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nanasparadise · 3 years ago

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“Imprisonment” Yan!Jolyne x female reader

This blog was in dire need of some wlw content. In that sense, I hope you had a happy pride month and enjoy this piece!

Summary: You are the target of many inmates in Green Dolphin. That changes when Jolyne becomes your cellmate, for the better or worse.

TW: toxic relationship, prison, bullying, violence, insults, threats, slight gore (ear mutilation), noncon kiss, allusions to NSFW, MATURE AUDIENCE ONLY/MINORS DNI

Word count: 2853

I do not condone any yandere behaviour in real life.

„Get your ass moving, girl!”

You truly hated it here. A day spent at Green Dolphin felt like being ten years in hell. The queue in the prison cafeteria moved forward quickly, since everyone got the same horrible food. As you hadn’t reacted fast enough, you’d received rude comments. At this point, you didn’t care about the insults anymore. You were used to them, you had no affiliation with anyone here, meaning the other inmates saw you as fair game. In addition to your nature as a pushover, you weren’t surprised to be the target of many prisoner’s sadistic streak.

You took your tray containing your lunch – a portion of rather questionable meat and some mashed potatoes – and went to your solitary table. A blissful sigh escaped your lips when you finally were alone in your corner. No, worse than any insults or solitude were the threats, hidden under fake smiles. Not a single day went without them. You always were forced to do ‘voluntary tasks’ for the designated mean girls of Green Dolphin or ‘lend’ them money. It was humiliating, really, but you didn’t want to end up beaten to death in your cell, so you followed their instructions.

Once you completed the laundry task, you decided to spend the rest of the afternoon in the library, hoping to find an interesting enough book to teleport you away for a couple hours from your harsh reality. You settled into the couch with a novel in your hands, enjoying this slight moment of calmness. Your peace was short-lived though as a blonde woman approached you, a saccharine smile plastered on her face. Oh no, you knew where this would go.

“Hi! How are you doing today?”, she greeted you with a fake happiness swinging in her tone.

“Fine”, you mumbled quietly, not being able to assert yourself.

“I’m glad to hear that!,” she replied, though you knew she didn’t give a shit about your well-being, “Look, I’m so sorry to bother you again, but could you give me ten dollars? I need them for something very important and you’ll get them back in no time!” She batted her eyelashes at you, seemingly coming across as innocent.

“I would, but I forgot the money in my cell”, you countered, trying to come up with an excuse.

“Then stand up and get it.” Her voice had already shifted into a menacing tone, eyes gleaming like a predator.

“I don’t know if I-“

“Y/N, that was your name, right? Well, if you don’t get me my money, our friendship will be ruined and you’re aware of the consequences of that, aren’t you?”, your fellow inmate replied while pulling you by the collar of your uniform up from the couch.

“Right…,” you whispered, accepting your defeat, “I’ll get it for you.”

“Awesome!,” the blonde chirped, all sunshine and rainbows again, “I’ll wait for you here, just don’t take too long.”

That was how your life went. You didn’t complain too much, you knew it could be way worse than that. And it wasn’t as if you had much of a choice to change it anyway. You weren’t going to be released from prison in the next twenty five years. “So just accept it and move on, day by day”, you mused, repeating that thought every day.

Your life took a turn, however, when a new inmate joined Green Dolphin. She was a young woman around your age, dark buns adorning her head and a green fringe framing her face. You had been spared from a cellmate, but that all changed now, as she was your new roomie. “Great,” you thought bitterly, “now my last bit of peace has been stolen from me.”

She introduced herself as Jolyne Kujo. Jolyne seemed to be still quite naïve when it came to prison life, claiming she’d been conned and that her lawyer would certainly take her out from there. “It’s time to face the fact that no one cares if you’re here for a valid reason or not, trust me, I know it from experience”, you thought, though you didn’t dare voice that to her.

She actually turned out to be nice. And with that, you meant that she respected your private space and didn’t threaten you. In exchange, you offered her some advice on who to avoid in jail, which the woman gladly accepted.

At first, the change was barely noticeable. Jolyne kept herself quiet except for the occasional small talk in your cell or during a shared task. Instead, she chose to lounge around two other inmates you hardly knew, one with dark braids and the other with a weird-looking green cap. You were glad to see that at least she formed a group, being able to protect herself now better from potential harassers if needed.

Of course you were still exposed to them. You made your way to the shower as a woman with broad muscles approached you, face turned into a dark grimace. By her build and expression, you’d first assumed she was a guard until you’d noticed the familiar uniform.

“You there!”, she shouted at you, a finger pointing menacingly at you as she came closer, “Give me your money, now!”

You cowered back into the corner of the shower room, panic flooding your system. “I’m sorry,” you stuttered, “I don’t have anything on me, I can give it to you after-“

“Don’t fucking play with me, bitch”, she brutely interjected, nostrils flaring up angrily due to exhaling. Your aggressor stood now in front of you, a strong hand wrapping itself around your throat and threatening to cut off your airflow. She yanked you up in the air as she continued her assault. “You think you can pick and choose? Does this place look like fucking Disneyland to you? You better give me my money now if you don’t wanna end up choking water and being beaten up like the dirty street mutt you are.” You were already flinching when the prisoner raised her fist to punch your face as a voice suddenly interrupted you.

“I think that’s enough”, Jolyne said in a firm tone, a fierce expression marking her face.

“And who the hell are you? Wanna join your little friend here?”, your tormentor commented, unimpressed by your cellmate’s entrance.

“Big words for someone who’ll soon be nothing but a bloody pulp”, Jolyne answered, not faltering under the inmate’s glare.

Your harasser proceeded to laugh out loud at her words, obviously not taking her seriously. She dropped you unceremoniously as she shifted all her attention to your saviour instead. Desperately, you panted for air, your hands moving to your hurting throat. You remained in your corner as you observed the scene unfolding in front of you.

“As if you weakling could do anything against me,” your tantaliser spit out, still chuckling at Jolyne’s words, “I’d kill you with my pinky finger.”

Jolyne remained strangely calm, choosing to smile at the threat. “We’ll see about that”, was the only thing she uttered before she lunged at her with incredible speed. Clearly, you weren’t the only one surprised as the inmate’s eyes widened as well. Jolyne turned the bully’s bewilderment into her advantage, her fist immediately connecting with the inmate’s nose. The latter let out a shrill scream, blood dripping out of her nostril. Clearly, she didn’t expect your roommate to do any real damage, let alone break her nose.

Jolyne shook the hand she punched her with, her knuckles reddened and slightly torn open from the assault. You kept staring at both of them, petrified and unsure about what to do now.

“I’ll kill you for that, you bitch,” your aggressor barked out angrily, “and your little friend will pay, too.”

You started trembling at the thought of her hand around your neck again.

“I’ll look for a guard, Jolyne”, you eventually said, the fear barely hidden in your voice. You decided this was enough and someone had to put an end to this.

“Stay here”, your cellmate replied authoritatively. For the first time, you were actually scared of her. “I’ll teach this woman that she needs to face consequences for her actions.”

With these words, Jolyne placed her fingers on your tormentor’s right ear. You wondered what she’d do next when a sudden yell disrupted your thoughts. The inmate’s cry was far worse than the previous one, emitting all of her pain and agony. You could hardly listen to it.

Then, with great horror, you finally noticed it. Her ear shell laid on the floor, blood coating the cut off organ. Your gaze travelled to Jolyne, waiting for an explanation to your unvoiced question, though she kept her eyes fixated on the prisoner’s pain-ridden face.

“You won’t touch Y/N or me ever again, did I make myself clear?”, she asked, her voice coated with barely concealed anger. Your bully only gave out a whimper, but the answer seemed to satisfy Jolyne. “Good. Now, if you see any guards, you keep our names out of your mouth, unless you want to lose another body part.”

The following weeks, Jolyne had become overly protective. She clung to you like a lost child, afraid that you’d be hurt or threatened again without her presence. You didn’t know if you should be grateful or terrified for her protection.

You’d asked her how she’d been able to cut that one prisoner’s ear off, but her explanation had been more confusing than enlightening. She’d talked about a Stand ability and how only so-called Stand users could see and wield it, but nothing made sense to you. You started to believe she’d just lost her mind.

Jolyne had also introduced you to her friend group. Ermes and Foo Fighters seemed nice enough, though they behaved in the same weird manner as your cellmate did. You felt awkward in their presence, not knowing why you were even there in the first place.

In the end, you decided to be thankful. With Jolyne and her friends by your side, no one bullied you anymore. And if your peace meant to spend some time with your cellmate, that was a small price to pay, right?

You didn’t notice the pair of chartreuse eyes observing every bit of your sleeping form. You never did.

Jolyne had been looking at you for many nights. This time, it wasn’t an exception. She tentatively brushed her hand over your cheek, marvelling at your slight reaction as you furrowed your brows at the touch.

“You’re really cute Y/N, do you know that?”, she whispered to you. Of course you were unable to answer.

Jolyne had been unusually shy around you. She was well aware of the fact that after her act of violence, you felt uncomfortable around her, possibly even scared. She tried so so hard to make you see that she was only protecting you! In fact, the young woman wondered how you could have even survived in Green Dolphin before her arrival.

She had a hard time picturing your life without her in it. At first, she’d been furious and crushed at the revelation that her ex-boyfriend had purposefully framed her for a crime she hadn’t committed. She had loved Romeo, so naturally, her heart had been broken.

But then, you entered her life. She saw now why she needed to be here. Who else could protect you, love you, like Jolyne? You were everything she had ever wanted.

Lovingly, she placed a small kiss on your cheek. You stirred slightly from the feathery peck. Nevertheless, you continued your slumber. Jolyne wished she could touch you more deliberately, more intensely. She’d grown tired of this little hiding game. The prisoner didn’t want to secretly let your brush run through her hair anymore, imagining it were your fingers instead or coo at you when you were sleeping. No, she wanted to feel you, to be touched and loved by you.

Sure, you might feel uncomfortable around her, but that was only because you didn’t see how much she cherished you. Maybe it was time to be bolder around you.

“Hey Y/N, could you give me my toothbrush, please?”

“Sure”, you replied casually as you handed the desired object over to her.

“Thanks, you truly are the sweetest.”

Your face heated up at her flirtatious tone. “She definitely didn’t mean it in that way”, you thought to calm your nerves.

“You still don’t want to join me showering? I’d hate for you to get attacked again”, your cellmate asked you, concern swinging in her voice.

“I’m good,” you mumbled, “I’ll just go next morning. And I doubt anyone’s gonna threaten me again after your lesson.” The thought of Jolyne mutilating another inmate terrified you, no matter how much your former aggressor deserved it.

“Come on, you’re just afraid to see me naked,” Jolyne teased while giving you a toothy grin, “it’s alright, you can tell me. I don’t mind.”

You didn’t think you could get more flustered. “That’s not it!”, you countered hastily, “I mean not that you're not a beautiful woman or anything, it’s just that…”

Jolyne stopped listening and straightened her back. You thought she was beautiful? Was this finally the moment she’d been waiting for? A dreamy expression marked her bright eyes.

“You think we could be a thing?”, Jolyne interjected your rambling.

“What?!”, you stuttered, unsure if you heard her correctly.

“I mean, I do really like you.” Suddenly, she stood up from her bed and moved over to you. You stared at her big-eyed, still not knowing what was going on. A hand came resting on your cheek as her gaze was locked on you. “Who am I kidding? I’m totally in love with you.” She softly traced her fingers over your skin, sending a chill down your spine.

“Jolyne”, you whispered quietly. You had no clue how to handle the situation, images of her brutal side flashing up in your mind again. You gulped harshly. “I didn’t know you felt this way, I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” the young woman retorted, “we could just be more, you know?” Jolyne leaned into you, closing the space between you, as her lips landed on yours. She kissed you with gentleness and care, as if you were made of glass. When you felt her teeth slightly tugging at your bottom lip, begging for more, you eventually snapped out of your surprise and pushed her away from you.

“What was that?”, you asked her out of breath, unable to conceal your anger.

“I’ve kissed you, silly.”

“I’ve just told you that I’m not interested in a relationship!”

Ah yes. That must have been when Jolyne had blended you out in favour of marvelling at your compliment.

“I think you should think about that again”, your cellmate replied, a dark edge manifesting in her voice.

“And why is that? Do you want to cut my ear off too?”, you asked, your iritateness making you feel reckless.

Jolyne huffed at your comment. She did that for you!

“At least you could be grateful for what I did,” she spit out, “but no, I’d never hurt you. I can’t guarantee the same thing about the other inmates though.”

You immediately caught onto the threat. Your anger easily transformed into fear again as you realised what impact your words had on the woman in front of you. When Jolyne noticed you wouldn’t counter, she put her hand on your body again, this time deciding to let it travel up and down your arm.

“If you keep saying mean things to me,” she said, her voice still sounding menacing despite her gentle hand movement, “I might just not talk to you anymore. Once the others see that we’re not hanging out anymore, they’ll just change their mind and choose you as their target again. And what do you do without my protection? You don’t want to be their punching bag again, do you, hm?”

“No”, you managed to utter silently, eyes cast onto the floor.

“Look sweetheart, I can make an exception for today. I’ll forget your behaviour and you reciprocate, right? Unless you want to go back to your initial position.”

“No!”, you answered a bit too fast, your eyes looking at her face again. You could only imagine what the inmate with the mutilated ear would do to you… “I’ll be good, I promise.”

Jolyne took hold of chin, ensuring that your eyes were still trained at her. Then, she kissed you again. Despite your feelings, you gave in, much to her pleasure. When she eventually removed her lips from yours, she shot you another love-struck gaze.

You knew your life in Green Dolphin had been shitty before Jolyne, but now you only felt what it meant to be truly imprisoned.

“I’m glad to hear that, honey,” the young woman said with a bedazzling smile on her face, “I’d suggest we finally take a shower, after all I can’t wait to see everything of my darling.”

Her grin gained a sinister note.

“And we’ll see how the night goes after that.”

#JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #Jojo no Kimyou na Bouken #stone ocean #yandere jolyne #yandere jolyne x reader #yandere x reader #tw: yandere #tw: threats #tw: toxic relationship #tw: noncon kiss #tw: slight gore #tw: ear mutilation #tw: bullying #tw: prison #tw: insults #tw: violence #minors dni

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gotnofucks · 4 years ago

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Special Training

Pairing: dark!Steve x Reader

Summary: Steve takes special interest in your training

Words: 2k

Warning: Non-con, authority abuse, smut, very slight breeding kink, language, 18+ ONLY

A/N: dedicated to the sweet girl who doesn’t want to be named. She wanted some tough love for daddy Steve...hope you like it hon

MASTERLIST

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You ducked at the last moment, rolling under your opponent’s legs and grabbing them as you stood up. The body fell on the mat behind you with a thud, and you panted as the buzzer finally went away. Dropping down next to the fallen comrade you blinked the sweat away from your eyes, hand reaching out to pat his back.

“You alright man?” You asked and he nodded with a strained groan.

“Damn Y/n, you keep getting stronger every day. I bet you’ll be taken in the team very soon.” He commented and you smiled. Getting into Avengers was a dream, but the training for it was a bitch. Hours after hours of slaving away in the gym and field, dodging punches, and bullets until you prove your metal.

“Thanks Nico, I hope you’re right.” You said and helped him stand up.

“Dude, you don’t need to worry. Your punch is as strong as –”

You stopped listening to Nico then, body tensing as you saw him approaching you. The training gear he had on defined every muscle on his body, and you gulped when his eyes locked yours in place. Nico followed your gaze and broke off, pulling off an awkward salute.

“Captain!” He greeted, blushing at his obvious eagerness. Every new trainee wanted to please the Captain, wanted to get noticed to increase their chances of selection. Steve’s face remained emotionless as he regarded you both, nodding once in acknowledgment.

“Agents, done for the day?” He asked and you both nodded, hands behind your backs and shoulders straight. He hummed and handed a sheet of paper to Nico. “You’re being transferred to Sargent Barnes’ training group Agent, you’ll report to him from tomorrow.”

Nico didn’t question the decision, simply agreed. One doesn’t argue with Steve Rogers, not if they wanted to stay on his right side. People may call him the kindest man they had met, but he didn’t accept any cheek on the field. He worked his agents hard, challenged them until they almost dropped dead. He made them sweat until they had shed every last layer of what Steve found problematic before accepting them. Most agents under him didn’t make it very far for they either quit under pressure or asked for a transfer under some other trainer.

Currently, only five people were under Steve’s command, including you. Well, four, now that Nico was being transferred. You had a hunch what prompted this, and you didn’t fancy knowing if your assumptions are correct.

“You’re dismissed. Agent Y/n, stay. We must have a word.”

Nico left the room without a backward glance and you fidgeted under Steve’s gaze until the door shut behind Nico. His eyes were so intense you almost couldn’t meet them, and once you did, they never let you look away.

“Come” He ordered and led you out the back door. It was a silent journey to his office, the sounds of your feet slapping the floor echoing around the hall. His huge form looked so big he seemed to dwarf the whole place and you gulped in nervousness. He let you enter first, shutting the door behind him and locking it securely though you knew no one would dare enter without knocking.

“On the desk” He said but before you could move yourself, he was already picking you up and depositing you over his work desk. Papers crinkled under you, but he gave them no notice, eyes rivetted to you.

“Captain” You whispered, and his hands were in your hair, pulling harshly to tilt your head so he could capture your mouth in a searing kiss. You whimpered, his tongue swirling in your mouth and hands tugging.

“What have I told you about calling me when we’re alone baby?” He asked in a husky voice and you pathetically sniffled.

“Steve” You replied, and his lips moved to your neck.

“And?”

“Stevie”

“And?”

“Daddy”

He took your hand in his, placing a kiss on your palm before moving it to the front of his pants. Squeezing himself through you, he let out a moan in your neck, humping against you.

“That’s right, say it again”

“Daddy, please.” You said and his gaze darkened, lips capturing yours harshly again. It was all teeth and tongue, hands squeezing tight. Your hands were around his arm, useless against his strength. His breath was fanning your cheek and you felt one of his hands pull the drawstrings of your tracks.

“You’re getting so good I think I need to train you exclusively. One on one” He said, and you shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. You didn’t know how you caught the Captain’s eyes, or why he was so fixated with you. But you couldn’t take anymore of this. This was blatant abuse of authority and you were stuck with it. Who could you complain to? Who would even believe you?

“Please don’t. I want to train with my friends.” You plead and Steve chuckled darkly, hands hooking into the waistband of your tracks and pulling them down. He rubbed his cheek on yours, the slight stubble scratching you and making you quiver.

“Friends, is that what was happening with you and that pathetic boy out there?” He snarked and you squeezed your eyes shut. Your legs were bare, and he stepped between them, gathering you close so his hardness rubbed against your clothed center.

“We were only training. Honest.”

He humped you, leaving open mouthed kisses along your shoulder and covered breasts.

“You can forget about him or any other man from now on. I don’t want any hands touching you unless its me.”

He raised your eyes to meet his, delicately wiping the tears away. You sobbed, eyes anguished and troubled.

“Please Steve, don’t do this. I – I just want to be a good soldier. I don’t want this, I never did”

Your words didn’t even make him bat an eyelid, instead, he dipped his hand between your thighs, pushing aside your damp panty and feeling you. As his fingers probed you, a mortified mewl escaped your lips, your heart breaking at the unwanted sensations forcefully administered.

“You don’t want it? Baby, you’re weeping for me. Why can’t your heart accept what your body did all those months ago?”

You rested your head on his chest, tired and so helpless. The smoothness with which his fingers entered you made you ashamed. How could you be a good agent if you could not control your own body’s reaction. Steve could play you however you want, he could make your howl despite protests flowing from your mouth. He didn’t care if you pushed him away, for he was so much more stronger. He took you without consent, just like he’s doing now.

Holding you around the waist, he carried you to his chair, sitting down. He fumbled with his own pants, finally pulling out his thick cock that he forced into your hands. You stroked, more out of habit than anything. He had trained you well in the ways of pleasure. He taught you what he liked, regardless if you wanted to or not.

“Inside baby, I want to be inside you now.” He hissed as he pushed instinctively in your palm. You positioned him below your entrance, slowly sinking down on him. A broken cry escaped you, the initial stretch still hurting despite how many times he had taken you. Your moans mixed with sniffles, heat surrounding you as you bounced on him, slowly, finding your rhythm. He held you close, intimately close, and extremely possessive.

He rutted into you, meeting you for every thrust, hitting your spot each time. His hands plucked at your nipples, your clit been mashed between a thumb and finger and soon you were falling, crying out around him. He didn’t let up and pushed into your limp body, going almost feral. You could feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of you. You could feel his sweat mixing with yours underneath your butt, you could feel like stench settling in your pores and making you his.

“So good baby girl, so good. Come on, give daddy another one.” He said and you shook your head, too exhausted. He didn’t care about the soft no’s your muttered, he didn’t care about your legs that trembled around him. He rammed into you with abandon, grunts leaving his mouth and hitting your damp skin. He pinched your clit and the coil inside you tightened, you tried to push away, you pleaded, yet he kept up until your sensitive flesh was almost painful. With one hard, almost brutal thrust, you came undone again, falling apart one more time as he followed you.

He weakly pushed up even as he softened, hugging your body to his. The golden hair on his head were plastered to his sweaty forehead, tickling your nose as he kissed you, teeth pulling at your lip and then letting it snap away. His cum was dripping down around you, and yet he didn’t pull out. He would let it cool on your skin, dry into flakes as a symbol of his ownership. You cried, tears streaming down and he bent down to lick them away.

“It doesn’t need to be difficult Y/n. You’re mine, you were mine since the moment you entered the compound. You only need to accept it.” Steve said, his hand rubbing your back to sooth you.

“Please, I can’t take it anymore. This is wrong.”

His hands cupped your face, rubbing your plump and red cheeks softly. The blue in his eyes drowned you, a cesspool from which it was impossible to escape.

“Baby, you don’t need to worry. Daddy is going to take good care of you. You want to be an avenger, don’t you? I’m gonna make you one.” He promised you and you shook your head. You didn’t want to be in the team because you laid on your back and opened you legs for him. Not like this.

“Please Steve, just let me go. You know I won’t tell anyone. Please.”

He sighed as if you were a silly child who was taking too long to understand two plus two made four. He patted your head patronizingly, rubbing his nose to yours and pecking you almost affectionately.

“Y/n, you can be so cute.” He mocked. “It’s amazing how you think I will ever let anyone, or anything take you away from me. You’re mine, now and forever. Nothing will change that, ever.”

He pulled out of you, pulling your soiled panties back into place. He didn’t even need to instruct you now to not wash his essence away. You knew he would be back later tonight, sneaking in your room to inspect and take you again. No matter what you did, you would never be able to shake him off.

You both dressed and he pulled you back into his lap for his customary after-sex cuddle. He was tender, trying to soften you to him but it only sickened you more. He had inserted himself in every part of your life. Everywhere you went, you saw him. Your own body smelled more like him than yours.

“If I see you with that Agent or another man again, I’ll have the doctor remove the hormonal implant from your arm to show everyone you’re mine.” Steve warned, his hand rubbing over your belly. Your heart thudded painfully, the threat of a pregnancy worse than anything else. Not only will you never escape him, but your dreams of being an Avenger would be over. You nodded, letting him know you understand, and he kissed your head.

“Don’t worry baby, you’ll come around. I will fuck the acceptance into you.” He said and you closed your eyes when he started rocking you, resigned to your fate.

Taglist:

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Protected : (dark!Peter x reader) literally adding this link everywhere hoping this would work for maybe some of you.

@shooting-star-love @stanmysoul @littlegasps @what-is-your-wish @bluemusickid

#dark!steve x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers #authority kink

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come-on-shitty-boys · 4 years ago

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//ready player two. kozume kenma//

Request: Gamer bf Kenma where gamer gf is struggling to defeat a final boss and Kenma pulls her in his laps and helps her defeat it

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.1K

Notes: i simply had to do this one bc your bitch just ordered Risk of Rain 2 and i’m S O E X C I T E D gamer bf kenma pls come help me beat mithrix ;-;

Your eyes had been trained on the screen for what felt like hours, knees pulled to your chest and your fingers moved expertly over the controls, headphones pulled down over your ears so the sounds of you ruthlessly murdering monsters wouldn’t bother him while he tried to complete his school work. But, the sun of the afternoon that had once flooded his room with natural light, had now faded into inky blackness, the only light came from his desk lamp and the flashes of color from the television stream. He had heard your curses and grumbles of frustration slowly increase as the time ticked by and the death counter slowly climbed.

He could hear the clicking of the buttons furiously beneath your fingers as you moved your avatar through the level once more, shooting down any bad guys that came in your path, collecting loot and xp to give you a greater advantage over the final boss. But, it still wasn’t enough. Because after about fifteen minutes, he heard the clicking stop and you leaned backwards, a heavy groan that mixed frustration and anguish left your lips as you laid back on his floor, letting the controller fall to the floor. You weren’t even sure how long you had been sitting there, long enough for your backside to begin to ache and long enough for Kenma to finally shut the cover of his math book as he circled the answer to the final problem.

Your boyfriend slowly turned around his chair to take a good look at your defeated form, the game over screen staring almost painfully in your face and by your blank expression as you stared up at the ceiling, he could guess that this was not the first one that you had experienced. “This game sucks,” you grumble.

“Is that why you've been playing for the past four hours?” he teased, moving to lay on his bed so that he could look at your face.

“I don’t want to talk about it. . .”

Kenma gave you a smile, something that became less and less rare during your time with him. You, by no means, were bringing him out of his shell or making him any less of an introvert, but even he couldn’t deny the wave of comfort that washed over him anytime you were around. You could hold his hand and all of his worries would instantly melt away, focusing on the feeling of your skin against his. Kenma had never been one for physical touch, but there was just something about holding your back square to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around your waist as you both hold onto your respective controllers, tapping away at buttons, that made him like the idea of contact just a little more. Blankets and sweaters were great, but you were an addiction that he never wanted to quit. It never failed that he felt like a whole new person whenever he was with you, something that maybe only Kuroo had made him feel before. But, he found that he enjoyed being able to let smiles spread across his lips and that he wanted his stomach to hurt from laughing as you both breathlessly wheezed on his bedroom floor. But, he also found that he liked the way your lips melded so perfectly with his, your hands gripping his arms as if he would disappear into nothingness if you let go. He liked how nicely your head fit into the crook of his neck whenever you curled into him for a nap, your soft snores becoming his favorite background noise.

You released a heavy sigh as you sat back up, taking the controller back between your hands for another go at the level that had taken you down so many times. “Tenth times the charm, right?”

Kenma simply hummed, taking a spot next to you on the floor, leaning forward to grab the second controller from the shelf. “I’ll take the player two spot.” He leans back so he’s nestled against his bed, one hand reaching out towards your waist, his silent signal for you to move closer. Without any further prompting, you took your seat in his lap, his arms instinctively wrapping around you to hold his controller while his chin settled on your shoulder to be able to view the screen.

You lean against his chest, feeling the rise and fall with each breath he takes. His forearms are rested against your thighs, tracing small shapes into the skin with his fingers while he waits for you to press start. But, as soon as the game begins, he’s zeroed in, thumbs rapidly pushing the different buttons to maneuver his avatar through the stage, killing enemies that would have resulted in another loss for you, muttering quiet tips on how to better use your attacks depending on the enemy type, which items were worth your time and which you should just leave behind.

“There we go, angel,” he says as the stage ends and you’re both taken to the lair of the final boss. “You got this. I’m right behind you to help you out, okay?” He tilts his head up to place a soft kiss to your cheek. Whenever the two of you sat like this, he was always really glad that you could never see just how red his cheeks turned whenever he would press his lips to your skin.

You just nodded, pressing the button that would take your avatars into the resting place of the boss. The cutscene played before your eyes and, almost immediately, the two of you were locked in a ferocious battle, mashing buttons to evade and attack, heal and defend, trying your very best to finally make it out alive. The heightened intensity of the music drew you both in, keeping your eyes fixated on the screen as if you were both physically engaged in the fight.

It was only when the sound of the boss’ defeat sang through your ears and the tune switched to something a little more cheery as the credits rolled across the screen did you turn in your boyfriend’s lap, throwing your arms around his neck in glee. “We did it! Kenma, we did it!”

“We? You carried that boss fight.” While his words might’ve had their typical monotonous demeanor, there was no hiding the soft smile on his lips as he looked up at you, eyes shining brightly with your accomplishment.

“Thanks for being my player two, Kenma.”

{Taglist: @moncymonce @nicka-nell @celosiiaa @lovinnoya @kuronekomama }

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hankwritten · 4 years ago

Text

Immaterial Witness

Demoman/Soldier, 5k

Request for r2mich2, Ghosthunting

Demo was less than thrilled about being selected for mandatory company ghost-busting work. His enthusiasm dropped even lower when he saw who’d be accompanying him.

“You!” he exclaimed.

“You!” Soldier replied. “Except with a different inflection! To indicate I am also not happy to see you!”

“Bloody hell,” Demo groaned as the looked at the man before him. “Jesus of all the BLU’s she could have picked for a ‘cross team eradication venture’, and she went with you.”

“I didn’t agree to this either, maggot,” Soldier assured him. “I am under orders not to strangle any REDs until this mission is complete, but my tractability will be put to the test if said RED is such a weakling and liar.”

“For the last time, I never called you a-”

“And what about all the things you did say, you son of a bitch?”

Demo scowled, not looking forward to going through the same recycled arguments over again. She had some nerve putting the two of them together after what she’d put them through; complete and total destruction of a friendship, and for what? Just to decide TF Industries was going to be managing both teams a few months later? It was a load of crap if Demo ever heard it.

“What are you even wearing?” he scoffed at Soldier’s new uniform.

“This is regulation specter pummeling gear, you sissified maggot scum!” Soldier puffed up proudly. Gone was the red jacket and fatigues, instead superseded by a singular beige jumpsuit.

“And what’s that?” Demo pointed to the canister vacuum strapped to his back. No bells, no whistles, just a regular old vacuum with a flexible nozzle.

“Ghost sucker,” Soldier said plainly.

“Right. Obviously.”

“Well what did you bring RED?” Soldier accused. “These ghosts are going lift you up by your frilly little underthings and fling you right out the door if you do not have anything to protect yourself from their disembodied maliciousness!”

“I,” Demo said, flexing his fist, “have this.”

Engineer had built it with such efficiency, Demo was sure he’d made the blueprints years ago and was just waiting for someone to ask for a ghost-capturing device. The device’s visual design was similar to that of the gunslinger, but instead of a limb replacement, it functioned more like power armor, cradling the outside of the wearer’s hand and increasing their grip tenfold.

“This ‘lil beauty has everything,” Demo continued haughtily. “EKG readings, built in spooktralizer, and-” He pulled back his fingers, activating the now-glowing disk in the center of his palm. “Anti-gravity net. No spirit’s going to escape this vortex, which is a good thing because you can’t suck up a ghost with a vacuum cleaner.”

“Shows how much you know, buster,” Soldier said. “All those doodads won’t do jack when you are staring into the blood-red eyes of a flesh-hungry phantom—these are creatures of the other side! Of the great beyond! They do not care about technology.”

“Oh aye?” Despite himself, Demo got right into Soldier’s face. “We’ll se about that when my power glove’s saving your sorry arse from having spectral boot shoved up it.”

“I will take that bet, princess,” Soldier spat back.

“Uuhhhhhhhhhhgggggggggg,” a new voice cut into the conversation. “If I have to sit through another one of your lover’s spats I’m going to kill myself. Again.”

Soldier’s eyes narrowed, fixating on something over Demo’s shoulder. “Oh great. The sword is here.”

“Yes! The sword is here!” the Eyelander chirped sarcastically. “And since I’m bloody gracing you with my company, you can do me a favor and get on with this thing. We’ve been standing out here for ten minutes.”

“It’s right,” Demo admitted as Soldier continued to stare daggers at the weapon strapped to his back. “Let’s head in.”

Demo didn’t wait to see if Soldier followed him as he took his first creaking step onto the house’s porch; by company orders, they were stuck together for now, no matter how much bad blood ran between them.

“So why are we clearing this place of ghosts anyway?” Eyelander asked as Demo pushed in the front door. The doubles groaned with an appropriate level of eeriness.

“The Voice’s orders,” he shrugged. “She wants this for a new battleground, but she wants it ghost free. Apparently there’ve been too many complaints about the past few Halloweens for her liking.”

“Really?” Eyelander said aghast. “Who doesn’t like Halloween?”

“Eh. Some of the mercs think it’s too random. Chaotic, hard to focus on what’s going on. They don’t like all the candy packs and the fact that idiot in a robe shows up and turns a ten minute match into a thirty minute nightmare.” At the last, he eyed Soldier over his shoulder.

“Do not look at me!” Soldier barked. “That isn’t my fault!”

“Yes it is! Last time he even said ‘SOLDIER THIS IS YOUR FAULT!’ as he was dropping bombs on our heads!”

“Well I am not the only causer-of-halloween-related-problems in this company,” Soldier said, jogging to get ahead of Demo to block his path. “The giant floating eyeball with red wig and child-sized overalls certainly wasn’t mine.”

Demo rubbed his face. “Jesus, just forget it. The only reason we have to tolerate each other is because there’s some soul with soon-to-be-finished business lurking around here, and we picked the short straw. So let’s find whatever apparition, spirit, or poltergeist is squatting in this dump and get out of each other’s hair.”

About to offer some stupid retort, Soldier was abruptly cut off as Eyelander yelped, “w-wait! Poltergeists?? You didn’t say anything about those arseholes!”

Demo and Soldier exchanged a look.

Soldier leveled a frown at the Eyelander. “You are a ghost, maggot. How on God’s green earth are you afraid of ghosts?”

“I’m afraid of poltergeists, eejit,” Eyelander snapped back. “You don’t bloody mess with a geist unless you want your immortal soul turned to shreds and left to wander the infinite abyss forever.”

“Whatever, this is getting us nowhere.” Demo pushed past Soldier. “C’mon. We’ve got a job to do.”

As he passed under the precarious looking chandelier overseeing the foyer, Soldier murmured, “tch. Only ever got the job. Typical.” Demo pretended he hadn’t heard.

What he did hear—over the sounds of the Eyelander whining about powerful forces they didn’t understand and eventually sinking into resigned grumble—was the sound of an organ playing in the deep bowels of the manor.

“Thirty bucks says there’s no one playing it when we get there,” Demo said.

“Deal,” Eyelander replied.

They readied their weapons. Well, not exactly weapons (and definitely not weapons in Soldier’s case, as he strangled his vacuum’s hose in a viselike grip), but tools that would get this bloody ghost out of here and let Demo go home for the day. His footsteps scraped decades old rugs as he padded carefully across the ground, power glove extended into the gloom before him. No readings yet, save for Eyelander’s steady thrum, but as soon as they crossed the barrier of the music room the EKG jumped like crazy.

“Called it,” Demo said as the organ continued to press down one ivory key after another, despite the only human beings in the room being the two mercs who had just entered. “Pay up, Eyelander.”

“Sure! Let me just grab my wallet.”

“Smart-arse.”

“It’s called a pommel.”

“If you two ladies are finished,” Soldier growled, drawing closer to the haunted piano, “let’s bag this ghost-maggot.”

Demo rolled his eye, sweeping to the other side of the organ that’s girth took up the entirety of the room, pipes clawing at the ceiling as wax burned down to nubs around it. “You ‘n your cleaning supplies just stand back.”

“And let you fumble our ticket out of here? I don’t think so.” Soldier flipped on his Hoover.

The glove began to gyrate in Demo’s palm. “You’re the one who’s messing this up! If you’d just believe me when I tell you something-”

“How can I believe you when your history of treachery continues?”

They were nearing the organ now, the disk glowing a menacing red and the vacuum jumping like it was trying to escape Soldier’s hands. The music doubled its tempo, growing more erratic with every step the pair took toward its console.

“There is no history,” Demo spat. “I didn’t do it in the first place!”

“But you still took the contract!”

“Because you did first!”

There wasn’t so much music now as random mashing of keys, a pained wailing accompanying the stressed notes in an unholy shriek. A bolt of electricity shot from the glove collided with something on the piano seat, revealing a ghastly form in the middle of the two men.

“Maybe I would have gone back on it!” Soldier roared as he struggled to maintain control of the hose, writhing in his hands like a viper. “If you’d talked to me I would have known it wasn’t-”

“THAT SHOULDN’T BE MY RESPONSIBILITY.”

“WELL IT HAS TO BE SOMEBODY’S.”

As Soldier screamed his final words, the ghost between them joined in the crescendo. The two forces on either of its sides pulled and pulled at its edges, wind howling and light flashing until-

Demo and Soldier were thrown into opposite walls with a resounding crack.

Grimacing, Demo pushed himself up, rubbing away the white spots in his vision that their techno-vortex had left him with. When things were mostly clear, he blinked at the organ seat, finding no trace of the specter the power glove had briefly outlined.

“Did we get it?” Soldier asked, likewise suppressing aches as he got to his feet.

“Dunno.” Demo tapped a few buttons on his glove. “Well there’s only one reading now. Maybe we fried it?”

“Bag isn’t full,” Soldier noted, poking the vacuum. “Must’ve.”

“Hm. I suppose that was climactic enough. I’m fine with leaving if you are.”

“There’s nothing I want more,” Soldier said, already halfway to the door.

“Feeling’s mutual,” Demo grumbled, following him out. “Went down pretty easy, all things considered. Barely a quarter of ‘ole Merasmus’s hit points. Can’t believe Eyelander was scared of that.”

The Eyelander said nothing.

Demo stopped walking. “You alright, mate?” he asked over his shoulder to where Eyelander was sheathed.

Still, it didn’t respond. He pulled it out, a soft sssth in the now quiet music room, and held it in front of him. He was about to ask it again, when Eyelander finally blurted, “oh uh! Right, me. I’m fine, just peachy, how are you?”

Soldier paused, and turned on his heel. “RED. Why doesn’t your sword have a stupid accent anymore?”

“Uh, crap uh,” the sword sputtered. “Blimey is what I meant to say governor! Pip pip bob’s your uncle and all that!”

“You!” Demo said, squeezing the imposter ghost for all it was worth, to which it gave a tiny eep! “What have you done with Eyelander?”

“Look, this doesn’t have to be a problem right?” the geist said. “I can still be a haunted sword! And do whatever it is the old ghost did, but please don’t make me get out. I’ve been trapped in that organ for fifty years! I want to go, see the world, oh please oh please take me with you?”

“Maybe we let it,” Soldier snorted. “Can’t be any more annoying than the old one.”

“That’s not funny,” Demo snapped, then turned his singular glare to the sword. “Listen here you useless lump of ectoplasm, you tell me what you did with my friend or I’m going to turn your soul into sizzling anti-matter.”

“No!”

And to Demo’s shock, the sword went flying from his hands, shooting up into the room’s ceiling.

“No, I won’t go back!” Encased in an orange glow, the sword maneuvered under its own power, spinning wildly until it had become an airborne lawnmower blade. “Screw you guys!”

“Shite!” Demo said as he charged out after it as it went shooting into the hall.

He followed it all the way to the foyer again, sprinting around each corner just to keep it in sight, but when he arrived out of breath at the grand staircases he had to admit there was no catching it.

“Shite,” he repeated.

“What in the goddamn hell was that about?” Soldier had, of course, followed him back to the entrance. “Now we’re stuck here until we find it again. Couldn’t have withheld your groveling freak out for one damn second.”

“I wasn’t just going to let it steal Eyelander’s sword!” Demo retaliated.

“You and the fucking Eyelander,” Solder swore, helmet wobbling as a snarl curled on his features. “Always with the Eyelander. You care more about that sword than you do anyone else, and you always fucking pick it in the end.”

They were in each other’s faces once more, nose to nose as the manor creaked around them. Demo glared, and softly replied, “well maybe the sword is better company.”

That might have been the end of it any other time, but they were too close now, too entwined, and Soldier grabbed the front of Demo’s shirt. “…God damn you,” he muttered. His face rippled with something unrecognizable. “That’s what I mean. Maybe that wasn’t you in the video, but when you took that contract you started saying crap like that.”

A hard knot found itself in Demo’s throat. He ignored the beeping coming from his glove. “After hearing ‘I never liked you’ enough times, it’s hard not to believe it.”

“…We ever going to stop lying to each other?”

Demo pulled the hand from the front of his shirt. The beeping was growing incessantly loud but he blocked it out, only focusing on stamping away from the Soldier-

And not noticing when the chandelier above him gave an ominous jolt.

His head whipped up too late when the chain broke, the glove practically screaming as he froze in panic for split second-

The cacophany when the chandelier came down was earsplitting, hundreds of glass teardrops shattering on the marble floor below, crashing into each other as their frame became nothing more than a bent pile of metal. Demo wheezed, having been thrown into a solid surface for the second time in less then ten minutes, and his brain caught up enough to realize he wasn’t dead.

The Soldier, having tackled Demo to bring him out of the worse of the poltergeist’s attack, had taken the brunt of it. He winced, rolling onto the hip that didn’t have any glass stuck in it.

“Christ,” Demo hissed, staring at the broken fixture. “It really is trying to kill us now, isn’t it?”

“You threatened to atomize its soul,” Soldier grunted. “Can’t blame it.”

Demo’s eye reaffixed to the bleeding BLU, tongue catching on the question. “You-” But what was he even supposed to say?

Soldier avoided his gaze. “Shut it, maggot. This was merely a rescue based on contempt and rivalry—no one’s allowed to kill you but me, yadda yadda, you get the picture.”

“Soldier…”

Years of bitter hatred choked down whatever else he would have said, but they couldn’t stop the swell of concern as he watched blood bloom on Soldier’s jumpsuit.

“Here,” he said, getting to his knees and picking his way through the broken glass. “Let’s get you up.”

Soldier glared in suspicion. Their argument still hung hot, bar of iron glowing yet unforged, not sure what shape it was suppose to take. But the blood was moving steadily down Soldier’s leg, and with distaste he resigned himself to being lifted under one arm.

“I can do it myself, maggot,” Soldier said once Demo had helped him to the stairs and tried to push up his pant leg.

Demo stared at him for a moment, hand holding the bandage he’d torn from the jumpsuit’s opposite leg, eye unargumentative as he gazed at the Soldier. A few more seconds of reproach ticked by, but then Soldier sighed in resignation, glancing away as Demo tied up his leg.

When it was over, he wasted no time getting to his feet, refusing Demo’s arm this time. “Definitely can’t let that thing run wild now,” he said. “Get your stupid glove to tell us where it is.”

There was an obvious limp to his walk, but Demo knew he had survived worse. That Demo had put him through worse.

The Demoman tapped his wrist a few times and said, “this way.”

The second floor was just rows and rows of suits of armor. All of them identical, all of them leaning down menacingly as the mercenaries passed beneath, listening to the spooktralizer’s pulse become a steady companion. There was constant draft, a thrumming chill up Demo’s spine, and he tried to remind himself that ghosts had the power to get inside your head and trigger your fear response. The fact that the haunt had turned murderous was nothing to be worried about—that he was, in all reality, afraid of no ghost.

The nearest suit of armor vibrated, and he jumped three feet in the air.

So did Soldier, bristling like a cat and demanding, “show yourself Casper! I am not afraid of your pathetic saber rattling!”

In response, every suit in the hall lifted it arms.

Soldier yelped, and he and Demo found themselves back to back, their respective ghost hunting equipment bared in front of them. But they were surrounded, the suits jerking to life and taking their first halting steps off their pedestals, clanking stiffly at the two mercenaries. They were forced backwards, one step, then two, until suddenly Demo found himself on the ground, the creeping terror that he’d been repressing now roaring overpoweringly. It was just a mind trick, just a manipulation, but knowing that and being able to act were vastly different things—and as the ancient warriors drew closer, he reached out and clung desperately to the closest thing he could find.

Clang went the greaves in front of him, coming to a stop as the full-body rattle started again. Shaking and shaking and Demo didn’t look, burying his face in Soldier’s shoulder-

“Ayyyiiieeeeeee,” a voice screamed as something small and spectral went spinning out of the armor.

After several seconds of silence from the suits around them, Demo finally lifted his head. All the armor had gone stiff and immobile, and the only clue to their previous animation was the ghostly impression of a sword floating a few feet off the ground.

“Eyelander?” he blinked.

“Uhhhg…my rain gaurd…” the Eyelander’s apparition groaned. “What…urhg…what happened? …….And why are you two cuddling?”

Demo looked down to find Soldier was clinging to him just as tightly as Demo was to he. Soldier realized it at the same time, and immediately pushed Demo off him, saying, “I did not give you permission to use me for comfort and safety, maggot!”

“Oi! You were the one who started it!” Demo turned his attention to the Eyelander. “What the bloody hell was that about? You trying to make us crap our pants?”

“Urhg, I don’t know!” Eyelander snapped. “If I’m not concentrating on anything in particular I just end up doing ghost type things. Like how you just start making horse noises when you think you’re home alone.”

Soldier snickered. Demo shot him a glare.

Ignoring him, Soldier got to his feet and dusted himself off. “That’s one thing to check off the list.” He paused, inspecting the form floating before him. “…Why are you a sword?”

“…I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Wait, no, Soldier’s right,” Demo said, getting up as well. “You’re not in the blade anymore, you can look like anything you want! You used to be a mortal, didn’t you?”

“I don’t remember okay?” it snapped. “That was centuries ago, I don’t know how to be anything but a ghost sword.”

“Aw, give it a shot mate,” Demo encouraged. “If we’re going to hunting around for the geist that stole your sword, you might as well try a new form.”

“…Alright, I guess I can give it a try.”

Slowly, the illusion in front of them melted, growing until it was humanoid, then rippling as details began to make its shape. The jaw strengthen, and a hole appeared in the right side its face, features sharpening until a near-copy of the Demoman stood next to the suit of armor. It was a hazy reflection, as though looking at himself in green glass, but a reflection just the same.

“Hey, don’t be me,” Demo said.

“Yeah, we already got enough of those,” Soldier added under his breath.

“Uhg,” it complained. “Sorry. You’re the most recent person I’ve been.” The uncanny valley was further emphasized that Eyelander forgot to move Demo’s mouth when it was speaking.

“Just be yourself,” Demo insisted, as much due to the ghost-him’s creepiness as the fact that he was a bit curious about who Eyelander used to be. “Go on, give it a shot.”

Grumbling without moving its mouth, the Eyelander began to change again, Demo’s features swept away as though lost on the wind. It grew inexorably, towering of the mortals below it like a warrior from myth; then it shrank, arms and ghostly blade disproportionately detailed like recalling a fighting feeling.

Both of these faded, other particulars bubbling up from the surface. A tartan hood crawled over the general shape of a head, plunging the face into inscrutability. From its shoulders sprung a cape, one that would have pooled across the ground if the mirage weren’t floating a half-foot off the stone. A thick tunic billowed, then fell down to the mirage’s knees, held in place by a sash across its chest.

The face beneath flickered. Morphing, becoming-

“Damn it,” Eyelander groaned as the features fell back into darkness, effort weakening its voice. “I really don’t remember.”

“Ach, it’s fine Eyelander,” he assured it, hearing the clear disappointment. “We’ll get your sword back in no time.”

“…Thanks mate.”

Suddenly, Soldier pushed past him, far roughing than necessary. “If the ghost is done having an identity crisis, lets get back to busting.”

Demo frowned after him, but according to the readings he was headed in the right direction, so he said nothing to it.

Eyelander was a different story. “OoooOOOoooo, jealous again are we?” Catching up to him was no problem when it could simply glide across the ground, cape fluttering behind it.

“Silence apparition!” Soldier stated. “You cannot get inside my head with your devil words, nor your OoooOOOoooo.”

Eyelander cackled, floating in front of him and forcing him to walk into it. He shivered as he passed through the ethereal dregs, breaking from his path and pivoting into the nearest set of doors. They found themselves in the grand library, tiers upon tiers of floor-to-ceiling books simply rotting in the dust. Cobwebs clung to everything, ancient lamps and moldering fainting couches, rendering the entire room silent.

“Touch a nerve?” Eyelander was enjoying its new ‘body’, swinging a spectral arm over Soldier’s shoulder that he was unable to shrug off. “Not still mad he likes me better than you?”

“Only goes to show how poor his taste is,” Soldier snapped.

Demo had to jog to catch up. The library’s various stone busts turned to watch him as he moved.

“Maybe, if he was hanging out with you to begin with,” Eyelander persisted. “Does that bother you, yankee doodle?”

“Eyelander, lay off him,” Demo said, surprising even himself when the words came out of his mouth. Soldier didn’t look, breathing heavily through his nose

“Why?” the ghost huffed. It was odd seeing the body language to accompany it for once, the entity folding its arms across its chest. “He’s the one who throws a fit whenever I’m around, and I’m bloody sick of it. Why should I have to put up with some moron you don’t want anything to do with?”

“Shut your nonexistent mouth!” Soldier was really heated now. “If you keep talking to me I will put my boot up so far up your ass you will feel it in the afterlife!”

“OoooOOOoooo,” Eyelander said, and it was a proper ghostly ooo that reverberated about the empty library. “I’m so scared. Should I start crying out in fear? That’s all a lout like you knows how to do, just yell until someone cries and then piss off entirely. Well guess what, eejit, he’s just fine without you.”

“I am warning you…” Soldier growled.

“Oh but that doesn’t stop you from getting all possessive does it?” Eyelander just goaded, heedless of anything else but its own petty revenge. “More possessive than me, and I’m the one possessing him! Is that the sort of bond you’re going for yank? Spending a lot of time in-”

With a furious scream, Soldier launched himself at the Eyelander. On instinct, it jerked to the side to try and avoid his murderous hands, but it didn’t matter either way as Soldier when flying through the ghost’s form and crashed into the bookcase behind it.

The bookcase swung like a revolving door, and Soldier disappeared from view.

Eyelander and Demo shared a glance. “Did that just…?” he asked.

“Hold on.” It glided forward, passing through the bookcase unimpeded. A moment later, it stuck its head back out through the wall and said, “aye! It’s a secret passage! Some stairs going down into a basement of some sort.”

“Stairs? Is Solder alright?” Demo worried as he came forward and tried to trigger whatever had moved the loose shelf.

The Eyelander stuck its head in, then back out again. “Eh, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Demo found him, if not exactly fine, then stabilized. His leg had started bleeding again, but the tumble down the basement stairs had shaken the fight out of him. He let Demo rebandage his injuries with barely a word.

“Good work finding the passage, lad,” Demo said, as though he didn’t feel a terrible heat of embarrassment on the back of his neck. “Based on the readings, that’s where the ghost is hiding.”

“Hm,” was all Soldier said. He wouldn’t look at either Demo or the levitating knight.

“…Eyelander, why don’t you float on ahead?” Demo said after a moment. “Scout things out a bit for us?”

“Yeah, sure. Not being bound to a mortal vessel anymore gives you a lot more free range of movement.”

Demo helped Soldier to his feet. Several long minutes were spent walking down a cold, damp tunnel, only illuminated by bulbs covered in metal grates that flickered in sync. When Eyelander had drifted far enough ahead in its impatience, Demo asked what had been on his mind since they’d come down here, spinning over as the guilt he’d been holding back for years weighed heavier on him than it ever had.

“…Jane?” he mumbled. The Soldier jumped at his real name. “What Eyelander said back there…have I really been…?”

“Don’t believe anything that comes out of that ghost’s pie hole! Its ghost pie hole! Where it puts its ghost pies!” Soldier barked hastily. “It is- I don’t-!”

Demo let Soldier sputter for a moment before frowning at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

Soldier choked mid denial and whipped his head so hard his eyes showed wild underneath the helmet. “You- What?”

“You were right,” Demo rubbed his face. “About always lying to each other. Saying we didn’t care, just to make it easier. And you’re right that I treat my friends like crap sometimes, picking the sword—the job—over anybody else. So I fucked up too, believing their lies just as much, listening to them because it was the easiest.” He lifted his head, making eye contact with the alarmed Soldier. “So maybe I do pick the sword sometimes. But I never should have taken a bribe over my best friend.”

They’d stopped walking, Soldier just staring at him, mouth slightly open.

Soldier breathed in deep. “…Your best friend?”

Cautiously, taking care not to startle Soldier or his own frayed nerves, Demo reached out and held Soldier’s hand. He could hear Soldier’s labored breaths, even as the BLU looked down so steeply at their linked hands that his helmet obscured is whole face.

“Aye.”

Soldier’s mouth writhed a second longer before saying, “I’m sorry. Too. For all the crap I said to you after. I didn’t mean any of it either, I always liked you. I always…”

Demo squeezed his hand. “We’ll talk after we get my sword back, aye?”

Soldier finally lifted his chin, a grin of joyous relief across it. “Affirmative! We will beat the crap out of that weapon-stealing cheat, and then boot it back to kingdom come.”

“Our powers combined, eh?” Demo wiggled the fingers on the power glove.

Soldier lifted his hose. “Lets get this spirit-maggot!”

“Are you two coming?” the Eyelander demanded, reappearing in the grimy tunnel before them. “There’s this big evil laboratory at the end of the hall and the bell-end body-snatcher is just waiting for someone to come and kick its pommel.”

Demo grinned at his once-again best mate. “Don’t worry Eyelander, that bastard’s got another thing coming.”

The rescue squad stormed into the evil lab, magic and science and supernatural forces in hand. The room was exactly what you’d think: test tubes full of pulsating green goo, an open slab with leather straps around it, giant Tesla coils pointing all which way as though the whole space was ready to zap you at a moment’s notice.

“You!” Eyelander demanding, pointing a menacing spectral finger at the sword floating in the center of the room.

“Aw crap,” it said as it turned and saw the trio of ghostbusters that had come for its soul.

Immediately, it tried to make a run for it, zipping off on a trail of orange magic. But Soldier was faster, flipping the Hoover to ‘suck’ and immediately summoning a typhoon from the nozzle’s end. The geist shrieked as it was pulled backwards, forward momentum fighting against the suction until was it pulled taught mid-air. Demo wasn’t going to inadvertently help it this time, though. Instead, he stood shoulder to shoulder with his best mate, and sent a pulse of magnetic energy to join the vacuum’s pull.

“NOOOOOooooo,” the geist screamed as it began to lose ground.

It still wasn’t enough. A humanoid shape was being drawn from the sword, but that only made it struggle harder, fighting tooth and nail as it screamed all the while.

The Eyelander’s spirit stormed forward. With both hands it gripped the sword, pulling away from its rival ghost with its impressive incorporeal biceps. The geist screamed harder, but in a three-on-one it was losing, even as it tried to wrench the hilt away. Eyelander grabbed above the crossguard, and a gush of ethereal blood splattered on the floor, but the extra leverage worked, and it ripped the blade free from enemy hands.

Eyelander reared back, and the ghost went falling into the vacuum with a scream.

The impact knocked Demo flat on his ass. It wasn’t as rough as the first explosion, but he still groaned as he sat up. “We get it this time?”

Soldier poked the bag, which moaned in protest. “Yup. We got it.”

“How about you Eyelander?” Demo got up and walked to where the sword had fallen. “Everything back in the bits?”

“Uhrg…my whole fuller hurts,” the blade on the floor said in what was definitely the Eyelander’s voice. “Put me back in my scabbard…I want a nap.”

Demo chuckled, and did as he was asked.

“Teamwork saves the day!” Soldier declared, walking up to the pair. “Goes to show what camaraderie and true American sprit can do.” He clapped Demo on the shoulder, and the two exchanged a smile.

“…Did I miss something?” Eyelander asked from its sling on Demo’s back.

“Nah,” Demo said. “Jane ‘n I just worked some things out. Don’t worry your pretty little locket about it.”

“We are best friends again!” Soldier was too excited to hold back. He grabbed Demo’s hand again and squeezed.

The two shared a look of shining eyes and full hearts.

“Yuck,” Eyelander noted. “Do I have to be here for this?”

“Ah, shut it,” Demo said. “We just saved your life.”

“I didn’t want to be brought along in the first place!”

“You hate being left alone at the base,” Demo pointed out.

“Yeah but that was before you brought ghosthunting into the picture. You should have known better! What if one of your stupid machines had malfunctioned and killed me instead?”

As they walked back up through the secret passage, Soldier leaned toward the scabbard and said, “looks like there’s trouble in paradise after all, huh.” Demo had never heard him be smugger.

“Keep grinning, eejit,” Eyelander grumbled. “Next time we get into battle I’m carving a new smile into your throat.”

Soldier snickered, and they left the manor victorious.

#boots n bombs #demosolly #tf2 fanfiction

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youareunbearable · 4 years ago

Note

Catch me not having a clue who any of these gods(?) and people are, but still sitting here like, "I ship that pretty one with the gruff one, and that brown haired one with the other(?) gruff one?" without knowing names or what this is except the fanart I see you reblog, because this fandom apparently has lots of nice art

Fam i have no idea what ur talking about or when u sent this im so sorry asfkjhfkjhf but i thiiiinnnkkkk??????? it’s “Heavens Official Blessing” or Tiān Guān Cì Fú (TGCF for tagging stuff) its originally a chinese gay novel that is soooooooo long by the author Mo Xiang Tong Xiu (MXTX) who wrote 2 (two?????) other novels that I know of that are also gay historical fantasy but i personally havent actually read TGCF???? im just watching the anime and looking at the wiki and reading fanfics so i have a vague idea whats going on but not really???? so i cant really give a good review BUT i LOVE THE CHARACTERS MXTX WRITES SO MUCH AFHAFKFHKFAKF IM SO SORRY IM SHIT WITH TAGGING SO U HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IM HYPER FIXATING ON BUT

LISTEN

Pretty one and the gruff one im THINKING is He Xuan (or Ming Yi/ Ming-Xiong/Ming Bro) for the grumpy one and Shi Qingxuan for the pretty one and both are kinda gender fluid?? (more Shi Qingxuan but they both change their forms to be both women and men which is Iconic and the anime put her in the TRANS FLAG COLOUR instead of her canon white and green which is ICONIC) AND THHEYRE SO TRAGIC AND HOT AND I CRY JUST THINKING ABOUT THEIR STORY LIKE AFHDFKJAFDSGS like i want to kinda read the book just for them, the two super minor characters, but i also read somewhere that their story doesn’t really have a clean ending so im also holding back from just getting Emotionally Hurt because im a cancer and i know it’ll wreck me

I think The Two Gruff Idiots are Feng Xin (dark haired gruff boy) and Mu Qing (brown haired gruff boy) and theyre both martial gods and both knew each other for over 800 years and both tried to take care of Actual Human And Heavenly Disaster Xie Lian, failed, and tried to do it again 800 years later but with stupid glasses with moustaches in hopes that Xie Lian cant figure out that they care about him but OOPS Xie Lian does in fact have the braincell of the three of them fajfafjajf

Heres the link to watch the anime, there are 11 eps rn but it updates every weekend (I dont actually know when but i watch it on sundays) Make sure u have ur ad block on tho lol there is a manga too and the art style is TO DIE FOR like its GORGEOUS but its roughly at the same pace as the anime so eh

Heres where to read the whole thing online, just a warning its BIG AS FUCK like 244? plus extras I think??

I’d also recommend MXTX’s other books!

Mo Dao Zu Shi (or Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation/ The Untamed/MDZS) is both a Book as well as an Anime (the whole thing is on youtube) , a Live Action which you can watch on Netflix (look up Untamed, also a warning, the plot is a little different from the book and anime cause of uhhh censorship?? also i guess to make it more live drama friendly, my friends an i binged it and really liked it, but some of the fandom doesn’t), a manga which is not finished I think???? idk im not caught up, and a fucking chinese AUDIO DRAMA LIKE BITCH ITS SO WELL DONE but i have to stop listening sometimes cause like there is a difference between watching/reading characters kiss, and then like just hearing them, i get so embarrassed i have to skip the kissing scenes and god forbid i accidentally click on the smutty extras alfjajlfjalfjaljf u can find it on youtube, i linked the one i listen to but i havent finished it and i don’t think it’s all of it, but you can find other episodes/chapters easily

Its about 1 Dumb Yet So Smart gay/bi man (Wei Wuxian) who honestly tries his fucking best, fucks up everything, dies for over a decade, and then is forcefully brought back to life to solve a murder mystery with the guy who has been in Super Gay Love with him since they were teens (Lan Zhan), a bunch of teens Who Are Just Honestly Here For A Good Time And Yet (Lan Juniors, Jin Ling, and Best Boy Ouyang Zizhen ) while badly hiding his real identity from all the people he knows, including his foster brother (Jiang Cheng) who is out for blood and hunting his ass down with a whip and also Lan Zhan who is travelling with him. Also the Killer. There is a killer on the loose and is willing to murder whoever to keep their secrets. Also Nie Huaisang. I adore him and his brother Nie Mingjue, if there is one bitch u gotta remember from this summary it’s this little twink (he and his brother also have a fucking spin off movie from the live action drama THAT I HAVENT BEEN ABLE TO FIND A ENGLISH SUB VERSION AND ITS BEEN KILLING ME SINCE I STARTED WATCHING THIS SHOW LAST YEAR. GOOGLE GIVE ME MY FAVOURITE TWINK AND HIS BEAR OF A BROTHER HAVING A FUN FAMILY ROAD TRIP!!!!!!!)

My Personal Current Favourite is Scum Villain’s Self Saving System (SVSSS) which is SOOOOOOO FUNNY Like it’s not as popular cause the comic was discontinued, and the anime looks like its from 2005 with the weird 3D animation but its my current comfort media!!!

Its basically about a spite reading millennial (Shen Yuan) who died after reading a REALLY awful popular cheesy smut harem novel (think like 50 shade series but worse cause the protag had 600 wives) and was forced into the body of a minor but important villain (the protagonist’s teacher, Shen Qingqiu) from the novel who was fated to die with all his limbs cut off and his eyes and tongue plucked out and is told he has to fix the story so its not trash, he reasonably freaks the fuck out and hugs the protagonists (Luo Binghe) thigh so hard he turns him gay without realizing. Sadly, he does have to make sure certain plot points happen, which fucks him over a lot, and he thinks Luo Binghe still wants to kill him instead of love him cause he has the Emotional Intelligence of a Rock, but its so funny reading about him handling all the awful tropey stuff, like imagine u have to be a character in My Immortal But With Porn?????? without breaking out of character too much?? I wouldn’t be able to handle it ajhakfkfhjfj He also finds out that he’s not the only transmigrator in the novel either, but it doesn’t matter cause theyre both So Fucking Stupid Collectively but everyone would honestly die for the both of them

warning for this story though, the main relationship is a teacher/student relationship, but nothing happens until the student is in his 20s and also kinda not his student anymore cause he’s running hell??? but if that squicks u out i totally understand and offer you to PLEASE still enjoy some of this media, and instead of the BingQiu ship, I offer you the LiuQiu one, where both me and the main character cry over how a beautiful man/fellow immortal lord loves the main character so much that he literally fought every day for 5 years to be by his side and I Think Thats Beautiful and I kinda like this ship more than the main one tbh PLEASE just look at the art for Liu Qingge because i love him so much, he’s like if you took Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng from MDZS and mashed them into one beautiful man the author is trying to tell me is straight but u take one look at him And Tell Me Otherwise

#anon #answering asks probably really late but i live on mobile and i dont get notifications a lot #FHAKJAKFJFAFJA SORRY FOR INFO DUMPING ON U ANON BUT PLEASE LOVE THESE #I LOVE THESE #AND MY IRL FRIENDS DONT CARE ABOUT THEM #theyre like yeah amber ill watch the drama and maybe an anime but its ok no we dont want u to keep sending us tikoks its ok #LIKE IM WEEPING PLEASE ENJOY THIS CONTENT!!!!!!!#but for real if u want a love story for the ages read TGCF i've heard its really good #SVSSS is like the less serious and shortest novel of the three but so good #and MDZS is like the most popular successful middle child that every and their mother has seen and enjoyed #MDZS #SVSSS #TGCF #MXTX #also im once again sorry about how i never tag anything im just convinced no one actually goes on my blog #but i'm always surprised when i get asks like this asking me to tag things or asking about a thing im enjoying #and therefore flooding their dashs with lol #Anonymous

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altrustichcpes · 4 years ago

Text

HYLIA, ALONE ..

┈┈━ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥’𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘𝗦⠀⠀:⠀⠀⠀hi!! hello , this is a lil thing i decided to whip up. i apologize that it’s eVERYWHERE and messy , B U T i hope you all like it. also if you could give any constructive criticism— that’d be swell!! enjoy! :))

┈┈━ 𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗚𝗘𝗥 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦⠀⠀:⠀⠀⠀abuse , abusive relationships , emotional abuse , emotional manipulation , physical abuse , sexual assault , r*pe ( HEAVY implications ) and violence. if these trigger you, please take with caution.

┈┈━ 𝗣𝗟𝗢𝗧 / 𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 / 𝗦𝗘𝗧𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚⠀⠀:⠀⠀⠀the beginning of war , hylia is facing the consequences of her actions... she waits anxiously whilst waiting for demise’s army to strike — only to come to a realization.

┈┈━ 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦⠀⠀:⠀⠀⠀hylia , demise , nayru , din , farore , impa , link , fierce deity .

┈┈━ 𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗚𝗧𝗛⠀⠀:⠀⠀⠀1,810 words.

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀Death was such a strange concept. It was a mortal concept — and she wished she learned more when she had the chance. The war , she knew it would kill her. But she was going to take what was hers. Even if she had to spill blood of others . . . or her own.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ The black skies hung low in the Heavens , as the white haired woman carefully took a deep breath , finding her gaze falling to the woman in the mirror. She saw the bags under her eyes , yet her hair was held into intricate braids that mashed together in one. She wore black , a black dress with a cape wrapping across her chest. She was ready. Ready to finish what she had started , ready to take back the Triforce of Power from the King of Darkness himself — and her outfit said that statement.

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⠀⠀⠀ Her sapphire gaze fixated on the quill and parchment that sat on the surface of her vanity mirror. She had been writing letters to him- Link. He hasn’t responded... The last thing she did hear was from Impa, saying that he was in safe hands ; helping her at Kakariko Village , she had heard from Fierce Deity as well, he said the same thing. Out of habit , her thumb began to stroke the inside of her right ring finger. A gold band sat steady — a beautiful gold band at that. With the initials ‘ H+L ‘ engraved in it... Link got her this just prior to the war. A promise ring. They both promised each other that no matter what , they’d find eachother once again.

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⠀⠀⠀ Out of everyone that she knows , Hylia hasn’t spoken to her sisters... not after Din’s proclamation to her hatred for her younger sister and not since Nayru had tried to persuade Hylia of war. Her brows knitted in thought as she took a deep breath. Her sisters... they were once close. Once close to the point where they knew everything about each other. But now? Hylia felt like a stranger to her own family. Farore doesn’t even speak to her anymore like she used to. She bit the inside of her cheek as the Crimson Loftwing from the balcony squawked. It was time.

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⠀⠀⠀ Making her way towards the creation she made long ago , raising a hand to his beak — carefully stroking it as she rested her forehead on his...

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⠀⠀⠀ “ This is it , buddy... “ She whispered , hearing him coo against her cheek.

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⠀⠀⠀ The Loftwing held a few things on it’s back ; a weapon of some kind - a harp that was wrapped with a cloth… It was the only thing along with a journal or two. Hylia looked around her realm , jaw clenched at the darkened skies. The clouds were heavy as she climbed onto the back of the Loftwing , exhaling deeply through her nose. With a light kick on the Loftwing , she flew off towards the Surface. Her nerves were high , high beyond measure as she gripped the feathers of the creature - vision becoming clear as the green land below came into view. Although it was no longer green. The land her sisters once made lush and beautiful was dead , and slowly rotting away with every moment it could get the chance. She did see the dark beginning to blanket the land in the horizon.

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⠀⠀⠀ With the civilization in Skyloft hanging overhead , Hylia guided the Loftwing to the Surface and landed where her own militia stood. Five races , Goron , Parella , Ancient Robots , Kikiwi and the Mogma all stood along with their own weapons in hand. Biting the inside of her cheek , her thumb brushed against the ring once again. She was okay. This was going to happen…

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ She began to saunter towards the races. She wore pride on her chest , sending her army out to battle alongside her against the Demon King’s incoming strike. Hylia’s usual soft and gentle voice became sharp like glass as she shouted towards the army at her feet.

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ “ Today will be the day in history that we rid of Demise and his proxies of darkness. Today will be the day we seal The Demon King. Today will also be the day where lives will inevitably be lost. Today will be a somber one - yet a victorious one. Will you all lend me a hand —” Hylia spoke , chest rising with every word she shouted , gazing out to her soldiers… seeing their faces. She didn’t see him though.. She didn’t see Link. Her heart felt heavy for some reason… “ One final hand in this conflict? Will you all aid me in this fight? For this is our fight. Not just mine. Not just the gods above. We will win this and restore peace among my sister’s land. Fight for peace. Fight for justice… and may the Goddess smile upon you all. “ She ended her speech with a smile. It didn’t reach her eyes. Lately a lot of her smiles didn’t quite reach her eyes - nor was the light that once stood and shone brightly there anymore… her sapphire eyes were faded now. But she remained cool as she watched the races let out their victory wails , clanging against their weaponry if they had any.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ Nodding , she looked up to the sky now…

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ The air froze , almost stopped completely as Hylia stood still. He’s here. Black blanketed the sky completely as a beam of light emitted from ground in the middle of her own militia , the earth protruding upwards as the large boar pulled himself up. Scaled , teeth an ugly yellow and stained with blood - Hylia watched in almost shock at what she was witnessing. Did he feast on the miserable before arriving? … Or did he feast on those in Kakariko… No- focus.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ As he came from beneath the ground , so did his own army. One by one slowly started to rise from the ground. Soon , hundreds began flooding the Surface. It wasn’t long until they all lined up , weapons raised. She caught sight of the many that Demise managed to recruit , either by force or volunteer. Three in particular. Ghirahim , Zant and… Ziva. Her eyes widened slightly , as Demise glared down at the woman.

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⠀⠀⠀ “ Men! Raise your weapons. Don’t show mercy,” He snarled , as he kept his gaze on his former lover.

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⠀⠀⠀ Hylia was quick to board her Loftwing , grabbing her harp and kicking his side. In an instance , she was in the air. Demises’ army hadn't struck yet… they seemed to be waiting. Demise’s golden hue’s followed the White Goddess and then he spoke.

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⠀⠀⠀ Voice crisp , clear and rage dripping with every word, venom almost; “ Kill them all. “ He spoke.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ Just like that , Hylia watched both parties go against each other - chest heavy as she attempted to regulate her breathing. She got this. Gripping the Loftwing’s feathers with one hand , the harp in the other , she watched… The Gorons used all of the force they could, the Mogma and Ancient Robots teaming up. But her mind began to drift…

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ Her lover was in Kakariko , along with her best friends… Her sisters disowned her , for trying to save the relationship between her and the man who is threatening to kill her… This. This was her fault. It was. She willingly gave him the Triforce of Power… she saw him and Din together- she let herself get violated and abused every other day… Something in Hylia snapped. She wasn’t going to let anyone put her down again. And if she had to spill the blood of others to do so , she would do it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ She took a moment , slowly beginning to strum the harp. Rays of light emitted from it as she flicked her wrist towards her own militia. The rays of light shattered , breaking into a million pieces and grazing her soldiers like glitter… “ Fight with all of your might! “ She shouted to them below before her sapphire gaze met the ones of the boar.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ She once loved this man. Once. She didn’t realize her hatred for him until she realized her worth, and now she stood in the air against him. He simply laughed at her expression. Her brows were furrowed and her jaw was clenched tight , fists forming as she held onto the feathers of the Loftwing.

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⠀⠀⠀ “ You bitch. “ He laughed , raising his hand.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ It was her against the world… and she was going to be ruthless.

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ Death was a mortal concept. Hylia never understood it until this moment… Her breath hitched as she lay in the bed , hand gripping an object at her side. The war ended just the other day , two days ago. It was agonizing , and she had suffered most. Her injuries were mostly internal but her powers were slowly beginning to leave her grasp. Attempting to breathe , she looked to the doors that swung open immediately. Impa...

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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ “ Your grace- ” She spoke , rushing to the White Goddess’ side. “ Did you… “ Her voice trailed off , seeing her friend in the state she was in. It hurt…

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ “ I made it, Impa…” Hylia responded shakily. “ You know, to make sure the next reincarnate finds it.. Guide him.” She handed her the creation- A sword. A purple-blue hilt made with such grace.. The blade itself was glowing with a faint blue hue. Hylia , weak in the hands pushed it towards the Sheikah and let out a chuckle. “ And can I ask a favor..? “

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ Taking the sword with care , Impa cocked a brow , carefully taking her friend’s hand out of worry. “ Anything, “ She spoke , easing the goddess’ nerves.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ “ Don’t go.. Not until I’m gone. When I am, you can leave.. Just… not yet…” She breathed , staring up at the ceiling of her sanctum. It was cozy , warm… like a winter cabin.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ Impa nodded, taking a seat beside Hylia.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ A comfortable silence flushed over the two as Hylia spoke yet again; “ I see him… “ She whispered shakily.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ “ Who, your grace? “ Impa cocked a brow wearily.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀ “ Link…” Her eyes widened as she saw a hand reach for her.

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⠀⠀⠀ A light gasp of air escaped her lips… and her eyes glossed over.

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⠀⠀⠀ Waking up alone was horrible enough. Was this the afterlife? Or was she to wait for herself to be reborn. Wincing at the sunlight coming from the open doors of the balcony , Hylia pulled herself out of bed… Her feet touched the cold marble beneath her as she carefully stepped towards the balcony , walking through the opened doors. The light- good spirits, it was bright. Her eyes adjusted and there she saw them… Loftwings flying overhead. She took in a deep breath. A real.. Deep breath. This temporary peace relaxed her shoulders as she gazed down to Skyloft below , along with the Surface… Her thumb brushed against the gold band as a sad smile tugged at her lips... Death is peaceful… but she knew being reborn was going to be hell all over again, only this time; she’s alone.

#legend of zelda #goddess hylia #princess zelda #ganondorf #link the hero #loz #loz oot #loz fanart #loz botw #loz twilight princess #zelda #loz zelda #loz hylia #writing #oneshot #novella #i’m tired take this

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copias-thrall · 5 years ago

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Now What?

Our heroes thought they smoothed out the bumps to What They Were, but as it turns out, being in a relationship means *gulp* intimacy …

(Part 1; Part 2; Interlude 0)

You lean into the mirror—creating your favored doll eye—as the tinny noise of your Bitches Night Out playlist sounds from your phone. You and Mary are going out for some beers at O’Reilly’s since both of you have the night free and nothing to do the next day. Mary sits on the toilet seat going through your makeup bag. Every so often, he takes an item out, opens it, and does a smudge on the back of his hand.

You tsk at yourself when your hand wobbles and you fuck up a line. Mary looks up at you—then his eyes travel down to your derrière. You’re wearing your denim mini over thigh-length lace leggings, and it’s struggling to cover your ample ass, bent over as you are.

*public sex; dirty talk; brief homophobic language; consensual degradation; mentions of past emotional manipulation*

“Eyes up top, mister,” you say as you lick your finger to erase the wiggly bit under your eye. You already had to institute a “no-touching” rule, otherwise the two of you would never make it out of here. Mary loves the feel of you unrestricted though cotton—his band tees, hoodies, loungewear—and on any given night his roving hands are apt to start something. But you dressed up in what he calls your “fancy shit” seems to incite his lust on a very different level—so you wouldn’t put it past his roving eyes to spark something as well.

“You’re so hot when you want to be,” he says

You turn on the faucet to wet your hand, then flick it in Mary’s face. He sputters and ducks before he remembers he doesn’t care. He’s not in his stage cake, but he still wears a light dusting of white face powder and his skull accents. Instead of the blood dripping down his whole face, he has it tipping his forelock.

He grumps at you, but you just cackle. “I swear you’re half cat.”

“Whatever. Are you almost done? We’re gonna miss $5 Buds.”

“Yeah,” you say as you turn your head to-and-fro to assess the symmetry. “Just gotta put my lips on.” You hold out your hand for your makeup bag, but Mary hands you the burgundy tube.

“This one.”

“Mmm, isn’t this a little 90′s?”

His eyes sweep over you again and his hand indicates the NIN’s Downward Spiral shirt you’re wearing that you altered to tie in front.

“Aren’t you a little 90′s?”

“Point.” You take the tube and apply a dab on the center of each lip. Then you smear the color to each side with your finger. Through the mirror, your eyes linger on Mary’s plump lips filled in with a dull red instead of his usual black.

“Fuck, I’d kill for your lips.”

He mashes them together. “Is that why you’re always trying to bite them off?”

It’s true: you tend to fixate wholly on his lips sometimes when you’re making out. You give an exaggerated, dreamy sigh.

“They’re just so nice. Full, plump, well defined …”

“Weirdo.”

You shuffle over toward him and straddle his lap. Thumbing his bottom lip, you say, “I don’t usually hear you complaining.”

Mary leans back into the tank, his arms draping over it casually. “You’re breaking your own rule.”

Leaning in close you say, “I said you weren’t allowed to touch me.”

You slide a hand under his t-shirt—the skin of his torso warm and smooth—and tilt your head as if to kiss him. His eyes flutter shut, and that’s when you tilt your head back up.

“Hey, can we play?”

Mary’s eyes snap back open, and he lets out a sigh of exasperation.

“You’re a fucking tease, you know that?”

You grab his jaw.

“Can. We. Play.”

His eyes cast down.

“I don’t know, Suey. I really don’t feel like spending the whole night wondering if my dick’s gonna explode.”

You pat his cheek. “That’s ok, Mare Bear. Thank you for telling me.”

He turns to nip at your palm. “Some other night, k?”

You lean back in and actually kiss him—a short and sweet thing.

“I was thinking about something else, anyway.” You thumb his lip again. “Wanna see your lips all full and puffy. Wanna paint them with my lip gloss—have you wear it all night.”

“Is that … it?”

“Well—you can’t wipe it off, and if it gets smudged, I reapply.”

“And what do I get?” he asks as he gives a small roll of his hips. “Thought I was gonna get lucky later anyway.”

You straighten up. “What you’ll get is knowing that you’re my very good boy and that you have pleased me very much.” You smooth at a blackened eyebrow of his. “Don’t you like it when you’ve followed the rules and done a good job?”

Mary’s eyes are round and his pupils dilated. “Yeah. Yeah, ok.”

“Mmm,” you hum as you lightly sweep your hand over his stiff hair. “So good already. What a good job you’ve done keeping your hands to yourself.”

His eyes shine, and he says, “It’s easy being good for you.”

Mary and his inexplicable softness.

“Yeah, well. Let’s get that lipstick on you.”

After gently wiping off his matte with a square of toilet paper, you rummage through your makeup bag for the ridiculous gloss you got as a sample with the purchase of something or other. It’s wet and shiny with a glittery sheen to it—and some kind of chemical that supposedly plumps your lips. The first and only time you’d worn it, your friend told you that it made your mouth look like a wet vagina. It makes Mary’s lips look like a delicacy you want to consume as an entrée at a ridiculously expensive French restaurant. With a white wine pairing or some shit.

He rubs them together experimentally. “Sticky.”

“Yeah, it’s not the kiss-proof kind, so don’t wipe at it.”

You admire you work for another beat, then have an idea.

“Wait—hold on …”

You reach for your phone, then start poking through the apps. He’s assessing his lips in one of your small compacts when you finally have your camera app ready.

“Uh …” he says.

“You have your porn, I have mine.”

“Whatever. I’m pretty sure my cum lips look better.”

You don’t really notice anyone on the street that looks twice at Mary—but then again, he’s in full demonsona, and most passersby try not to look directly at him. (Apparently he gets fewer freakouts when you’re on his arm, but that’s just because they don’t know I’m the one keeping you in line, Suey.)

It’s embarrassing the amount of ownership you feel over Mary when the two of you go anywhere—like he’s a feather in your cap and not your autonomous boyfriend. But there’s just something about having this dramatic boy—in his makeup and leather jacket—on your arm and deferring to you that makes you feel powerful. It doesn’t help that he enjoys playing the part of your attack dog, happy to wait patiently until you tap him in—but a lurking, menacing presence all the same.

Of course, O’Reilly’s is really Mary’s bar—a place he and his bandmates have been frequenting for years (even if it’s a place you’ve been known to hit up on a bar crawl or for late-night eats)—so the staff and regulars obviously don’t buy the dark & mysterious routine from a dude who once sang “Paradise City” shitfaced while trying to Coyote Ugly on the bar. It doesn’t stop them from acting like you have some sort of … control over him—which, ok: you do—now that’s it clear you’re pretty solidly in the picture.

The barstaurant is what Mary calls a “Pop” dive bar. It’s dim enough and cheap enough to attract the college kids and the punks, but it’s clean and serves decent food all night so that the yuppies flock there too. The regulars don’t think too much of the dynamic (and Mary’s known to get into drinking games with the finance guys), but that doesn’t mean there aren’t … clashes. The bouncers visibly eye roll with their entire bodies whenever they see Mary in line.

“Goore. It amazes me you haven’t been banned yet,” says ‘Bruiser’ (what Mary affectionately calls him—his real name is Rodney or something) as he haphazardly marks at X on the back of Mary’s hand.

“I’m pretty sure that’s because my friends and I single handedly keep this place afloat when there’s not a game.”

When you thrust out your hand, Bruiser hums at you, like you’re guilty by association (not that he’s wrong), and swipes at your hand too.

“You should be keeping him in line.”

You give him a wolfish smile. “Where’s the fun in that for me?”

Bruiser rubs his eyes.

“Just … try to stay out of trouble?”

Mary slings his arm heavily across your shoulders as you enter the bar, set upon his own claim. It’s not so much about keeping guys from approaching you (“I mean, they can try. It funny watching you turn them down.”) than it is a warning that anyone who starts shit with you will finish it with him (“Or maybe I just want to show off the pretty piece on my arm—ow, fuck”).

As the two of you make your way to the bar, a few people call out, and Mary tilts his head at them. “Thursday is the new Friday” is apparently in full swing here. It’s crowded enough that you two have to squeeze into an opening at the bar, but not so much that you can’t carve out a space for yourselves.

You order the two of you a round of shots and a lite beer as a chaser. Mary knocks the whiskey back like it’s sugar water while you push through the burn. You immediately take a swig of the beer; some of it dribbles down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. Mary tracks your movement.

“Oh—you want some?” you say licking your lips.

“Yeah.”

You crook your finger at him, and he leans down.

“Open.”

His glossy lips part, eyes fixed on yours. You bring up the beer bottle and carefully tip it into his mouth. He closes his lips around the mouth of it as you pour, but easily lets go when you incrementally pull it away. Some of the gloss comes away with it, so you tell Mary to hold up. You dig into your bra to produce the tube of gloss, then reapply to his lips.

“Disgusting,” comes a voice that startles the both of you out of your bubble. You turn to see a neckbeard in a hoodie scowling at the two of you. “You really going to let your bitch put that shit on you?”

Mary’s face darkens, and he straightens to much taller than his height.

“The fuck you just say?”

Mary lets a lot go—he’s a skinny goth boy who wears horrorface—but he hates it when men talk shit to you. Things that don’t even penetrate you seem to make his blood boil (“How can you not know this is just a thing?” “I did, I just … didn’t know how often it was a thing.”).

“You really gonna let some bitch dress you like a faggot?”

Mary tenses at the same time as you spit, “I’m sorry about your small penis.”

Neckbeard sputters at you, and Mary steps in front of you.

“Call my girl a bitch again and I’ll tear the veins out of your neck.”

“Fucking snowflake faggot, like you could.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“You’re ok with looking like a fairy?”

“The fae are fearsome creatures, so yeah.”

“Don’t be a fucking smartass, freak. You know what I meant”

“If you mean the colloquial meaning of ‘gay man’, then yeah—I am.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

“I’ve found sex with men quite pleasant.”

“What the fuck, dude,” says Neckbeard, recoiling.

Out of nowhere, Bruiser materializes.

“Problem?”

At the same time as Neckbeard says Not at all, Mary is gearing up.

“Yeah. He’s harassing Suey and spouting homophobic language.”

Bruiser is—as it happens—a gay man, and his face darkens.

“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t tolerate that kind of hate speech here.”

“Don’t tell me they got you toeing the party line?”

“Management reserves the right to remove any patrons they feel contribute to an unsafe environment.”

Neckbeard sputters. “Y-you will let this, this freak stay here, and kick out a red-blooded man?”

“He’s a pain in the ass, but hardly a public menace.”

“I’m touched, Bruiser.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d like to speak to the manager. I want him to know what kind of Yelp review I’m going to leave.”

“Of course, sir. This way …”

Bruiser leads Neckbeard away. Mary gives him a thumbs up, but Bruiser just glowers at him.

You consider Mary.

“You like to fuck men?”

Mary looks at you, brows furrowed. “Well, yeah. I’m in a punk band.”

You squint at him. “What does that have to do …”

His features school. “You … you do know that we’ve all fucked each other?”

Oh.

You didn’t.

“That—that makes a lot more sense.”

No wonder his bandmates resent you. You took Mary from them.

“Is … that a problem?” says Mary, his face impassive.

“No,” you say quickly. “I just—didn’t know. I’ve never seen you make googly eyes at a dude.”

He crowds into your space, placing his hands on your waist.

“I don’t make eyes at anyone’s who’s not you.”

You burst out into laughing that turns into stifled giggles.

Mary scowls at you. “Don’t be a bitch. I’m being sincere.”

“No, it’s just … Mare—you’re the biggest flirt whoever made his family ridiculous. No, don’t shake your head at me—you are. I’m not the jealous type, but that doesn’t mean I don’t watch you play up your Evil Lothario persona when it suits you.”

He grumbles non-verbally at you, then deflects.

“Don’t you fuck women?”

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “Um. No? Not really.”

He tilts his head at you. “Not really?”

You shrug. “I mean, college … but no. I’m not sexually attracted to women.”

“Well, damn,” he says as he runs his hand through your hair. “I guess there goes all my hopes of a threesome.”

You smirk at him. “Does it?”

He stills when he gets your meaning.

“What?” you ask.

“I … I can’t tell if I hate that idea or not.”

“A devil’s threesome?”

Mary shudders. “I’m equal parts repulsed and turned on by that.”

You lean away from him. “Ok, wait. You have orgies with your band, but you’re stymied by a threesome with another dude?”

“I’m gonna sound like an asshole, but it’s different with a random groupie.”

“How so?”

His eyebrows twist.

“That was just fun. I never cared for them. Not like …”

He runs a finger lightly down your face, and you shy away from it.

“Gross.”

Mary narrows his eyes at you, then grabs you by the hips to pull you into him.

“But: I’ll admit that the idea of watching some dick that’s not mine fuck you is … appealing.”

You feel the growing bulge in his jeans. He leans down to murmur into your ear.

“Fucking into your pussy, like he has the right.”

He hikes your one leg over his hip and presses his erection into your crotch. You make a pleased noise.

“Watching your face contort with the pleasure he gives you. Watching you moan as he makes you cum.”

He ruts into you, and you wonder if he can feel your growing wetness. He presses his nose into your neck.

“Fuck. That makes you hot, too. I can smell you.”

“Fuck, Mary.”

“God, what a little cock slut you’d be. Could I punish you after?”

You’re throbbing now between your legs, and you let out a soft moan.

“Yeah, you’d like that. Being punished for fucking a cock that wasn’t mine.”

You grind into him, and he slips a thigh further in between your legs, resting his foot on the rail under the bar. Immediately you grasp at him as you rock yourself back and forth on his thigh in little movements.

“How would you like to be punished? Should I take you over my knee?”

A thrill runs through you, and your back arches as you let out an Uhhn.

“Yeah,” Mary rumbles. “Take you over my knee and make sure to cherry that ass of yours.”

He reaches his hand around to press at you from behind, and the feeling goes straight to your clit. Your head lolls as your eye roll back. You’re sure some of the people in the crowd must be aware of what’s happening, but right now all thought is between your legs.

They’re welcome.

“Would you fuck me?” you breathe.

Mary growls. “Of course I’d fuck you. Gotta make you remember why you like my cock best. But only after I spanked you red. I’d want you to feel the sting every time I fucked into you.”

You rock hard into Mary’s thigh, and he pulsates the fingers pressing into you, ratcheting up your arousal.

“Oh god, Mary.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Cry out my name. You know who owns your pleasure.”

You’re riding his thigh hard, your movements no longer discreet. You know Mary’s hard, but he’s just looking down at you with hooded, intense eyes as his clever fingers manipulate you. You rub your clit forward into his thigh, then rock back onto his fingers—your hips circling sinuously. You’re terribly close to climaxing if you could just …. You grip hard at his arms as you speed up.

“Fuck, I want it. I want to cum.”

Mary’s other hand grips you harder, and he leans in so close you can feel his lips on the shell of your ear.

“I’d fuck your cunt hard to wipe away the feel of that other dick. Fill you up with my cum so you’d smell like me. I’d hold you down so I could cum into you again and again. Make you my cum dumpster. Would you like that? To have my jizz dripping down your thighs? So that everyone knew who you belonged to.”

“I’m such a slut! I don’t deserve it!” you gasp, your movements now jerky as you chase your orgasm.

“No you don’t,” he growls. “You’re so lucky to have my dick in you. If I could, I‘d always have you on my dick. That’s all you’re good for. Milking my cock. A fucking warm body. And you can’t even do that right. I should let that other dick have you, you worthless—”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you cry out as the throb between your thighs crests, hovers, then pulsates through your cunt from front to back. You press down hard into Mary’s leg as your pussy spasms, mouth open and drooling.

“Yeah, that’s it. There you go. Ride it out.” He pets at your hair.

Once you’re done, you slump forward into his shoulder, panting, and Mary wraps an arm around your waist. He extracts his hand from under you and brings it to his face. He closes his eyes as he brings his fingers to his nose and inhales. Then he slides them down over his lips and tongue.

A throat clears.

Mary jerks around as you sluggishly raise your head. Bruiser is standing behind you two, eyebrows raised.

“You two are fucking nasty, you know that?

You just press further into Mary—mashing your face into his chest—not up to confrontation so soon after your orgasm.

“You think this is Amsterdam or some shit? Uh-huh. You need to get your asses out of here.”

You feel Mary shrug at him.

“What’s a guy to do when his girl’s this hot?”

“All right, love birds. C’mon.”

Mary grumpily readjusts himself as you ooze down to gather your things. Bruiser escorts you both out the back door and shakes his head, laughing, as he closes the door in your faces.

You press Mary into the alley wall and rub your tits on him.

“I thank you for the use of your shapely thigh, good sir,” you all but slur as you look up at him with a happy smile.

He licks his lips. “I can think of a better way to thank me.” He grabs your hand and guides it to the bulge in his jeans. You give it a squeeze and Mary growls in response.

“I swear to god if you’re going to tease me—”

“I’m not,” you say as you pet his dick, “but not right here. C’mere …”

You grab his hand, yanking him as he stumbles behind you. You lead him down another side alley and into an overflow backlot. A quick assessment has you saying Over there as you lead him to a walled corner with an SUV parked adjacently. He lets you maneuver him in between the car and the brick wall, his eyes predatory. You push him up against the wall with both hands, and he bounces a little; you press the line of your body into him and let your hands wander slowly down the plane of his torso.

You’re looking up at him, gaze full of intent, as your fingertips slip under the waistband of his jeans. His stomach contract as he inhales sharply. You’re just grazing the tip of his cock when Mary’s hand shoots up to your head.

“I want your mouth,” he rumbles as he applies a gentle pressure to your crown

You grin up at him as you sink down to a squat. “You have been a good boy.”

He lets out a Fuck and tips his head back into the wall. You reach up for his belt, but his fingers reach it first. “Put the lip gloss on, I want to see how it looks stretched around my cock.”

Mary fumbles with getting out his cock as you dig the gloss out of your bra. You hastily swipe the wand across your lips before shoving it back into your cleavage. Mary’s holding his dick at the base—it’s flushed and the tip is shiny with precum—but with his other hand he chucks you under the chin.

“You’re beautiful you know that.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re only saying that because I’m about to suck your cock.”

His grip tightens on your chin.

“And I’m going to ruin that pretty little face of yours.”

Then he pushes his dick into your mouth whether you’re ready or not—his hand slipping to the back of your head to keep you in place. Your own hand reaches out to steady yourself on his leg as he holds you like that. He lets out a sigh of relief, then his hand is gone.

“I want to watch you,” he says.

So you bob forward down the length of his shaft, then back up, trying to get him as wet as possible with your spit. You curl your free hand around the base to use in tandem with your mouth. When you reach his cockhead, you close your eyes as you suckle at it, twisting your lips around it as you tongue at his sweet spot.

“Yeah. Yeah, just like that. Fuck.”

You remove it from your mouth so you can tap the tip on your tongue. Mary lets out a breathy grunt, and you run your tongue around the ridge before lapping around his cockhead a few times.

“Uhn, yeah.”

You suck it down to the hilt in one swallow, and Mary gasps, his hand slamming into the wall. You deep throat him for a bob or two, then pull off with a sucking sound so you can take a breath, making sure to keep jacking him with your hand.

Mary lets out a half whine.

After repeating that combo a few times, you settle in to work at sucking him off for really reals. It’s a good thing it’s a tight fight in the corner, since you’re able to use the car to help redistribute your weight—you probably can’t squat for long.

Mary’s earlier guttural noises have turned into something high and breathy. If you could spare a hand, you could probably cum again just from the noises he’s making.

There’s a tense moment when you hear footsteps in the gravel and you freeze, Mary letting out a soft moan of frustration and his cock throbbing against your tongue. But then the steps get closer, and you feel him tense. He puts a hand on the side of your head—whether to shield you from view or keep you from popping off, who’s to say?

The sound finally does round the corner of the car, and your hand tightens on Mary’s thigh. He feels like a coiled spring. There's a clink of a belt that cuts off suddenly.

“Whoops … sorry,” slurs a male voice.

Then a pause.

“Girl, you ok?”

Mouth still full of Mary’s dick, you give a thumb’s up in the voice’s direction with the hand not occupied.

“Ah. Have fun.”

Then the footsteps stumble and recede, and you do pull off his dick. Mary spits out a Fuck and slams a fist into the wall.

“Stupid fucking drunk. I was enjoying that,” he says looking down at you.

You’re feeling the burn in your leg muscles, which are starting to tremble.

“Wait—just let me …” you say as you try to shift around to a better position. You’re about to fold your knees under you when Mary says, “Wait. The gravel.”

He shrugs out of his leather jacket and hands it down to you. You lay it down in front of you before kneeling on it.

“Why, Goore—you’re such a gentleman.”

His hand is behind your head again, tangling into your hair. “Shut up and suck my cock.”

You acquiesce, sinking back down and getting right to it. He’s by no means soft, but he’s not as hard as he was before the unfortunate interlude, so you deep throat him a couple times to coax the blood back in.

“Hhhghh, how are you so good at that.”

You hollow your cheeks for a long suck.

“Fuck.”

You start bobbing on him again when he says, “Look up at me.” You flick your eyes to him. “Yeah, just like that. Keep your eyes on me.” His own eyes are glazed and his mouth is parted. “Yeah, keep going. Faster.”

Speeding up, you try to keep the hand at his base in time with your mouth.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

You bob faster on his cock, and you see Mary’s body tense, then release.

Tense.

Release.

He swallows audibly, the telltale stiffening obvious against your tongue, then he breathes out: “Keepyouhandgoing.” The grip in your hair tightens, and then he yanks you off his dick.

Your pace slightly stutters, but then you start jacking him as fast as you can as you squeeze your eyes shut. Almost immediately you’re hit in the face with the splash of his cum, and Mary makes this soft-moan thing in the back of his throat. He must really have been worked up, because he splatters across your face again and again. And again.

You ease up with your hand only when you hear him whine, but he just pushes your head forward as he presses back into your mouth, making a pleased rumble as he rubs against your tongue. He rocks into your mouth a little bit, and then the hold in your hair disappears and he withdrawals from your mouth. You feel him lean away from you and into the wall.

“Oh wow. Fuck,” he says laughing, then lets out a pleased hum.

You’re still kneeling on the ground, eyes closed and arms out for balance.

“Mare?”

“What? Oh—yeah, fuck. Hold on.”

There’s a rustling of clothes and a zipper, and then you sense him getting on his knees in front of you. He chuckles.

“Wow—I really got you everywhere.”

“Mary.”

“All right, all right,” he says still chuckling. “Um … ok.”

You feel what can only be his t-shirt wiping at your face. And your ear. And under your chin. And at your hair.

“Just a few more …” he says as you feel him wipe at your eyes with his thumb. “Ok … you’re a little smudgy, but—ok.”

When you open your eyes, he’s right in your face.

“You’re right—that lipstick is amazing,” he says, and then he kisses you hard and rough with an open mouth, his tongue going straight for your tonsils.

Despite being crunched between a car and a brick wall with the sharp gravel digging into your legs, you and Mary makeout sloppily with too much tongue and a lot of spit. His hands have found your face again and yours are braced on his chest.

The sudden noise of a car starting up and echoing off the wall has you both breaking apart.

“We should go,” you say.

“You think.”

It’s a little awkward to navigate in the cramped space, but you help each other up, your legs wobbling a bit. You hand Mary back his jacket, and he brushes off the detritus before donning it again. You notice that he keeps pulling the bottom of his shirt away from his stomach, and you laugh.

“Oh no! That can’t be comfortable.”

“It’s fine. It’s only cold and wet. And sticky.”

You hold out your arms to him, and he perks up. When he’s in your arms, you make sure to rub and smush his shirt into his stomach.

“Oh my god you’re such a bitch.”

“I’m helping!”

“How is that helping?”

“It’s just like acclimating to the ocean—you just got to dunk under in one go,” you chirp at him.

“Next time I’m just gonna leave you looking like a bad bukkake.”

At some point Mary started rocking the two of you, and you squirm until he finally lets go. He sighs.

“All right. Let’s get you home.”

He puts his hands in his pockets and starts striding out of the parking lot. You skip after him and thread your arm through his.

“Really? The night’s still young!”

He gives you an incredulous look.

“Suey, you look like you just got face fucked in a parking lot.” He gives you an appraising look. “Actually, that’s kinda hot. On second thought, let’s go to Sixes & Sevens—”

“Where?”

“Mickey’s place. I have no problem with everyone knowing whose dick you just sucked. I’ll make them smell my fingers too.”

“Pig.”

“Hmm, maybe I should reup.”

He pushes you against a wall and puts his hand between your legs. His face contorts into a look of surprise.

“Fuck, you’re wet. Like … really wet.”

“Well, what did you think—”

“Fuck, are you still …”

Suddenly he’s pushing up your skirt and diving his hand into your panties. You gasp Oh my god when his finger slip-slides over your clit.

“How are you still so wet?”

You give him a sultry look.

“You know sucking your cock does it for me.”

He’s still fingering you, leaning into your space, when he says, “Maybe we should get a cab. I could be fucking you in 10 minutes. No drunks looking for a place to piss.”

With his clever fingers manipulating you, you have to admit the prospect is appealing. But …

“No,” you purr at him. “You’re going to get me off right now because it pleases me. Then we’re going to go get a little sloppy, and if you can keep your hands to yourself, you can fuck me that way you like when we get back to my place.”

Mary presses into you like it’s a reflex.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then it’s you and your hand, mister.”

His fingers go to work at you. They’re sloppy, artless—unlike his usual careful manipulation—but you’re already halfway there from the blow job and that, combined with him sucking bruises into your neck, has you mewling and pushing at him in no time. The pad of a finger suddenly presses hard onto your clit, and you make a wounded noise. It doesn’t leave, and you feel the direct pressure keenly. You start twitching and letting out small noises.

“Oh oh oh … Mary—oh god … Mary …”

He turns his head to kiss at the hinge of his jaw, but his finger just. Stays.

The pressure is all at once Way to Much and Not Enough, and you’re thrashing you head back and forth.

“Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary …”

You’re asking for mercy, but he’s granting you no clemency.

It’s a slow build to your orgasm, but you feel every second of it intensely. Your head tips back, and your nails scrabble at the wall as you moan Oh oh oh oh in time to the pulsating of your clit. You’re making these embarrassing high-pitched wounded noises as the throb between your legs worsens.

When you finally cum, it’s almost painful, and you grapple at Mary’s arms, sinking your nails into him. Your screams bounce off the walls around the two of you, and Mary covers your mouth with his to muffle you. You’re dimly aware that you just squirted everywhere, soaking your leggings, the fluid dripping down your legs.

You jerk when Mary runs a gentle circle around your over sensitive nub, and he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you into him.

“I made a mess,” you say as Mary withdraws his hand. You meant for it to be funny, but once it comes out, it sounds small and your voice wavers.

Mary wipes his hand off on his jeans and brings his other arm around you.

“I guess we’re matched now—both covered in sex juice.”

The wetness on your legs is beginning to cool, and the droplets are beginning to settle into your socks. Suddenly the thought of going anywhere else other than home is unappealing. Cleaning some semen off your face in a bar bathroom is much different than dealing with soaked bottoms all night. You push away from him.

“You did that on purpose!” you say as you tug on your damp leggings.

“I—what?”

“If you really didn’t want to go back out, you just could have said!”

Mary’s looking at you helplessly.

“You asked me to get you off …”

“I can’t go anywhere like this, Mary!”

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Are you really fucking mad at me because I made you cum too hard?”

“You knew what would happen!”

“Jesus fucking christ. There’s never any winning with you sometimes.”

You turn and start walking away.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Yeah? You gonna walk the whole way?”

“Yep.” Maybe taking off your leggings will help. Except then your ass will be hanging out.

“Suey … that’s an hour’s walk. Let’s get a cab, ok?”

You spin on your heel.

“I’m all wet, Mary! I can’t sit in a cab. I’m disgusting.”

You turn back around and continue walking. After a bit, Mary catches up with you.

“Let’s get a cab, you can sit on my jacket.”

You look at him. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well I’m … it’s …” you sputter.

“It was really hot. Fuck, I think I almost came in my pants.”

“But—”

“So I literally don’t give a fuck if you sit on my jacket.”

You don’t say anything, but you don’t fight him either.

“Look, we’ll get a cab; you can change; and we can go to the bar down the street from you. Ok?”

You stop and look at him.

“Ok.”

He looks at you, then rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

“You’re a fucking pain in my ass, you know that?” He bundles you into an embrace. “I don’t know why I keep you around.”

You let him enfold you in his arms, but don’t hug him back.

“Probably the blow jobs,” you say into his chest.

He cradles the back of your head and you feel him smell your hair.

“Definitely one of the top 3 reasons.”

The two of you get a cab and—true to his word—Mary lays out his leather jacket for you to sit on. When you get back to your apartment, you make a beeline for your shower. You strip down to everything but your panties and leggings—those you’ll shower in.

The shower is amazing, and you relish in washing the night off your body. When you’re done, you hang the wet garments over the shower rod and wrap yourself in your robe.

You find Mary conked out on top of your covers in just his boxer briefs. One of his hands is on his chest and the other is sprawled across your bed; his mouth is open and there’s a little drool in one of the corners. You climb onto the bed and lie on top of him

“Huh, wha?” says Mary as he startles awake.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

A hand rests on your back.

“Wasn’t sleeping.”

“Mmhm.”

“Just resting my eyes.”

“Mmm.”

He rubs your back a little before saying, “Should we get moving?”

“Can we just stay like this?”

A pause.

“Sure.”

You lay like that for awhile, feeling Mary’s chest rise and fall under you.

“M’sorry,” you mumble.

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry I was such a bitch.”

“Yeah. I didn’t like that.”

You consider for a moment before saying, “My parents used to pull that shit on me.”

He breathes in. He breathes out.

“Which?”

“They’d—they’d give me permission to do something or whatever, and then they’d manipulate it so they got what they wanted anyway. Um, like one time I wanted to go to this concert? And they said I could if xyz, you know? I got the ticket and everything. All my friends were going. We had all these plans. And then like. The night before, my parents held up my English class roster. I had this paper due the next week and they asked me to show them my research notes. Obviously I didn’t have any research notes because I’d planned to spend that Sunday at the library. So they revoked their permission. Said I promised this concert wouldn’t interfere with my schoolwork, and obviously I hadn’t kept that promise. All my friends went to the concert that Friday and my parents drove me to the library. Said it was a lesson in responsibility.

“That’s just the one that really made me realize how fucked up they were. I know it sounds stupid—boo-hoo I missed a concert, but it's really the thousand little paper cuts like that. It’s about how stressful it was never knowing what I was actually allowed to do, and what was fake. Having to always go the extra mile and second guess myself. To do everything right and get tripped up on a technicality.

“One time I saved up to buy this dress to one of the proms I’d been asked to? And they knew that. They praised me for being fiscally responsible. I kept my grades up. I stayed on top of all my assignments and made sure all my chores were done. They helped me with a deposit to the group limo. And then a week before—you know, I didn’t even remember what bullshit reason they found. But they found something. And it’s like they knew I was going to go anyway, so they returned my dress and drove us out to grandma’s for the weekend.

“It kinda beat me into submission, you know? I just. Stopped doing things. Like, what was the point, right? The dance? The new movie? Game night? They always found a reason. And my friends? Just stopped inviting me out to things. They said my parents would just find a reason to block me anyway and that they were tired of working around it.

“So, I dunno. Tonight? It felt a little like that. Like you’d wanted to call it a night, and when I didn’t want to, you found a way to get what you wanted while pretending to give me what I wanted.”

Mary lightly scratches down your back through your robe.

“That sounds really fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

“Are they …?”

“They disowned me.”

Mary lifts his head.

“What? Why?”

“I—not tonight, ok?”

“K.”

The two of you lay like that, unspeaking, for a while. After a while you become aware of Mary’s hardness under you.

“Did you want to fuck?”

His hand stills.

“What?”

You squirm a little.

“I can feel you.”

“Suey. You’re laying on top of me. What did you expect? But no: I don’t want to fuck.”

“Are you sure?”

“This is kind of nice, actually. As it is.”

“Gross, but ok.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Whatever.”

Mary maneuvers his head until his mouth meets yours. He starts with your lips, then moves onto slipping you some tongue. You meet his kiss, gently tangling your tongue with his. He runs his hand through your hair, then rolls you onto your sides. His thigh slips between yours, but he doesn’t grind against you or anything. Still—his dick hasn’t seemed to get the memo. You slip your hand down to cup him, but May flinches and catches up your hand.

“Hey. I said it’s fine.”

“But you’re—”

“I said, no.”

You bury your head in his neck.

“Ok. But … do you really not want to, or is it something else?”

“Why do you think I’m some sexbot?

You bring your face to Mary’s and squish his between your hands.

“I don’t think that, Mary. It just seemed like—I dunno—you were falling on your sword or something.”

“Fuck, Suey. I don’t expect you to understand. You always seem ready to go. Like we could be having the worst fight, but if I took my dick out, you’d still drop to your knees and suck it.”

You flush at being read.

“But I don’t—I know my dick thinks it’s gonna get lucky because you’re so close, but I’m just not in the mood. If you want an orgasm, I’m happy to give you one—I’m always happy to make you cum—but I’d rather not myself, ok?”

You kiss his nose. “Ok, Mare Bear. But if you change your mind …”

“Noted.”

The two of you make out lazily. Mary’s hands slip into your robe and roam all over your body—a light caress here and a grabby handful there—but you keep yours at his face and in his hair. Soon, he has his face in your neck and his one hand is kneading at your breasts. Because he’s pressed close to you, you can feel the throb of his cock. His finger sweeps over a hardened nipple, and you moan at the sensation. Mary ruts into you, then whines.

You pet his head. “It’s ok, Mare. You can fuck me.”

“But I don’t want to want to fuck you. I should be fucking able to just lie here with you without fucking wanting it.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Ok, but if I want it and you want it …?”

He tilts his head back. “Christ, you’re frustrating. Look—you were kinda right earlier. You wanted to go out, and instead it became all about where we could fuck. Is that all? Are we just strung together by times we’ve fucked and times we could be fucking?”

You consider his words.

“I don’t have many relationships, Mary. They kind of seem like a waste of time? And if I get horny, there’s always a bar full of guys to fuck. But, I dunno. You’re different. You don’t want things from me. I feel like I can just … exist with you.”

“I want a lot of things from you.”

You huff.

“You don’t want idealized things from me. I don’t know where you’ve gotten this idea that the only thing we’ve got in common is our genitals.”

“Don’t say genitals.”

“Our nethers.” Mary groans. “But I feel like in a pie chart of my life, there’s a big slice devoted to Mary Rants. About capitalism, about the patriarchy, about gender construct, about slow walkers—”

“Who are these people who have nowhere to go?!”

“—and another devoted to the plotline of the WWE wrestlers.”

“I won’t apologize for that. It’s dramatic as fuck AND there’s head bashing. Everyone who disses it is missing out on some serious soapy shit.”

“Such on brand Mary.”

He grumbles.

“Fine, ok. But—you’re like this vault, and I only have a lock pick.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.” He presses an index finger to your forehead. “I know there’s gold in there. But I can’t get at it.”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m ruminating,” you say.

“You and your 10¢ words.”

“I won’t apologize for my vocabulary.”

Mary pecks your lips. “Wasn’t asking you to.”

You sigh and snuggle—yes, ok snuggle—into him.

“I guess I take too much pride in being independent. And, I mean … I think we work because we’re both independent people looking for—I dunno—a partner to come home to, not someone who follows you around. But—I’ll try, Mary. To, I dunno—hand the gold bars out through a slot or whatever … it’s your stupid metaphor.”

“It’s a start.”

You blow a raspberry at him, and he retaliates by gently biting your tongue. When you squeal in consternation, he just sucks it into his mouth. You try to push away from him, but he just rolls on top of you and begins to blow raspberries into your neck

“How do you like it?” Thhpbt “How do you like it now?” Thhpbt “You think that shit is funny?” Thhpbt

You’re laughing and trying to push him off you, but he has you thoroughly pinned.

“Wait—no! Stop!” you beg in between giggles.

He buries his face between your tits and gives you the biggest one yet.

“I will fucking murder your face, Mary Goore!”

He looks up at you, eyes glinting boyishly. “You’d have to get free first.”

You start kicking with your legs, and he tries to keep you pinned—but you bring your knee up, and he flinches away preemptively.

“Don’t play dirty!” he exclaims as you take your advantage to roll back on top of him.

You lick his face and try not to cringe from the awful taste of the makeup on it. Mary makes a disgusted noise.

“Did you mean murder my face like a kitten? Seriously, fucking stop.”

Still ignoring the bitter taste of his makeup, you continue to lap at him. He grabs you by the hair and drags your mouth down to his. Him sucking your tongue into his mouth (“Ugh, is that what I taste like?!”) is initially a matter of defense, but it soon turns into a heated kiss. Mary’s gripping your hair and pressing up into you as his tongue pilfers your mouth. He wrenches your head back so he can kiss down your neck.

“What about now?” you gasp. “Can I take your cock now?”

“Ugh,” he huffs into your neck. “I hate it when you win.”

He rolls the two of you back onto your sides, and his hand travels down to your cunt. You’re by no means soaking, but the play fighting and subsequent kissing have made you wet enough. Mary thinks so too, and—after some fumbling with his underwear and your robe—his cock finds your hole and pushes in. He makes a sound of relief, as you gasp, and begins to slowly thrust in and out of you.

The position is a little awkward, even with your leg hoisted over him, and you say, “I can turn around if …?”

But he just draws you closer. “No, this is fine.”

His thrusts are slow and steady, him slowing you down every time you try to pick up the pace.

You whine. “Mare—”

“Shh—it can be good like this.”

He finds your mouth again, his one hand tangled in your hair and the other gripping your ass. You let him slowly fuck into you, your hand snaking down to play with your clit. It takes longer than when the two of you pound frenetically at each other, but soon enough Mary is stuttering and trembling with the need to cum.

“Are you close?” he mouths at you. “I want to cum with you.”

You squirm. “Mary …”

“Please …”

You suck his tongue into your mouth and start tapping quicker on your clit. You dredge up your favorite x-rated fantasy. All you need is …

“Faster—oh please, Mary …” you plead, breaking away from his mouth.

He presses you into him harder as he begins to thrust faster. Your eyes are squeezed shut as you will your orgasm to happen.

“Suey—this pace … I can’t …” whines Mary. He slows down a little, pumping into you with longer, deeper thrusts. You press into your clit, hard, and clench around him, loving the feeling of being filled, of having something pressing back against you.

“Oh my god,” hisses Mary, and then he slams suddenly into you. “Ughn,” he grunts out as he empties into you.

It’s actually enough to push you over, and your eyes roll back as you start to pulsate and spasm with the waves of your orgasm.

“Ah ah ah ah,” you punch out.

And then the two of you are clenching and grinding and grabbing at each other, mouths meeting and then smearing across faces and necks.

When it’s over, your leg is draped and hanging over his hip, his face is mashed into your shoulder, and your arms are wrapped around his head. You are both panting, hearts rabbiting.

“Fuck,” says Mary into your shoulder.

“Double fuck,” you say, and Mary huffs out a laugh. He raises his head to capture your mouth in a lazy kiss.

You’re both sticky with sweat, and it’s a messy business separating. Mary reaches out to you, but you’re already bouncing off the bed.

“No, why?” he whines as he makes grabby hands at you, but you’re already shrugging your robe back on.

“Do we have to go through this every time? I’m going to pee—I’ll be right back.”

You’re on the toilet when Mary wanders in—nude and soft cock bouncing.

“Mary,” you squeal as you cover yourself with your hands.

He squints at you. “What?”

“WHAT IF I WAS TAKING A SHIT?!”

“Are you taking a shit?”

“No, but—”

He turns the sink faucet on. “Then what’s the issue?”

“Fuck, leave some mystery!”

He grabs his Mary-designated washcloth and looks over at you as he runs it under the water.

“I don’t really want ‘the mystery’. I want the real thing.”

Mary begins to wipe in between his legs, and you turn your head away with a disgruntled noise.

“I don’t get what the big fucking deal is. I probably know what your, uh, vagina—”

“You can just say ‘cunt’, jesus christ, this isn’t health class.”

“—your cunt looks like better than you do. I’m up there enough. And earlier tonight you were covered in my jizz.”

“It’s-it’s—I don’t know! Kind of gross?”

“You peeing is grosser than semen?”

You press the palms of your hands into your eyes.

“Yes?”

The faucet shuts off. “Fine. I'll tell you what. You promised to be more open. So you can either finish peeing—don’t deny it I know I interrupted you midstream—

“Christ, Mary—”

“—or you can tell me one personal, intimate thing, and I’ll leave.”

You turn to glare at him. He’s standing with arms akimbo, modesty be damned. You keep his gaze as you unclench and finish peeing. He grins at you—a wide, fearsome thing.

“Ok, ok—get out. That’s all you get tonight, drive through.”

He leans over to kiss your head, and you make a mean lemon face at him.

When you get back into your room, Mary is in a fresh—well different—pair of boxer briefs and is straightening out your sheets. You hang up your robe and shimmy into the old tee of his that you’ve claimed as yours. When he turns and sees you, his eyes linger, but he doesn’t say anything.

You both climb into bed, and you allow him to big spoon you—with the understanding that the second he falls asleep you retain the right to extract yourself from him. He snuffles into your neck and sighs.

After awhile you say, “Sorry that that’s not the way I promised to let you fuck me.”

He huffs into you. “How do you know how I wanted to fuck you?”

"It was implied.”

“You said ‘that way I like’. I like the way we fucked just fine.”

“But I—”

“Hush. Let’s just go the fuck to sleep, ok?”

"Yeah, ok.”

⬅️Previous | Next ➡️

#mary goore #ofc #feral cats fic #ficlet #gritty girls #gutter punk #my writing

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derpcakes · 5 years ago

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So we watched (nay, Experienced) the BBC/Netflix Dracula series

Brought to us by everyone’s favourite team, Steve Moff and Mark Gatiss, promising to be an innovative and exciting new vision of the classic novel

Boy it was definitely something!!!

First I will say: obviously Moff is not my favourite TV writer and my fam and I did go into this with a bias. I’m happy to report, though, that it’s going to be one of these shows that haunts me forever, because if it had just been bad I could have said “bleh” and deleted it from my brain. But because parts of this were genuinely cool, interesting, and fun, and parts of it genuinely had potential, all the bits that were bad stand out as so much worse and the whole thing feels as cursed as a 500 year old undead count.

Things that were enjoyable and well put-together:

Van Helsing has been gender-swapped into a vampire-hunting nun and her cat-and-mouse game with Dracula is rife with belligerent sexual tension. I was ready to hate this, and ready for like, Sherlock and Irene Adler 2.0, but their dynamic was actually pretty fun to watch! Their power balance is kept even throughout most of the show, and Helsing is never struck down because of ~womanly failings~ or infantilised. She’s consistently really clever and, even if there are some cringey one-liners, I found her and Draccy’s playful quest to murder each other one of the most fun parts of the show. It could’ve been better, but it was enjoyable! (I also like how Helsing isn’t Young and Hot, but is a capable older lady, and her actor and Draccy’s even seem about the same age. Amazing)

The second episode is a spooky murder mystery/horror mini-movie on a ship, with a cast full of interesting characters who all had different things going on and different relationship dynamics that were compelling to watch. There’s even an interracial gay couple! And they’re like, written pretty sympathetically and to be layered and flawed in ways that didn’t feel too stereotypical! And they don’t die first!! Wack! I understand the bar is on the ground, but it’s still worth a mention

Some fun with vampire lore: Draccy absorbs knowledge and traits from people he drinks blood from (which is how he learns languages. Get Duolingo, dude, stop eating people), leading to the intriguing suggestion that myths like “vampires will die in sunlight” and “vampires are afraid of holy symbols” have kinda become real to him even if they don’t literally work, because he’s swallowed so many people to whom these superstitions and beliefs were law. I’m sure this isn’t the first time this has been done, but groundbreaking or no it was kinda neat

Things that were not enjoyable and well put-together:

EVERYTHING ELSE

Episode 1: a weird speedrun of most of the original novel, feat. weaponised nuns and a weird fixation on whether or not Jonathan Harker and Draccy boned. They did not. Dracula pops out of the body of a wolf and he’s Whole Ass Naked. Him and Van Helsing have a power play where she stands just on the threshold of a convent and calls him a little bitch, knowing he can’t come and get her. A knife is licked.

Episode 2: aforementioned cool ship horror story. Definitely the best ep. It really makes me think about hbomb’s critique that Moff is pretty good at doing standalone stories (and pilots), but when things are tied into a bigger narrative things get zonkers.

Episode 3: Things Get Zonkers!!

Let me just. Okay. I have the most to say about this one because this is where things really got batshit. And yet, also really boring? How does that figure? Anyway:

Dracula emerges from under the sea and finds that 123 years have passed and he’s now the star of a Modern AU. Upon setting foot on British sand he is immediately accosted by what appears to be an anti-vampire task force. There’s a helicopter. It is later explained how they knew to pounce on him at this exact moment, but holy god it was wild to watch the entire British Secret Service descend on this one wet bastard in a suit

The editing shifts aggressively in the direction of Sherlock. Mark Gattis is there playing an amazingly annoying character. There’s a fuckign.... Underground Secret Society devoted to studying vampires and they put Drac in a Designated Glass Prison for Smug Geniuses (also as seen in Sherlock). Van Helsing is dead but her great-great-grand-niece is played by the same actress and. Okay. Van Helsing, vampire hunting nun, possesses her descendent and rises through the ether to roast Drac one last time, and he’s DELIGHTED TO SEE HER AGAIN.

And she has cancer, right, so her blood is poisonous when Draccy tries to bite her, but in the end, right, the end of the episode, right, the final shots of the show, he comes to a place where he’s willing to die, and she’s already dying, and so he drinks her blood and they die together on a table while cinematic metaphor vision shows them having sex in the middle of the sun

There was a badly CGI-ed vampire baby. Jonathan Harker falls from a tower and a scene later they flash back to this event by reversing the footage of him falling down, meaning we just see him go VWOOP up through the air, bouncing off the wall on the way. Van Helsing says the words “come boy, suckle” when she’s goading Drac into drinking her blood. The show sits in a weird middle ground where the characters talk about sex a lot (”dID yOu HaVe sExUaL iNterCOURSE with COUNT DRACULA?”) and Drac is clearly meant to be super magnetic and sexy but the characterisation and cinematography is not horny at all. People have these sexy-type dreams of their lover of choice when Drac is drinking their blood but even those are very boring and weirdly chaste, except of course for the final one where, if I can take the chance to remind you, Van Helsing and Dracula have symbolic Mind Palace sex inside the centre of the solar system

I can’t speak too much on its quality as an adaptation since I actually haven’t read the book, but splitting the story so that some characters (the Harkers, Van Helsing) existed in the time the story is set, and some (Lucy, Dr Seward) exist in The Modern AU felt very strange. Was there any reason to set the third episode in modern times, apart from the fact that I guess they wanted to do their Sherlock thing again? Or, perhaps, because they wanted to do their Jekyll thing again?? Oh my god, that’s what the editing reminds me of - the small clips of Jekyll I’ve seen. The zooming. The slow-mo. The emphasis on The Monster Man’s weird goddamn teeth

(Also, I don’t really feel qualified to dig too deep into it, but I will say there felt something a bit uncomfortable about Lucy being black in this version, while also being written to be very promiscuous and vain. idk. Also, since it happened in an ep of Sherlock as well, “weedy white Nice Boy rescues the Very Cool woman of colour he has a tragically unrequited crush on” is now an official Moffattis trope)

Count Moffatula is an experience. Its pacing is buck wild. The speeding through the original plot and the mish-mashing of elements in the Modern AU section feels like another expression of contempt for the source material on Moff’s part. Someone says “reality is overrated” in a show set in the 1890s. Draccy quotes a Beatles song. He also makes quippy allusions to having eaten various famous figures and basically winks at the camera every time. Granted, this wasn’t as obnoxious as I was maybe expecting, but there are still too many lines of dialogue where you think “oh, the writers high-fived each other after they wrote that one, huh”. The fact that Moff has such vitriol against fan fic writers is more and more grating every day because this is so, so clearly a zany-ass fanfic that he happens to be getting paid for. The costumes are nowhere near as nice as they could have been, and Dracula’s cape looks like his mum made it for him for the school play in which he is playing Dracula.

This show is So Much. Watch it to share in this fever dream. Or don’t, and save approximately 5 hours of your life. God. 5 hours. Who was I before Count Maffatula. Who am I now. Why was his cape so bloody ugly. Why did they bone in the centre of the sun

#i'm ascending from my body #count moffatula

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auckie · 4 years ago

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💕 tell us about one of your favorite characters and why you like them:

hmmm ok rn, as anyone who follows my blog or fucks with me on discord can tell, I recently rewatched ALL of the lilo and stitch series and movies, even the bad ones (which is most of it if), and I really love pleakley! Mainly bc his cross dressing is played pretty straight. He’s def comic relief and the punchline is sometimes that he’s wearing a dress but usually it’s just a facet of his character that the other characters accept at face value. I love drag a lot, and I love it when cis ppl do it outside of drag settings, bc it sorta eases the harsh line for trans people. Just bc a dude wears makeup doesn’t mean he’s a woman; women=/= being feminine, wearing clothes associated with femininity, etc, and so the fact that he’s just clearly a gay guy who loves dressing like that is great, plus I love his influences (kevin McDonald doing drag in kids in the hall, Klinger from Mash) and a lot of queens he’s influenced (BIANCA DEL RIOOO, fuck ru Paul but he even cites pleakley too LOL). He’s also just stupid and cute and I love the limp wrist house wife trope like Albert in the birdcage.

💔 tell us about one of your LEAST favorite characters and why you dislike them:

Hmm ok, I used to be super into regular show in college. When I was like at my WORST point (skipping class to sleep, ignoring friends, not cleaning or doing work or anything but eating at 3am and walking around campus and tripping) I watched all of regular show and would screen cap really fucked up rigbys and post them on my old blog. I fucking loathe mordecai he’s the worst. He’s such a simp and such a whiny bitch and he has shit taste in everything, like such a great caricature of your typical art school dropout, but that’s all kind of funny and good. What seals the deal for me is that rigby goes through this arc where he sorta starts to get his shit together— like he gets his GED and stops being such a cunt to Eileen bc he realizes he can’t do much better (imo LOL) and mordecais not gonna stop simping for Margaret even when presented with more viable options etc. and he gets pissy about it, like he gets jealous and while it’s resolved within the episode I do think his character kinda regresses from that point. He doesn’t seem to learn anything or mature really. He seems to be sad that he’s not the ‘adult’ one in the dynamic anymore and misses being top dog in an already depressing, lose lose situation. This! Is all my speculation tho, bc the cartoon, while worthwhile imo, is like. Kinda shitty and the writing isn’t that complex plus whenever I would watch it I was just out of my mind regardless so. I think he sucks tho.

💎 are there any fun facts or trivia that you would like to share:

I’m really fucking into swash zone creatures rn. I was literally just at the beach and caught like five fish with my bare hands while swimming. And this isn’t the same kind of things as I listed from before but I looked at the sky and the sun was setting and it was orange. And I remembered: orange sky at night— sailors delight. Orange sky at morn, sailors be warned! And so I swam back to shore and looked it up and it’s TRUE orange skies at night reflect the air quality; the setting sun’s light bounces off water vapor and atmospheric particles so that only the longest of the wavelengths (reds) really makes it through this process— meaning there’s a lot of particles in the air if you see red! At sunset this signals stable air, a high pressure at this time of day is normal and will correlate with pleasant weather typically. Moreover, weather systems generally move westward within the mid latitudes (30-60 degrees, and hence the wind currents being referred to as the westerlies, aka the trade winds) which is important when considering why an orange morning can mean that the weather may turn sour later in the day. The high pressure conditions are already on their way out if a sunrise lights up the sky that much; the air could have a high water particle content to only let through the reds, and so a low pressure system may well be on the way. I took a meteorology class in college it wasn’t a hyper fixation but this was the only thing I could think of that wasn’t related to like production trivia for lilo and stitch or ren and stimpy or kids in the hall or who framed Roger rabbit sorry. But hey now you know.

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its-love-u-asshole · 7 years ago

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Perfectly Aligned [fic]

Pairing: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei

Summary: Kuroo didn’t know how he’d made it back here, standing beneath the glistening war machines known as Jaegers. He was the definite outsider, not just at the Shatterdome, but in this world. The world of Jaeger pilots had long since closed its door on him, and now here he was, knocking once again. However, maybe this time, he wouldn’t be alone.

Rating: T

Tags: Pacific Rim AU, First Meetings

Note: Hello! This is my gift for @holydumpling for the @kurotsukiexchange! I got…kinda carried away with one of your prompts…sorry? LOL I really loved diving into this world of Pacific Rim though, it was a ton of fun, and I hope you enjoy it! <3

AO3

The rain outside battered against the concrete dome mercilessly, each drop a shard of ice crashing onto Earth. Kuroo had been in it only a few hours before, arriving at the base with nothing but his backpack and a reluctant attitude. His coat hadn’t helped him much against the chill, his cheeks turning red, irritated by the frigid winds.

The cold seeped into him, bone deep, making his steps stifling and small, and he heard each one as his shoes crunched against wet asphalt.

Yes, it was all the rain’s fault. That’s what he told himself. He told himself it wasn’t the nerves, nor the hollowness inside him, the one which he knew had been a constant in his life for some time now.

It had been five years since he’d laid eyes on a Jaeger base, and despite himself, the old rush of excitement flitted through his veins at the sight of it. He cursed his own heart for giving into the stirring feelings, but some instincts were hard to crush.

This had once been his home, the place he felt most put together. Doing good for the world, for innocent people, protecting against kaijus…that had been his life.

“I’m meant to be a pilot!” He had said, so confident and sure.

At that, Kuroo chuckled under his breath, devoid of all genuine humor. Yeah, so maybe he’d been walking like a decrepit old man for a while now, lost and without purpose, but at least here, he had something else to blame. Hopefully he didn’t look as pathetic as he felt.

The thoughts slushed around in his brain, eventually drowned by the striking of raindrops as he was rushed inside by the base executives.

Inside, the rain stopped, replaced with a different storm of noises. Rushing footsteps, shouts, conversations, and a whole mess of sounds from the various monitors had Kuroo feeling more awake.

That was both a blessing and a curse.

As soon as Kuroo stepped into the shelter of the Shatterdome, all activity stopped. Every set of eyes targeted him, tracing every movement, as if they could judge his worth instantly. He might’ve been imagining the whispers, but the words were familiar, and the people around him were no doubt thinking them.

“Is that Kuroo Tetsurou?”

“Wasn’t he retired?”

“Hey look, it’s the fuck up pilot.”

“Are they really getting that desperate that they’re bringing this guy back?”

“They’re not letting him into a Jaeger are they?”

Yeah, this was gonna be great.

His self-deprecation was interrupted by the Marshal, who somehow hadn’t taken notice of the blatant staring. That or he was just being nice for Kuroo’s sake.

He didn’t know which one he hated more.

“Now, I’ll give you a rundown of the facilities after dinner, but I trust you’re still quite familiar with Jaeger tech,” the Marshal, newly appointed Ukai Keishin, spoke with no room for correction. Of course Kuroo was still familiar with Jaeger tech, as if he could ever forget. Ukai’s stern expression softened only a bit, noticing Kuroo’s tense posture, his stress lines fading away for the first time in Kuroo’s presence.

“I know it’s a lot to get adjusted to, so find your room and go eat up, there’s a lot to do tomorrow.” Ukai handed him a paper with a room number, patting Kuroo’s shoulder in a small, but welcome show of support. “We still have to find you a co-pilot too, don’t forget. Meet back here after dinner. Clear?”

The word co-pilot nearly made Kuroo wince, but he resisted just in time. “Yes sir,” he said weakly, clutching the paper like a lifeline.

As soon as Ukai was out of sight, Kuroo didn’t waste time. He made a beeline for the nearest elevator, not making eye contact with anyone until he reached the isolation of his bunk.

–

Again, Kuroo had liked the rain because it had been his excuse to lag, to tune out everything and everyone and blame it on the noise and chill.

Here, he had no rain.

The mess hall was completely full, the tables divided into their various cliques. J-tech crew, pilots, execs, everyone had a place with their comrades except him. He was the definite outsider, not just at the Shatterdome, but in this world. The world of Jaeger pilots had long since closed its door on him, and now here he was, forced to knock once more.

All eyes were on him, the loud clamor of discussions fading into nothingness as he walked down one of the rows, eyes set on the ground. He prayed and prayed for an empty table, somewhere he could just sit and hide himself so he didn’t have to deal with this crap.

The universe was a bitch though, because while he managed to find an empty corner spot, the table was connected to the group of a pilot he really did not want to talk to.

“Hey there Kuroo,” Daishou Suguru smirked at him with no trace of shame, his snake-like stare way too intense to be normal. God fucking dammit. Kuroo was not in the mood for this, and screw it if he was being immature, he didn’t answer, instead dropping into the seat as far away from Daishou as possible. At one point in Kuroo’s better days, he would’ve totally rose to the occasion of mocking the other pilot in some way, but he didn’t have anything to be particularly proud of himself, so he felt it best to keep quiet.

If only Daishou knew the meaning of the word.

“Aw c’mon now, is that anyway to treat a fellow pilot?” Daishou slid down, and Kuroo actually grimaced at the proximity, not at all in the mood for the other’s shit. But Daishou’s smile didn’t drop, the politeness of it a massive lie given the animosity in his eyes.

Kuroo could hear the next words before they were spoken really, but it didn’t make them sting any less.

“Or maybe you’re just embarrassed huh? I sure would be, with what you did,” he went on, sighing dramatically even as everything inside Kuroo screamed. All the other tables were fixated on them now, waiting for any form of reaction. Fuckers. All of them, waiting for their show.

Waiting for Kuroo to screw up again, to prove he was nothing more than a liability.

He wouldn't give in to them, not even as the light sound of whispers and laughter began to carry out through the mess hall. It echoed, battling with his attempts to calm himself, and before he knew it, the images were building...

Flashes of light.

Stay in control.

Screaming

They don't matter.

Nowhere to run.

You're a great pilot. Don't listen. Don't listen.

But Kuroo's struggle went unnoticed, his body frozen like a statue as his untouched food began to smell rotten, like burning flesh.

"Just hey, word of advice," Daishou said, leaning in as if to whisper a secret. Kuroo was pretty sure he imagined the smell of slime, but it was there all the same, something he had always associated with Daishou. The other's eyes crinkled with his smile, the statement carrying throughout the room, putting his shame out for everyone to see.

"When your first test run back in your Jaeger goes wrong, and you end up plasma blasting all the spectators, leave for good this time. 'kay?"

It's the spark of the memory that did it.

He's back in his Jaeger, five years ago, his co-pilot's screams going unnoticed beside him as Kuroo loses himself in a memory. It shouldn't have happened. He'd drifted hundreds of times, he was a pro. Shouldn't have happened.

But it did.

Kuroo had latched onto a painful memory during the establishment of a neural connection, and before he knew it, he was firing up the plasma cannon, dead set on fighting off a threat which didn't exist.

He'd fired once before they'd pulled the plug on him.

But it had been enough. Too much.

Shouldn't have happened.

I let it happen.

My fault.

Kuroo flinched violently, his hand rising against his own volition, his inability to stop hitting way too close to home. He was going to push Daishou away, probably hard enough to send him on his ass, and then everyone would be right about him.

He wasn't meant to pilot a Jaeger.

Before his palm could connect with Daishou's chest, there was a loud clang in front of him, and everything stilled. As if water had been poured on him, Kuroo froze, stunned out of his trance. Daishou gasped beside him, as did several others in the hall, and suddenly all eyes tracked the source of the sound.

The space on the table across from him was splattered with food, a mixture of beans and mashed potatoes. Amidst it all sat a crooked dining tray, missing half its food, and all too quickly what happened became clear.

The tray had been dropped from way too high up, clattering onto the metal table like a gunshot. Kuroo's eyes flicked up, way up, to the face of the culprit, and shockingly, his first thought was something other than the word tall.

Glowing.

It wasn't Kuroo being sleazy, it was just a genuine observation. This guy glowed. Blond hair, unblemished pale skin, and eyes so flecked with gold and honey, Kuroo couldn't help but imagine a warm cup of tea.

The blond's face sat twisted in displeasure, but not at Kuroo. Those laser focused eyes were fixed on Daishou, uncaring of the wasted food or the shock his little act caused. The blond just stood, strong and steady, his upfront nature enough for Daishou to actually start fidgeting under the gaze.

Kuroo would've snorted, if he wasn't so entranced himself. Daishou liked to act big and bad, but he was so damn easily flustered it was hard to take him seriously.

When the blond finally spoke, Kuroo swore he saw a few people from Daishou's group lean back in fear. It was awesome. "I don't think someone who can't even beat me, a trainee, in simulator kills has any right to talk. The fact that they let you into a Jaeger is laughable," the blond said, sardonic smile rising on his gentle features. "Piss off will you?"

The question, or command really, was a direct punch to anyone who heard it, uttered with no traceable amount of fear or uncertainty. Fuck.

Daishou grumbled to himself, scoffing as he picked up his own empty tray. His crew, realizing that was the cue to pack up their own shit, rose from their seats along with him. "Whatever Tsukishima, eat with the loser for all I care. I was done anyways..."

"Uh huh," Tsukishima muttered under his breath, and Daishou's glare was absolutely pitiful in comparison to such a level of obvious disdain.

The other pilot scoffed, turning to leave the mess hall, and the spell broke. The other tables returned begrudgingly to their own conversations, aware the drama had ended. Kuroo's whole table was clear, and he could eat in peace.

He couldn't be more grateful, but for some reason the thanks got stuck in his throat when the blond took his seat.

Tsukishima. Why did that sound so familiar?

The blond--Tsukishima, grimaced at his messy tray, picking at the remnants of food on it with clear disgust. It was actually sort of cute, if Kuroo had to be honest, but he couldn't help but feel a little guilty.

There was only so much food to go around, and Tsukishima had wasted his on helping Kuroo out.

Why had he?

"Um, thanks for that," Kuroo said, finding his voice. "I seriously appreciate it, but...do you want some of my--"

"No," Tsukishima answered simply, shoveling a scoop of beans into his mouth. The expression which followed was enough evidence to suggest the beans weren't the best, and Tsukishima was reaching for water in the next instant. "I don't eat much, especially not this trash. Shouyou--the chef I mean, just always insists on piling too much onto my tray. Idiot..."

Kuroo actually laughed at that, the first genuine laugh since he'd arrived at the Shatterdome, and some of the reserved tension flooded out of his shoulders. "Well, you are kinda scrawny..."

The glare he got was pointed, but more playful than the one given to Daishou. Kuroo counted it as a win.

"I'm glad you didn't sacrifice much though," Kuroo said, smiling sheepishly. "Daishou has never played nice with others, at least not with me. Normally I could take him but..."

The words trailed off, and the pain traveled back up his throat. There really was no non-pitiful way to say he'd lost his will to fight, or that he deserved every criticism, was there?

"...just, thanks," Kuroo finished, clearing his throat and stuffing his mouth full of bread to avoid any more slip ups.

Tsukishima tilted his heat to the right, regarding Kuroo curiously, like his eyes were running calculations. Sizing him up, so to speak. But it didn't feel as intrusive or malicious as when other people did it, so Kuroo wasn't going to complain.

"Daishou is a jerk, a decent pilot, and strategic as hell, but that's about it," Tsukishima answered, like he'd read it in a textbook somewhere. "He also pilots the fastest Jaeger we have, so he thinks that's a reason for everyone to spread their ass for him."

Kuroo almost choked on his food, his sudden snort blending with a cough in the most unattractive way possible. It had Tsukishima hiding his own smile, and even if it's at Kuroo's own expense, he'll take it.

"Oh...oh my god," Kuroo said, once he'd stopped dying, his laughter coming out in small snickers. "That's so true."

Tsukishima nodded thoughtfully, leaving his spoon to hang in his mouth as he thought over his next words. Kuroo couldn't help but grin.

"Although, I personally like your Jaeger the most, it's more reliable," Tsukishima continued, going back to picking at his food as his voice grew smaller.

The words 'your Jaeger' made Kuroo startle, mostly because he hadn't heard the phrase in so long. He'd gotten used to believing what everyone else said about him: he didn't deserve the title of Jaeger pilot, so it wasn't like he had any right to claim one.

Still, a surge of affection spread in his chest as he spoke. "My oldie is still running huh?"

"Mm," Tsukishima hummed, brow furrowing slightly. "The...Nekoma...?"

"I named it after my old high school," Kuroo supplied, laughing lightly. "Lots of good memories there, so I figured it would be good luck."

Yeah, some luck you ended up having.

Kuroo tried his best not to wince.

"Your original co-pilot didn't mind?"

Another wince, and he couldn't hold that one back. Any topic having to do with co-pilots instantly set Kuroo on edge. In the past, he'd had two co-pilots. The first, his best friend Kenma, had retired early due to a leg injury, and now worked J-tech at another base. His other pilot, who hadn't exactly been Kuroo's first choice but who had been compatible enough, probably hated him now. After the incident which had retired them both, he'd never spoken to Kuroo again, lampooning him in the media for being a terrible drifter.

Yeah, Kuroo hadn't had good luck with keeping pilots. And tomorrow, he'd have to find a new one, and none of the candidates probably trusted him. If anything, they probably disliked him already. After all, it was impossible for them to not know who he was, what he'd done. Surely they'd heart the gossip and warnings, and if they hadn't, Daishou would no doubt fill them in soon enough. Bastard.

Tryouts were going to be damn brutal, but rather than unloading all that shit onto the blond, Kuroo simply said: "I basically had free reign back then."

Tsukishima arched a brow, but accepted the explanation easily enough.

Kuroo pushed forward, eager to get away from the topic, and plus, something was nagging at him..."By the way, I never got to properly introduce myself. I'm--"

"Kuroo Tetsurou, I know," Tsukishima said, and Kuroo cursed himself. No shit he knew. Kuroo's fuck up was common knowledge, so why he expected less from someone with obvious insight, he wasn't sure. It didn't help him feel less humiliated, which just wasn't fair. He thought he'd become numb to most of the ridicule by now, but the thought that the blond might have unflattering opinions about him was not a nice thought.

"Oh, yeah, makes sense..." Kuroo said, deflating.

Can a kaiju just jump out of the sea and kill me right now?

"You hold a lot of records, and your previous missions all went off without a hitch," Tsukishima continued, interrupting Kuroo's despair with his matter-of-fact tone. Like it was obvious. "I've done my research. It would be irresponsible to not know you..." He added in a quieter voice, the lightest blush dusting his cheeks, and Kuroo thought he might explode.

His mouth opened but no sound came out apart from a small croak, and he wondered if his eyes were as wide as he thought.

"It would be irresponsible not to know you."

Kuroo was being recognized for his accomplishments, not his failures. He'd forgotten what that was like, how damn good it felt.

God, he felt dizzy. This was stupid.

It didn't stop him from flying on cloud nine.

"Wow, thank you," Kuroo said, hopelessly.

Tsukishima adjusted his glasses needlessly, like a nervous tick, nodding slightly. Kuroo didn't like throwing the phrase "drawn to someone" around too heavily, because it was a rare feeling. But without a doubt, this was one hundred percent it.

"I'm Tsukishima Kei, in case you really needed to know," the blond drawled, and the attempt to seem like a brat was enough to make Kuroo smile wider at his little realization.

Kei. Like a firefly. Looked like Kuroo's observation from before was correct. The blond glowed in more ways than one.

"Tsukishima Kei? Pretty, but I can't help but think it's familiar," Kuroo said, tossing the name around in his head. He also filed away Tsukishima's blushing face in the meantime.

"Probably because it is. I'm Tsukishima Akiteru's brother," he said with a sigh, waving his hand around. "You know....the Tsukishima Akiteru."

"What do you--"

And then it all clicked to him.

Kuroo jumped up from his seat, attracting a few stares, but he didn't give a fuck.

Tsukishima Akiteru was one of the best Jaeger pilots ever. He currently held the records for number of kills and missions completed. In short, he was the golden boy of the Jaeger world, an idol, an example to all pilots in the Pacific. He'd accomplished so much at such a young age, and Kuroo had never stopped being impressed by him, even when Akiteru retired for good. They made a goddamn statue of him for fuck's sake.

Kuroo couldn't believe he'd forgotten, couldn’t comprehend that Akiteru's own brother was sitting in front of a scrub like him.

"Are you serious right now? That's incredible! Akiteru is like...the best pilot that ever was!" Kuroo exclaimed, plopping back into his seat. His food was definitely cold by now, but screw it.

Tsukishima clicked his tongue, trying to glare, but even Kuroo could tell he was holding back a proud smile. "Whatever, don't give him that much credit."

"It's true! Wow, that must've been so cool to witness," Kuroo sighed, marveling at how Tsukishima's eyes shone. "What do you do here anyways? Are you a new pilot?"

At that, a blush lit the blond up, his shoulders notably tensing. Huh, interesting...

"N-no. No," Tsukishima clarified, clearing his throat and trying his best to keep his tone calm. "I'm just a J-tech worker, that's all."

"What do you mean just? You have to be like...crazy smart to do that you know," Kuroo said with a laugh, his smile more fond than what was probably appropriate. Again, screw it.

Tsukishima glared at the table, fixing his glasses once more without really needing to. "I'm sure all the other workers are just as capable..."

Humble. Maybe too much so...

Tsukishima obviously had a lot of sides to him, and no doubt a lot of stories to tell. J-tech workers saw it all, and Kuroo wanted to know it all. He also wanted to talk to Tsukishima more, but that was more of a personal want. The blond had been kind to him when no one else cared to be, but more than that, something about him was just pleasant. Like a nice breeze on a moonlit night, Kuroo felt refreshed and light around him. Kuroo hadn't felt so unburdened in a long time, and he hoped Tsukishima was enjoying his company just as much.

Well, only one way to find out.

"Hey...I have to go on this tour of the place with the Marshal right now, but afterwards, do you wanna come to my room?" Kuroo asked, and when Tsukishima's eyebrows shot up, he backpedaled quickly. "J-just to talk! I swear! You're like...the closest thing I have to a friend here, and I could use some refresher courses, you know?"

Kuroo willed his blush to die, but the heat still coursed through his veins. Mostly because, well, he was sort of lying. Sure, he did need more help around this place, but mostly he wanted to learn more about Tsukishima, wanted to hear him laugh more freely and feel comfortable around him. Whether or not the conversations they had were educational or not wasn't really a concern of his.

Above all, Kuroo knew when he had such strong instincts to be close to someone like this, he'd better listen.

Tsukishima regarded Kuroo silently for a few seconds, and for a moment, Kuroo thought he might be turned away. He really should stop assuming the worst, where had his old optimism gone?

"Sure, that would be..." Tsukishima stopped suddenly, the red on his cheeks refusing to fade away as he cleared his throat. "I mean, yeah."

"Great, awesome!" Kuroo stood, tripping over his words like he had a time limit, like Tsukishima would change his mind any minute. "I'm in room 106. Is that a problem?"

Tsukishima's smirk should not have looked that good on him, but whatever, Kuroo wasn't going to complain about it. "No problem at all. I'm in 107."

Kuroo's grin bloomed on his face before he'd really finished registering the words, and he was convinced nothing could kill his good mood now that it was set in place. He waved Tsukishima goodbye, not breaking eye contact until he had to make a turn out of the hall.

Perfect.

Kuroo hadn't expected to get so emotional when he saw his Jaeger, looking battle worn but tough, but here he was. His eyes felt misty as he looked up at the bulky frame, the nuclear core gleaming under the work lights of the bay. The red stripes and accents were faded and scarred, but Kuroo thought they looked just as rad as the very first day he'd climbed into the machine. Not even the blatant water damage and chipped paint could rid the Jaeger of its glory, not in Kuroo's heart.

When he saw the Nekoma, he saw his best friend Kenma next to him, keeping him from being too impulsive. He saw them naming the Jaeger for the first time, saw them killing their first kaiju. He saw himself becoming the man he always wanted to be, a pilot. It made him remember the thrill of it all, the satisfaction which came with saving lives.

Oh how he'd missed it, and here was his chance to get it all back, standing in front of him, waiting for his return.

He refused to cry. At least not immediately, in front of the Marshal no less. Maybe later, when he could let the emotions wash over him completely. In the back of his mind, he made a note to tell Tsukishima what the Nekoma really meant to him.

It wasn't information he minded sharing with the blond, though it was definitely personal. He'd wonder about why that was later. For now....

"Here she is," Ukai said, the words shaking Kuroo out of his memories. "Still the toughest one in the bay if I'm being honest. It's been awhile since she's had a real set of pilots to do her justice."

Kuroo swallowed the lump in his throat, looking at the Marshal with unconcealed joy. Ukai's smile was surprisingly soft, a gentle one Kuroo was sure he didn't show to everyone.

"As if anything could take her down," Kuroo said with a light chuckle, straining to keep his eyes fixed on something other that the Jaeger. If he did, he'd get too swept up.

He hadn't realized how strong the urge was, to be a pilot again. Fuck up or not, it was what he loved. He pitied himself every morning and night, seldom got any sleep, but at the end of the day, he would always come back to this.

Ukai's strong hand came up to tighten around Kuroo's shoulder, as if sanctioning Kuroo's feelings. "It's really great to have you back Tetsurou," he said in a low voice, and the meaning behind the words didn't go unnoticed.

You're needed. Wanted.

A real pilot.

They both glanced up to the red shell, savoring every detail no matter how beat up, like old men at the end of a war.

Except, it wasn't the end of the war. Far from it. Kaiju attacks were becoming more and more frequent, sometimes within days of the last. More lives would be lost, more cities crumbled, and Kuroo was sure his stories from the past would pale in comparison to the stuff he'd be having to face now.

That was fine with him. He'd deal with the horrors so future ones could be prevented. He'd fight the kaijus until his last breath, and he'd handle the healing in his own time, once those sons of bitches stayed sealed in their own world beneath the sea.

The Nekoma was ready for him to take up the challenge, and so was he.

"She was waiting for you," Ukai whispered, almost to himself, the awed statement resonating deep within Kuroo's soul.

Yeah, she was.

"And she's even better now, but all that engineer talk is gibberish to me," Ukai said, turning to the end of the viewing platform and drawing Kuroo's attention away. "I'll let him tell you all the specs."

But Kuroo didn't hear much of anything Ukai said, his focus completely stolen away as the newcomer approached. In the darkened lighting of the Jaeger bay, he could say without a doubt now, Tsukishima glowed.

Kuroo's eyes widened in recognition as he stood face to face with the blond, the slightly impish grin on the other's face making Kuroo's own blood rush in excitement.

Just a J-tech worker huh? My ass.

"Kuroo this is Tsukishima Kei, one of our top engineers and head of the Jaeger restoration program," Ukai informed, already beginning to walk away. "He'll answer any questions you might have. Make sure and rest up for tomorrow, pilot auditions start early."

"Yes sir," Kuroo replied, eyes not leaving Tsukishima's even as he heard Ukai's footsteps fade into nothing. When only the sounds of blowtorches and engine work remained, Kuroo stepped a bit closer, gladly occupying Tsukishima's personal space. "So...head of the Jaeger restoration project? I don't think that qualifies as just a tech worker you know, unless the titles have changed?"

Tsukishima rolled his eyes, his hand rising to wipe at his lips and hide the ever growing smile. Kuroo wished he didn't, but it was cute in its own way.

Tsukishima's grip on his clipboard tightened, and he sidestepped Kuroo, approaching the Nekoma slowly. "It's a meaningless title, I'm no better than anyone else."

Somehow I don't think that's true.

Tsukishima Kei, in the half a day Kuroo had known him, was definitely far from average. Call it intuition on Kuroo's part.

"I'll probably have to fight you on that later, once I see you at work," Kuroo said with a smirk, sliding up to the blond with relaxed ease. Kuroo wasn't usually uncomfortable with physical intimacy to begin with, but the familiarity of standing near Tsukishima was different. They barely knew each other, but...it felt like Kuroo just knew where to be. Like somehow being at Tsukishima's side was a post he'd gotten used to for years versus hours.

Weird but, not unwelcome.

"And speaking of your work, tell me about my girl!" Kuroo gestured with wide arms to the Nekoma, once again marveling at the renovated body. To say he was excited would be an understatement.

He half expected Tsukishima to make fun of him for it, but the blond only smiled softly at the machine, eyes scanning it as if he could see all the mechanisms and inner workings. Kuroo could practically hear the cogs in his mind turning effortlessly, a well oiled mental machine. It made his heart burn with content, knowing that someone like Tsukishima had taken care of his Jaeger all this time. The gratefulness surged up in a tidal wave inside him, and he found himself leaning a bit closer to the blond.

"Very well. She has a double core nuclear reactor, a new fluid synapse system," Tsukishima began, slender fingers gliding down his clipboard, probably more out of habit than anything else. Somehow, Kuroo didn't think Tsukishima needed to be reminded of much when it came to the machines he obviously cared for so deeply. "An iron hull with hyper torque, and forty engine block muscle strands. You could say she's...one of the kind I guess. Definitely one of the most powerful ones based on specs alone. Anyone could see that..."

The blond trailed off, his shoulders squaring in a new show of haughtiness, as if someone had once challenged his opinion on the subject.

Yeah, some idiot, Kuroo thought.

Curiously, Kuroo glanced down at a neighboring stall, the one housing Daishou's own Jaeger. The Hebi stood dormant, the design sleeker and less clunky than the Nekoma. Kuroo still stood by his own Jaeger when it came to power and overall strength, but it was obvious each Jaeger possessed its own unique gifts.

"I mean, Daishou's still wins in the speed department," Kuroo observed aloud, not bothering to hide his grimace as he spoke the syllables of the other pilot's name like they were grimy. "But--"

"Being fast is overrated," Tsukishima cut in, his smirk devilish in a way much too attractive to be fair. "And if you're a good pilot, it doesn't matter."

Ah right, the motto.

Somehow, hearing Tsukishima speak with such conviction lessened the initial blow of the words. Kuroo knew the lesson well, the true value of a top tier pilot. It had never really left him. Ever since his own accident, he pondered it a lot, wondering if he was fit to be in a Jaeger, whether or not he was worthy of anything. While most of these insecurities had washed away by then, he still had the nightmares, still felt the dull ache spreading like twisting vines in his heart whenever he thought too hard about it. It gutted him, spilling all his contents onto the soiled floor while his skin burned and his mind screamed.

Too much. Too much.

But the truth rang louder.

"A Jaeger is only as good as its pilot, I know," Kuroo admitted, voice soft and pitiful, barely heard over the sounds of power saws and machinery. The room around him fogged up, his feet sinking into the floor like he was drowning, and all the noises slowed down to an unbearable octave.

But even through all that, he couldn't help but feel his fingers itch to man the Jaeger's controls, his body wanting nothing more than to step inside the machine and reclaim his post.

And before he did that...

"Well," Kuroo croaked, sniffling as he adopted a rueful smile. "Let's hope I can find a good co-pilot at least..."

He didn't bother admitting how little faith he had in finding someone who trusted him, but he was pretty sure Tsukishima knew already.

The blond was studying him intently, and Kuroo turned to meet the stare dead on, no matter how pathetic he looked. After all, war and battle were no time for tears or nostalgia, especially those brought on by regret. Soon, someone else would be inside his head, and he'd have nowhere to hide.

Kuroo wouldn't lose this opportunity because he couldn't reel himself in. He'd been fighting with himself for years to make it back to this place, and he'd redeem himself no matter what.

Somehow, the rush of such determination only made his eyes water more, and he cursed himself. He half expected Tsukishima to turn away, pretend like nothing had happened and let Kuroo retain some of his dignity. It might've been the polite thing to do, he guessed, but maybe Tsukishima wasn't a fan of that route.

In the next moment, Tsukishima wordlessly handed Kuroo a handkerchief, pure white and monogrammed with his calligraphic initials. Kuroo stared, stunned, first at the fabric, and then at the owner, watching as Tsukishima's eyes filled with an all too familiar fogginess.

It felt like a punch to the gut, seeing how he felt reflected in another's eyes, especially when the last thing Tsukishima should be feeling was sadness. Kuroo should've felt guilty, ashamed even, but he just couldn't. All he could seem to process was the gentle calm in Tsukishima's face. The blond bit his lip in hesitation, but didn't back down, his fingers curling tighter around the cloth.

Tsukishima glared at his own hand in the next instant, as if offended him that he couldn't do anything more, like he couldn't give Kuroo something better to reassure him. Kuroo wanted to tell him he didn't need anything else, because the one gesture was already close to making him break.

Tsukishima inclined his head forward, his voice hoarse but leaving no room for arguments. "Akiteru did the same thing before every mission. I always wondered if he'd ever stop crying. But...he didn't mind it, crying, so..."

So neither should you.

All the air in Kuroo's lungs flew out, his shoulders quaking at the sanction of his tears. It was the straw that broke the camel's back. His body hunched forward slightly, trying to curl in towards the blond as he reached out to grab the handkerchief with a tight grip. His fingers slid against Tsukishima's, wrapping around the slender, outstretched digits like they were his only support. The blond didn't flinch from the contact, and Kuroo suddenly thought that maybe, just maybe, Tsukishima would've gladly shouldered some of Kuroo's weight had he crumbled.

But this, this was enough.

Kuroo's felt the silk fibers brush his skin as he brought it up to his face. It soaked up the the tears easily, catching each one when Kuroo stopped resisting them.

Sometime later, when the tears had subsided, Kuroo's mind managed to focus on some more imminent threats...

"So, about the whole co-pilot thing..." Kuroo whispered as he and Tsukishima walked through the rest of the Shatterdome. It was supposed to be a formal tour, but Kuroo figured once you cry in front of someone, all need for professionalism kind of goes out the window. Not to mention the fact it was just easy to talk to Tsukishima, safe even.

"You're worried you won't be compatible with anyone?" Tsukishima cut in, pointing at a piece of tech for show as their private conversation continued. "Your combat level is rather high...I guess."

Kuroo couldn't help but smirk, nudging Tsukishima playfully as the blond glared.

"You guess huh? Don't worry, you won't need to guess anymore after tomorrow. You'll see I'm the best there is," Kuroo said, puffing out his chest. It wasn't even a lie. It was hard to keep up a physical dialogue with him, which was why finding potential co-pilots had always been so damn rigorous. Kenma and him only managed because they'd known each other so long. Now he'd have to find his partner the old fashioned way, and part of him knew it wouldn't be a smooth transition.

At the thought, Kuroo winced. "And well...it's that but...it's kind of obvious no one here really trusts me. Which kind of fucks with the whole 'connection' bit. So I feel like tryouts are gonna be awkward as hell."

"Mm," Tsukishima hummed thoughtfully, gesturing to a control panel which Kuroo gave a fake gasp at. "I wouldn't worry that much. I hand selected all six candidates. None are too outspoken or annoying, they just want the chance to be in a Jaeger. I doubt they'll give you any issues. The real test will be whether or not they can keep up."

"Wait, you picked them?" Kuroo said, a little too loudly, causing some of the other workers nearby to give him less than welcoming looks. Whatever, nothing new there.

"I'm the head of the Jaeger restoration program, remember?" Tsukishima sang, eyes glinting. "If you're gonna be a pilot, I have to make sure everything runs smoothly for you. That includes finding you a co-pilot, genius."

"Snooty," Kuroo said with a smirk. He sighed, a strange rush of relief coursing through him. "But thank god honestly. I trust you."

Tsukishima's eyes widened a fraction, the tops of his cheeks dusted with a lovely shade of pink, and Kuroo couldn't help but feel prideful at being the cause. It was a little unfair though, how excited he became with every knew expression Tsukishima showed him.

"Stupid," Tsukishima whispered, but he didn't bother hiding his smile this time.

"Well now, isn't this sweet?" A voice, light and teasing drifted into their bubble, and Kuroo actually flinched from the suddenness of it. He saw Tsukishima's eye twitch, but other than that, the blond didn't seem surprised.

"Oikawa, what do you want?" Tsukishima asked, clearly displeased.

Oikawa. Oikawa Tooru.

Shit, was there anyone Tsukishima didn't know?

The brunet in front of them gave a measly shrug, smile razor sharp but strangely analytical. It wasn't a far cry from Tsukishima's own calculated stares, but the intent was definitely different. While Tsukishima only strove to take in information, Oikawa was pulling double duty.

Yeah, this look was meant to intimidate, and it was doing a hell of a job.

"It's been a while since I've seen you talk so much, I had to see what kind of person our new recruit was," Oikawa said, his eyes widening in mock surprise. "Oh, but I guess you're not technically new are you? Must be nerve-wracking--"

"Oikawa," Tsukishima snapped, but Kuroo grabbed his shoulder, soothing the hostility before it had the chance to bubble to the surface.

If he hid too much about himself, he'd just fuck up again. No use letting people get the best of him, it was always better to own up to his own shit. He'd learned that the hard way, but it was valuable all the same.

"It's alright, I'm not gonna lie about anything," Kuroo said, his smile sheepish. "I am pretty nervous, but Tsukishima's taking care of me, so there's not much to worry about. I'm guessing you're a pilot yeah? It's an honor working with you."

Kuroo bowed, and he actually wasn't kissing ass. Oikawa Tooru was a great pilot, definitely in the top ranks. He'd protected one of Japan's most prominent ports for six years with his partner Iwaizumi, and in that time, only one Kaiju attack made it close to touching land.

The brunet's facade fell in an instant, his brow furrowing in genuine shock. "Oh, thank you. But, Iwaizumi and I retired last year, we work in J-tech now."

Oh.

Kuroo tilted his head, but wasn't too concerned over the new information. Pilots retired all the time for a variety of reasons, it was simply a bit disappointing to know the piloting world had lost a dream team.

"Well, thank you for all you guys have done anyways, you kept a lot of people safe," Kuroo said, and Oikawa's smile turned softer, pleased with the words.

"You don't have to give him too much credit," Tsukishima muttered to his side, to which Oikawa's smile turned smug.

"Oh Kei-chan, you know we're the best of friends!" Oikawa clapped his hands together, turning to address Kuroo once more. "We got off to a rocky start once I retired, but I can't imagine this place without him now. The Shatterdome wouldn't run without our resident Jaeger enthusiast."

"I'm sure," Tsukishima said with the roll of his eyes, but the animosity had long since yielded to fondness. "Don't you have repairs to do?"

"I have to go to the bridge to pick up some supplies for Iwa-chan," Oikawa responded, not missing a beat. His eyes sparkled with a different kind of softness at the mention of his partner, but Kuroo didn't comment on it. It was a no brainer really. The wedding between Oikawa and Iwaizumi might as well have been celebrity news when it had happened years ago.

"His team is the one doing the final modifications on your Nekoma," Oikawa continued, tone playful. "Good luck finding a co-pilot by the way. I'll be excited to watch the test run."

At the reminder, Kuroo winced. "Yeah," he said with a strained laugh. "Can't wait."

"Hmph, if you ask me it's a waste of time," Oikawa mused, reaching up to fiddle with the pen on his ear. "You and Kei-chan obviously get along and his simulator scores are high so, why not just save yourself the trouble and have him as your pilot?"

At the words, Kuroo literally heard Tsukishima choke on air next to him, his lithe body tensing up like a tightly wound coil.

Kuroo turned on him in a flash, grabbing him by the shoulders like Tsukishima would run away given the chance. "You're a pilot?!"

Tsukishima's a pilot.

Right?

Oh god please let him be a pilot.

Tsukishima shook his head rapidly, and for the first time since they'd met, the blond actually started to trip over his words. "W-what, no, I'm--"

"Oh shoot, you didn't know? God, I'm so sorry Kei-chan, silly me," Oikawa said rehearsed sympathy, sounding just about the farthest thing from sorry as he slowly back away. "Well those supplies won't collect themselves. See you guys tomorrow!"

And like that the brunet was gone, like dust in the wind. How sneaky, Kuroo thought, but he was far from hating it in that moment.

If Tsukishima was a pilot, Kuroo's worries would be over. Tsukishima was amazing, smart, and already soothing to be around. Kuroo blended with him and his personality so damn smoothly, and if Tsukishima was trained in combat, he had no doubt they'd compliment each other in a fight.

"Why didn't you say anything? Why aren't you trying out tomorrow?" Kuroo asked rapidly, a whole series of questions ringing in his head. "Oh my god, this is--"

"I'm not a pilot!" Tsukshima raised his voice, the abruptness managing to stop Kuroo in his tracks. The blond cleared his throat, lowering his voice as a couple other workers passed them by with curious glances. "I'm not a pilot..."

"So, Oikawa was lying?" Kuroo asked, mood already deflating.

"Well, no. I'm...technically trained to be a pilot. Combat, Jaeger simulator runs, the standard stuff," Tsukishima admitted, eyes fixed on his clipboard. It was the first time in a while he hadn't talked to Kuroo eye to eye, and Kuroo was beginning to realize he hated not being able to see the other's eyes. "But I've never actually drifted with anyone. I've never piloted a real life Jaeger. So--"

"What are your simulator scores?"

Tsukishima faltered, stunned. "Excuse me?"

"Your simulator scores, what are they?" Kuroo asked again, determined. He wouldn't let Tsukishima sell himself short without any proof, no way in hell.

"Sixty kills," the blond muttered, glaring at the floor. It was unbearably cute, but Kuroo wasn't finished yet.

"Out of how many tries?" He persisted, and judging from the way Tsukishima's eyes closed in defeat, he knew he'd won.

"...sixty-one."

Almost perfect.

"Tsukki...you're incredible! Why haven't you been partnered up before?" Kuroo asked, not missing the weird surge of jealousy which came with the thought. Oh come on, the situation was hypothetical. Seriously brain?

If he could be Tsukishima's co-pilot, Kuroo would be more than honored. But as the excitement in him rose, an afterthought couldn't help but cross his mind. "Unless...maybe you don't want to be a pilot?"

It was a possibility. It would crush Kuroo's hopes, but he wouldn't hold it against the blond. Fighting kaijus wasn't for everyone, it involved a lot of risk and danger. If Tsukishima had his reasons, Kuroo would lay off.

Tsukishima snapping at him was not what he expected.

"Of course I want to be a pilot!" Tsukishima's head came up in a flash, his eyes blazing with newfound passion. It was a far cry from his usual mask of neutrality, and Kuroo was a fan. "You think I'd go through all that training if I didn't? It's what I--"

Tsukishima halted, and his breathing stalled for a good second before giving way to harsh pants. The noise bounced off the concrete walls, and even though Kuroo could hear the sounds of machinery in the distance, all he could make sense of in the world in that moment was Tsukishima.

The blond dropped his clipboard, hands coming up to fix his glasses uselessly. Kuroo didn't rush him. He wanted to hear the whole explanation, wanted to give Tsukishima a chance to be understood. Just like he'd done for Kuroo.

Eventually, Kuroo's hand rose to touch Tsukishima's shoulder again, gentler this time, and the fact that the blond didn't even flinch did nothing but solidify Kuroo's suspicion without even stepping into the ring.

They were compatible.

If Tsukishima noticed, he didn't mention it, but he did take a step closer to Kuroo, close enough that the raven could feel his warm breath hit his skin.

"My brother..." Tsukshima began, voice barely above a whisper. "My brother was one of the best pilots there ever was. Everyone knows that, but..."

But you got to see it, first hand.

It hadn't really occurred to Kuroo before, how proud the blond probably was of Akiteru, whether or not he chose to admit it.

"...it's all I've ever wanted," Tsukishima finished, his thoughts fragmented and scattered. But Kuroo understood. Kuroo understood more than anyone. He belonged in a Jaeger, being a pilot was what he was meant to do with his life. Not even his massive mistake could turn him away from it, so...

"Then...why haven't you done it yet?" Kuroo couldn't help but ask, and in response, Tsukishima threw him a rueful smile. From how close they were, Kuroo could see how long Tsukishima's eyelashes were, a subtle distraction from the way his lips trembled.

Kuroo hadn't exactly stopped to think about it before, but he was beginning to suspect that maybe Tsukishima didn't share things this openly on a normal day, certainly not with someone he'd just met. But, Kuroo guessed he could put it in with the rest of the evidence that pointed him towards the blonde.

"I don't know if you've noticed," Tsukishima began with a shaky sigh. "But I don't get along with others too well, not that I care or anything."

Kuroo smiled as some of the familiar mischief flashed in Tsukishima's eyes. It was becoming a favorite quirk of his.

"But it makes finding a partner hard," Tsukishima admitted. "Akiteru never really wanted me to put myself in danger either, and when he was still working, it was easy to let him convince me of lying low..."

But now?

Tsukishima sighed, biting his lip as his hands clutched his clipboard so tight Kuroo thought it might break. "But now, I wouldn't mind rebelling if all the pieces fell into place."

Tsukishima kept his eyes on Kuroo, the meaning tucked behind the words ringing loud and clear.

"But with you, I would."

Kuroo allowed himself to breath, his other hand joining the first in gripping one of Tsukishima's shoulders. He held onto the blond while the thoughts overcame him, like Tsukishima was already his support system, his partner.

It had happened so fast, maybe too fast, but Kuroo was never one to deny instinct.

He just had one more thing he wanted to know...

"Are you scared?" He asked, whispering into the small space they shared.

He felt Tsukishima tense beneath his hands, inhaling sharply. Their eyes stayed locked, giving Kuroo a full access pass to the war raging in the blond's eyes. Kuroo understood, it was probably the worst question to ask a pilot. No one liked admitting their hesitation, their fear, when it came to a job like this. It was a job that kept the world safe, so in theory, being afraid shouldn't have even been allowed.

They'd all seen the advertisements. Jaeger pilots were strong, brave, courageous. When Kuroo had been growing up, he'd wanted nothing more than to embody each of those traits. He still did.

If Tsukishima was anything like him, which Kuroo knew he was, the resistance to the question would be doubled. Tsukishima was prideful, and so was he. Kuroo didn't like to mess up, to make mistakes, but boy had he fucked that up. He hated losing too, more than anything, something very probable when it came to Jaeger piloting.

Yet he came back. Despite all that he came back. And what all that boiled down to was fear, and he knew it. He hated to come out and say it, but it was true. He was horribly, insanely afraid.

And if Tsukishima was going to be in his head, trying to make sense of Kuroo's very essence, he'd have to understand that, and push forward despite it. They both would.

Maybe Kuroo was being unfair, or maybe he just hated feeling so alone in this, but if Tsukishima was as brilliant as Kuroo thought he was, he shouldn't have to worry.

He wouldn't worry, because...

"Yes," Tsukishima said, glaring right at Kuroo. "Whatever, I am. But don't think for a second that something so stupid would stop me."

Tsukishima's eyes seemed to widen at his own admission, but the surprise quickly settled back into stubbornness. The cuteness of it served as only a momentary distraction before curiosity took over, because there was an obvious story buried somewhere there.

Not that Kuroo really had to ask. He'd know soon enough.

He smiled, grip tightening on the blond's shoulders from the sheer joy he was feeling.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Kuroo said, and it was far from a lie.

He'd found his co-pilot.

He'd almost found his co-pilot.

"What do you mean he still has to try out? He's been through the basics!" Kuroo moved swiftly behind Ukai as they made their way to the gym floor the next morning, already exhausted from the hoops he'd been jumping through.

If it had been up to Kuroo, Tsukishima would've already been signed on as his pilot. There was no need to even go through tryouts, Kuroo had a sixth sense about these kind of things. They were definitely drift compatible, and Tsukishima was obviously skilled. There should've been zero issues.

But of course...

"Kuroo, I'm not allowing you to bring in a rookie without seeing for myself how you move together," Ukai said, stepping into the elevator with Kuroo at his side. "If you really think he's the one, there should be no issues. Just give me the peace of mind, alright?"

No!

"But--"

"Kuroo, that's final." Ukai turned away, lighting a cigarette to fill the silence. Kuroo didn't even feel like making a joke about this being the slowest elevator ever, so he was clearly pissed.

And yeah, Kuroo might've been taking things too far. This was childish, and he knew it. No one got to skip pilot tryouts, it was a right of passage, protocol even. He knew that, he knew it better than anyone.

But that didn't stop his hands from shaking as they climbed the floors, it didn't stop his foot from tapping, or the back of his neck from sweating.

Kuroo sighed to himself, sagging against the metal walls and feeling much too caged in for his own good. In truth, his displeasure for having to go through tryouts didn't stem from his impatience, or even his absolute faith in Tsukishima.

At the end of the day, he really didn't want all those eyes staring at him, judging him. Because he knew most of the spectators didn't actually believe he'd get to pilot his Jaeger again. A good majority of them thought he was going to screw it all up again, and only wanted to be there to witness the brutal fall.

So yeah, if he could avoid that shit, he would. However, the odds didn't seem to be in his favor.

The elevator dinged as it opened to an empty hallway, littered with staffs and training mats but with no personnel in sight. They were probably already waiting in the gym. Ugh.

Fine, let's get this over with.

Before Kuroo could stride off, Ukai grabbed his arm, pulling him back into the privacy of the elevator. Kuroo turned to him, ready to play off his discomfort, but the Marshal's sympathetic stare stopped him in his tracks.

"Sir?"

"Kuroo, listen up. I trust your intuition. You of all people know what's in a good partner," Ukai said softly, eyes flicking to the gym doors at the end of the hall. "But this is protocol. Don't worry about who's watching, just focus on giving it your max effort. These tryouts are important."

The emphasis on the last statement made Kuroo drop his head obediently, nodding once.

"Good. And besides, I don't want you basing such a big decision off of a crush," Ukai said with a huff, and Kuroo's head shot up like a bullet.

The air left him, the blood hot in his veins, and it took everything he had not to yell.

"I'm...I'm not at all! Where did that...where did that even come from?" Kuroo asked, trying his best to keep his voice steady. As if he'd ever do something so amateurish. His rage didn't actually stem from that insult alone, but from the one made to Tsukishima. The blond might've been a rookie when it came to real piloting, but he'd been trained and tested multiple times. Kuroo looked up his scores and they were flawless.

Anyone picking Tsukishima would've been a no brainer.

And yeah, the blond was beautiful, snarky, and a plethora of other amazing things which had nothing to do with piloting. Kuroo felt drawn to him in more ways than one, he'd admit, but that didn't change anything.

Kuroo picked based on compatibility and skill, nothing more. His budding romantic feelings had nothing to do with it, and he was pissed that would be doubted at all.

When it came to the war, he put the safety of others first. People could make jokes all they wanted about how he'd slipped up, but it hardly mattered. Kuroo meant it with everything he had.

"I don't mean to offend either of you, make no mistake. I'm just skeptical," Ukai said, hands rising to placate Kuroo. Maybe he looked more upset than he thought. "I saw you go into his room last night...

"That...nothing happened! We were talking about piloting, and our pasts!" Kuroo threw up his hands, laughing to himself because what else was he supposed to do? He was telling the truth. Tsukishima had filled him in on all the new pilots and their Jaegers, as well as shared some gossip (Kuroo could be obnoxious, sue him, who didn't like hearing about personal drama amidst a kaiju war?). Then, they'd happened to fall asleep together. No big deal.

"Your past?" Ukai said, brow raised.

Kuroo couldn't help it, he fixed the Marshal with the most 'duh' look he could muster.

After their conversation in the Jaeger bay, Kuroo had been positive Tsukishima would be his pilot, and well...

"I figured it would be smart to talk about any past trauma we'd been through," Kuroo explained, knowing it wasn't exactly out of the ordinary to do so. "Just so it wouldn't be so shocking when we drift--"

"If you drift--"

"When we drift," Kuroo repeated. Fuck it, if he had to be a stubborn asshole, he'd be one. He was sure about this decision, and he wouldn't let Ukai doubt Tsukishima or their connection. Kuroo knew the Marshal meant well, and he didn't hate him for it, but now for the first time he couldn't wait to get into that gym and prove him wrong. "When we drift, and our memories come together, it'll be smoother now. And we'll be the perfect team, I know it sir."

And hell, if that didn't convince him, Kuroo was at a true loss.

Ukai stared at him for a long time, eyes shifting between Kuroo and the end of the hall, where all bets would be off. At least for the Marshal they would be. Kuroo didn't have even a shred of doubt.

After a few strained seconds, Ukai finally stepped out of the elevator, not looking back. "I sure hope you're right kid."

Kuroo grinned, following with haste.

"Don't worry sir," he said with a smirk, newfound excitement rising in his chest. "You'll see."

The way these trials went down was simple: no weapons other than a wooden staff. The object of the contest was to strike the opposing person four times.

Four strikes marked a win, but winning was far from the point.

When Kuroo emerged from the gym lockers wearing a tank top and sweats, Tsukishima was standing next to the Marshal at the foot of the ring, dressed similarly.

Tsukishima's fingers were curled tight around the clipboard in his hands, and he was rocking on the heels of his feet, probably as geared up as Kuroo felt.

It sent a pleasant chill up Kuroo's spine, and he grinned at the blond shamelessly as he grabbed a wooden staff from the wall. He was more than pleased when he got a challenging smirk in return.

Kuroo toed off his boots, setting them against the wall, and made his way to the gym mats. According to Ukai, there were a few candidates he had to face before Tsukishima could give it a shot, but Kuroo still wasn't worried.

He knew the point of these matches were less about finding a victor, and more about creating a physical dialogue, but it didn't change the fact that Kuroo knew he had way more combat experience than any of his candidates, given what Tsukishima had told him. They were good, great even. Kuroo was just better.

The point of building a physical dialogue was to exchange equal blows, and to see whether or not the two opponents conducted themselves with similar fighting style and strategies. If Kuroo got more than two blows in before his opponent even had one, he already considered it a lost cause.

His co-pilot needed to keep up with him, no room for argument. He refused to water down his moves for their sake.

Let's see what your hand picked candidates have to offer, huh Tsukki?

Kuroo felt strangely at ease as his feet hit the cool mat. The eyes on him should've been suffocating, especially when they belonged to people who were less than friendly. It was lucky Daishou hadn't bothered to show up, but Kuroo still heard the whispers, the rumors circulating throughout the small space.

Somehow though, the air of combat acted like a shield from all of it, and his mind was focused on the fight, and the fight alone. Besides, knowing Tsukishima would probably chew anyone out if they spoke up, Kuroo felt a lot better.

His opponent stepped up, a rookie from the looks of it, considering Kuroo hadn't seen him around in his day. Plus, from what Tsukishima had told him, most of the experienced pilots these days already had a permanent partner. After Oikawa and Iwaizumi had retired, the next best team with the most kills was that of Semi Eita and Shirabu Kenjirou.

Kuroo and Tsukishima would change that, gladly.

Taking one last breath to ready himself, Kuroo waited for Tsukishima's smooth voice to carry through the air, and he cared to hear nothing else.

"First match. Start."

Now, Kuroo hadn't totally slacked off in his time away. He'd worked out, kept in shape. Still, he suspected to be at least a little rusty when he returned.

It didn't seem to be the case.

Hooking his staff behind his opponent's leg, Kuroo sent him to the ground, his fourth strike. Kuroo was finally starting to sweat, but only because this was the fifth tryout.

"Four points to zero," Tsukishima's voice drifted into the ring, and Kuroo couldn't help but detect the slightest hint of smugness there. Glancing to the viewing platform, he could see Tsukishima's eyes over the top of his clipboard, shining and analytical.

Okay, maybe Kuroo was trying extra hard to show off too, but getting that look was worth it alright?

Ukai looked less impressed, and more exhausted. As if he'd really expected one of these people to be able to hold their own with Kuroo. It wasn't meant to be an insult, it was simply a difference in experience and physical compatibility.

Which Ukai didn't seem to get. Obviously they were wasting time, all because the old man didn't want to admit Kuroo might be right.

And so far, he had been right. Kuroo had yet to find a match, plain and simple. Somehow the statement felt less heavy than he'd anticipated though, now that he had Tsukishima watching. None of the glares and whispers circulating around him felt nearly as fierce or important.

The crushing blow of not finding any compatible pilots wasn't there, and Kuroo relished in the fact.

"Next opponent," Ukai said, rubbing his temples. He probably looked as ticked as Kuroo felt, and the raven wanted nothing more than to put an end to this.

"With all due respect Marshal," Kuroo said, somewhat breathless from the workout as he approached Ukai. "That was the sixth candidate, and still nothing. Can we give Tsukishima a shot now? Please?"

Tsukishima's eyes lit up as he looked towards the Marshal, his feet already moving as if prepared for the green light.

"Tsukishima is eighth on the list. No earlier, no later," Ukai said, voice dropping an octave. "I advise you to remember patience, Kuroo."

He ducked his head, his lips curling in displease. He wasn't willing to show Ukai how annoyed he was though. "Yes sir, he muttered, curling his hand tighter around his sparring staff.

One more person. Just one more, and then you'll see.

Kuroo huffed to himself, rolling his shoulders back as he took his stance on the mat. His seventh candidate had just walked up, and Kuroo didn't feel like wasting any time. Things were getting ridiculous. If Ukai truly didn't believe he and Tsukishima would be compatible, he should've just let them get it over with. That would prove his point, if he were correct.

Which he's not.

But whatever, if Ukai wanted to be proven wrong even further, so be it.

Tsukishima apparently shared the sentiment. "Match six. Start."

Kuroo swung his staff, and as anticipated, it was blocked. His opponent stumbled back from the sheer force of the blow, and Kuroo used that moment to strike the other's leg.

That's one.

Kuroo stepped back, bringing his staff up to block a succession of hits, one right after the other. The harsh sounds of the wood hitting hard enough to split bounced off the walls, but it didn't derail Kuroo in the slightest. His eyes were trained on his opponent, never letting the distractions get to him.

He spun his staff, striking the side of his opponent with his left hand, and bringing it back to his right in time to block another blow.

That's two.

One thing Kuroo loved about combat was the sheer fluidity of it. Blow for blow, every movement had a reaction, flowing from one exchange to the next. Like the blood in his veins or the water in a stream, he kept going, and years of training made sure he kept winning too. He could see every next movement, could use instinct to respond to all his opponent's moves, until a strategy became clear in his head.

And then, well, he used it against them.

Kuroo swung, strong and without hesitation, again and again. His opponent couldn't keep up with the blow, giving Kuroo the exact opening he needed. Kuroo got behind him, bringing the staff to the other's neck, and sent him to the ground.

Game over.

The gym went silent apart from a few claps, most onlookers too stunned to offer any congratulations. Kuroo had blown through all his candidates in less than thirty minutes, and it probably looked as if all his hopes were lost.

"Four points to zero," Tsukishima's voice filled the silence, reminding Kuroo that he hadn't lost anything in the slightest.

He couldn't help but smile to himself, the giddiness already building inside him. He gladly helped his opponent up, offering some advice and congratulating him on a job well done. The last thing Kuroo wanted to be was a bad sport, and plus, he didn't need more enemies in this world.

Once the mat was cleared, Kuroo allowed himself to look at the Marshal as he tossed his staff to the floor. It clattered on the cold concrete, and suddenly all eyes were on Ukai. One day Kuroo would get in a lot of trouble for being such a shit about things, but oh well. He smirked lazily, crossing his arms as he spoke. "So, eighth you said? Right?"

The Marshal's eye twitched, but he didn't hesitate to take Tsukishima's clipboard and send him forward.

"Last match," Ukai said, addressing Kuroo with a challenging glint in his eyes. "Make it count."

You bet.

Tsukishima turned before Kuroo could speak, throwing him a new staff in one fluid movement. Kuroo caught it, barely, his eyes trained on the fire which was slowly building in Tsukishima's.

The blond looked back towards the Marshal, no hesitation present.

"We will."

The first thing Kuroo realized about Tsukishima's fighting was how gentle it looked. Tsukishima never exerted more energy that need be, and his blows looked and sounded more like taps.

But they were far from it.

With each strike Kuroo could feel the full power and ferocity behind it, and he actually had to do his best to keep up, to not stumble or miss a block.

His eyes locked on Tsukishima's as his body reacted to every movement and breeze of the staff in the blond's hand, ears ringing as it hit his own.

Come to think of it, maybe gentle hadn't been the best word to describe this. There was nothing gentle about how they were fighting. The strikes were brutal, the sweat building, and they'd both been hit two times.

Tied.

Tsukishima's gaze was all Kuroo could seem to focus on, the pure intensity of it outshining the overhead lights, rendering everything inside Kuroo immobile.

But he couldn't do that could he? He had to be a good partner, he had to add to the dialogue.

Kuroo smirked as Tsukishima blocked a quick round of his strikes, his short hair starting to grow matted against his forehead. It was a good look on him, but Kuroo probably shouldn't have been paying much attention to that.

He leaped forward, assaulting Tsukishima with another round of quick strikes, none of which met flesh. Then, Tsukishima pushed against Kuroo's staff on his third block, driving him away with way more strength than anyone could've anticipated.

Kuroo wasn't surprised, though the gasps of people around him made pride bubble in his chest.

Tsukishima was amazing, and he'd expected no less.

They kept on like this for a few more minutes, the longest match yet. Push, pull. Strike, block. Equal blows, smooth movements. Everything Kuroo had wanted from a candidate, from a partner.

Because that's what Tsukishima already was, and anyone could see it. They moved together perfectly, in just the right way, and then it finally occurred to Kuroo, what this felt like. Not a fight, not even a conversation.

A dance.

At the thought, Kuroo laughed, overcome with stupid joy which he doubted anyone would be able to take away from him. He'd missed feeling like that.

Tsukishima smirked right back at him, before he brought his staff around his back in less than a second, landing a clean strike to Kuroo's side.

Damn, Kuroo thought, but there wasn't a trace of disappointment in his expression.

Kuroo managed to land his third blow at the same time Tsukishima landed his, and before Kuroo knew it, the blond landed the fourth, signaling the end of the match.

Kuroo couldn't help the desire to keep going, but at the same time, he knew it wouldn't be the last instance where they worked together.

It was only the beginning.

As Tsukishima withdrew, the blond bit his lip, suppressing a smile. "Four points to three."

"Four points to three," Kuroo repeated, grinning back. "Good job rookie."

The urge to sweep Tsukishima up in his arms was quickly derailed by Ukai clearing his throat, and Kuroo was immediately reminded of their very public situation. Both he and Tsukishima approached the Marshal, stiff and obedient as Kuroo willed the flush on his face to go down.

Ah whatever, doesn't matter now.

Kuroo looked up at the Marshal, awaiting the verdict. There was only one way this could go, now that Ukai had seen them in action, but Kuroo couldn't help the small pit of fear in his chest.

He wanted Tsukishima as his partner, his friend, his...whatever they ended up being. All he knew was that he wouldn't pilot the Nekoma without him, and he wouldn't let anyone change his mind.

At the thought, he couldn't help but squeeze Tsukishima's hand tight, pleased when the blond squeezed in return.

Give and take, back and forth. That's how it should always be.

Ukai dipped his head forward, analyzing them both with the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Report to the Jaeger bay in an hour pilots. That's an order."

Kuroo exhaled, and fuck it, he pulled Tsukishima into a hug, the relief overtaking him as they both gave an affirmative.

"Yes sir."

Kuroo felt his eyes mist over for some unknown reason, thinking of the Nekoma, and how soon, he'd be reunited with her. And this time, he wouldn't be alone. No matter how scared he got, or how cruel the world became, he'd never have to be alone again.

#kurotsuki #kurotsukiexchange #kurotsukki #adri writing

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tedfashionski · 4 years ago

Text

Reality Patch

(3393 - long read, messy, technically ‘unfinished’ whatever that means)

There was a little bubble of interest in the Miu Miu pre-fall collection in the twitterverse a few weeks (months? years?) back – it seemed torn out of time. Made in the winter, shown to press in January? Viral in the early summer? To be bought..… sometime? Part of the issue is the term ‘pre-fall’. Pretty certain that’s summer. This collection feels like it doesn’t exist. I guess if I ever went shopping, it would make more sense? But as a broke hut-dwelling internet denizen, I’m lost. It’s this money-spinning side to fashion commerce that’s the ‘real’ collection, but it’s named after a non-existent season. The pre-fall/resort problem lies in that it’s the collection that gets the least press, because not normally presented in a show, but also functions more solidly as merchandise. Certain agitators want to eliminate these non-events, and revert to twice-yearly seasons. It’s a fucking mess. What even is this? The fashion calender is broken and illogical. I’m going to write here about the Marni AW 20 ‘Alice in Wonderland’ collection alongside Moocher’s pre-fall thing, because I’ve got queries about patchwork and they play well together.

I have …complicated… feelings about the patchwork. We’re probably going to see more and more of it and I’m not sure we’re asking the right questions of it. How do we avoid it becoming just ‘aesthetic’ (in pop speak = empty), rather than a manner of process that informs continual work going forward and results in an un-replicable feeling, a new angle on reality (an….. aesthetic). How to stop it becoming something we all get bored of? Because, the only guarantee in fashion is boredom.

Patchwork collage

Miu was a solid offering – it maintains a certain quality, obvs – and is good in its own way according to its own logic as Miuccia’s offerings usually are. A vision of commerce, yes, but also a kaleidoscopic frozen moment of girlhood that wants to aid us in our navigation from then to there, the ‘there’ being an upcoming un-season (A/W/S/S?) and maybe a sense of maturity. Now, there’s no point in me complaining about low quality info from the establishment on their dealings then failing to engage thoroughly with work when it is delivered in detail on multiple fronts (written aspect, full campaign, video that I can’t find anymore but remember seeing unless it was a hallucination, and look book – many angles).

Embellished bodices/check check/white fuzzy tights/nice shiny heels/19th c take on afghan jacket very good/prairie psycho/much boring merch – (awkward stances suggest candid, ambivalent)

Miu look book Collage

Our press release ponders:

‘When was the last occasion you lived in an enclosed world, where time stretched out, seemingly endlessly, in front of you? When was the last time your interior world felt as important as the exterior one, where you were free to imagine and to contemplate who you might actually want to be? Chances are it was when you were a teenager, with all of the triumphs and trepidations that entailed, particularly if you were a teenage girl.’

Well, it sure sounds like it sucks to be a real adult who gave up on their dreams. When was the last time I felt free in my internal playground? Every day of my life, bitches. I’m your anomaly, Prada copy-writer. But, point taken. Work sucks when you’re doing it for other people, and we’ve all had times when you feel caught and pinched and empty in our creative attempts. And now, we’ve all been grounded by our stupid parents for the last few months. Stuck in our rooms. Some by choice, some not. And if we’re allowed out right now, the second spike is coming and we’re all depressed about the limits we have to live under in order to reduce advancing death.

‘A dream-like, interior world is conjured through Douglas Irvine’s photography to match the external, magical manifestation on display in the clothing. A blur of florals and glittering visual embellishment, diaphanous drape and ecstatic movement belie the strict foundations for both the images and garments.’

campaign collage

So far, so wordy and detailed. A world is glimpsed. One with blurs but strict foundations. A real world made hazy. We have classic codes walking in a trepidatious vein. Miu Miu girl is testing out the limits of her horizons, playing with her identity through her clothes and thinking to herself, how much do I want to give away? What will I keep? But the text continues:

‘Wearing a clothing collection that splices the utilitarian with the formal, the everyday with the extravagant, delicate artisanal embellishment is contrasted with and applied to a notion of the sturdily homespun. Here, nineteenth century literary heroines, both fictional and actual, are channelled, the sources of teenage-girl bedroom revolutions in both style and substance, yet worn by a new generation of everyday heroines with all of their contrasting clothing choices.’

We lose track here. Not sure this collection actually feels ‘artisanal’ or ‘sturdily homespun’. there’s the late 20-teens pop refrain of dark psychedelia’s fixation on moth-eaten fin de siècle grandness, the upending of 19th C avant-garde in the counter-culture’s looping democratisation. We have an eclecticism, a thriftiness, a carelessness with the past symptomatic of isolated children playing with a mish-mash of pieces born of hemmed-in theatrics.

3 MIU PICS

MORE – CAMPAIGN/POSES/FACES/DESCRIBE CLOTHES – here comes what night?. Colour, focus. Don’t really like the clothes, wouldn’t wear any of this tbh.

CAMPAIGN PICS coll

As for Marni’s Alice in Wonderland, I have languishing notes which seem as old and tired as the idea of 2019. I was practising twitter threadiness, and got as far as notes on Milan before the covid freeze set in my mind. I like mixed responses, it’s the only thing that feels fair, but with those Milan collections I couldn’t achieve any sort of resolution or clear point. I didn’t know how I felt anymore. I’m unresolved in how I feel about criticism. It should be functional, but not necessarily constructive, if I feel the need to tear something down, as a critic that is within my job description. I’ll write a proper bit on the perils of fashion criticism from a distance, but in short I feel that it’s unfair to criticise a designer’s work from afar, especially negatively, but that until the fashion community realises the value of a public culture of critique (criticism being the only process by which you can hope to form an art system), real critics engaged with honestly parsing the strengths and weaknesses of fashion practice in service of public health will have to criticise from afar. This will impact the quality of the work, but it is hoped the audience can accept the pinch of salt required of virtual critique of a virtual fashion experience. The subject of the criticism here isn’t the clothes. I’m not asking questions of fit, of quality, I’m asking whether this is good fashion communication, as a time-dependent media phenomenon. And, yes, I know I’m late on this one. Temporal fashion stress must take a rain check at present.

Marni –

“collaged from the beginning to the end—from macro to micro to fractal. It’s about putting together remnants.”

cut velvet woven by hand in a factory in Venice on looms that were originally designed by Leonardo da Vinci—a vanishing, time-consuming craft that Risso understandably wants to “protect and exalt.”

“Are we in a psychedelic world and we need to be more grounded, or are we in a caged world and we need to be freed by psychedelia?”

THREE MARNI

risso Quotes:

“Finding beauty in the leftovers,”

“There’s a beauty in the past. I was kind of upset lately, thinking about people on their phones -- what about these objects that take hours to make, like these Venetian tapestries?”. mosaic of the remnants.

new, conceptual territory,

remnants of the previous collections

“It’s a celebration of DIY, Alice in Wonderland, and it’s about her spirit, her searching and questioning,”

the Cheshire Cat’s “We’re all mad here” mantra, as he talked about mandalas and allowing time for ideas to grow.

“Her spirit is within each creature, always wondering and questioning,”

“Making this collection has been the strangest mystery,” he confided. “It’s almost as if it regenerated itself – recreated itself – like an insatiable mosaic.”

THREE MARNI

At their best they’re the insatiable fractal mosaic he speaks of – something that situates you betwixt density and freedom. Was patchy – moments of clarity, moments of aimlesslness.. Appreciate the fashion-as-curious-adventure methodology. Ties and openness and rotation were true to Marni.. Materials – twisted tradition meeting rational plain cottons hit the mark. Gold rings, like they’ve melted through from another dimension. They were scattered over the body, but I was left wanting to know more of this motif – what if it become structural, like a portal to another plane? Patchwork that doesn’t feel done in good faith. Like a trick. None of these shapes are done in the spirit of patchwork, like the wrong kind of luxury. Too much care is given to appearing careless, but a reach for dizzying angles in effect sidelines affect – it feels tidily resolved, and then mussed around at the end. I’m probably wrong on many fronts about the reality of their process. But what I’m feeling right now is that if all you’re aiming for is the ‘look’ of patched pieces rather that the ‘ethic’ or process of thrift, then you’ll just get trapped in an endless empty labyrinth of false choices. It’s not about the look, it’s about shiftinG your total parameters of design decision making going forward. Additive.

I’m still figuring out how I feel about this. Both these collections suffer from a neat, pat resolution of the question of the deadstock aesthetic that avoids the hard work of engaging with the limitations of that mode of work. Where is the tension? Where is the sacrifice? The loss of freedom in thrift must be acknowledged. If you’re telling me a story about a lost girl in a crazy world that makes no sense, why do her questions of her physical environment feel so impersonal? Many designers are going to turn to patchworking, out of both necessity and fashion gameplaying. Each designer is going have to work their way to an individual conversation with the difficult questions of recycling while avoiding the traps of the easy way out. Both teams failed at this test, in these collections. Sustainability isn’t easy, or anywhere close to being properly engaged with by our establishment figures. (Viktor & Rolf are a good example of recycling feeling right and thought about and cared for).

Viktor&Rolf samples

I’m reading Lolita at the moment. (CAN YOU TELL?) I’m not a good reader. (CAN YOU TELL?) A.D.D., I guess. I get bored and drift off to fantasyland. But here’s a stab at some fancypants analysis: The far-off subject, Lolita herself, is overlooked by the narrator’s masturbatory myopia. Her exploration of her own girlhood/womanhood is reduced and flattened by her abuser who needs her to be something else, something thing-y. A two-dimensional being. The tension between predation and autonomy, her wounded rebellion and navigation of self are so distant in the book you can’t help but want to reach out to her, through her abuser’s hideous twisted lens. Humbert’s POV colours everything, Lolita isn’t permitted her own take, everything she does is ridiculous and gazed down upon, he feels he’s permitted to just take her, to prioritise his own long-abated lust without thought of the consequences to her sense of self.

This vibe I’m analysing here, the bruised and fuzzy self-discovery of Miu Miu and the lost-play of Marni, kind of feels like it hasn’t really shrugged off the top-down, hidden, extractive gaze of the cornered, self-pitying male power player. Maybe the viewer is Humbert. Maybe I’m Humbert. Maybe you’re Lolita. Maybe vice versa. But he’s there, in the corner, or taking the picture. Someone’s always taking it in, and jealously building a crypto-fantasy version of the girl, even as our self-birthing adolescent is feeling towards a way to fight it off.

campaign

Spring 2020 was a fucking twisted, disorienting, stretched moment. Tough times for fashion practitioners, not just in terms of lost profits or mob moralising (pppeoppllle arree dyyinnnngggg howww daree you talkkkk aboutttt fashioonnnn) but in the nuts and bolts of fashion practice – if the role of the fashion designer is to collaborate with their wearers in plotting a path to the future, when a world-re-orienting catastrophe occurs, it rapidly recontextualises their attempts at constructing a scaffold around the unknown. The idea that the future can be planned for and known through schedules and aesthetic anticipation gets rumbled. The foundation of that building site got a bit cracked during this Spring’s quake. Mapped onto ongoing structural issues in, what I guess in this analogy is a renovation of our historic temporal orientation casino, basically fashion collapsed in its usual confidence along with the economy (economics being fashion with numbers and no fun so it’s respectably masc. vom). Who knows who’s going to go out of business. There may not be a Miu Miu or a Marni or whoever in the future. Names we take for granted are just going to die. That’s a loss for the art aspect. Cus these guys are creative, mad geniuses who deserve a healthy context for their vision. (OTOH: die, fashion industry, die! I dance in the glow of the flames of your destruction with gleeee). These two collections actually speak to me across the span of the last six months, which takes some doing. They succeeded in the criteria that we should actually apply to fashion practice: satnav for the social soul. As sense of protection from the twists of time. A hand to hold. Someone to talk to. And time is super twisty rn. Good job holding on as we fall through the looking glass, random Italians! Now, to work.

COLLAGE

Colours – piecework – slippery glistening rainbow lensflares – Marni, FR places himself as an agent of chaos, someone with a hidden explanation refusing to submit to logic and set ways, a spanner in the works of Alice’s complacency.

Patchwork, rhizomatic? (????, what is that. Idk, just sounds funnnn), no beginning and end, things relating to one another in disjointed, flexible ways. FR gives is little hints at the instability that patching offers, the early looks in Miu are far too comfortable. In the cut, sheets are formed out of set shapes – traditional, in the spirit of that half-remembered literary heroine – but neat, very very neat. Happy patchwork . Not patchwork that’ll prompt you to any alternative engagement with your world. FR is poking holes, even burning them out with molten gold, playing with the limits of ‘traditional’ or easily molded pieces. There’s skirts that feature block pieces - an armhole, a curve that any dressmaker will recognise, but set elsewhere, surrounded by other pieces so that the shaping becomes as redundant as Alice’s desperate attempts to right her upside down world. That ordered, shaping impulse is pawed at in the Marni work, but indulged in by Miu Miu. Our Miu Miu heroine feels more like an only slightly misunderstood brat, but Marni’s Alice is strung out and barely even human anymore. I’m disappointed in both approaches, but Marni, as the radically abstract collection that’s pushing concept on us, is the one that actually fails in its aims. Mrs Prada & Co are aware of the limits of commercial offerings. They’re happy to speak when permitted, in the lulls between commerce. It’s pragmatic and unadventurous, romantic within set bounds. It’s a walk in the park, where Marni is a clumsy trip through an open manhole cover.

COLLAGE

I said at the beginning of this that if we’re only going to see more patchwork as a process we actually have to grapple with it, and there’s a risk at this point in fashion that the fashion people (c’est moi aussi, mfs) are going to go ‘oh, been there, done that, on to the next thing’ without ever actually engaging with it as a means of creating fashion. What does (BRANDNAME) recycling look like, what makes it (BRANDNAME) in a way that become part of a lexicon long term rather than another sticky-plaster? Patchworking is many things, but what are its fundamentals? It’s a way of forming textile surfaces that accepts that which is available. It’s humble and more concerned with ethics than end result. The small squares/triangles in traditional American quilting are ways to systematically optimise waste pieces and merge them with other pieces. This in its own turn creates more micro-waste, perhaps to be used as stuffing, but forcing scraps into legible grids is very strict and imperial, the grid being an easy way of organising a surface from above. Grids and precise geometries are more like things overlaid, not bubbling up from beneath. They’re simple and readily comprehensible. There’s other forms of merging irregular pieces: think of rag-rug like textiles, crocheting with strips, or applique. Certain aesthetic choices can be made when you’re actually working with the idea of recycling waste material, rather than looking for an end-result before you even started. A cut piece has an end but with patchwork it can become endless. There’s kind of something anti-hierarchical about it. Waste pieces formed out of negative space can relate to each other not in the sense of ‘this looks pretty’ but more in the sense of ‘spontaneity rules’.

I’m realllly self-consciousness about existing in the purgatory between between fashion and theory. Theory thinking of itself as ‘too serious’ for fashion and fashion of itself ‘too fun’ for complex discussion (sidebar: can we stop talking about showstudio as if it is in any way innovative? I can’t watch those videos. I have classic fashion goldfishitis. Where is my colour and jazziness and silly nonsense. Why tf do fashion people think ‘oh, critique! must be unfashion. Must sit in room being boring with no cuts or editing. Here, watch a fucking zoom call, fuck your need for beauty.’ The motherfuckers are working against us. Hate, Hate, Hate, you fucking jerks). So, my difficulty lies in how to dodge the hierarchical perception of theorising, people assuming you’re talking down rather than across, when they’re often dyslexic or disinterested in this kind of stuff because they’ve been taught to think it’s ‘beyond’ them or it’s just some bullshit they’ve found boring/embarrassing/trauamatizing. There’s nothing wrong with finding something boring when it’s engaging in elitist and hierarchical perceptions of ‘intellctualismsm’ or ‘quality’. There’s so much work to do, so much rubble to excavate. I’m not writing about Deleuze & Guattari’s analyses of patchwork for a reason here: I haven’t read them. I attempted A Thousand Plateaus in undergrad, gave up, and since then have really struggled with this feeling of being caught between modes of being - visual/verbal/temporal. Fashion zonked, theory enraged. I have a deep respect for the communicative power of dress and fashion media, paired with immense frustration at the slight engagement with complexity in the culture. Theorizing can be colourful, can be fun, can be bright. Fashion doesn’t need to abandon these wonderful things in order to have some self-respect. In fact, its self-respect will only be assured when it learns to push forward towards aggravating, complex dialectics in its own styles of discourse that fashion people actually want to engage with. I expect at some point within the next decade I’ll find a way to develop my self-confidence in reading beyond wikipedia and want to return properly to the topic of quilting and patchwork in relation to rhizomes and abstract post-structural philosophy, but I’m not there yet. Maybe there’s nothing there in D&G, just hot air, or maybe fashion isn’t worthy of theorising. Both suck in various ways. I’m not confident enough in the theory realm to interact with any self-assurance in a way that computes in both worlds. I’m only just learning to piece myself back together after trying to work within fashion’s established methods and failing. I’m here slowly feeling my way towards engaging properly as a dedicated reader and a dedicated fashion practitioner. But the responsibility to push forward and make fashion practice sufficiently rigorous, self-reflexive, critical and engaged with other fields while playing to its own strengths as discipline that actually brings something to the table, without the solidarity of peers engaged in the same questions, it gets a bit disorienting sometimes.

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