakuzu.”

Kakuzu blinked blearily, at the stretched out leg cast in front of him. On the right side, was a massive drawing of a dick done in black marker, the phallus going up to Kakuzu’s thigh and on the other side, drawings of Deidara’s strange-looking clay animals. Hidan’s face was back to normal, and was sneering at some nurse who had come by to check Kakuzu’s vitals.

“You have private health insurance, look at this fancy room,” Hidan pointed at the large, unwieldy TV in the corner of the room, which appeared to be from 1992. “Vintage.”

The nurse smiled at them both, then her eyes wandered to their hands. No doubtedly she was looking for rings. Kakuzu felt very drowsy, after being out for several hours.

“How long was I out?”

“Hmm,” said Hidan. “I was planning to have a beard when you wake up.” He scratched his well-shaven chin with one hand, texting on his cracked phone with a fast thumb. “And to tell ya’ it’s 2064, but you’ve only been out twelve hours. I’ve been here like… half an hour myself. Deidara just fucked off. I went and got Zambrero.” He picked up the tight foil wrapper from the burrito and threw it at Kakuzu’s head. It bounced off him.

“I will leave you two in peace.” The nurse giggled, before exiting the room.

“Just letting you know… I brought you back to life.” Hidan started humming to Evanescence’s Bring Me to Life, but stopped when he realised Kakuzu didn’t know anything about music at all and so singing it made no sense. “As a servant of God, I made a promise,” Hidan took out his cracked phone. “That I’m the one to kill you, remember?”

“...”

“But here, check out your skull, it’s fucking epic!” Hidan shoved his phone in front of Kakuzu’s face to show him a picture. Kakuzu’s skull had been entirely crushed, brains leaking out like someone threw cooked pasta on the asphalt. “I’m gonna fucking frame it.”

“I can’t even see it?” Kakuzu didn’t have his reading glasses with him, and Hidan’s cracked phone was unintelligible.

There was a few silent minutes as Hidan grabbed Kakuzu’s phone to send over the picture. When he was done, Kakuzu looked at the unrecognisable flash photo Hidan had taken. The pink rubbery flesh of his brain had splattered on the cement, a piece of red brick embedded in his eye, the other eye hanging down his cheek. It was gory and looked like something out of a horror movie. It was definitely Kakuzu - the blood soaked scarf, scars and coat gave it away. No way would anyone would be able to survive those injuries. He looked back up at Hidan, and almost said thank you, but decided against it, as it was not in his personality to do so.

“How did you bring me back to life?”

“Took some of your blood and killed myself, cause you were already dead,” said Hidan, spinning around in a wheelchair that must have been supplied to Kakuzu while he was unconscious. “Well, I think you were. Brain splatter everywhere. Like my ritual but in reverse. Didn’t think it would work. I suppose like, I killed myself to revive you? I dunno. Magic. And no, I didn’t do that fucking disney shit where they slobber each other on the lips.” He did a complete 360, and wheeled himself back to the bed.

“What about that… liquid… Orochimaru gave me? The vial?”

Hidan stared. “...You mean the stuff that killed me for two weeks years back in Croatia? I don’t think dying for two weeks would be a wise decision for my stupid fucking husband. Anyway, here’s your get well soon gift.” He got out a large jar, which had a label saying Woolworths Select Minced Garlic half ripped off. “I got you a heart. A real one, mind you.”

“...Where?” Kakuzu was going to ask if it was his own, looking down at the jar which had a gift wrap bow jammed on the top and flattened.

“That guy who rammed into you died on impact and his chest was like… hanging everywhere. So I just took it, you know - and guess who it was that rammed you down?”

“...Pain?”

“Nah, it was Asuma. Well, it was. He’s dead now. But his heart was on the road before I did anything. Anyway - so you’ve still got a bit of a broken leg, that’s how Itachicunt and Kisamecunt found you.” Hidan grinned and flicked the cast. Kakuzu was waiting for his leg to shoot up in agony, but he felt nothing.

Slowly, he wriggled his toes. No pain. “I think my leg is healed.” he said to Hidan.

“Excellent, we can go home then. Or just pretend to be sick and all that shit. Get money for being off work, y’know. That’s why I got this wheelchair here. Gotta pretend you’re fucking normal, somehow.”

***

At the Police Station, on-duty officers Itachi and Kisame were called in to see their supervisor, who was currently reviewing security footage of the car accident they had responded to the night before. “Hidan is well known in the area to local police, and Kakuzu is acquainted with Hidan, Deidara and Sasori. It is said Asuma passed away, too. The footage we have obtained from the incident is very… strange.”

The two sat down at a desk to watch the footage with their supervisor, and Kisame attempted to make small talk. It failed spectacularly. “I remember Asuma,” said Kisame. “Sarutobi’s son.”

The supervisor, looking somewhat frustrated, did not respond, but rewinded the video on his computer again and again..

“Kisame,” Itachi nodded towards the screen. The footage had seemed to be blacked out, though there had been no reports of anyone tampering with the cameras.

“There’s another security footage, near Woolworths.” It was the same thing again. The two videos showed the same thing: Hidan and Kakuzu having an argument after leaving Rain Real Estate, Hidan walking into traffic….

They decided to replay all of the footage, but could not see anything. “Literally nothing,” said the Supervisor. “We can’t do anything about this. I’m sure the Sarutobi’s will be shocked and disheartened.”

***

Hidan decided to keep the wheelchair. When Kakuzu finally got home, his broken leg healed from Hidan’s crazy Jashinist powers, he noticed several moving boxes on the lawn and two bicycles out the front.

“No, no, no,” Kakuzu limped up to Sasori who was holding a box of wood, took him by the scruff of his neck and deposited him by the letterbox, which was on the footpath. Sasori was tiny and according to Hidan, was in his early thirties. He didn’t look older than fifteen.

“What are you doing to Master Sasori?” Deidara poked his head around the front door.

“What are you two doing in my house!?” Kakuzu refrained from twisting Sasori’s head so it would snap like a doll’s.

“There’s a rat in the toilet,” Deidara pointed out.

“Again? Get rid of it yourself.”

“Well, our old place is nearly fixed,” Deidara shrugged. “So I’ll be on the couch, yeah.”

***

With Deidara on the couch and Sasori… well Kakuzu wasn’t exactly sure where Sasori slept. He never really saw him except for several cacti being constantly moved everywhere. The point was, it was crowded and it made Kakuzu edgy.

A doctor came, recognised Kakuzu from his surgery days, shook hands with him and declared Kakuzu was in a full fit of health to go back to work. Hidan then pressured him to extend his sick leave certificate for another week, so Kakuzu could help them move their stuff back into the unit - which, of course, they couldn’t do, as Kakuzu’s car had been taken out of a river, and he was given money straight away for another one by his insurance.

“The heart in the fridge is going moldy, yeah,” Deidara poked his head in the fridge for the fifth time in an hour. The three of them had already eaten everything in Kakuzu’s pantry except for a tin of sardines and milk powder. “Is it a real human heart?”

“Yep, my stupid fucking housemate,” Hidan said, moving a box of heavy clay but the door to be moved back to the old place. “I may as well put it in the freezer… your arm was there for a week, after all.”

Before Hidan got to the door, it rang, so he kicked the door open with his foot. “Ah, fuck,” he said when he looked up at Itachi and Kisame in their dark blue uniform. “I didn’t do nothing wrong this time.”

“We just want to ask you and Kakuzu a few questions. At the station,” said Kisame.

“He’s out looking for a new car. I’m not going to the fucking station. What do you want?”

“So we have concluded that the car accident between you two and Asuma Sarutobi was a complete accident,” said Itachi, looking through his clipboard he had with him, “However…”

“Did you take the heart of Asuma after the impact of your car collision?” asked Kisame, completing Itachi’s sentence. At this, Deidara moved past him, with a supermarket bag of clothes.

“Yeah,” said Deidara to the officers. “It’s in the fridge.”

“Well… he took half my ear, so I took his heart,” Hidan said as his (pathetic) excuse to Itachi and Kisame. “Last Christmas, I gave you my heart… the very next day…”

“Stop singing. Just give it back. Withholding evidence.”

“Say please.”  

“Please, can we have it back for evidence?” asked Itachi.

“Ugh, fine.” Hidan rubbed his head, and put the box down and turned back to go to the fridge. “Wait... do I have to go to jail?” He called from Kakuzu’s kitchen.

“You took evidence from a crime scene,” Kisame pointed out. “We need it back.”

“I ain’t gonna get in fucking trouble just for taking his heart? It was on the fucking ground.” Itachi and Kisame stayed put while Hidan went into the fridge to retrieve the garlic jar full of heart, opening the jar and ignoring the putrid smell and threw it in Kisame’s face.

The heart went thrupp with a cold, wet splash.

“And that,” said Itachi softly, low enough for Hidan to barely hear, “Is what I call a heart attack.”

END

[aprilrichardson]

I Know It’s Over

There are people to whom music doesn't matter. I often envy these people. My mom is one of them -- she's not really concerned with music, poetry, movies, or anything in popular culture. She considers herself a whole, satisfied person without these things in her life, free from any aesthetic crutches. I am not one of those people. I needed music. I need music. From a very early age, I needed music to tell me I was okay. I needed it to tell me I was normal, I needed it to tell me I was weird, I needed it to confirm that I'd be fine either way. I needed it in a dramatic way. I needed it in a mundane way, playing all the time in the background like wallpaper with a pattern you've stopped noticing. I needed to identify with it, I needed it to make me feel complicated emotions I'd never felt before; it could comfort me or repulse me, soothe me or force me to look outward, echo my own sentiments or expand my mind to fit new ones. Music (and the bands/people who made it) served as my mentor, my older sibling, my voice of reason and, at times, bad influence. When you're an only child from a fractured family, you spend a lot of time in your room. Your hobbies can become your closest friends. Music became my savior and my most time-consuming, all-encompassing, money-draining pursuit. My savings account would be at least triple its current amount had I not been so obsessed with seeing bands and collecting their records. Perhaps I would have created more things of my own if I'd not spent so much time fawning over the creations of others. My personality would have been entirely different if, early on in my youth, I had not blatantly lifted the clothes and mannerisms and styles of those I looked up to or had not read the books and watched the movies they had championed. For better or worse, art -- this specific form of art, music -- has been and continues to be a transformative force in my life. At the very center of this were two bands, R.E.M. and The Smiths, and specifically two people: Michael Stipe and Morrissey. My first two real heroes, with now only the former still on the pedestal I built when I was around 11 or 12. I moved to a new neighborhood and school district when I was in second grade, and became fast friends with a boy my age who lived one street over. Nathan and I shared a lot of the same interests, and as we started middle school, a deep obsession with those two aforementioned bands and frontmen (and, also, Depeche Mode and Dave Gahan). Nathan was gay before either one of us knew what that meant, and was often mocked for this -- I was made fun of, too, but for reasons far less difficult for me than coming to terms with my sexuality as an adolescent. But, for our own reasons, we were outcasts, seeking comfort in our chosen art. This was conservative Georgia in the late '80s/early '90s, a time well before the Internet, before easily accessible media, when role models were fought for tooth and nail, with plans having to be made on how to save enough allowance for cassette tapes, older friends or siblings bribed to purchase things with "parental advisory" labels we'd smuggle into our rooms later. I can barely put into words what hearing (and seeing!) Morrissey for the first time did to us -- did FOR us! For Nathan, in such an environment, Morrissey became a blueprint for queerness, the very first peek into the very POSSIBILITY of life as a grown man who wasn't either an alpha male jock, like all the ones at our school, or stern businessman with a briefcase, like all of our (step)dads. He was the first person to, with his mannerisms and his very existence, communicate to Nathan that it was perfectly fine (and cool even!) to, in the words of the bullies, "act like a girl." And the magical thing is, he somehow simultaneously did the exact opposite for me! As a masculine tomboy, I saw in him a person so easily blurring the lines of both! He made me feel better about the qualities I had so often been told "weren't ladylike." We talked about him constantly. We dressed like him. It goes without saying that his music was playing in the background nearly every time we hung out. I remember my mom allowing me to stay up late to watch Johnny Carson the night Morrissey was on -- I was 12, and I absolutely remember my mom getting angry, watching alongside me as Morrissey fans screamed over Bill Cosby (gulp) as he tried to talk. The next year, Morrissey was on Saturday Night Live, and my mom let me go over to Nathan's house to watch it (our parents became very close friends as well). He taped it on their VCR as we watched, and we immediately played it back. We watched it probably every day for months. We didn't have the money to buy all of his back catalog, so an older kid in my youth group at church let me borrow his Smiths CDs, and I dubbed copies on my tape deck for us. I sat and hand-wrote the lyrics down on notebook paper, carefully transcribing from the liner notes as the tape recorded. It's difficult for me to be eloquent here, and I always find it hard to convey these feelings to people who are, well, normal, who can hear a song and go, "That's nice!" and not have to immediately know its backstory, who wrote it, why they wrote it, what inspires them, what books they read, etc. Who don't feel their insides twist into knots when a turn of phrase meets a melody and the combination makes them feel understood in a way they never have, sets them at ease in a way that even the kind words of the closest relative couldn't do. That is absolutely how I felt the first time I heard The Smiths. When you're 12, at least when I was 12, the last people you feel like you can talk to about your feelings are your parents; and for Nathan, doubly so, as I don't think he could even articulate his until Morrissey's lyrics shed some light on what he'd been going through. So, for us, this guy was so far from "just a singer" -- he was a beacon, a mentor, he told us it was okay to be effeminate and okay to be masculine and okay that you didn't get invited to the parties because staying in your room reading books was more glamorous anyway. The world wasn't made for people like us and that should be worn as a badge of honor, not shame. Such a message was REVELATORY for a girl whose every male role model had let her down or left entirely and a boy who didn't want to play football or shoot guns. The obsession continued and deepened, and in high school, became full on reliance. Who better to help me navigate the emotional minefield that is the teen years than Morrissey? I didn't drink, I didn't smoke, I didn't do drugs, I didn't "party," I didn't even so much as hold a boy's hand until I was a couple weeks shy of 16 years old -- all of the things that kids considered fun and did on a regular basis were so foreign to me, until I got home to my bedroom and was soothed by the voice of a guy who also did not participate in any of the above. I didn't really know anyone in real life who seemed to understand my plight more than the man whose voice was blasting out of my speakers. To me, Morrissey was always absolutely the voice of the underdogs. The weirdos. The outcasts. The disenfranchised. Anyone who felt left out, let down, misunderstood, too sensitive, too sad. He was there to comfort us, understanding and empathetic to our needs while giving the finger to the system and the people therein who were keeping us down, shoving us into lockers, ripping the glasses off our faces and stomping on them in front of their domineering friends. When someone writes songs as seemingly personal as Morrissey's, you tend to think you know them. And in my case, having read so many books about him (and now some BY him), I felt that way, to a degree. I like to think of myself as a rational person (perhaps after reading this far, you disagree), but I definitely felt a bit like I "knew" him in the sense that I'd picked up on words he'd frequently used ("vulgar" and "vile" were personal favorites), had working knowledge of the causes that were important to him, and certainly knew his favorite bands and movies and authors. I'd even been lucky enough to meet him quite a few times, especially after moving to Los Angeles, where I'd see him at restaurants and shows, and he was always cordial (if not downright sweet) to me every time we spoke. Of course I'd heard stories about him "being a dick," but that never bothered me, truly, only because I think that's kind of relative, and perhaps a lack of manners or catching someone on a bad day is a bummer, and the "temperamental artist" archetype exists for a reason. Sure, it's ideal that someone you admire is nice to you should you ever interact, but a surly encounter would not cause me to write someone off completely. So, because of this, well, perhaps delusion, I was able to explain away certain statements, such as calling Chinese people a "subspecies" while addressing animal rights, because I knew of his history of exaggeration when trying to get his point across about that subject in particular, the one perhaps dearest to his heart. (And I won't pretend that white privilege didn't play a part; it's undoubtedly and shamefully easier to conveniently ignore something when you aren't the target.) This person's main place in my life thus far was almost as a therapist, so the possibility of him having anything other than the best of intentions seemed so unlikely. But the words became harder to parse, excuses harder to make. Playing the contrarian for the sake of it isn't helpful (or even entertaining) in times like these. You aren't at the Algonquin Round Table. You're courting Stormfronters. It's not funny or charming. I don't expect every artist I look up to (or even every friend or acquaintance in my life) to share my exact same views, but when your band wears T-shirts supporting the Black Panthers yet you voice your support for the likes of Nigel Farage, how does the cognitive dissonance not paralyze you? You change lyrics to songs to slam Trump, yet you basically share his views on immigration? You imply that a gay teenager -- arguably the demographic most deeply affected by your art -- is at fault for the predatory behavior of an adult? You've told anyone who will listen that you were raised on feminist literature, yet you claim the female victims of Harvey Weinstein -- a man who hired fuckin' BLACK OPS to spy on his accusers to make sure they never came forward, so calculated were his plans -- were just "disappointed" that their RAPES didn't result in career advancement?! WHO ARE YOU. Who is this person saying this? The very person who gave me the strength to stand against the establishment has become the establishment! The person whose voice soothed with empathy and compassion for outsiders like me has become someone I would have crossed the street to avoid. The bullied has become the bully. He has, for years now, exhibited the very closemindedness I thought he was trying to free us from. Is it just an inevitability that the spoils of success will change a person? If you isolate yourself and invite no one into your circle who will ever question you, is this the result? Contempt for the very people who supported you for so long? A quality I used to admire in Morrissey was his obstinance, but I've found as I've aged myself, standing by opinions for the sake of it, refusing to allow yourself to grow and change as more information becomes available, to never soften your heart and swallow your pride and apologize when you've realized you might have been wrong about something -- that's not admirable, that's cowardice. I appreciate it more when people admit they don't know enough about a subject to comment on it instead of making a statement just for attention. My heart is broken. The man I looked to as an oasis of sensitivity in a desert of toxicity seems, well, just plain mean and vengeful now. I refuse to be cynical, and I refuse to be someone who says, "That's what you get for having heroes." Perhaps the lesson here is just knowing when to let go. And that it was indeed the songs that saved my life, not the man.

Fifteen-year-old me in my bedroom.

[meremennen]

Wait. You're aroused? Part 3.

A bellarke modern AU. 

[chapter 1] [chapter 2] 

Or read on AO3. 

Rating: M 

All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 3: Hiatus

"Bellamy is looking fine tonight," Raven sings, taking a long sip of her beer, then, for emphasis, nudging Clarke's shoulder with her nose. She is not too subtle about the teasing. (It's been weeks. Not anymore.)

It's Wednesday night. The show is on hiatus so they moved their gatherings from Clarke and Raven's apartment to Eden, their favourite neighbourhood bar. In some way, it is an improvement. They cannot be as loud as usual, but they are still spending Wednesday nights together. Instead of drinking the same bottled beer and munching on popcorn and Jasper ugly crying on their couch (and Miller teasing him for it), they are at the Eden already at 8 p.m. No ugly crying is involved, unless Jasper drinks too much and gets too emotional about his age or the time passing too fast. (Miller teases him for that too. But Miller teases everyone.)

Clarke takes a look at the man in question and shrugs. "He's okay."

But then, because she is a little tipsy she adds, "The glasses are really not doing it for me."

It's a lie.

Raven snorts.

"Whatever you say, babe."

Truth is though, now that Raven has brought up the glasses, she cannot look away. She is fixated on those glasses as if he's grown a second head. But worse than that, she cannot stop the flood of memories that invade her mind.

It was an early summer day when she stopped by his office at the museum wearing her favourite braless, strappy summer dress. That day is forever etched in her mind for many reasons, actually.

For one, that must have been the hottest day in human history. 

Two, as unsuspecting as she had been, she stormed into his office, mindlessly babbling about the heatwave being the sign of an impending apocalypse, only to be overwhelmed by a different kind of heat.

(Three, soon she learned first hand, the chill air in his office and the feel of the cool desk against her thighs, combined with the hot breath of his mouth on her skin was a true godsend.)

So when she found Bellamy Blake in glasses for the first time ever, all it took her to forget about the toasting weather outside was a dark look on his face and Bellamy rasping, "I want you.... Now."

Her nipples hardened on the spot. She nodded and stepped in closer, locking the door behind her. Hardly ten minutes later, she was clutching onto the edge of his table in the middle of his office, panting his name, with him licking rapturously between her legs.

And later, in their haste for scrambling for a condom, Bellamy's mug tumbled to the floor spilling its content – mostly pencils and paper clips and an actual bottle of ink on the floor.

Thanks to the thick carpet of his office the ink bottle remained intact. The ink spilled, though, leaving a mark behind. Last time she heard, that weird gorilla shaped patch was still gracing said carpet.

They did have an actual lunch after, his mussed up hair and his stupid cocky smile a very real reminder of their activities.

Clarke jolts out of her reverie, feeling herself flush.

She finds Bellamy staring at her. A moment ago he seemed to be lost in a heated conversation with Monty and Murphy but somewhere between now and then his eyes found hers and it feels like a magnet pulling on her sides. It is impossible to look away.

He adjusts his glasses as he adds something to their conversation.

No. No no no no no. That look he's giving her is too much.

She thought she was squirming – Squirming? Suffering! – in silence but when Raven leans into her side and mutters, "Jesus Christ, woman, I didn't know you had it this bad," she knows she is utterly busted. This is bad. Really bad.

She shifts in her seat and shakes her head.

"Go, and talk to him," Raven whispers under her nose. “For my sake.”

"I –– I think I just need some air," Clarke gets up to her feet all of a sudden. Raven shoots her a questioning glance, but she heads towards the back door, taking a few calming breaths.

What she hasn't noticed, though, is that Bellamy has excused himself to the bathroom right before her, and she is heading in the same direction.

She stops in her tracks when she finds him leaning against a wall. She actually stares, lips parting a little in surprise.

"See something you want, Clarke?"

The way he calls out her name is infuriatingly sexy. There's a subtle teasing edge to it which has had the opposite effect on her a while back; namely in the early stages of their acquaintance, when they were both stubborn assholes to admit they could be actually good friends.

Two can play this game, though, she thinks.

She takes a predatory step, or at least she hopes it comes across seductive, curling a hand around his bicep.

"Yeahhhh." Her voice is deeper and raspier than usual, giving a sultry feel to it. Goooood. "In fact, I am,” tilting her face upwards, keeping their eye contact.

He's moved closer, she notices, bringing them nose to nose, their breath actually mingling.

"I platonically want to have sex with you. No big deal.”

He huffs out a laugh and takes her hand. "Come on, “ and leads her away to that secluded little corridor only the staff uses when they stock up.

Next thing she knows, she's already shimmied out of her panties, her back hitting the wall, when Bellamy quickly snatches them out of her reach. "You'll get them back later," he breathes onto her neck and gets down to business at once.

It's a small miracle if they don't get caught. Honestly.

But she figures they are too worked up at this point to care or to stop this. Her panties are gone and she’s gasping his name as her fingers dig into his backside. His thrusts are equally urgent, the pull of her fingers and countered with a delicious push, he wants this. He needs this as badly as she does.

***

They don't get caught.

She's catching a glimpse of him as he's tucking his dick back into his pants and she has to turn away to take a steadying breath. He’s still hard, but he promised he was having a good time and not to worry about it.

She's just finished smoothing the wrinkles out of her dress and in the middle of combing her fingers through her hair, half a mind on those missing panties, when, unexpectedly, Bellamy's hot breath hits her skin for a second time that day. "On a second thought, I want to take you against the wall."

"Again?!"

"You feel so good."

And yes, he feels so good too. So so so good. She wants to tell him that, among other, sweeter things, but then he kisses her neck and her mind gets all scrambled, and she's close to combust on the spot anyway if he won't do anything about it.

She has just about enough mind left to ask, "How many condoms do you have exactly?"

"Enough," Bellamy growls, his voice sounds absolutely wrecked, and he proceeds to cage her in until his elbow finds support on the wall.

The next thing she remembers, he is already inside her. His right hand steadying her hip as his thumb is rubbing circles against her skin, soothing, and he’s hitting a particularly good spot inside her.

When he finishes this time, he presses his lips against her hair, lingering, just long enough to slip her underwear into her hands.

***

By the time they stumble back to their friends, with a pitcher of beer each in their hands, Jasper's head is down on the table, Miller patting his back.

"'S okay, bud, I know. I know. We'll get through this."

Murphy takes a contemplative look at them, before he takes the pitcher from her hand, refilling their cups, smiling to himself. Sure, he looks smug, but he doesn't comment and she pretends she didn't notice.

Raven raises an eyebrow. Clarke shrugs.

"Hey, Blake, your glasses are crooked."

Bellamy touches the frame. "They. Are. Not."

"My bad. Looked crooked from here."

***

The night is winding down eventually, it's almost midnight. They ended up sitting next to each other towards the third round of drinks.

Raven stands. "Hey, I'm gonna hit the night with this one here,” sticking out a thumb towards Murphy. "Bellamy, I'd appreciate if you made sure my girl makes it home safe and sound. The streets are dark."

Raven shoots her a text ten minutes later, don’t wait me up bb, im not making it home tonight. xoxo

That's the first night Bellamy kisses her when they almost part. And when he kisses her, he cannot stop at one kiss only, it is followed by another until they completely lose track of time. 

That's the first time he stays the night.

xx

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

A/N. Any feedback would be nice!

& I have this Detective!Bellamy story I just reposted/edited and would appreciate if you could check it out. I am tempted to write another chapter if anyone is interested?

[aquarianlights]

Coming out as transgender to people who you have absolutely no idea if they're going to reject you or not is worse and way more traumatic than coming out to people who you KNOW are going to reject you.

I'm literally fucking sobbing right now. Two of my oldest friends... Two people I have known since pre-k...maybe before that...Jymboree... That. That was before pre-k, right? Well, I've known them since Jymboree.........and I don't think either of them know I am transgender. One of them only just now found me on FB and we haven't spoken since... early college years. And the other...we haven't spoken in a few years.

I'm just coming out to them both RIGHT NOW....and I'm shaking and crying. I'm literally shaking and there are tears rolling down my cheeks.... I have known these two girls probably 24 of my 25 years of existence. Maybe almost a full 25. They were two of the biggest influences in my entire life....and they are like sisters who I grew up with.

I only found out I was transgender and not just "faking it/pretending to be a boy" around the age of 20-22ish. I honest to god thought I was pretending and my ex girlfriend breaking up with me after over 5 years of an LD relationship because she thought I was pretending, too, was possibly one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. Not THAT it happened...but how it happened. And the things I have experienced from being transgender... specifically from cishet males... is horrible.

And people misgendering me and just not understanding for some reason??? I'm sorry, but even if you're on the autism spectrum, you can understand when someone says they're a boy, they're a boy. You're not misunderstanding this because you're autistic; you're misunderstanding it because you're a white, cishet dude who apparently has a crush on me.

Receiving a text that says or someone saying "I'm sorry, but it's just weird for a me, being a straifght guy, to have a crush on you as a transboy." LET ME MAKE ONE THING CLEAR RIGHT FUCKING NOW: YOU EITHER HAVE A CRUSH ON ME OR YOU ARE NOT STRAIGHT. There is ///////////NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!/////// inbetween. You cannot be male and like another male and call yourself straight. Can you? Then how can you like me and call yourself straight? I'm just as male as you are. Always have been, always will be. Before and after HRT + gender correction surgeries. Just because I am transgender and haven't transitioned yet does not make me ANY LESS of a man than you in ANY way.

There is literally no way in this world or logic or ANYTHING that can state factually that you can be straight and male and have a crush on me. I don't understand how a man can call himself straight if he has a crush on another man? Can someone explain that to me? Please? I'm just DYING to know. And for anyone who is autistic (I think I have like maybe 2 or 3 friends on the spectrum here on FB and who knows how many on tumblr where I'm gonna c/p this to), you have absolutely no excuse. If a fucking child can understand that I'm a man....so can you. Idk if autism and down syndrome are synonymous... I don't think they are, coz my cousin has down syndrome and he's not like any of the autistic people I've spoken with online... (So I'm a little confused there), BUT EVEN HE UNDERSTANDS I AM MALE OKAY! He can't even speak for himself or change himself or dress himself or do anything for himself. He holds a bagging position at a local grocery store with help. Other than that, that's about it. He is in his late 20's and he acts like a child...always pulling my hair, can't speak correctly, speaks through sounds and groans and motions, reacts emotionally like...toddler-like emotions...Stuff like that to give examples. And I thought, for the longest time (coz I was ignorant and sheltered) that that was what autism was.

Well, I'm sorry, but if my cousin WITH THAT SEVERITY OF DOWN SYNDROME (which may or may not be autism?????? I have no clue on any developmental issues coz I only have mental disorders and not developmental issues and I only study psuedo-sciences (aka psych things) relevant to myself because I'm forced to so I'm ignorant by choice here which is probably abelist but it emotionally hurts me to look at this stuff) CAN UNDERSTAND THAT I'M A BOY EVEN WHEN I'M IN A DRESS AND HIGH HEELS WITH MAKE-UP ON, UNDERCOVER IN DISGUISE FOR A FAMILY FUNCTION.... ANY OF YOU AUTISTIC PEOPLE CAN. NONE OF YOU HAVE ANY EXCUSE. NO ONE WITH A DEVELOPMENTAL DISORDER, MENTAL ILLNESS, OR ANYTHING HAS ANY EXCUSE. AND, NO, I'M SORRY, BUT YOUR BIGOTRY IS THE SAME AS PEDOPHILIA BEING INCLUDED IN THE LGBT+ COMMUNITY: IT'S NOT COUNTING AND IT NEVER WILL BE, YOU SICK FUCK.

I'm just....I'm just so scared and so angry and so hurt and so...

All the experiences I've had irl and online with both people I know and people I don't know and anything inbetween...professionals and acquaintances and anything inbetween... I'm fucking traumatized by it all and yes that's actually part of my PTSD. It's not the main part of it, but the trauma associated with accumulated experiences due to being out and proud as a transman are a part of my extremely severe PTSD. Again, not the main part...but the fact they are a chunk is scary... Coz that means it could be the ENTIRE reason for someone's PTSD if they were to have lesser experiences than me (lesser being used in quantitative terms here, not qualitative---everyone's traumas are equal...the times we experience traumas are all different, obvs, and the times we experience traumas that contribute to PTSD are different and since I have so goddamn many, thinking some trans person could have PTSD based SOLELY around their experience as a trans person is horrifying when that is one of the least of my worries in the PTSD category).

I didn't realizing coming out could be this terrifying...

When I thought I was pretending to be male and was actually female irl, I thought I was just a lesbian since I am attracted to mostly girls. (Didn't know bi and pan was a thing either lol) so I came out on my very first day at a new school sophomore year of hs by people asking me or something and me doing something really bold and rash to prove it and then shrugging and being all "And? What are you gonna do about it?" Like. Coming out as lezz was as though I were coming out as human in my mind. It absolutely did not matter to me at all. 

And, frankly, I got off on it mentally coz it added a shock value when someone called me a dyke in a crowd and I would grab the nearest girl and ask her permission to kiss her and kiss her as hard as I could and then throw her aside (gently) into the crowd and strut right up to said (cishet white male obvs) person who asked and stand so close he could smell the shampoo I use and look him directly in the eye and dare him to do something about it and basically say "Are you just angry I get more pussy than you? Is that why you tried to make it public that you've got such a small dick?" Stuff like that. I get filmed a lot doing this stuff so there's prob videos of little female-presenting, bright blue haired, 5'1 3'4" kandi kid, harajuku girl Nickita version of me floating around being all confrontational and angry. Lol.

I forget why I made this post.

Oh yeah. Because I'm crying and shaking coz my friends aren't gonna respond for a while I'm sure and Idk if I'm going to lose them and at the same time I am super super SUPER sick and drained by guys not treating me as equal to them when I'm just as male as they are, with or without the parts.

I’m seriously so drained by cishet boys. By the ace thing and by the trans thing. I’m sick of cishet boys trying to coerce me into sex because they’re the “one exception” and I’m sick of cishet boys trying to say they’re straight but they have a crush on me, when I’m a boy. You CANNOT BE A STRAIGHT BOY AND HAVE A CRUSH ON A BOY!?!??!?!

These are things I deal with MULTIPLE times a day from MULTIPLE people...from people with autism and aspergers...to actual full on neurotypicals. Like. THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE!?

NOTE: I have since learned the aspergers, autism, and down syndrome are like...all different or something like that. I don’t really want to know, which is ableist af, but I don’t want to know on purpose. I want to stay ignorant on specifics. I just want the general knowledge and the tl;dr version of it all. At least....right now....maybe when I’m not about to have a panic attack, ready to slit my wrists, overdose, shoot someone, can slow down my thoughts, can force my intrusive thoughts back into intrusive thought zone and not desire zone, and can STOP HAVING AUDITORY HALLUCINATIONS WHEN I KNOW DAMN WELL MY SCHIZO MEDS ARE WORKING THEY ARE WORKING THEY ARE WORKING SO THIS ISN’T REAL AND IDK WHY THIS IS HAPPENING....maybe then I’ll like to know specifics, but I cannot an will not handle specifics right now. No thanks. Pseudo-science are ew. It’s bad enough I have to lean my OWN psuedo-sciences. (Psst. I still only learn the tl;dr textbook version of my own pseudo-science stuff (aka: psych stuff) so I can just learn the rest from self experience. it works. pro tip, y’all.)

[sparxwrites]

@lyinginbedmon replied to your post “…well, that turned into a clusterfuck of a post, all from a throwaway…”

I’m presume I’m the exception and not the rule in this context?

oh Boy, i was wondering when you were going to pop up… :p for those from my new fandom - lying’s a canon creator from a previous fandom that i’ve ended up friends with (for full disclosure: i started writing sometimes-explicit fanfic involving his character, discovered he knew when it was mentioned in a video in passing, and then realised he was regularly reading my blog via a friend, a stat tracker, and remarkable coincidence), hence why he’s asking this question.

i don’t think you’re an exception to the rule, necessarily, but i think you’re an exceptional case, largely because of a three reasons: 1) you have a small fandom, so most of your fans are very able to have a more personal relationship with you than normal, 2) most of your fans are aware of the kind of fic i write, and of the fact you’re friends with me despite also being aware of this, which i suspect provides some reassurance, and 3) a large number of your fans are Unbelievably bold and have an utter lack of shame or fear, which is… quite remarkable, really.

i think if you had a larger fandom, there would be more pronounced issues. speaking honestly, there have already been some issues - interpersonal conflicts and the like surrounding the discord server, fandom wank you’ve gotten more caught up in than most canon creators would be, some of your fans making unreasonable emotional demands on you, etc. - from your closeness, though i’d say in your case they’ve affected you more than some of the fans, perhaps. 

i’d also be lying if i said that awareness that you were watching hadn’t changed the way i behaved in your fandom environment. whether it’s censored me or not, i’m not entirely sure (i’m aware that, since i’ve carried on writing porn of your characters, i don’t appear censored, but there have definitely been things i’ve hesitated to post, or haven’t posted, because they’ve seemed to be potentially close to the line emotionally rather than explicitly. whilst i know you’re okay with my weird nsfw fic, that doesn’t mean i don’t worry about upsetting or offending you, or sometimes about drawing too much of irl you rather than character you into the fic), but it’s definitely altered my behaviour. 

also, regarding the fear and anxiety aspect: when you initially followed me and began to interact with me, though, i was pants-shittingly terrified. i literally cannot overstate that how terrified i was. i had a panic attack after publishing an early nsfw fic involving your character and realising you (and potentially dave) were going to see it. i also very nearly deleted my blog several times during the period where you and dave started interacting with me. and that was with sam and fuzz, who already knew you / both of you, to reassure me that you were decent people and weren’t about to send a mob after me for my metaphorical head on a metaphorical pike. despite all obvious signs and reassurances - and despite the fact that, weirdly, despite the anxiety i almost wanted the interaction to continue? because attention and approval, especially from people who create stuff you like or people you look up to, is an alarmingly strong drug - i was still scared of you.

none of the above is your direct fault, and obviously my issues were entirely my issues, but they’re Issues nonetheless. i think… regardless of how hard they try to integrate, canon creators are Apart and Above fans. they can’t be part of their own fandom in the way that fans are - how insufferably arrogant they’d be if they were! - and they have a natural, inescapable power over the fans in the sense that their fans are inevitably going to look up to them and idolise them / put them on a pedestal. it makes things a little sticky for creators in the sense that they’re stuck as almost a god-figure, but also that their fans want to be friends with the Real Them - and, of course, either the creator keeps up the god-figure persona, stays on their pedestal, and disappoints the fans who feel held at arm’s length; or they drop the god-figure persona, get off (or fall off) the pedestal, and disappoint the fans who feel angry and betrayed and upset that their idol is actually fallibile and human (and has opinions the fan disagrees with / is boring / is bigoted / isn’t funny when they’re not performing / isn’t a role model or desirable when they’re not pretended to be a god-figure). damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

in a way, i guess, keeping a line in the sand isn’t just for the emotional safety and comfort of fans - it’s for the emotional safety and comfort of the creators, too.

so this doesn’t sound like it’s all me being doom and gloom: now i know you personally, i’m very chill around you tbh. i value you a lot as a friend and as an interesting person to talk to. and, ngl, it’s lovely sometimes having a canon creator in my corner when people try to start shit with me. and - as an added bonus - as far as i’m aware, you’ve never stolen fanart from your fans without permission, or asked for free fanart. (okay, so you did get a few people to help with some of the specials, but tbh i feel like we extracted payment by way of endless dick jokes, inappropriate chicken spawning, and general incompetence - plus, we were all your friends at that point, which makes it a different dynamic altogether from acquaintance-fans, and you’d helped some of us with your on youtube videos. i think it all sort of evens out there.) all in all, you’re a nice guy irl, as well as a nice guy in the videos, although not quite the same person in both contexts.

if this all comes across as me having a go at you, then i want to reassure you it’s absolutely not. it’s not even really, i suppose, about you, again other than in the most surface way possible. it’s just an attempt to point out that even the Nicest and Calmest of canon creators aren’t necessarily free of complicating the fandom environment when they step into it.