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mamaskillerqueen · 4 years

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Maybe an imagine with Ben where the reader's brother teaches him gow to play the drums for BoRhap and the reader is at her brothers house and Ben kinda falls head over heels for her but thinks that she's actually the girlfriend and not the sister? 🙊

A/N: Okay, so I have a big brother who is my literal best friend. We’ve been through a lot and so we’re pretty tight. Unfortunately, our ages are pretty close together and we don’t look much alike, so this has been an actual problem on several occasions. This was so fun to write, I hope you enjoy it!

“Are you for real right now?!”

“Oh come on!”

A knock on the door pulled your brother from your shared rant about the video game you were both currently playing. He had moved into this new place two months ago and was a bit further away than you were used to.

Growing up, even through all the sibling abuse, you were both really close. Not having him close by to chat to when your life was in shambles was a struggle. He always gave the best advice and so you often found your self crashing on his couch on weekends.

As he got up to answer the door, expecting someone for some drumming lessons, you switched the game to single player. He was always higher ranked than you and it left him better off. This weekend you had been determined to catch up.

“Y/N, we’ll be over here with the drums. Do you mind checking on the coffee then?”

Your brother was probably the biggest enabler of your coffee addiction and almost always had a fresh pot brewing. After the ridiculously late night of travelling here, coffee was just what you needed this morning. Quick to make sure you weren’t going to be loading into a match, you jumped up from your seat to bounce into the kitchen.

“You got it!”

When you rounded the corner of the couch though you came face to face with a set of gorgeous green eyes. He offered a slight smile and you couldn’t help but return it.

“Would you like some coffee too?”

Always the hostess, as your brother was horrible at it. When the blond beginning drummer nodded his head you headed towards the kitchen to fetch some coffee.

Why your brother thought the dinning room was a great place for his drum kit, you’d never know. But when you had three mugs filled with the delicious beverage you headed into the room. The men were talking animatedly about music and you didn’t want to interrupt.

“Ben, right?”

The man turned, his cheeks a bit flushed, probably from passionately discussing music. With a smile you handed off his coffee.

“Sorry, I didn’t know how you liked it. I left everything on the counter in the kitchen though.”

“Thank you.”

You handed off your brothers coffee and with a quiet ‘I’ll leave you to it’, you went back to the game.

You could feel eyes on you but you decided to ignore it as you slipped the headset back on and continued on your mission of levelling up.

Ben’s POV

Roger. Fucking Taylor.

He just landed the role of Roger Taylor. Without knowing how to play the drums. Panic was quick to set in after the initial elation. He enlisted the help of a few of his friends and tracked down a reputable player who was willing to teach.

Excitement and anxiety was expected, and was exactly how he felt the whole way to his new teacher’s house. He knew music, played the guitar and often himself writing songs without much thought. Drums were intimidating though. One small mess up on the drums and the timing of the whole song is off.

What he didn’t expect was his teacher’s girlfriend to be there, or for her to be so damn beautiful. It had definitely taken him off guard and he was hoping that he wasn’t too obvious in his checking her out. This was the role of a lifetime and he couldn’t mess it up because he found some girl attractive.

When she left to make coffee, it was easier to get sucked up in the conversation of music. It had been years of learning the structure of songs and passion behind writing lyrics but he’d never had anyone to discuss it with. Having the chance to was incredible and he almost completely forgot about the girl his teacher called Y/N.

And then she handed him coffee. There was something about her eyes that pulled him in, something he felt like he couldn’t resist. He wouldn’t make a move, that would be horrible but, it didn’t make the pull any weaker. Her walking away was probably the best thing to happen since he stepped in the door.

The rest of the lesson went on without an incident, his mind filling with notes and tempos and pacing. He didn’t have time to think about her, or the fact that she was just in the other room. It wasn’t until the lesson was over that he was forced to come face to face with her again.

Y/N’s POV

You were more than thankful for the noise cancelling headset but even with them on, and the gaming running, you couldn’t quite help but get sucked into the lesson happening behind you. No matter how much you were going pretend like it wasn’t the case, you were definitely interested in this actor that was suddenly taken with drumming.

In the midst of trying to pay as much attention to the task at hand in game, you felt something hit you in the head.

“Hey bitch, c’mere!”

You pulled the headset off your head, glaring at your brother who had a huge grin on his face. Mischief written all over his face made you skeptical as you rose from the chair you were in.

“What do you want, jerk?”

“Hang out with Ben while I run upstairs real quick.”

With a roll of your eyes you leaned against the dining table, motioning towards the stairs so your brother would go do whatever it was he needed to. When your eyes landed on Ben you noticed the wide eyed look he had and almost laughed. You could only imagine what was happening in his head. Your brother disappeared, taking the steps two at a time.

“How’d the first lesson go?”

A casual tone was what you were going for but you honestly weren’t sure if that was even close to what it sounded like. Lucky for you, Ben didn’t seem to notice. His eyes blinked a few times pretty quickly, like he was pulling himself from an inner monologue.

“It was good, really good. Learned a lot. Thank you for letting me come into your home and practice.”

“Oh, this isn’t my home. So, you know, you’re welcome anytime.”

His brow pulled together for a split second but then he chuckled along with you. Having experienced this situation more than once you finally caught on to what was clearly happening.

“I’m just visiting for a few days. Haven’t my jerkface of a brother in a few weeks so, you know, had to come pester him. Little sister duty and all.”

“Sister?”

He clearly didn’t mean to say that out loud but you couldn’t help but laugh again as you nodded your head.

“Sister.”

“Huh.”

He was quite for a while, far longer than you were comfortable with. The silence stretched on and made you shift your weight against the table you were leaning against, your arms crossing over your chest. His eyes were unfocused, like he was lost in thought and so you just awkwardly looked around the room.

What the hell was your brother even doing?

“So, as the sister, I’d still be able to get lessons if I asked you out on a date?”

Your head snapped up from the spot on the floor that had become incredibly interesting.

“I’m sorry?”

“You don’t think he’d make me find another teacher if I asked you out on a date?”

It took a moment and then a smile quickly took over your face, maybe you had read the whole situation correctly afterall.

“No, he definitely wouldn’t make you find another teacher. As little sister, I’d just got tell mum.”

This got you a laugh, one so melodious you were sure it could be the perfect hit single. Top of the charts. The only thing to beat it was when he actually asked a moment later. It wasn’t until all the details were figured out, and phone numbers were exchanged that your brother finally made an appearance. It was almost like he was just sitting at the top of the steps waiting.

He handed over a pair of drumsticks to Ben, siting that they were far superior to any other. You suspected he was lying, but you didn’t say anything other than a goodbye to Ben. When the door clicked behind his exit you turned to your brother with a raised brow and a shake of your head.

“You are such an idiot.”

“Hey now, I just got you a date! Shut it.”

#ben hardy x reader #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy fanfiction #ben hardy fluff #banana writes #banana answers #xstrangesoundsx

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le-switch · 4 years

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Yes, that’s right, 125 pecking headcanons

This has been in my notes for way too long dfjkdf

I’ve been writting down headcanons for the switch in time au for a while. I stopped doing that now so i thought i might as well share what i got done

@switch-in-time It is time- JK you already saw these

💫 Empress thinks the other kids are really cool but doesn't wanna admit it 💫 After sneaking through the manor, Snatch started to strongly dislike cold weather, and even became a little afraid of it 💫 Moonjumper also started to dislike cold weather, just not as much as his brother 💫 The florist is taller than everyone else. She makes fun of everyone for it but will stop if someome gets actually upset 💫 Grooves prefers instrumental music over lyrical music, since he can create his own lyrics for them 💫 Despite being a very popular and talktative kid, Grooves doesn't feel comfortable enough to sing in front of others yet 💫 Connie is the only one who has heard Grooves' singing voice. It was an accident, but he doesn't regret it 💫 Empress would be nicer if everyone taught her how to do the things they are able to do (Like MoonJumper's arts and crafts, for example) 💫 The moon penguins got to know each other thanks to Grooves, and they'll always be grateful to have him as a friend 💫 The express owls already knew each other before meeting Connie 💫 The express owls know that Connie isn't really as mean as he pretends to be, and they all care for him 💫 Hattie's bed is not hers anymore. It was completely invaded by the kids and she now mostly sleeps in her pillow fort 💫 Split Nessa is more unorganized than Gen Nessa, since her appereance doesn't really matter anymore 💫 Snatch stole everyone's left socks at some point 💫 Split Snatch and MoonJumper have an ant farm and they love every single one of their ants 💫 Connie and Grooves will overdramatize everything since they wanna be actors, no matter how mudane the situation is 💫 Mafia Bab once tried to "kidnap" Mu by trying to block her way with chairs. It did not work 💫 To join the mafia you must shave your hair since "Mafia boss is only mafia member allowed to have hair" 💫 Split Snatch and Moonjumper can't be found separated from each other. If you see one of them alone, the other must be nearby 💫 Nessa is usually very polite and shy, but once she's comfortable around you she can become a little bratty 💫 Everyone thinks Split Snatch is adorable and he hates it 💫 Empress doesn't like to play in mud 💫 After being defeated in his "boss battle", Snatch became so exhausted he accidentaly fell asleep on Hattie 💫 MoonJumper loves to swim and play with water 💫 Snatch on the other side, hates water and it's a pain to force him to bath 💫 Empress was supossed to get temporary glasses after her eye got scarred but she refused, and will refuse for the rest of her life 💫 Every kid has called Hattie "Mom" at least once. Most of them are accidents tho 💫 Nessa is the only one who hasn't called Hattie "Mom" by accident because they're all on purpose 💫 Shapeshifter is one of the kids Connie considers an "enemy" since the day they tricked him into giving them his nuggies 💫 Shapeshifter also wants to be an actor like Connie and Grooves, but their shyness wont let them even practice 💫 The Prince from the Split timeline was a Gemini 💫 Every mafia kid wants to be an actual mafioso when they grow up, except for one, who wants to be a paranormal investigator 💫 Despite wanting to be a paranormal investigator, this particular mafia kid is afraid of paranormal stuff. He's trying his best tho.... I'm talking about Goofy Mafia obviously- 💫 The Subcon trio once played 'Kingdom' and Nessa got to play as queen. They never played this game again 💫 Mafia bab and Goofy Mafia were the most hurt by Mu's betrayal, and yet, they were the first kids to forgive her 💫 Snatch was caught trying to steal Hattie's cereal once. Instead of giving it back like a normal child, he started to run yelling it was HIS cereal now 💫 Empress used to like theater until she learned it was for "nerds" 💫 Split Snatch is not an actual ghost despite being like one. He still has to eat, sleep, breath and has a heartbeat 💫 How are babies made? This is a question only Badge knows the answer to 💫 Mafia bab and Goofy Mafia love pizza but the other Mafia kids like hamburguer better 💫 Connie can, and will bite your legs if you make him mad, wich is very often so you better wear long pants 💫 It's very hard to make Grooves mad, but if you do, he'll give you the silent treatment 💫 When Snatch gets sick he will either take full advantage of the situation or pretend he's perfectly fine and push himself to his limit 💫 Mafia bab to Empress: What do you MEAN theater is for nerds??? 💫 Shapeshifter likes to hang out with the penguins and Grooves the most 💫 After a while, Snatch learned that calling any of the alien gals "mom" is the ultimate manipulative move 💫Goofy Mafia and Mafia bab, despite having pretty much opossite personalities, get along so well to the point of being considered best friends 💫 Mafia bab somehow recognizes and knows the names of every single one of the Mafia kids 💫 Mu subconsciously plays favorites. She can't help it, she has to take care of almost 100 kids, if not more 💫 Nessa has a small crush on Snatch. The feeling is, sadly, not mutual 💫 Snatch snatches Nessa's crown sometimes. He likes to pretend he's a king 💫 Mu's cape looks REALLY messy and it's mostly an amalgamate of stitches and fabric. That's because Mafia made it. It was a Mafia gift 💫 Goofy Mafia's other best friend is Thor. Thor would like it better if he spoke like a normal person tho 💫 Bow is a GREAT actress. She can save entire shows with the power of her presence alone 💫 The reason Snatch is more afraid of Victoria than MJ is because he was the closest to being caught. This means he got to see her eyes and the cold stare she always carries with them 💫 This may sound ironic but Snatch strongly dislikes snowball fights. He'd rather build a snowman while drinking hot cocoa 💫The only way Snatch and Empress get along is when it's winter and neither of them want to go outside 💫 Shapeshifter and Empress both have a massive sweet tooth 💫 Thor eventually manages to break Goofy Mafia's habit of speaking in third person. The Mafia kids are confused and Mafia bab is scared 💫 When Nessa gained a lot more confidence, she started to show public affection towards Snatch with the sole purpose of making him flustered. He hates it 💫 Thor can tell when Mafia bab breaks his stuff on accident, even if he tries to pretend it was on purpose. He can identify when he's nervious or guilty 💫 When Split Snatch gets REALLY mad, he burts into flames. The Fire spirits love when this happens 💫 When someone dies, they are given the options of going to the afterlife, stay as a Subconite if they feel like they died before it was their time, or stay as a Dweller to guard the forest if they don't have any issues left but want to be helpful 💫 The Dwellers don't remember their past life, since it'd get in the way of their duties. However, they can feel conections to those who were close to them 💫 If you were really REALLY close to a Dweller when they were alive, they might give you a flower 💫 A particular Dweller gave Nessa a flower once. She was really confused but felt the need to keep it anyways 💫 The swamp tries to drown Hattie at first, for she is an intruder. However the forest eventually warms up to her and stops trying to harm her 💫 Even if the forest didn't warm up to her it would've made no difference since the Subcon trio likes her 💫 The forest also may or may not be a little jealous of the kids' attachment to Hattie. Especially the Split timeline's forest 💫 Goofy Mafia learned about the types of cables and what they're useful for against his will. Guess who taught him 💫 Thor learned about far away planets and the life forms they might contain against his will. G u e s s w h o- 💫 Empress calls Snatch adorable nicknames like 'Marshmallow'. Don't missunderstand, she does this in a mocking way with the sole purpose of making him mad 💫 When Snatch and Empress fight, it's never certain who will win. The Mafia kids like to bet when it happens in front of them 💫 Split Snatch can sing decently. He usually gets the notes right, but he's not a great singer either, so he almost never sings. Gen Snatch's voice cracks every time he tries 💫 Star kid is a very good writter. They make whole stories by their own and sometimes help Grooves with the creation of his songs 💫 Goofy Mafia actually, geniuenly needs his weird swirled glasses to see 💫 Thor convinces Goofy Mafia to be as nerdy as he wants to be. Being a "cool boy" is overrated anyways 💫 The one thing Mu succesfully taught Mafia bab is that beating kids that can't or won't fight back is stupid. It's not like you win something from it. It's not even fun 💫 Snatch is surprisingly good at strategy videogames. One would think he'd mindlessly go for the strongest attack in rpgs, but he doesn't 💫 Goofy Mafia can, and will kick your butt in racing games like Mario kart 💫 Empress is a natural in fighting games. She knows and plays games she really shouldn't. Like Mortal Kombat 💫 Thor and MJ prefer games where you build and take care of a place 💫 Empress is great at biology. She knows body parts, functions and where to stike to kill you. She doesn't want to be grounded for life tho, so don't worry too much about it 💫 Hattie interrupted a Mafia theater play once. The options she inmediately thought about for that situation were -Say sorry and leave -Play dead -Sweat a lot and stand there awkwardly 💫 Thor can be VERY sassy when he wants to be 💫 Goofy Mafia eventually learns about the power of sass thanks to local goggle boy. He barely uses that himself tho 💫 One of Snatch's biggest dreams is to bite Victoria's ankles 💫 Goofy Mafia makes sure that everything "behind scenes" goes without problem at the Mafia theater when there's a play. He even has a checklist 💫 The checklist is actually nothing but scribbles no one except him can understand 💫 Hattie started a "Too self-conscious to act/sing in front of crowds" club to try and help some kids and herself to be more confident in that aspect 💫 Since Goofy Mafia is like the theater's manager he rarely acts in plays. But he's surprisingly good at playing villains. This confuses E V E R Y O N E, no exceptions 💫 Thor often visits Alpine Skyline when he gets tired of being in Mafia Town. He does this especially when he's working on small projects that don't require big tools or too much material 💫 Little Grooves tried to befriend Empress once. Keyword Tried 💫 Caw agents are the type of children that will carefully observe their toys to see if they move after watching Toy Story 💫 Mu hesitated for a second in The Finale when she saw that both Goofy Mafia and Mafia bab were scared of her 💫 Caw agents often say the same thing at the same time when talking to someone else. No one knows how they do it 💫 Caw agents can be described as 'those kids everyone says are weird, but secretly think they're cool' 💫 Warm weather: Nessa, Empress, Snatch, Connie, MJ, Starkid, Express owls, Hattie, most Mafia kids, Mafia bab 💫 Cold weather: Mu, Grooves, Moon Penguins, Caw agents, Goofy Mafia, Thor, Cookie, Cap'n Warlus and his crew 💫 Both are good: Shapeshifter, Badge, Bow, The Nomads, Nyakuza cats 💫 Nessa spaces out often when not in the manor. Don't laugh at her if she crashes into something or someone when walking, it's already embarasing enough 💫 Badge may not talk much but when they do it's always something wise or confusing that leaves people thinking. Goofy Mafia loves it 💫 Just so you know, wise and confusing can also mean out of place and things kids shouldn't know yet 💫 Badge likes snakes and snakes like them back 💫 Nessa doesn't know how to write things other than her name. Her mother told her that's the only thing she needs to know how to write so she can sign stuff 💫 Split Snatch taught his Nessa how to write. Gen Snatch tried with his, but he's more impatient 💫 Victoria moves similar to a snake when mad. Her massive hair starts moving slightly like tentacles, giving her a medusa-like look. What makes it so scary is that she remains calm and calculating when moving like that 💫 Nessa hates her name. There's people who actually believe her name is Nessa and not Vanessa because she never introduces herself like that 💫 Don't forget that despite that, Nessa is still Vanessa in a sense. She can get REALLY clingy. They're working on it 💫 Mafia kids are REALLY strong. They can take a lot of damage and hit hard 💫 Goofy Mafia is not strong. At all. He is however w a y more agile than the other Mafia kids 💫 Thor doesn't find Mafia bab as annoying when he's geniuenly thinking and trying to understand something. It's even endearing sometimes 💫 Cookie is, unsurprisingly, not very good at acting. But she sometimes plays secondary characters in Mafia plays, since some of those characters might need a more unique look and Mafia kids can't provide that all the time 💫 Empress, after a l o t of self-convincing attended one of the "nerd plays" to see Cookie act, and saw how she rarely fit her roles 💫 Cookie expected Empress to regain at least a little bit of her former love for theater with the play she attended to. She didn't 💫Mafia bab once told Goofy Mafia that he would teach him how to be tough. He didn't believe him, and it didn't really work anyway. If anything it was Thor who taught how to be tough 💫 Empress forces the Nyakuza cats to watch Cookie's cooking tutorials. They ended up liking them so it's not that bad 💫 in stressful situations Goofy Mafia will often hide behind Mafia bab. If he doesn't then Mafia bab will automatically put himself in front of him, so it might as well just happen 💫 Subcon's favorite holiday is halloween. They adore it and will put a lot of attention to detail. Even the queen enjoys some parts of it 💫 The reason Victoria enjoys some of it is because she chooses a group of random people to terrorize all night 💫 The candy for halloween is not for the children. It's for the people Victoria keeps up all night, and it's their decision if they wanna share it with children 💫 Mu actually lives in a cave. She can actually get a normal home, but the cave is cooler and bigger 💫 Mafia was not born in "Mafia Town". One beautiful night Mu woke up to find 100+ children, all of them asleep in boats 💫 If you ask Thor what the worst day of his life was, he'd tell you it was day he woke up to a bunch of random children running around in the usually pacific and quiet town, only to have one of them yell at the top of his lungs that they were staying 💫 Shape can be very forgetful sometimes. Don't call them out if they say "happy birthday" 10 times on your birthday

#a switch in time #switch in time

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ambereyesandwine · 4 years

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We’ve Got Soul: Chapter 4

WC: 2271

Warnings: Sass, cursing, drinking, some rando doing some grabbing, but still nothing too crazy

Beta’d By: @teaspacebar

Notes: We’re still operating about 6 months before the game, a year(ish) has passed since the last chapter, and we’re still working on backstory and happy moments between Fantasia and the boys :)

Chapter 4:

April 26, 2038

8:53 P.M.

“One two three go,” Fantasia sped through the words before her and Gavin downed the shots the bartender had placed in front of each of them. “Was two enough, or do you need more to have fun tonight?”

“I’m fun whether I’m buzzed or not, thank you.”

“No,” Fantasia shook her head, “I mean like normal person ‘I’m at a club and I’m gonna do irresponsible things’ type fun. Not your normal ‘I’m a grumpy old man who likes to glare at people when they sit too close to me at the bar’ type fun.”

“But that is fun.”

“Not on my birthday, it’s not. I want to dance, and you promised.”

“I said I’d come, not that I’d make a fool of myself.”

She huffed and gestured to the bartender for another round. “Well, I’m gonna go dance. With or without you.” She drank the shot without flinching.

“What, you’re gonna dance by yourself?” He scoffed.

“I won’t be alone for long, trust me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Fantasia shrugged, “There’s sleazy guys all over this place. If you’re not going to dance with me, somebody else will.”

“You better not.”

“Except it’s not really up to me, is it?” She held eye contact with him as she backed away until she turned and disappeared in the crowd. For a few moments, Fantasia danced alone, but it wasn’t long before a man approached her from behind and put his hands on her hips. “Woah, do I know you?” She asked as she turned around to face the man.

“No, but I bet you’d like to, huh?” He pulled Fantasia in closer.

“No,” She pushed away from the stranger. “I’d be happy to dance, but you don’t get to touch me like that.”

“This is dancing, come here.” He reached for her again but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“She said no.” Gavin’s stance made him look large, but he was still shorter than the other man.

“Who are y-”

“Oh my gosh, babe!” Fantasia’s tone shifted to a dramatically higher pitch. “I’m so glad you came over,” She draped herself over Gavin’s side, and he promptly wrapped his arm around her waist.

“You said you wanted to dance, so I came over as soon as I was done with my drink.” Gavin replied without missing a beat.

“Aww, thank you,” She kissed Gavin on the cheek before turning to the other man, “I hope you have a great rest of your night.” She stared at the stranger intently until he caved and began to walk away with a dismissive wave of his hand. Fantasia turned into Gavin’s chest and he wrapped his arms around her.

“Are you okay?” He pressed the question into Fantasia’s hair as he continued to watch the other man walk away.

“Yeah, I’m fine, thank you.” She pulled away from him to look him in the eyes, “Wouldn’t’ve happened if you just came to dance with me in the first place though.”

Gavin closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “Fine. But you’re gonna have to buy me another drink first.”

“I can do that.”

April 27, 2038

9:46 A.M.

Fantasia groaned to herself before slowly opening her eyes and sitting up. She found herself shoulder-to-shoulder between the couch and the coffee table, and she squinted, looking around the room. There was a half-empty box of chicken nuggets on the table that Fantasia contently reached for. “Mm, nuggets,” She whispered to herself as she popped one in her mouth. As Fantasia stood, the ground seemed to wobble beneath her and her head pounded. As she struggled to make her way to the kitchen, Fantasia bounced her hip off the corner of the countertop. “Ah, shit,” She mumbled, bent over in pain.

“What?”

THUMP

“Ow.”

“What was that?” She looked over to find Gavin on the floor, half-under the coffee table, clutching his forehead in pain.

He took a moment before he responded, “I hit my head.”

“Well, don’t sleep under the table then.” She grabbed a cup from the cabinet and filled it with water from the door of the fridge.

“I don’t remember how we got back here,” He said, his voice still gravely and cracked from sleep. “Or much of anything from last night.”

“I don’t have anything past that guy you got off me.” She took a small sip of her water and scrunched her face. “We danced right? I kind of remember dancing.”

“Yeah, it was more fun than I thought… I think.”

Fantasia collected a second cup from the cabinet and filled it with water for Gavin. “Good I’m glad,” she said as she approached him. “Here.”

Gavin carefully sat up, and took the water when Fantasia offered it. “Thanks.” He looked up at Fantasia for the first time that morning. “Where are your pants?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere.” She sat down on the couch behind him. “I think this is my favorite shirt.”

“It’s my shirt.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s mine now, actually. I can do whatever I want, and you can’t stop me.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because you just gave yourself a concussion, which I’m pretty sure means that you wouldn’t be able to catch me if I ran.”

“You can’t run right now,” Gavin stated matter-of-factly, “You’re hungover.”

“Yeah, so? You are too; you’re double handicapped.”

Gavin’s stomach made an audible growl, and they both fell silent.

“That bad, huh?” Fantasia asked.

Gavin nodded slightly. “Yeah, are you planning on cooking?”

“Don’t I always?” Fantasia rose from the couch, steadier this time, and went back to the kitchen to get started on breakfast. “You’re on toast duty.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Gavin rose from the floor to join Fantasia in the kitchen. “Bread.”

“Yep.” She handed it over to him between cracking eggs to fry. “Yolks popped or not popped?”

“Not popped, obviously.”

Fantasia nodded and continued to cook until their food was done.

“You wanna watch tv?” Gavin asked with food in his mouth as he walked back into the living room.

She lightly plopped down next to him on the couch, “I’m down.”

It was four enthralling episodes later that Fantasia’s phone went off.

“You don’t have to get that,” Gavin stated.

“I do, it was Carl’s text tone.” Fantasia sat up from her spot cradled in Gavin’s side to check her phone.

‘Are you conscious yet this afternoon?”

‘I’ve been up for a couple hours at this point, thank you very much.’ She sent back. ‘Why, what’s up?’

‘I need you to come by to continue your project. I’d like you finish it today if you can.’

She sighed and looked over to Gavin, “I have to go to Carl’s, he wants me to finish the project I’m working on.”

“Ah, fancy paint stuff. Sounds super important.” He said.

Fantasia turned to him with a look of disbelief. “This is getting me closer to my dream job. I will end your-”

“Holy shit!” He put his hands up in surrender. “I was kidding! I was kidding! Please don’t murder me.”

“You better have been kidding.”

“On my badge and all the coffee I will ever drink again, I promise I was kidding.” He raised his eyebrows in question to see if Fantasia would back off.

She relented with a sigh. “You’re lucky you caught me in time for me to cancel my rant.”

“Hey,” Gavin said as he reached for her, “I’m your best friend. It’s my job to support you a hundred-percent right? Even if I didn’t think you were an amazing artist, I would still be excited because you are. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Well now you’re gonna make me cry.” She smiled into his shoulder.

“Good cry or bad cry?”

“Good cry.”

“So, I’ve fulfilled my nice guy requirement for the day?”

Fantasia sat in suspicious silence for a moment before hesitantly answering, “…Yes?”

“Great.” Gavin stood up suddenly, grabbing Fantasia and throwing her over his shoulder. “You need a shower you smell like a raccoon.”

“What do you mean I- hold on, how do you know what a raccoon smells like?”

He put Fantasia down on her feet in the bathroom. “Ew you look like one too.” He touched under his eyes to mimic where her makeup had smeared overnight.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I love you too.” Gavin started to walk out of the bathroom before turning back to face her again. “Oh hey, did you notice how much easier that was for both of us when you don’t struggle?”

She dead-panned at him. “I’m used to it. Now get out.”

It was only a little while later that Fantasia emerged from the bathroom dressed, damp hair in a messy bun, and light makeup on her face.

“You’re still wearing my shirt.”

“I thought we decided it’s my shirt now.”

“Absolutely not.”

She shrugged as she tied the bottom of the shirt into a knot. “It is today. Throw me my jacket.” She gestured vaguely to where her jacket was draped over the back of the couch.

“Do you even like that band?” Gavin asked as he tossed her the jacket.

“Yeah, they’re one of my favorite old-school groups.”

“They aren’t old school!”

“Please,” She rolled her eyes, “You weren’t old enough to understand the lyrics until after they broke up. They’re old school.”

“You better stop talking if you want a ride.”

“I can always take the bus.”

“You can’t take the bus it’s raining.”

“Not that hard! Besides, how do you think I get around when you aren’t with me?”

Gavin grabbed his keys. “Get in the car, Tasia.”

April 27, 2038

4:38 P.M.

Fantasia hummed to herself as she swept the brush across the canvas. She was painting an open field, with lush, knee-high grass; and budding flowers; and tall, billowing trees around the edges of the clearing. She painted a girl, with her back to the viewer, and Fantasia painted the girl’s hair sweeping gently to the side as though in a breeze. It was where she thought of when she needed to breathe, and remember that whatever hardship, it was only temporary.

“What are you humming?”

“Oh, Markus,” She stopped her painting. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He stepped closer and examined her painting. “What are you painting?”

“It’s just a daydream of mine. My happy place, if you will.” She smiled to herself as she raised the brush to the canvas again.

“Your happy place?” He blinked and a look of confusion crossed his face.

Fantasia let a small giggle escape her. “Yes, it’s the place I think of to calm down if I’m upset of cheer me up if I’m sad.” She added a small flower in the girl’s hair before stepping back. She tilted her head and sighed contently, “I think it’s done.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah?” She turned to face him and quickly realized that Markus hadn’t stepped back when she did, so she found herself only inches from his torso. She took in a quick breath and froze for a moment.

“What’s wrong?” His face contorted to confusion.

She let out the breath she’d been holding and backed up slightly, “Oh, uh it- it’s nothing.” Her face grew red as she turned away, flustered. “What’d you come in here for?” She asked as she started to clean up her paints and brushes.

“Carl wants to see you.”

“Okay, can you tell him I’ll be out in a minute?” She continued to rinse her brushes, trying not to make eye contact with Markus.

“Of course,” Markus said it with a small smile before leaving the room.

When Fantasia was done cleaning up, she walked out of the studio to find Carl alone in the seating area.

“Fantasia come here,” Carl called and gestured to the chair across from him, “take a seat.” She did as he directed, so Carl continued, “Your apprenticeship with me is over.”

She sat silently, mouth agape, and face riddled with pain, waiting for Carl to explain further.

“You will no longer be my student because you are about to come into your own. I am organizing an art show for you, and I’d like you to display each of the works you’ve created in our lessons over the last year and a half, as well as a selection of your personal projects, no matter the medium.”

“What?”

“All you have to do is provide the art. I will be filling out a majority of the guest list, though you’re welcome to invite whoever you’d like, and I’ve hired a planner to handle invitations, catering, venue and whatever else you may need.”

“Will I get to pick any of those?”

“She’ll clear each choice with you before the final decisions get made. That way you can cater your presentation to fit the image you’d like to put forward.”

She was awestruck. “This is an amazing opportunity.”

Carl smiled, “Yes, it is. But it’s one you’re ready for, and I’m excited to see what you’ll do with it.”

“How long do I have?”

“Six weeks. All of the work you’ve done with me or in my studio is still here, so you can start planning whenever you’d like.”

Fantasia’s face was stretched in an ear to ear smile. “I’d like to start now, if that’s okay.”

“Absolutely.”

She rose from her seat and started the short walk back to the studio before turning back toward her mentor. “Carl?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He chuckled slightly. “You earned it kiddo, not me.”

#We've Got Soul #Markus x oc #dbh #Detroit Become Human #Markus #Gavin Reed #Dbh Markus #Dbh Gavin #Detroid Become Human #RK200 #Gavin Reed x oc

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harryandmolly · 5 years

Text

Change of Pace - 3 (Summer 2019)

cowritten by @achinglyshawn

summary: Shawn and Maya meet again 10 years after life got in the way of love

warnings: language

wc: 7.2k

-------------

Geoff drags him out Sunday night, reminds him that he promised to play guitar for karaoke at the SandTrap for at least an hour until their regular guy can get there.

“Besides,” Geoff rasps as he pulls Shawn into local-filled pub on the beach, “you need to have some fucking fun, dude. Stop wallowing over Maya.”

“I’m not wallowing,” he insists, but he sounds a little too defensive even to his own ears. He re-adjusts his grip on his guitar case, following Geoff towards the stage. “Just, you know, processing. It’s a lot to process, dude.”

Geoff takes Shawn’s guitar and sets it down next to his bass on the stage. He gives Shawn a look, amused but sympathetic, then jerks his head towards the bar. “C’mon,” he says, clapping Shawn on the back, “Let’s grab a beer before they need us on stage.”

Shawn doesn’t argue, just lets Geoff push him forward. He takes the first empty seat at the end of the bar and nods at Meghan, the new bartender who started a few weeks ago. She smiles and he thinks maybe she blushes. He wonders if she’d flirt with him, if he tried. Probably. It could be fun, if it sounded at all remotely like something he wanted to do.

Instead, he orders two beers and listens to Geoff talk about the woman at work he’s trying impress until they’re summoned to the stage.

Maya scans herself in the reflection of a too-shiny BMW in the SandTrap lot. She hasn’t seen herself in these shorts since she was in her mid 20s, probably. She found them in the bottom of a box as she unpacked from her storage unit that was shipped over from Manhattan.

She tried them on as a joke initially. But… they looked great. Especially a couple wine glasses in.

She’s heading for the SandTrap tonight because it’s just… time. Truthfully, she hasn’t left the house really since her run-in with Shawn at the farmer’s market last weekend. She’s been in and out to surf but has otherwise gone full hermit. When she realized this morning by looking at a paper that it was Sunday, she felt a sting of shame.

So the SandTrap.

It’s a dive on the beach. Their food is terrible, their service isn’t great, but the music is consistently awesome and Avila is so tiny that the nightlife is limited at best.

Just a drink or two, just to feel like she’s been out. It’ll be fine. Sure, she opened a bottle of shiraz to give herself the courage to get out the door, but this is an adjustment period. She shouldn’t judge herself. And she’s been trying to get him off her mind all week. She needs this.

But the shorts may have been a choice too far. I mean yes, she looks hot. CorePower Yoga and regular pilates were her vices while she was working. She’s in excellent shape. But the little cutoffs with her platform sandals and the drapey tank top? She’s too old for this.

But it’s too late. So she chews on her lip, tasting chapstick and wine, and walks inside.

It’s not the busiest night, and Shawn prefers it that way. The crowd is mostly locals chatting, exchanging a laugh or catching up about their weeks. No one’s too drunk, so the singing on stage hasn’t been awful. Besides, he’s likes watching his friends make idiots of themselves, and he likes listening to the ones who actually manage to carry a tune.

He’s reminded of what fun is, for a little while.

He can’t help but laugh at one of the locals’ rendition of Never Gonna Give You Up, and Geoff catches his eye from across the stage, an approving smile spread across his lips.

It’s not like Shawn needs anyone to take care of him, but it’s nice having Geoff around. He’s never had an older brother, but he thinks Geoff fills the role well.

Cheri claims the last song of the hour before the band goes on break and Shawn passes guitar duty back to Beckett, the kid who regularly plays the gig. The barista picks Careless Whisper as her anthem, and Shawn loves her for it.

He loves this song. This song makes him want to pick up the saxophone, but he’s not sure he has the lung capacity for it. Either way, he finds himself melting into the chords, into Cheri’s pretty voice that soothes him even with the saddest lyrics.

He’s caught up enough not to notice the woman who broke his heart standing in the back of the bar.

Oh, come the fuck on.

She’s able to actually chuckle to herself because of course he’s here. Of course he’s on stage in those tight black jeans bobbing his head as he looks around the dimly lit dive bar. His fingers move deftly against the neck of the guitar she’s known almost as long as she’s known him. She wonders if he remembers the nights he spent holding her between his legs, kissing her neck and shoulders while she tried to learn to play. She hasn’t thought about that in a long time. She got really good at not thinking about that.

Maybe she should take this as a sign and just leave. Maybe she’s done enough just by getting out of her yoga pants to come tonight. Maybe she can count this as a brisk walk by the beach… a little tipsy and in platforms. That’s fine, right?

But then he’s getting off the stage and settling into a stool by the bar and he clearly hasn’t seen her so maybe she’s safe? She recognizes the song the band plays next and it’s giving her a conflicting sign. She has to stay through the end of it, at least. The woman singing has a nice voice.

A woman he doesn’t recognize gets on stage after Cheri, and Shawn’s glad he’s not accompanying anymore, because he kind of hates the song she picks. It’s Ashlee Simpson, an artist he hasn’t heard since college, when Maya would blast her music in her car as they sped through Toronto in search of a hot club or some chicken nuggets. Whichever they’d run into first.

The song makes his heart beat faster. Too much reminds him of Maya these days, including the woman herself. She’s somewhere in this town, breathing the same salty beach air he breathes, watching the same sun rises he watches. Buying the same Starbucks, listening to the same radio stations.

He takes a sip of beer. Forces himself to stop thinking about it. About her. He used to be so good at not thinking about her at all.

Ok, new plan. She’s going to sneak up to the bar behind him and get herself a drink then retreat to where she can stay out of sight. One or two cocktails and she’s out the door, no problem.

Problem: the floorboards are warped by decades of sea salt air and bad weather. She catches an edge and rolls her ankle, crashing into the man standing in front of her with a wince. She apologizes quietly but knows she’s made a scene.

He’s caught up in his effort to push her from his thoughts when he hears a bit of a commotion at the other end of the bar. A barstool screeches, a beer bottle topples onto its side.

When he looks over, he’s not even surprised. She’s always popping up when he’s trying to forget her.

Maya slumps into a stool in defeat, now very sure Shawn’s seen her. She can’t bear to look though. She needs a fuckin’ drink.

Maya’s face looks red as she slips around the man to settle at an empty barstool. Shawn feels his own face turn a similar shade of crimson. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know when she got here or if she’s seen him, but for a moment, he’s stuck.

It’s like a video game, where you’ve got two choices, and one choice moves the story along while the other sends you down a dead end, or over the edge of a cliff. Shawn doesn’t know which decision is which. None of his options now feel right. Staying in his seat and ordering another beer feels like a dead end. Getting up and saying hi feels like flirting with the cliff.

He decides dead ends are boring.

He plucks his wallet from his pocket and tosses a couple bills on the bar before moving down to the other end. He approaches Maya from behind, makes sure she can’t spot him before he’s leaning his forearms on the bar next to her and getting Tom’s attention. He’s the kind of bartender that responds to familiar faces, so Shawn’s pretty sure Maya isn’t making much headway.

The bartender is busy and Maya is impatient. She’s staring at him and leaning most of her weight into her elbows that are propped on the bar but he’s definitely ignoring her in favor of chatting with some patrons she assumes are regulars. She’s about to go full New York Woman and start clearing her throat loudly when she feels a wall of warmth settle in behind her.

She doesn’t have to look. She knows what he feels like even when he’s not touching her.

The hair on the back of her neck stands up under where the rest is clipped up at the back of her head. He’s not so close that she can feel his breath. It’s probably a blessing.

“Shawn, buddy!” Tom exclaims when he makes it back to the end of the bar. “You looking for a whiskey sour?”

“Hey man,” he says with a smile, “Yeah, please. Whiskey sour and a scotch, neat.”

Tom nods, turns away, and Shawn finally risks a look down at Maya.

“That’s still your drink, I hope,” he murmurs with a smile, forgoing any sort of formal greeting.

She turns and lowers back into her stool. His curls are frizzy from the humid air. His eyes are warm and soft. She swallows.

“Yeah. I still drink like an old man,” she confesses, “I think working on Wall Street made it worse.”

She remembers what he tastes like when he drinks whiskey sours. Her mouth waters completely against her will. She squeezes her fingers into the lacquered bar top and drops her eyes to his chest.

She doesn’t even look surprised to see him, which makes him think that she showed up when he was still on stage. And that she knew he was gonna approach her. He hates how predictable he is, but he couldn’t stay away. He’s drawn to her, whether he wants to admit it or not.

She makes him laugh. She always has. And her drinking like an old man joke is one of the oldest they share. His heart flips. He feels inexplicably comfortable and out of control, all at once.

He laughs. Her skin sizzles with the sound. She licks her lips and lifts her eyes to face him.

“Wall Street, eh?” He didn’t know that. “So does that mean you’re rich? Are you the wolf?”

He’s flirting with her. He can’t fucking help it. He’s never not flirted with her. It also gives him something to do besides stare at her, like he wants to. He wants to sit her down and take a proper look, find all the things that have changed in twelve years and commit them to memory, so that he can know her just as well as he used to.

He keeps his gaze on her fingers, instead, watches her nails dig into the bar because it’s the safest place to look. Anywhere else, and he’ll be lost.

Maybe he should’ve picked the dead end.

He’s laughing, he’s joking. She can see the hesitancy in his eyes -- it seems he really doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing either. It’s strange. They used to say whatever came flying into their heads without thinking.

She looks sheepish. “I never even saw that movie,” she confesses, “But I did meet a couple of the guys represented in it.”

She’s so lame.

“I do okay, though. Financially.”

A gross understatement. Maya has more money than she’ll ever know what to do with. Part of stepping away from the office was brought on by realizing in a sweeping wave of guilt how relatively little she’s given to charity in the last decade and change, too caught up in her own life. Another thing to work on.

She sounds like she does whenever she’s trying to be modest, like she totally is rich but it makes her uncomfortable to admit it. He feels stupid for asking the question in the first place. You’re not supposed to ask people about how much money they make, and here he is, hasn’t seen the woman in twelve years, and he’s asking if she’s fucking rich. What’s wrong with him?

She makes him crazy. He decides to blame her, even though it’s totally unfair.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” he murmurs as he drops his gaze to the drinks that appear on the bar in front of them. His fingers curl around his whiskey and he swirls the glass in smooth circles.

Maya wants to scramble all over the place to make him feel comfortable -- it’s an instinct. Her working environment has largely dulled it over the years. She couldn’t get anywhere in New York finance if she was always tripping over herself to make the men around her comfortable. But Shawn brings it out of her easily like it was just at the surface.

“It’s okay,” she laughs, and it feels as light as her head does, “You’re not exactly a stranger, Shawn.”

Not exactly a stranger. Understatement of the year. He feels like he knows her better than he knows himself. But he thinks of all the things he doesn’t know anymore, and the feeling goes. He’s not exactly a stranger, no, but he might as well be.

“What are you doing for work these days?”

He’s watching the ice spin in a vortex, when her question breaks him from his trance. He smiles to himself, then gives her a sideways look.

“I’m, ah, I refurbish and make guitars. And basses and other strings too. And I just started working on my first piano, actually.”

He feels sick, telling her what he does like she’s an acquaintance from the street. He hates that she doesn’t already know. He hates that there’s any time in between them at all, when looking at her makes him feel like he was hers just yesterday.

He remembers the last time he kissed her so clearly. It doesn’t feel like it was years ago. It feels like minutes. Seconds, even. He’s dying to kiss her again, but he knows he can’t. He shouldn’t.

He sips his drink instead.

Maya’s nose twitches as she tamps down a goofy smile. Of course he’d find a way to get even closer to the music. She used to joke that if he could climb inside a guitar and live in there, he would. It seems he found a way.

She watches his adams apple bob as he swallows. She finds herself swallowing around nothing and turns the glass between her hands.

“Of course you are,” she murmurs. It’s a little gentler and warmer than she intends it to sound. It feels like a brush of a hand against someone you’ve loved since you were a kid.

“That’s… that’s amazing, Shawn.” She finds she keeps saying his name. She hasn’t said it in so long. It feels nice.

The way Maya says his name makes his head spin. He tries to find solace in his whiskey. He takes a sip, then another, attempting to ignore how his skin buzzes pleasantly at the sound of her voice.

She uses his name and ‘amazing’ in the same sentence and he feels like a freshman in university again, eager and hopeful and dying to be as impressive to her and she is to him. He’s always preened in the light of any compliment she’s been gracious enough to give him. Seems like that’s still the case, all these years later.

He finishes his drink and slides it away from him, the alcohol pulling him down onto the barstool next to hers so he can order another.

“I’m not the wolf of Wall Street, but it suits me,” he says as he turns on the stool to face her, one forearm pressed along the edge of the bar so his fist is curled near her elbow. If he wanted, he could stretch his fingers and touch her, feel her skin beneath his fingertips once more.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t do a lot of things his body tells him to, lately.

As Shawn drinks, Maya drinks. She slings back gulp after gulp of scotch until her glass is empty. She shouldn’t have another, probably. She never drinks this much anymore. She doesn’t know what she’d be like drunk now, especially around him. There’s no telling what she’ll do or say.

Fuck it. She orders another scotch.

She admires his hulking frame as he sits beside her. He continued to fill out and bulk up a bit in their time apart. Every curve of muscle suits him beautifully. She thinks about what it would be like to draw him again like she used to. The thought has her back in her fresh glass of booze.

They’re quiet for a moment, both sipping drinks like they’re thankful for something to do with their hands.

And then—

“I could show you around the shop, some time. If you wanted.”

He says it without thinking, without considering what having her in his personal space might do to his heart. But he can’t stop being reckless now that he’s confronted her and they’re actually talking again and she’s not walking away from him like he used to think she might. Now that she’s looking at him almost like she used to.

He wants to close himself off to her, but he’s like a hungry flower in the sunlight. He blossoms and blooms and basks in her warmth because it’s the only way he’s ever known to be around her.

She perks up when he offers to show her the shop. He wants to see her again. He’s not just being his unfailingly polite self. He wants to be around her, he wants to show her something that’s important to him. It makes her breath catch in her chest. She’s nodding before he even finishes his sentence.

“Yeah. Definitely. Yes. I want to see your shop.”

It’s not subtle, but it’s very honest. She blinks up at him with a big grin.

She doesn’t hesitate. He feels his cheeks flush. She wants to see his shop. His life. He has a feeling she knows how important work like this is to him. It makes him all that more nervous to show her, but no less eager.

It feels too good to be true and for a moment, he waits for this to be another dream. He’d ask to buy her another drink, reach to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and she’d nod, part her lips to speak, then nothing. He’d be awake.

He takes a sip of his drink to make sure everything is real, though he’d much prefer to pinch himself. He swallows and smiles at her, setting his glass down on the bar. He can’t stop smiling, and each smile is easier than the last, especially with the whiskey.

“Don’t get too excited,” he laughs gently, “It’s not, you know, Gibson, or anything.”

He’s giggling and smiling and drinking and Maya’s halfway to lifting herself into his lap, so she should probably put her glass down and let the world right itself. But she might be as drunk on him as she is on the booze.

“Fuck Gibson. I bet you’re better,” she says easily. It’s very honest. Her tongue is loose. At least she’s still keeping her hands to herself. For now.

If she’s been working on Wall Street, she probably knows all sorts of impressive business moguls and financiers. He doesn’t think he’s much compared to the people she’s got waiting back at home for her. He doesn’t know who it is she’s got in New York, a boyfriend or what, but he’s just a beach bum with a bunch of guitars. He won’t pretend to even compare, no matter how badly his gut tells him to peacock for her. It’s not who he is anymore.

“We could go now, if you want,” he hears himself saying, to his honest fucking horror. He must be drunk. He’s only halfway through the second whiskey, though, so it’s not the alcohol that’s so intoxicating.

He finishes his drink, then wets his lips and quirks a brow at her. Fuck it.

At his suggestion, her glazed eyes brighten. “Yes! Let’s go now!”

She’s definitely loaded. There’s no getting around that now. But she thinks maybe some fresh air might help.

Who the hell is she kidding? She just wants to be alone with him where she can hear herself think over the bad karaoke. Not that she’s really thinking at all now. This all feels too good to think about it.

She stands and bites her lip at him.

She’s tipsy. He knows the signs. The laugh in her voice, the flush in her cheeks, the glossy gleam in her eye. His heart warms. He missed this. He missed her.

It doesn’t scare him the way it did only an hour ago. He guesses he can thank alcohol for that.

She stands before him and he checks her out, openly, blatantly. He hasn’t let himself before now, but the alcohol has control of some of his baser judgements at the moment.

Or maybe that’s just a convenient excuse.

Either way, she looks good. Just as gorgeous as she was in college. More so, actually. Elegant, even buzzed on scotch, in a way she wasn’t in her early twenties. She’s a woman now, when they were both just kids before.

She feels his eyes all over her and tries not to squeeze her thighs together desperately, but finds it a challenge to keep them apart. Her mind wanders absently to which box her Hitachi magic wand might still be packed in. She… will probably need it tonight.

Finally, he sucks in a breath and drags his gaze from her beautifully round thighs to her face. He grins, unfolds himself from under the bar and stands to face her. As he drops a $50 on the bar, Shawn holds his hand out and gestures towards the door.

He lifts himself to stand and puts a bill down on the bar, which is good because she forgot all about that. She flushes pink and smiles at him as a thank you. She follows his hand, turning toward the door.

“After you, Lulu.”

She stops short at the nickname. No one’s called her that since he did 12 years ago. She doesn’t have the presence of mind to play it off. She blinks and spends a moment reveling in it.

“Oh,” she breathes, looking over her shoulder at him, “That’s an old one.”

He’s just as caught off guard as she is. The name slipped out before he could stop it, but the way she’s looking at him makes him glad he didn’t.

He tries to play it cool.

“Oldie but goodie,” he says with a quirk of his lips and a gentle shrug.

Maybe he doesn’t take the nickname as seriously as she does. Maybe that won’t keep him up at night the way it will her. Maybe he assumes other people have picked it up and used it in his absence, though they haven’t.

She tucks the moment away into her big, drunk brain for later use.

He takes a step towards her, his hand moving to the small of her back of its own accord. He doesn’t realize what he’s done until it’s too late, his palm is firm against her back.

Fuck it.

He guides her forward, through the door and away from the parking lot. Geoff’s got the keys to the Jeep, and it’s just a short walk down the beach anyway.

And then his hand rests on the thin silky fabric covering her back and she freezes again with her hand on the door. She recovers faster this time and hopes he can’t feel her shuddering breath through his touch.

His hand is so warm.

“This way,” he murmurs as he steers her towards the stairs that lead to the boardwalk. His hand is steady on her back with each step they climb. He doesn’t drop away from her until they reach the top.

She’s grateful they’re not driving. The fresh air should help her sober up a little. She watches her toes as she walks with him and finds she can’t concentrate on anything other than feeling all five of his perfect fingers that are so close they may as well be on her bare skin. He hasn’t dropped his hand yet. She shouldn’t consider why.

“It’s just like, five minutes down the boardwalk, if that’s cool,” he says with a sideways glance at her as they walk, his hands sliding into his pockets.

“That’s fine,” she answers breezily, blinking quickly when his hand leaves the small of her back. She fights against the desire to curl into him and suck up all his body heat. She laces her fingers together in front of her and tugs at them to keep herself busy.

“Do you live close by?”

He watches her concentrate on her feet, then feels like he’s been caught once she finally looks up. He presses his lips together and nods, then looks away from her, trying to play it off like he wasn’t staring.

She’s a little startled to look up and see he’s watching her. Maybe she shouldn’t be, because she’s been doing the same thing to him all night. She’s curious about him. Maybe he’s just curious too.

“My house is back the other way, though. Lease it with Geoff,” he looks back at her, brow quirked, “Do you remember Geoff? He was the year below yours.”

He doesn’t know why he’s asking about G. He doesn’t know why he even mentioned him at all. He’s also starting to feel embarrassed by admitting to being a dude in his thirties who still lives with one of his bros from college.

She’s probably used to far more sophisticated company than he can provide, but he tries not to dwell on it.

She smiles. “I remember Geoff. Nice guy.”

He lives with his best friend from college. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s single, but it at least means he’s not too serious with anyone.

NOT THAT IT MATTERS!

She berates herself and shakes her head a little to rid herself of the train of thought.

“And how long have you had the instrument shop?”

“Almost as long as I’ve been in Avila,” he answers, “It was a shit little property I had to fix up but I got it only like, three months after moving here.”

He feels like he’s being interviewed, but he really doesn’t mind. The idea that she’s curious about him, interested in what his life’s been like, makes his heart stutter against his ribs.

Yet, bitterness and resentment nag the back of his mind.

If you’re so curious, why didn’t you call?

He never changed his number. She did.

He blinks. Takes a breath. He doesn’t want to be angry. He forgave her a long time ago. But forgiving her in his head when she’s not in his life hasn’t helped him control his emotions now that she’s showed up again.

Maya gave up any right to be proud of Shawn a long time ago. But she feels it still, that swell of delight in her chest when he mentions fixing up his shop to make it his own. She knows in some universe somewhere there’s a version of her that was with him the whole time, that helped him choose paint colors, that massaged his shoulders when he came home from spending long hours hunched over a fussy guitar.

This version of her remains quiet and tucks her hair behind her ears, fighting a shiver from the cool sea breeze.

They reach his shop’s block, and he guides her down the stairs and to the sidewalk. He moves past her as they approach the small house that holds his creations.

He glances back at her with a soft smile before pulling his key from his pocket and slipping it into the lock. The door swings open and he reaches inside to flick on the light. He turns back to Maya, steps aside.

“Well, um. Welcome,” he says with a grin.

He guides her into his domain. It smells like wood and lacquer and power tools. She cracks a smile and giggles.

“Wow. Look at this. This is like your fuckin’ Candy Land,” she jokes, shaking her head.

“Show me your favorite one.”

She sounds genuinely impressed, and he can’t help but preen. He’s proud of himself, of this little world he’s built. Even on the worst days, where it feels like nothing goes right, he still loves it. Part of him aches with the need for her to love it, too.

“Oh, uh—“ he’s taken aback, stuck for a moment because his favorite one is the one he used to write songs for her on. Not that he has to tell her that, but still. He’ll know.

“She— it’s in the back,” he says, a flush spreading across his cheeks. “Hold on, just— I’ll be right back.”

Maya chuckles at his stumbling over calling the guitar “she.”

“What an odd male tradition,” she blabs, knowing she gets philosophical and feminist sometimes when she’s drunk, “To name manmade objects after women. Like ships and cars and, I guess, guitars. It’s so bizarre to me. I don’t know whether to be offended on behalf of women or be charmed by the boyishness of it.”

She snaps her lips shut and makes a face at herself for her meaningless chatter. She’s running curious fingers along a vibrantly purple electric bass when she hears him reenter the main studio area.

She goes off on a tangent he’s heard from her before, just not about guitars specifically. It makes his heart twist. She makes it so easy to remember all the reasons he fell in love with her.

(Not that he ever forgot.)

He slips past her into his office. Lulu is tucked away in her stand in his closet and he decides maybe he should stop calling a guitar he named after his ex a ‘she.’

He holds the guitar up, spins it around to examine the shiny black lacquer-coated body before heading back into the main room, where Maya is admiring some of the electric basses that line the wall.

“This is the first perfect guitar I ever made. I don’t think I’ll ever sell it.”

She turns and stares at the work of art in his hands. She doesn’t really know much about guitars, anything she does know was picked up from snippets of conversations with him many years ago, but it certainly looks perfect to her.

“Wow,” she says again dumbly, “She’s beautiful. I’m-- wow. Can I hold her?”

She looks at the guitar like it’s as beautiful as he thinks it is, and that settles something deep in the pit of his stomach. All he’s ever wanted is for her to see him. He swears there’s no better feeling in the world than when she does.

Like now, when she asks to hold his guitar like it’s his fucking kid or something. He laughs, bright and loud, head falling back for a moment.

“Yeah,” he takes a breath, laughter subsiding as he looks down at her, “Yeah, you can hold her. She’s tough.”

He holds Lulu by the body and offers her neck first to Maya. He wonders if she remembers any of the chords he taught her.

Shawn’s laughing at her in a way that makes her feel more alive than she has in so long. It’s not judgmental or teasing, it’s… delighted. She delights him.

Or she used to. Maybe he’s just drunk.

Either way, he willingly hands off his pride and joy like he’s not worried at all that she’ll harm it. Maya takes the guitar and slings the strap over her shoulder, cradling it under her arm.

It feels good.

She hums, running her fingertips along its dips and curves, admiring his work. It really is stunning. She’s so stupid proud. And she can’t say it out loud.

Her fingers shift into place to pluck out a couple chords he taught her. She doesn’t remember the names of them. She looks up at him to see if maybe he looks just a little proud of her too.

She touches his guitar like it’s something precious and his breath catches in his throat. He watches her take such care with such an important piece of his life and he feels like he’s falling, stumbling into his love for her.

He’s never managed to let go of it, but he got pretty good at pretending it wasn’t there. He was an expert at convincing himself it didn’t fill his heart too much for anyone else to fit, that it was a scar, a slowly fading reminder of what it means to be cared for, a tip for the future.

It’s not so easy pretending now, watching Maya’s fingers glide across the sleek body of a guitar he’s known longer than he ever actually knew her.

Finally, her fingers find the strings, and she answers his silent curiosity. Her fingers flick A, A, D, E minor, A.

Those were always the easiest chords for her to remember. Her fingers know them well. It’s so, incredibly sexy.

Shawn sucks in a breath, then realizes she’s looking at him, like maybe she’s expecting him to say something. He wets his lip, takes a step towards her.

“You remember,” he says, voice a deep rasp. He’s not sure he’s talking about the chords. It’s everything. She remembers everything. She has to, because he does. It burns so fucking brightly in his memory he can’t stand to be in the same room with himself sometimes.

He looks down at the guitar between them, thumbs digging into his palms to stop himself from pulling it off of her. It’s the only barrier between him and an incredibly stupid decision.

The way he inhales sharply makes her feel like there’s finite oxygen between them. His intake of breath is sucking the air from her lungs. She doesn’t mind. She’s glad to be rid of it if it becomes his instead.

Her head is all fuzzy. His voice is low and scratchy and it reminds her of when she would wake up in his arms in the middle of the night and without her even moving, even speaking, he would notice and whisper to her until she fell asleep again.

As he steps closer, her awareness heightens. She clings to the guitar like a shield. As badly as she wants him, a piece of her knows better than to let herself have him again, even when he’s looking at her like this. Even when every word out of his mouth feels like his feelings haven’t changed, not even after so long. Not even after she left him for a life she has recently decided she doesn’t even want.

His hands stay still, but he looks back at her. “Do you remember that song you wrote?”

He does. It was three chords. Three chords and lasted about an eight count before he pulled the guitar from her lap and made her come on his tongue and needy fingers.

She swallows and closes her eyes because looking at him is too fucking much right now. She exhales shakily and nods. “I… I remember.”

She definitely remembers. She doesn’t even make a conscious decision to start playing it, it just happens, sort of like everything else between them right now. It’s instinctive with them.

Her fingers pinch and curl and pluck while her lips quiver. She remembers. She remembers the way she cried out his name while her back arched off the bed, but he didn’t let up. She remembers panting, chanting ‘I love you’ over and over until he crawled up her body and planted his lips against hers with a smile to shut her up.

“I remember,” she whispers again.

Her eyes flutter shut. He’s closer to her than he’s been in years and he can see every freckle, every line, every curve of her face. He studies every one, sketched a new portrait of her for his memory, just in case he’s not lucky enough to get this close again.

He knows she’s thinking about it now, about the way he used to love her so thoroughly. He’s not sure what possessed him to remind her, other than his addiction to her. Or more like his need not to be the only addict.

He lifts one hand carefully to hers, stilling her fingers against the neck of his guitar. His heart stops; the delicate press of his skin against hers is overwhelming, yet so slight. Somehow, curling his fingers around hers is far more intimate than the press of his palm to her back.

Maya gasps in a breath at the touch of his fingers to hers. It almost puts tears in her eyes but she holds on. His touch is so full of every memory, good and bad. It’s like jumping right back into her past with him when he holds her hand like this.

She doesn’t know what he wants now. She doesn’t even really know what she herself wants. But she lowers her shield, carefully and slowly swings the guitar around her back to hang behind them. Her fingers remain entwined with his.

“Maya,” he breathes, hoping she’ll open her eyes and look at him. He needs to see her eyes. He needs to know if he can read them as well as he used to.

The hush of his voice has her by the throat. She opens her eyes to see him there, the closest he’s been since they were kids. And now, seeing him here with her, when he’s looking at her like this, she knows what he wants.

She wets her lips like she knows what’s coming. Her voice nearly fails her when she speaks again.

“Remember with me.”

“Lulu,” he chokes, nodding as he holds her gaze, “I do. You know I do.”

He lifts their tangled fingers to her face, cups her cheek, and kisses her. A gentle press of his lips against hers.

He steps into her, takes the guitar’s place against her and she shrinks beneath him. Their height difference is always the most overwhelming when they’re chest to chest like this.

His other hand finds the nape of her neck, his fingertips scratching her scalp gently as he cradles her and sips slowly at her lips.

He kisses her the way he never gets to in his dream. The way he always wants to, the way she wouldn’t let him the night before she left.

It burns him from the inside out, and he wonders if she feels it in her bones the way he does.

Maya falls.

She falls just the same way she did. She falls the same way she did even just a few days ago when she heard his voice again.

He’s gentle with her, the way he almost always was. She’s high on it. His lips slip against hers perfectly like they’ve never fallen out of step with each other. She sobs a gasp into his mouth, overwhelmed.

She steps between his feet and presses into him so close that she can’t help but feel him everywhere. She wraps her arms around his expansive back and shoulders, curling against him with a low mewling noise.

He tastes like whiskey sour and he smells like sea salt and soap. She feels the tears prick the corners of her eyes. She doesn’t force them back this time.

He kisses her through the gentle sounds he was hoping she’d make. He kisses her deeper, wants more of her sounds, wants to feel her even closer.

Her tears on his cheek burn him. He sucks in a startled breath and pulls back, lips and hands together. He blinks down at her, trying to focus his blurry vision.

“I’m sorry, shit,” he murmurs, hands curling in to firsts. He sees the tears on her cheeks and he wants to cry, too, but he’s not sure why.

He’s not sure of anything anymore.

“Maya,” he breathes, urging her to look at him. “I’m—“ still in love with you— “I think I’m a little drunk.”

Just as soon as she can feel him start to drag her under fully, just as she’s committing to drowning for him, with him, he starts away.

She pants desperately and swipes at her cheeks, flushing hot.

“It’s… uhm, it’s ok. I am too. It’s just… this. Us. Here in Avila. Y’know, it’s like last time. Only… I guess… not.”

She used to be an incredibly articulate woman. Her words are clunky and meaningless. She can only hope he can guess what she means.

She stumbles over her words and he feels like shit. He’s such an idiot. Brings her to his shop, shows her her namesake guitar, kisses like she’s his to kiss. And she cries. He makes her cry.

He hates himself for that, and for being so scared. Scared of all the things he wants to tell her. Of how easy it feels to be around her, still, like no time has passed at all.

She presses her hands to her cheeks and shakes her head.

“Ok then. I think I should go.”

She wants to leave.

“No!” He doesn’t mean to shout, but he can’t let her go, not like this. “I mean— you don’t, Lu, you don’t have to. We can go back to the bar and get something to eat, or y’know, there’s that ice cream stand, with the soft serve and the sugar cones.”

He reaches for her carefully, curls his fingers around her wrists and pulls her hands from her slick, flushed cheeks.

“Let me get you a cone. Swirl, rainbow sprinkles, right?”

He wants to buy her ice cream.

He remembers what kind she likes. Of course he does.

Maya feels, all of a sudden, incredibly stupid. With one kiss, he made her completely sober, more sober than she’s been in her life. And lying there between them is their past that they have no answers for. Maya should’ve known better than to let him kiss her like this. She likes answers. She needs answers.

But not tonight.

Her breath catches in her throat. “No,” she rasps, “No, I can’t. I need to… I need to go home.”

With a lurch, she untangles herself from his beautiful guitar and shove it back into his hands. She heads for the door and lets it slam shut behind her, echoing with her clapping footsteps as she hurries down the boardwalk.

--------

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#shawn mendes #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes fan fiction #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fan fic #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes series #shawn mendes au #shawn mendes angst

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hispeculiartreasure · 5 years

Text

Don’t Wanna Fall - S.R.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female!Reader

Word Count: 2,000

Genre: Angst angst angst angst angst

Setting: Immediately after Infinity War, preceding Endgame.

AN: I am . . . so deeply sorry for this. I’ve been in a melancholy funk for a few days and listening to my Johnnyswim playlist on a loop hasn’t helped. This was inspired by their song “Wicked Game”. Borrowed lyrics appear in italics/ If you haven’t heard it before, go listen to it first. It really sets the mood. This just wouldn’t stay in my heart so I’m making you all suffer with me.

In a split second, the world had imploded. Every single person’s life changed at the snap of a finger. No one would ever be the same.

After the day where everyone lost everything, you threw yourself into your work. You saw a need and had a desperation to be occupied at every second of the day.

People needed to grieve and grief had never been seen on this high of a global scale. Your nonprofit - what was left of it - began coordinating therapy worldwide. You hunted down therapists and counselors that were still living, trained willing volunteers. Support groups, individual sessions, you made it all happen. You fought tooth and nail to make it happen.

Everyone who walked in and out of your doors looked hollow, yet determined. Determined to find something meaningful in the aftermath. Then again, each person had lost someone. Including your staff, including yourself. Your whole operation depended on broken people helping broken people.

The world was on fire, no one could save me but you.

People around you tried to beckon you back out, mentioned you hadn’t been yourself. You laughed in their faces. Who could be themselves after this? You couldn’t help but think that person had died along with the other half of the world. What was the point? It was easier to love no one, to remain independent, to keep everyone at arm's length. That way you could at least pretend the remaining pieces of you could live on.

But then there was Steve.

I never dreamed that I’d meet somebody like you.

He was good - straight down to his bones, he was good. He was kind. He was clever. He was haunted. For all his strength, he was gentle. For all he had in his mind, he was thoughtful. Still waters ran miles deep and it was too tempting not to explore the open seas.

The last session of the week is the one where you allow yourself to move from employee to participant. You knew you needed it, you begrudgingly sat through it. Your heart was no less shattered than anyone else’s here.

That’s where you met him. He was barely recognizable with his shaggy hair and beard that disguised his features. Without fail, he was always early. The previous session hadn’t quite ended, so he loitered by the door, watching, observing. He watches as you finish your duties, as you take your staff lanyard off and subtly transition into group member.

He finds himself sitting by you every Saturday evening. Both of you were among the quieter ones in the group. Mainly listening. Finding solace in not being the only one overcome by the grief.

Weeks pass. During a break you stand near each other in companionable silence, sipping on the instant coffee you’d prepared hours ago.

“Who did you lose?” he asks, soft enough to make you question if you’d heard it in the first place.

You take another drag of the bitter drink. “Everyone,” you whisper, void of emotion. “You?” From the corner of your eye you can see him still staring straight ahead.

“Enough.” You share a nod of sympathy as the leader beckons the group to take their seats again.

He lingers as the group disperses, thinking he was watching you covertly. He wasn’t.

You take down signs, Steve offers to help you stack chairs. You gather your folders into your briefcase before shutting off the lights. You never question Steve’s hovering. In a strange way you understood why he was still here. You’re glad he was still here.

“Wanna grab a drink?” He nods in relief, following you down the street to an old haunt.

Sitting at the bar together, there is very little discussion. Both of you were tired of talking about the feelings and thoughts that consumed you. For some reason, your souls recognized a kinship in each other. You felt seen by him, a feeling later he confirmed was reciprocated.

His hand covers yours on the surface of the bar, gently squeezing.

I never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you.

Somehow you end up on the front porch of your home, Steve by your side.

Eyes flicker to his, finding that searching look reflected. You lean close, resting your forehead to his shoulder. This isn’t healthy, you think. Steady arms encircle you, a nose nuzzles the top of your head. This is wrong. His lips are inches from yours, waiting for you to close the gap. This will only lead to hurt.

This one would only break you.

You didn’t care. You needed to feel something. Anything. He did too. That much you knew.

It’s strange what desire makes foolish people do.

The pair of you stumble through your living room, mouths insistent, needy on each other. Leaping into Steve’s embrace, he takes you into the hall. Past framed photos, past a more vibrant you in a white dress, a man in a tuxedo gazing down at you adoringly. Past faces you know you’ll never see again. Past a you that had happiness. He angles toward what he assumes is the master suite, resting your back against the closed door for a moment to kiss down your jaw, peppering your throat with affection.

He twists the doorknob, drawing you back to the moment. “No,” you breathe. He freezes, leaning back to assess your meaning. Had he been wrong? Was this not what you wanted? “Down the hall.” Fervor is back in your veins, reviving in his. Shuffling toward the guest room where you’d taken up residence, Steve carries you.

He carries you away from the door, from the memories. Away from the room you hadn’t touched since that horrible day. Away from the place you’d woken up, confused by the dirt in your bed, calling for your husband. Away from the spot where you’d turned the TV on, watched the news coverage. Away from the room where you’d screamed in agony at the empty spot next to you. Away from where your husband’s ashes still mixed in with the sheets. Away from the tomb of the life that was. Away from a life that was gone.

All that matters is the man that was making you feel anything other than numb.

Morning has almost arrived when you find yourself watching Steve as he slept. Your head is propped on his shoulder, hand firmly resting over his chest. You needed the assurance of his beating heart to keep panic at bay.

Soon self-conscious - but not embarrassed - eyes rove your face. “Breakfast?” he suggests.

You weren’t here to fall in love. Neither of you were under that allusion.

But someone to shoulder this unbearable burden? Sure.

What you found together in the next weeks, months, years wasn’t quite happiness. But it was as close as you could get in the world you now lived in.

You meld into each other’s lives. You are present for each other. You are salves on the others’ heart. You find a new kind of normal. You finally face the master bedroom, you clean out old memories. You find a confidence bolstered by a man you hadn’t expected. You work hard to get better. Steve holds you as you cry. You hold him as he cries. He opens up, he bears his soul. Together you talk fondly of the ones you lost. You get to know the only people the other has left. He gets angry. He seeks you out to bring him back down to earth. You hate yourself for the hope he brings, the peace that floods your body when he’s near.

A dark, rainy night he appears on your doorstep unannounced; clean-shaven, more put-together than you’d ever seen him. Something was wrong.

“We need to talk,” his voice is deep, toneless.

The hope is throttled by dread.

You nod, allowing him to pass by you. You stand toe-to-toe behind the closed door.

He’s different. For the first time since you’ve known him, he stands tall, straight. There’s a purpose to his step, a reason glittering behind his determined gaze. Even though his jaw is set, you can sense his agitation.

“What is it, Steve?” you ask when the silence becomes too heavy.

“I’m sorry I’ve let this go on so long. We’ve reached a place where you have feelings that I just. . . don’t have. I can’t keep letting us do this when you’re going to end up hurt.”

Later you look back and wonder why you weren’t stunned. Why you didn’t rail against him, call him every name in the book, truly tear him down like you wanted. But you were calm, collected, even-keeled.

You can tell he’s lying.

You’ve come to know him too well not to tell. The twitch of an eyebrow, the shuffling of the feet. The barely-there eye-contact.

“Care to share where this is coming from?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “I’ve known for a long time. It was nice to have someone around, but I never let myself fall. I can get by on my own. And it’s not fair to you.” He reaches to scratch at scruff that isn’t there, instead moving his hand to rub his neck. “I’m sorry,” it quietly floats to you. Much like the first thing he’d ever said to you, you were only half sure he had said it.

Who did you lose?

Everyone. You?

Enough.

For some reason, he feels a need to say these things; to say that he never shared feelings you had fought for so long. You knew better. You’d felt the love in his eyes, felt it in his hands, felt it in his words.

What a wicked thing to say you never felt this way.

Your confusion dissipates when you finally pinpoint the energy he’s carrying with him.

Fear. Anxiety. Dread. Terror.

Something is about to happen, something is about to change.

As much as he’s saying he doesn’t need you. . . you know that right now the opposite is true.

“Alright,” you say much more steadily than you feel. “Do what you need to do.” You step closer, one hand reaching to rest on the back of his neck, the other tapping aimlessly over his heart. “Whatever it takes,” you murmur.

Steve knows that you know he’s lying.

He hates himself for gathering you up. He hates himself for breathing in your sweet scent. He hates himself for the blow he’s just landed. And he hates himself for staying when he told himself he would leave.

But he can’t leave, he can’t do what he’s about to do without saying goodbye to someone that has come to mean the world to him. Someone who was there for the end of his world.

He mutters your name like a prayer all night, etching you into his memory. Determined to carry you with him no matter where the next step takes him. Every possible moment you feel for his heartbeat. You memorize the pattern so it can play in your mind when you roll over to find the bed empty once again.

What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you.

You walk him to the door the next morning, feel his lips on yours one last time.

“Good luck,” you whisper against his mouth.

Those blue eyes flicker, forgetting the charade he’d started when he’d walked into your home yesterday. He wants you to hate him. Wants you to be furious, he wants to be the someone you can channel your anger toward. You only watch him, nothing but understanding on your face. “Thank you. I’m. . . I’m so sorry.” That was the only true thing he’d said since you last stood in this spot.

Nobody loves no one.

“I’m sorry too, Steve.” You squeeze his hand tightly before you swing the front door open.

Finally, tears trickle down your cheeks as you watch him walk away. Somehow you know you’ll never see him again.

You know him in his bones.

Whatever he’s set on doing, it’ll get done - no matter the cost.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers reader insert #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #Don't Wanna Fall #beka writes

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littlemissyina · 5 years

Text

A Handful of Konpeito

This was requested on the Ikemen Series Amino! The initial request started out as Nobunaga walking in on OC (Riko) in the middle of a musical act, then it morphed into this. I hope you have as much fun reading as I did writing.

BIG PROPS TO LMLINK0 ON THE AMINO FOR THE PARODY LYRICS! I was howling when it posted it in the chat, and I just absolutely fell in love when I was using it here. Haha!

A Handful of Konpeito

Ikemen Sengoku - Nobunaga x OC (Riko) w/Oda Forces & Haguro

Mary Poppins - A Spoonful of Sugar Musical Parody

Nobunaga was taking a very rare break from his work when he noticed Haguro circling over Azuchi castle. It wasn’t common for him to be flying around here, but he likes to pop in every now and then, and Nobunaga would always make time to be with Haguro when he visits. Nobunaga whistled, signaling to Haguro that he was there, but the hawk didn’t respond. He tried again, and again he did not respond. The warlord furrowed his brows, trying to piece together why his winged friend didn’t come down to greet him.

He looked up again, seeing Haguro finally flying towards him. He smiled as he readied his arm for his arrival.

Haguro called to him, but flew past him and into the kitchens.

Nobunaga furrowed his brows again. "Haguro?" he mumbled, making his way towards where he could hear someone cleaning and... singing?

~Meanwhile, in the kitchen~

Riko was happily making her way around the kitchen. It had been some time since the kitchen had some TLC, so Riko took it upon herself as castle chatelaine to give the kitchens a deep clean.

“Ah ah ah ah ah ah ahhh,” Riko sung. With each “ah” she would go higher and higher, warming up her vocal chords for what was to come.

“Ah ah- ahh!!” Her last round of warm up was suddenly interrupted by something flying in through the open door.

Haguro landed on the counter, staring at Riko with wide eyes. He screeched softly at her, tilting his head to the side as if waiting for her to answer.

“Haguro!” Riko said, cheerfully. “Did you hear me singing out there?”

Screech!

Haguro spread his wings in response.

Riko smiled. “Would you like to try singing with me? Here, try this.”

Riko took in a breath. “Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah~”

Haguro also took in a breath.

SCREEEEEEEEECH!

“Close enough! A little flat but that’s good!” Riko applauded the hawk for his valiant effort. She picked up a broom as a beat could be heard throughout the room.

“In every job that must be done there is an element of fun,” she started, holding the broom in one hand as she spoke to Haguro.

🎵You find the fun and snap!

The job’s a game..

With every task you undertake

Becomes a piece of cake

The fluff! The sweet! It’s very clear to see that 🎵

“Riko,” a deep, commanding voice said behind her.

Riko spun around, her black hair fanning out around her. “Nobunaga! Come help me clean!”

“Clean? Why?” Nobunaga asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Why not? Y’all think just because you’re warlords means y’all get out of cleaning?” She moved towards him and pulled him inside. “Here,” she said, handing him the broom.

“I’ll make you a deal. If you help me clean,” she reached up into a familiar shelf. “You can have these.”

Nobunaga’s eyes lit up at the sight of konpeito.

“But! You have to clean!” Riko shook her finger at him.

After taking one piece of konpeito out, she tucked the stash away in her kimono.

🎵With every task you undertake

Becomes a piece of cake

The fluff! The sweet! It’s very clear to see that 🎵

Riko twirled in the kitchen aisle towards Nobunaga, stopping in front of him as she rose her leg up into an arabesque. She delicately placed the piece of konpeito into his waiting mouth, Nobunaga holding it between his teeth in a grin before biting down.

🎵A handful of konpeito helps the cleaning up go fast!

The cleaning up go fast-ast

Cleaning up go fast

Just a handful of konpeito helps the cleaning up go fast

In a most delightful way! 🎵

Nobunaga found himself moving to a strange beat he hadn’t recognized until then. Following behind Riko as she dusted and put away various objects. Haguro seemed to be dancing to the beat, enjoying himself. He twirled around the broom, somehow managing to sweep and dance at the same time.

“Riko? Haguro? What’s going on?” Nobunaga asked, growing confused.

SCREEEECH!

🎵A warlord leading his castle

Has little time to be in prattle

While gathering his kingdom together.

Though quite intent in his pursuit

He has to keep the place clean, too.

So sing the song to move the job along - for🎵

Riko took out another piece of konpeito, rewarding Nobunaga for sweeping the floors.

🎵A handful of konpeito helps the cleaning up go fast!

The cleaning up go fast-ast

Cleaning up go fast

Just a handful of konpeito helps the cleaning up go fast

In a most delightful way! 🎵

“Come on!” Riko said cheerily, pushing Nobunaga towards the sink full of dishes to be cleaned.

“My lord?” Hideyoshi said, staring in disbelief.

All three of them - Nobunaga, Riko, and Haguro - turned when they heard his voice. Not only did they see Hideyoshi, but all the other vassals were squeezed into the small doorway, wanting to see what was going on.

“Perfect! Y’all are here!” she said, pulling them all into the kitchen.

🎵And your vassals that do their duties

From devoted to lazy

Never tire of keeping everything pristine

Whether it be in housekeeping

Or keeping the country standing. 🎵

Riko skipped over to Masamune and Mitsunari, who took her hands as they started dancing around each other, the men joining in her song.

🎵And then (And then),

You’ll find (You’ll find)

This task is not a grind. 🎵

The song was slowly making its way to the end, but the kitchen was hustling and bustling with all the Oda forces cleaning every centimeter of the room. Nobunaga swayed his hips as he washed the dishes. Hideyoshi stood next to him, taking the dishes to dry (while secretly making sure his hands don’t get pruny). Masamune worked on organizing the pots and pans, while Mitsunari gathered any recipes and set them in a place where they wouldn’t be damaged. Ieyasu made his way into the storeroom, taking inventory of the foods and spices, reorganizing if needed.

Riko and Haguro, now perched on her right arm, waltzed around the room, checking in on everyone, making sure their tasks were being completed to her satisfaction.

🎵Just a handful of konpeito helps the cleaning up go fast!

SCREECH!

The cleaning up go fast-ast

Cleaning up go fast

Just a handful of konpeito helps the cleaning up go fast

In a most delightful way! 🎵

SCREEEEECH!

🎵So, just a handful of konpeito helps the cleaning up go fast!

The cleaning up go fast-ast

Cleaning up go fast

Just a handful of konpeito helps the cleaning up go fast

In a most delightful way! 🎵

“In a most delightful way~” all the warlords sang together, looking at each other in confusion.

🎵Just a handful of konpeito helps the cleaning up go fast!

The cleaning up go fast-ast

Cleaning up go fast

Just a handful of konpeito helps the cleaning up go fast

In a most delightful way! 🎵

The beat that could be heard around the kitchen suddenly stopped, Riko standing in a finishing pose, as if she was on stage at the end of a dance routine.

“See now?” she said, catching her breath. “Cleanin’ ain’t that bad.” She brought out the konpeito again, fishing a handful out and handing it to Nobunaga.

“Wait! Lord Nobunaga! You haven’t ate dinner-“ Hideyoshi started before being interrupted by Riko.

“As castle chatelaine I approve of him eating konpeito before dinner. Don’t pitch a fit,” Riko said stroking Haguro’s feathers.

The other warlords laughed as they all began to file out of the kitchen, the room literally sparkling after the cleaning that was done.

Mitsunari turned and smiled at a figure that was walking away. “Lord Mitsuhide,” he called.

The silver kitsune turned to Mitsunari, mischief alight in his eyes, pressing his index finger to his smirking lips.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen #oda nobunaga #haguro #oda forces #song fic #fics by yina

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yourescapetofiction · 5 years

Text

The Tides Have Turned-Part 9

A/N: This is my old work, The Tides Have Turned. It is a complete story that I am reposting on this blog so the work isn’t lost and can be found for those interested :)

Nine

I anxiously stood underneath Nate’s glare. His jaw was twitching, and I knew he wasn’t going to settle for anything less than the truth. I shifted my weight from foot to foot as I debated how I wanted to tell him.

“It’s nothing really. I ran into those guys from the beach, that’s all” I say downplaying the situation.

“Nothing?! Y/n those guys were eyeing you like a piece of meat” Nate said incredulously. I looked around nervously, when Jonah spoke up.

“Yeah, they certainly didn’t look friendly. Not like old friends you randomly run into on the street” he said.

I stared at Jonah praying he would shut up, he was making this worse without realizing it. I understood the altercation, but I really didn’t need Nate flipping shit right now.

“What did they say to you?” Nate said between his teeth. He was terse when he spoke.

“Uh, they just invited me to a party they were having, but I told them no. And then they sort of threatened that I would make it up to them” I say. A muscle in Nate’s neck spasmed as he took in my words.

“They threatened you?” he said more seriously now, inhaling sharply.

“Well not in so many words-”

“When were you going to tell me this?” he pressed.

“Nate, I would have told you eventually. But I didn’t want to ruin the night, and Jonah took care of it so it’s over now.”

“Well, uh, this has been crazy running into you but I should get going. Take care of yourself around here” Jonah said and gave me a small hug. I shot him a weak smile as he walked away. Nate was silent.

“Will you at least speak to me please” I asked. Nate was never like this, I mean he’s stood up for me before as good friends do, but never like this.

“I’m sorry” he said, sounding defeated. This confused me, what does he have to be sorry about?

“For what, Nate?”

“That I wasn’t there to be the one who protected you” he said looking down sadly.

“Nathan, look at me. There wasn’t a need for ‘protection.’ They were aggressive, but they didn’t touch me, there’s no reason to beat yourself up” I reassure.

“Yeah, but Jonah-”

“Wait! Is this about Jonah? Are you jealous??” I question, a little shocked. When I saw him become flustered under my gaze I couldn’t help but smirk. Jealousy.

“Nathan is jealous!” I taunt now, hoping to lift the mood. He whipped his back shocked at my reaction, and quickly backtracked to get out of it.

“No! That’s not it at all. I just wanted you to be safe” he said smugly.

“Whatever you say Romeo” I laugh before making my way over to the group again. Nate followed closely behind.

“Whoo! We’re talking big guns tonight baby!” Sam said drunkenly, with his cup in the air. He was standing on top of a table.

“Sam, nobody even knows what the fuck that means” J said sounded exasperated.

“Sammy, honey, you’ve had enough of that” I say taking the cup from his hand. I grab his other hand to help him back down to the ground. He fell slightly, and leaned all of his weight into me while wrapping his arm around my shoulder. I had to lean into Nate so that I didn’t fall myself.

“I think we should get him home” I said looking at Nate. He nodded in agreement before setting out to find the rest of the crew. Sam still hung on me, his eyes shut and head rolling around. He was talking out of his ass, I don’t think he knows where he is anymore.

“You’re such a girl y/n” he stammers.

“Uh huh” I say not paying him any attention.

“Like THE girl. The best girl there is” Sam rambles on. He’s cute when he’s drunk. Nate walks back towards us with Nash and the others in tow. Nash abstained from drinking tonight so he could drive us home. Nate took Sammy’s other hand around his shoulders and the two of us did the walking for him. We climbed into the back of the bus and I buckled Sam up.

“Thanks beautiful” he grinned sloppily at me. Gilinsky and Johnson were recording him for blackmail purposes later.

“Don’t post that shit online” I say to them. They laughed and swore they wouldn’t. We embarked on the journey back to the Hamptons. Sam was passed out beside me. I reached my hand to where Nate sat beside me and discreetly locked his fingers with mine. I needed to be sure that he was okay after the conversation with Jonah. He held onto my hand tight, and ran his rough fingers over my knuckles.

Back at the house…

“Ok, come on Sammy. Use your legs, come on” I say coaxing Sam out of the car. His legs started dragging on the ground.

“For god’s sake, we’re never letting him drink this much again” I say struggling to lift him up. Nate finally placed him on his feet and we hobbled through the front door. The guys all flopped down on the couch, but I think the night is over for Sammy boy.

“Hey guys I’m gonna put Sam to bed, I think he’s out for the count now” I laugh steering Sam towards the stairs. They all laugh and nod.

“Alright Sam. This is going to be the hardest thing you’ve ever done in your life. Lift one leg at a time” I say sarcastically.

“What is this I’m doing?” he slurs.

“It’s this magical thing called ‘climbing stairs’” I say with false wonder. His beautiful eyes widened at me in mystery, like when you tell a child about Santa for the first time. I couldn’t help but giggle at him. He’s a fucking idiot, but he’s my idiot. It only took him twenty tries to get up the stairs, which was a new record for him. I pushed him down the hallway into his room. I took his shoes off, and placed his Rolex on his bedside table. He face planted the mattress, and would barely move when I tried to get him ready for bed.

“Sam, roll over” I say, losing my patience. He groaned and barely turned. I grabbed his shirt and lifted it over his head. Then I unbuckled his pants and pulled them down and off, leaving him in his boxers. That was as far as I was going to go, I wasn’t going to deal with a drunk AND naked Sam.

“If you wanted to get me naked, you can just ask” he slurred.

“Always the charmer, Samuel. Even while drunk” I laugh. “Lay back” I say pushing him towards the pillow. I swung his legs under the blankets.

“Thanks baby. I loveeeeee you” he dragged out, eyes fluttering open and shut. He was barely holding onto consciousness.

“I love you too Sam” I laugh and stood to leave, but he grabbed my hand.

“I know something you don’t” he teased, in and out of the situation. “Somebody in this house is in love with you” he giggles at the last part, like he let out a closely guarded secret.

“Yeah, okay Sammy. Get some sleep” I say before turning off the light and leaving. I entered my room to change into lounge pants and a tank top before returning downstairs.

Nate’s POV

We were sitting on the couch discussing the events of the night while y/n put Sammy to bed. A few minutes passed before she reappeared on the staircase. She had a serious expression on her face, as if she was deep in thought.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Definitely” she smiles. “What do you guys want to do?” she asked. I looked around and everyone shrugged.

“Wait, I have an idea” she said excitedly. She ran over to a storage chest and began rummaging around, before she pulled something out.

“It’s about to get old school!” she squealed pulling out Twister.

“Oh dear God, you remember what happened last time we played!” Johnson whined.

“Oh come on, please J! You love it and you know it!” she begged. He reluctantly agreed.

“Well I don’t see what else there is to do, considering we left the club early because of a certain someone” Kenny said motioning upstairs.

“Alright, I’ll grab some beers and snacks” I say before leaving to go into the kitchen. I gathered everything I thought I would need and walked back into the living room, arms full. Dillon, Swazz, and Gilinsky were pushing the furniture out of the way as y/n flattened out the mat. She then moved over to the stereo system and plugged in her phone. Instantly the sound of 3OH!3’s “Don’t Trust Me” filled the air and we all laughed.

“I told you guys it’s getting old school in here!” she laughed. She would deny it, but the girl was obsessed with them. She began to dance around the room, singing the lyrics from heart.

“Don’t trust a hoe. Never a trust a hoe” she sang and called out Gilinsky by pointing at him.

“Oh, I’m a hoe?!” he said faking that his feelings were hurt.

“Mmm, yeah G you are” she said not giving it any thought.

“Let’s play!” Cam said before Gilinsky got the chance to respond.

“Alright y/n since this was your idea, you move first” Nash said whilst spinning. “Ok, left hand blue.”

Y/n complied shooting us all a cocky smile, she thought she was going to win this.

“Ok, Nash you are right foot red!” Cam said, taking over the spinning duties. A few more turns passed and most of us were a jumbled mess.

“Nate! You’re right hand yellow!” Dillon said straining to reach the spinner. I moved accordingly and ducked underneath y/n’s chest. I looked up and flashed her a bright smile, I wasn’t complaining about my position.

“Shut it Maloley” she said smirking.

“What?! I didn’t even say anything!” I say defensively.

“You didn’t have to” she points out.

“Uh, guys, the more you talk the more we’re gonna collapse” Kenny warned.

“Ok, ugh, y/n move your right foot to green” Dillon yelled out again. She moved her foot and was now bent under Gilinsky.

“Damn, I could get used to this view” he said biting his lip.

“Aye, maybe y/n was right. You are a hoe!” Swazz called out from behind him. This caused us to laugh and I felt us tremble slightly.

“Woah, shit guys, hold steady!” J called out. He was always good at this game considering he wasn’t as tall as we were.

“Hold. Up.” A voice rang out through the house. We could barely lift our heads to see a hungover Sammy standing in front of us.

“You guys started a game of twister without me?!” he accused with a hurt tone.

“Dude you were out cold like an hour ago, how the hell are you alive right now?” J asked from somewhere under the huddle.

“You guys weren’t exactly being quiet down here, so I came down to see what was up because I heard noises. I figured it was either an orgy, or a game of twister” he said.

“Same thing” G smirked.

“So now I see this, and I am hurt you guys. You know that’s my shit, and I want in!” Sam said clutching his chest feigning deep emotion.

“Get on with it Sammy! We can’t hold out much longer!” y/n strained out beneath the mess of tangled bodies. Sam spun the spinner and grinned while moving towards us. He still reeked of booze, but it had worn off some. He was probably still buzzed, but at least he can stand on two feet now.

Sam moved behind y/n, who was standing in a triangular shape, and laid on top of her.

“Much better” Sam grinned.

“Omg Sammy, don’t lay there, I can’t-” y/n began before her legs trembled and we all collapsed with her.

“Good one Sam” Nash said shaking his head. We all just laughed, trying to sit up.

“I think I’m gonna go for a walk on the beach” y/n said standing up. The guys just nodded and flipped on ESPN, not bothered.

“I’ll join you” I smile innocently so as not to draw attention to us. I could see her pupils dilate before she smiled in return. She slid on her flip flops and we exited the sliding back doors. It was quite windy outside, and the night air was cool. The beach was cleared of debris so we removed our shoes and walked in silence for a moment.

“So Sammy told me something intriguing upstairs” y/n began, walking in a slow stride.

“Oh yeah?” I ask, genuinely curious. The boy could say some dumb shit when he was drunk.

“Yeah. He said it’s about one of us in the house” she continued. She was cautious, and I couldn’t really feel out where she was going with this.

“What about them?” I say, more nervous now. My mind was racing. I remember telling Sam how I felt about y/n within the first few days of being here. Fuck. He wouldn’t tell her that would he? Hell he could have told her anything, he was heavily intoxicated. My palms were sweating. This was not how I wanted her to find out.

“He said someone’s in love with me” she stated plainly. She wasn’t gushing about it, nor was she really curious. She had a suspicious aura about her. Now my heart was really racing.

“I think it’s Gilinsky” she said shrewdly. I nearly choked, both out of relief and confusion. My secret was safe for now.

“Why do you think that?” I ask. She was silent for a few moments, deep in thought.

“I don’t know. The way he acts around me? Maybe I’m reading too much into it. You know how big of a flirt he is with women, I’m probably just one of many” she trails off. I was cagey with my words, I had to proceed with the utmost caution.

“Yeah, I do know how he is. Love is a pretty strong emotion, you really think it’s finally caught up to Gilinsky?” I ask with genuine interest now.

“Who knows if it will ever catch up to him. But I do know he was intense when we hooked up” she finished.

I felt like I was slapped in the face. When did they hook up? We’ve been around her the entire vacation. If someone was gonna smash, we would all know about it. Sam told me there was nothing going on between them! Either he lied, or they were sneaking around. A god awful thought crossed my mind. Was she playing me? Our arrangement could be just one of many in her game. All previous worry about my feelings for her washed away. I heaved with jealousy, lust, and anger. What I felt right now was strictly primal. I needed to wash away any trace of Gilinsky. I needed her.

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gazeintotheiris · 6 years

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Kinktober 2018 Day 7 - Sweeten The Deal.

Kinktober: Day 7 - (mentioned)Praise-kink | Body Swap | Aphrodisiacs | Incest

Pairings/ Warnings: Monzen/Zendatta, Aphrodisiacs, drink spiking, slight consensual dubcon themes, mentions of solo. Human!Zenyatta, Human!Mondatta, Oni!Genji.

Read this on AO3

“No, absolutely not.”

The young monk’s voice permeated the air like a hot knife through butter, his distaste for the proposal steely and adamant. The oni, one that Zenyatta had learned went by the name of Genji, sniffed derisively.

“I have seen the way you look at him, Zenyatta. I can taste the lust that seeps from every single pore.” Stretching, languidly, the demon leaned back in the simple chair, draping himself in an alluring posture, horizontal to the seat’s frontward facing portion and issued an all too tantalized-sounding sigh. “Delicious.”

Zenyatta scowled, unimpressed, the heat of his blush creeping slowly up his neck to tease at his cheeks. Seven weeks and he had been unable to rid himself of this lascivious creature; a creature that had become unusually attached to he, a mere mortal who would better serve the oni as an appetizer than a source of entertainment.

“You only see what you want to.” He retorted, resuming what was supposed to be his quiet contemplation.

And for seven weeks Genji had hounded him, stalking his person through the shadows, waiting for the most opportune moments to break cover and fill Zenyatta’s head with the most unholy of imaginings. Whispers that carried with them an overwhelming power that was not of this world, that picked at the hems of his self control to leave him burning with a need he had never thought possible. Yet rather than allow Zenyatta to act upon that need, at the crucial moment, the oni would vanish, only to begin this demented game of false promises at the next possible interval.

All that had come to a head most recently after an awkward little incident - in the monastery sanctum of all places! - There, where the warmth of the Iris was its most extrusive Genji had been able to roam freely, where Zenyatta had foolishly believed himself to be safest. Upon soft mediation mats he and his mentor, Mondatta, had been seated full lotus, emptying their minds of all thoughts, feelings and sensations, a truly freeing act of mindfulness that would strengthen and invigorate once they returned to the fore. Yet as the younger monk let his thoughts begin to slip away, opened himself to the welcoming embrace of the Iris, it began.

A trickle of thought, the flash of an image, the loving way in which Mondatta spared his student a glance, that look of adoration and pride that always made Zenyatta’s heart skip a beat. It was that exact sight that he liked to recall, often, in the privacy of his own room. And with it the praise, a good word here and there, the warmth of the other’s hand squeezing his shoulder. He loved Mondatta, Zenyatta had realized a long time ago, and not just in the ways one might love a friend or sibling. His wants, no, his needs, ran far deeper than that.

Just like that, a deluge widened that trickle, transforming the stream into a surging river, his empty mind a vessel to be filled with things so luridly intoxicating, the young monk was overcome.

Warm, gentle, touches became harsher, more demanding and urgent. The words Mondatta uttered to him, far filthier than the likes of what he could have imagined the man to say in his entire lifetime, fed to him one by one like the sweetest and most addictive of fruits. This wasn’t natural, the heat that filled then spread from Zenyatta’s core to lance through his limbs, searing his body until he felt as though he might explode if he did not act.

Meditation, it appeared, had eluded him, and sprung from the trap of his innermost musings, he snapped to attention right there on the sanctum floor, to come face to face with the smug expression of the oni’s features grinning back at him.

The experience, while jarring, had brought to light some interesting notions. Zenyatta had been all too ready to write the thoughts off as little more than whisperings his personal ‘curse’ had been contendedly feeding him as a method to further prolong his torture. Because that was what this was, wasn’t it: A means to an end. An oni playing with its food.

Ready, though he might have been, Zenyatta knew that behind those thoughts there was a kernel of truth, a seed so deeply buried he would not have suspected it’s presence before it had begun to germinate, fuelled by the salacious images and fantasies planted there to fertilize and cultivate. There was no smoke without fire.

And now here Genji sat once again, brazen and filled with hubris, the amber vial he held between clawed thumb and forefinger tilting it from side to side. Inside the iridescent liquid sloshed lazily, it’s viscosity slightly more dense than water, mesmerizing to the untrained eye and perhaps that was with intent.

Just a drop, Genji had told him, voice crooning towards Zenyatta, and the recipient would find themselves awash with need so acrid, that all inhibitions would seem like mere specs on the horizon in comparison.

“Unfortunately that is rather untrue. What I wish to see is for you to cease your stalling.” A little wave of the amber vial, a poignant reminder of what Genji was offering. “A little courage never hurt anyone.”

“I don’t need your ‘help’.” Zenyatta bit back, perhaps a little too sharply, because he could see the corner’s of the oni’s mouth twitch once, twice.

“Then you mean to tell Mondatta about those long nights spent moaning his name into the pillows?”

Genji watched as Zenyatta’s shoulders bunched delightfully, tension betraying his irritance and embarrassment both. Oh yes, he had been watching that tempting little show. No inhibitions blocked the young monk’s thoughts then, nor the lazy cant of his hips, rolling in a steady rhythm into the cool, white, sheets. Moonlight from the window had illuminated the scene, it’s cold pale light lighting up the faintest glint of moisture upon the very tip of Zenyatta’s achingly hard cock. But Genji had kept to the shadows and, for once, silenced the whispers he could have used to perpetuate the scene. That had been all Zenyatta, an image he would take back to the spirit realm with him when he’d drunk his fill. But there was one far more attractive prospect he believed he could bring to fruition, if Zenyatta, here, would only accept his ‘selfless’ help.

“How do you - ?” As if the monk had to ask, how did Genji manage to haunt his every step as it was? It stood to reason he would have witnessed this and more, unbidden. “I will tell him how I feel. It’s only fair.” He said. “I will tell him later, after the evening call to meditation.”

The oni sat bolt upright, kicking off the armrest of the simple chair like he’d just received the greatest news. Dexterously twirling the vial between his long fingers, he pocketed it again, decision made. Splendid. And as quickly as the monk could blink, Genji was gone.

*****

The oni was under no illusions. Just as before, Zenyatta would abandon his intentions and remain mute to the edging desires that plagued the small hours of his evening. He would, also as usual, sit with his mentor and have their evening tea, a chance to unwind and contemplate the following day’s work or lessons. Mondatta would wax lyrical about the world at large, how best to bring their message of peace to others, and Zenyatta would sit by, dutiful and obedient, offering his opinions thusly.

How utterly boring.

Upon the table sat the piping hot tea. It’s handleless cup, contents left to cool and vent steam while Mondatta waited for Zenyatta to finish fetching a spare from the adjacent room. The former had made Zenyatta his cup in his stead, knowing it’s recipient would be back in a moment, long enough for him to fetch that itinerary of his next trip - he did hope that Zenyatta would like to come along, he’d been unusually stressed these last few weeks and a change might do him good. Genji watched, keen eyes invisible, from the shadows as Mondatta padded around the room, picking up various items and scripts he meant to deposit on the table for inspection later, leaving Zenyatta’s tea unguarded. He needed only a moment with which to strike, and could remain unseen for just long enough to do what he’d planned all along. He’d get his way, Genji always did and no small-minded monk was going to stand in his way. He’d get his way, and Zenyatta would get his.

Poignantly fingering the vial, still held tightly in one hand, the oni had become tired of waiting for his opportunity.

A flick of the wrist sent something in the far corner of the room clattering to the ground, loud and brash enough that the older monk whirled on one foot, the hems of his Kasaya swirling about his ankles, to see the antique singing bowl hit the floor from the shelf above. Naturally puzzled, he walked towards it to recover it. The perfect opportunity.

From the shadows he sprung, soundlessly gliding across the floor, thumb already working at wriggling the vial’s cork plug free. Succeeding, and in a single, gracefully-fluid movement, he poured the entire contents of the glass tube into the tea vessel below. There was no time to stir or disguise, but he would not need to, it’s slightly heavier formula would make it sink fast, diffusing it’s contents sip by sip and by that time, it would be far too late for Zenyatta.

Slipping back into the shadows, he heard the footfalls of the returning monk, that deceitful little wretch who sought to short change him, knowing not what awaited him when he returned. All eyes were on that door, waiting, with baited breath, the pulse of anticipation thudding in his point-tipped ears.

But, as Zenyatta appeared, something was awry.

Between his hands he carried another small, bowl-like, cup, steam drifting up from its interior, which he sipped at prior to affording his master a slight dip of the head in greeting. Mondatta turned back to face his student, having replaced the singing bowl back in its rightful place. “Ah, I see you found some tea. You won’t mind if I drink this one?” A casual nod to the cup still resting upon the table.

Zenyatta shook his head, no.

“Master Fon made me some, I thought it would save time.”

The older Monk nodded, sagely, slipping a hand around the remaining cup and picking it up to take a long, soothing sip of his own. With the other, he gestured to the itinerary he’d placed down before. “I have something I would like to ask you, Zenyatta. And I do hope you will accept.” Mondatta began, watching as the puzzlement in his student’s eyes turned to something akin to hopeful excitement. This was promising.

He took another sip, noting how Zenyatta preferred the sweeter tasting tea compared to how he liked his own. Different, but certainly not unpleasant and with an aftertaste that reminded him, faintly, of oranges. It was certainly moreish. He would have to ask his student where he had acquired it, but that could wait for now.

“I am all ears, Master.”

Zenyatta leaned forward in the seat he had since settled in, and Mondatta felt a flush of warmth pool inside his belly. Oh he liked it when Zenyatta called him that...

Perhaps a little more than he should.

#OOC: gaze into the iris #My fic #My art #kinktober2018 #Zendatta #Monzen #Human!Au #Monyatta #Aphrodisiacs #tw dubcon #m/m #asynfulsoul art #prompts

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diveronarpg · 6 years

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Congratulations, ROGUE! You’ve been accepted for the role of BEATRICE. Admin Rosey: Oh my sweet goodness, there has never been such excitement thrumming in me. While reading this application, I was exposed to new facets of Brielle that I had never seen before. There’s a certain intrigue that you breathe into her, Rogue, a certain amount of strength that is further highlighted by the gentleness of her speech. You captured her voice so vividly, throwing in the smatterings of Russian just add a genuineness to her that makes me smile. The lyricism of your writing, the hold that you have of her character...I couldn’t be happier to add Brielle to our ranks. Please, be gentle when ruining us with her. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Rogue.

Age | Twenty-One.

Preferred Pronouns | She/Her.

Activity Level | I’m as active as the roleplay I’m in. I generally do any replies I get within the day I receive them unless things are insane irl.

Timezone | PST.

Current/Past RP Accounts | Oh god I haven’t played in like… years? I’ve played with Rosey in the past so she knows somewhat how I am. I found one from OSB! I don’t remember my other urls laksjfd.

In Character

Character | Beatrice / Brielle King.

What drew you to this character? | When I was going through the bios, that very first sentence of hers stood out to me. There’s something wonderful about a laugh so charming and vivacious the whole world stops to listen. This might sound strange but I’ve also been on a kick with D&D of wanting to play the courtier background, which to me is always more interesting than the noble background. Nobles are trapped by prestige, by attention, and by duty. Courtiers have none of that. They play the politics, they learn the game, and they try their best not to die surrounded in opulence and glory they can never reach. What I liked about Brielle is that she is wise enough to know how to promote her own interests, independent enough to seek freedom yet damaged enough to do it by hopping from one cage into another. There is a sense of inevitability to her in spite of how much she seems to believe in more, like a train coming quickly from behind. I like the ‘sweet when she has to be, fierce when she needs to be’ type.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | — Brielle stands at a sort of precipice, both settled in and a recent addition in a city as beautiful as it is deadly. All her life, all her line, all her blood has been devoted to is the needs and desires of others, in spite of the moments and choices she’s carved out for herself. In fair Verona, she is attached but she is also free in a way she has never been, for it is easier to disobey a lord ruler than to disobey a father, and she’s done the latter for years, hasn’t she? Loyalty is something that is earned. There are those individuals within the system who have earned it from her, and for that, she will keep her peace. The for nowis left unsaid but it beats like a war drum beneath her tongue, watching, wondering, curious of what happens the moment she chooses to push. Will she take that great leap into things unknown? How long can she rattle the bars of her cage before they break or are reinforced? Will she fall into depravity or be pulled into the light? The thing about the Montagues is that sometimes, their intentions are noble, and sometimes noble deeds are the furthest from their minds. Eventually, she will need to choose just how obedient she is, and just how filthy her hands can be. I would love to see her pulled between those two through various means.

— There is a moment in the bio that I really like, sort of related to my first idea but more specific. It mentions her hands having shed no blood, and that is something I would love to explore. The title of solider is not given without some expectation of violence on the behalf of the holder, and running drugs is not always easy. When Brielle runs into complications, how does she handle them? When she is required to make others submit to the rule of the Montagues, how does she accomplish that without bloodshed? She must be smarter and work twice as hard as someone who would use the threat of violence and back it up, but eventually, that might not be enough. She’s too new to have been asked to kill, but it’s only a matter of time, if what she hears about Catherine is to be believed. Brielle isn’t quite the paragon of commitment Catherine is; she’s far too cynical to believe that she can always maintain the principles of her old life. If the gun is in her hand and a Montague’s voice in her ear, can she do it? Can she pull the trigger and damn her soul when she isn’t even sure of its existence anymore?

— Brielle is nothing if not ambitious, and I would certainly like to explore that. She’s crossed enemy lines and made ties not just with Montagues, but with a Capulet. That opportunity is certain to interest her. She’s never been content to play second fiddle and let someone else do the difficult jobs, and I imagine the first time that Catherine Daly mentioned the idea of an emissary, it intrigued her. Something that called to the parts of her that loved the game and the parts of her that loathed the bloodshed, in equal measure. Unlike her friend, Brielle will not let her sense of fair play interfere with what needs to be done. If she favors the outcome, she knows that sometimes, a bad deed equals a brighter tomorrow. Negotiation is about compromise, and Brielle is quite clear on where she stands. She has compromised herself, once, twice, a thousand times, choosing again and again to delve into darkness and difficulty rather than letting those around her coddle her. In order to obtain that coveted position, she’ll need to find a way to make herself useful beyond the mere tasks required of soldiers. But then, hasn’t she always been invaluable? Hasn’t she always been more than mere anything? Soon, everyone will know it.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | I don’t mind my character dying, though I would appreciate the opportunity to play her for a bit beforehand. If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound? If a character without deep connections dies, does anyone feel it? etc.

In Depth

Please choose between the interview or the para sample.

What is your favorite place in Verona? | Brielle knows the politically expedient answer, and it waits on the tip of her tongue, her lips curving slightly. Yet at the last moment, she stumbles, divulging the truth as a means of endearment. She isn’t sure why her superiors feel the need for these little anecdotal meetings, but she’s positive that her answers will determine her future. If she lies, she will need to lie well, and spend that coin on answers that matter rather than things like this trifle.

❝ I enjoy spending time with my horses, ❞ she answers with that soft smile that’s fooled more than one who dared underestimate her. Moye solnyshko, her father called her, even as he cried when she told him she was leaving him behind. Said with love and said with betrayal, it mattered to her only in that he was so naive, not to see what was burning in her from the start. ❝ Some say our dear Verona has the most beautiful stables in the world, and I see they are right. ❞ There are those who call Russian a cold, harsh language, but they have never heard Brielle speak it. When her accent hovers lovingly over Verona’s every syllable, it is clear that there is warmth in the Russian sun just as bright as any other star.

What does your typical day look like? | One leg crosses over the other as she studies the art lining the walls for a moment, her high ponytail swishing long, dark hair over her shoulder. Her elbow rests against her knee, chin cupped in one delicate hand, and for all the world, she looks like some sort of fey portraiture. ❝ I’m usually best used as a runner, ❞ she begins, fingers tapping against her cheek in a soft rhythm. ❝ Either messages or product, sometimes both. I receive my orders and carry them out, no matter when they come in or what I’m doing. That’s the job, and why I’m good at it. ❞

This last is said with a cocky sort of smile, the kind so often found on the faces of those too young to have been laid low and accepted it. It can look a little different on a thousand faces, and on hers it’s full to the brim with infectious vigor, her eyes crinkling at the corners. ❝ When I am not doing that job, I tend to my other one. Horses are demanding business, and racing requires practice and discipline. It leaves little time for leisure, though I won’t say no to a Tamora at The Two Gentlemen, generally speaking. ❞

What has been your biggest mistake thus far? | Some people are ashamed of their mistakes. She has a lot of pride, yes, but Brielle is lucky enough to be proud of those too. Every nick and scar on her body is a mark of pride and power, a spark in the bonfire of her life. Truthfully, she’s young enough and wise enough to know that her best and worst mistakes are still to come, but she’ll carry those too, and she’ll grow. Adaptability is everything.

So it’s with surprising ease that she answers. ❝ I was thirteen the first time one of myhorses broke their leg. It is a fact of life, especially breeding horses for racing. I had seen it before, but it was distant from me. I did not have to feel it as I did with Ippolit when he buckled beneath me. The doctors make their decision quickly, but it was Father who usually finished it. ❞ Her eyes trace the carpet with precision. Sometimes, things that are easy can still be painful. ❝ He was absent that day, buying for our masters, and the task fell to me. In the end, they gave me a choice: my gun, or their needles. ❞

Her gaze shifts up with an almost violent jerk of the head. ❝ I was a girl. I loved Ippolit. I turned away, and he died without me, in the arms of strangers, alone, and afraid. That, I think, was my biggest mistake. ❞ The steadiness in her is unnerving. In this moment she isinfernus, the blazing conviction of someone still carrying a bruise on their heart. ❝ Never let anyone else kill something you care about. If it must die, put it down by your own hand. That was my lesson, and my mistake. ❞

What is the most difficult task asked of you? | She tilts her head with coquettish amusement. ❝ The most difficult task asked of any woman worth a damn: to put herself away into a box made by someone else. ❞ There is something ironic in that, considering the way she’s tied herself up here in Verona. She cuts that off at the knees: ❝ If I’m going to bind myself to something, it ought to be my choice. ❞

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues? | Brielle licks her lips, very well aware that the chair she sits in, the house she currently boards in, and her very life is paid for by the Montagues. She certainly doesn’t imagine they expect any genuine answers to this, even if someone did have an opinion which clashed with the opinion of the familia. Therefore, her answer is something of a routine. As it should be.

❝ I believe in the righteous house of Montague. I won’t say I’ve never passed the time of day to a Capulet soldier, but at the end of the day, war is war, and we are players in a grand game. I understand my place. ❞

I didn’t have much time to put this together as I’m going on a bit of a voting bender tonight and am trying to get in before next acceptances, but I did go through and create a tag for quotes I associate with Brielle.

#accepted: beatrice #accepted

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ryqoshay · 6 years

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How to Handle a Nico: Rhythm Game

Primary Pairing: NicoMaki Words: ~2.3k Rating: G Time Frame: Late in Maki’s 1st year and Nico’s 3rd year in high school Story Arc: Stand Alone

List of all HtHaN scenes

Author’s Note: It wasn’t exactly my intent to write a scene for this adorable pic, but after I wrote the last one, I couldn’t help it. @lolitomatobunny has really made some good works. Who could blame me for being inspired by such wonderful images?

Also, double woo! ♡ ＼(≧▽≦)／ ♡ Not only does this make my fifth chapter posted in as many days, but it’s 2k words, not just 1 or less.

“Ughn… Not again, nya!” Rin cried, tossing her phone, rather carelessly onto the table.

“Failed another song, Rin-chan?” Hanayo asked with a sympathetic tone as she moved over to her friend’s side.

“The beatmap just doesn’t make any sense!” The cat-like girl complained. “And the notes that require special gestures are just nyannoying!”

“Well, you did just start playing a few days ago.” The youngest µ’s member assured. “I didn’t figure things out right away either. And there are plenty of Expert level songs I still cannot complete, much less Full Combo.”

“But that was only Hard!” Rin whined, dropping her forehead onto the table in defeat.

“You’ll get the hang of it in time.” Hanayo patted her friend’s back. “You still like the game, right?”

“Of course.” Rin admitted with a sigh before pushing herself back up enough to prop her head on her hands. “The music is really good and makes me happy listening to it.”

That got the attention of a certain redhead sitting across the table, though she did not look away from the book in her hand.

Rin tilted her head onto one hand before reaching out with the other to retrieve her phone. As soon as the screen was unlocked, a peppy tune began to play through the speaker.

Maki blinked. If Rin had been playing earlier, why hadn’t she noticed the music before? Had the other girl been wearing headphones? Maybe said device had been disconnected when she tossed her phone away? Maybe she had just ignored it because it sounded like the music to which Nico was always listening. It was just another embarrassingly happy tune, the likes of which A-RISE might create. Or East Heart. Or Midnight cats. Or µ’s… Well, it wasn’t like Maki hadn’t helped create pieces like that herself. Quite a few, actually.

“Does that interest you, Maki-chan?”

“Buweeh?” Maki balked back to reality and looked up from her book.

Rin grinned at her friend.

“W-what?”

“You can’t fool Rin, Maki-chan!” Rin jumped up from her chair and practically skipped around the table. “I could see that you were interested even though you tried to hide it.”

“I wasn’t really…”

“It can be a little hard at times, but it really is a fun game.” Hanayo explained.

The orange-haired girl held her phone out in front of the redhead. “I’ll do an Easy song as an example.” She explained before hitting Start.

“Hmmm…” Maki watched with more interest than she was willing to admit.

Rin’s thumbs tapped certain points on the screen as moving circles crossed a threshold. In the background, various girls popped up occasionally to say something encouraging, though Maki couldn’t quite tell if the lines were supposed to be directed at the player or to the other girls in the group.

For some reason, Maki found herself paying more attention when a dark-haired girl sporting twin-tails came on to the screen. Not that she reminded Maki of anyone, of course. The character’s eyes were a different color, there was no pink to be found in her outfit, and her smile was nowhere near as brilliant. Yes, there was no way the character in the game was anything like her. Not that Maki was thinking about her, of course.

“And that’s how you play, nya!” Rin proclaimed proudly as the English words, Full Combo! appeared across the screen.

Shortly after, a girl with a reasonable resemblance to Hanayo appeared to give one final congratulatory line. Wasn’t that the girl who had been in the center of the group? Of course, Rin would set things up that way. Maki couldn’t help wondering if the twin-tailed girl ever mentioned wanting to be the center. Oh, what the heck. She shook her head. She was definitely thinking too much about this. It was just a silly mobile game.

“Bet you wanna play now, huh, Maki-chan?” Rin asked after a moment.

“Not really…”

“Hmmm, maybe if they included some classical music, then Maki-chan might be more interested.”

“I doubt it…”

“Are there classical songs that have lyrics for the girls to sing?” Hanayo wondered out loud.

“There are a lot of songs with lyrics.” Maki stated. “Though sometimes the lyrics are written at a later time by a different individual.”

“So maybe someday they’ll make a classical themed rhythm game.” Rin seemed excited about the concept.

“Probably not.” Maki shook her head as thoughts of a group comprising Bach, Mozart, Chopin, Rossini and Tchaikovsky wearing stylized outfits danced through her mind.

“Rin-chan.” Hanayo spoke up as she glanced her phone. “We should probably get going if we want to beat the rush at the ramen shop.”

“Iku-nya!” Rin cheered, running over to grab her bag.

“Do you want to come with us, Maki-chan?” The brunette asked.

“Thank you for the offer.” Maki replied. “But, I already have plans for the evening.”

“Oh? Wha’cha doin’?” Rin asked.

“Uhm, Nico-chan asked if I would help her study for an upcoming… What?” Maki stared back as her fellow first years smiled at her.

“Nico-chan’s lucky to have someone smart like Maki-chan help her, nya.” Rin explained. “And Rin is lucky to have someone as amazing as Kayo-chin to help her!” She grabbed the arm of the girl in question.

“Rin-chan…” Pink dusted Hanayo’s cheeks, though she continued to smile.

“You two have fun.” Maki nodded toward the door. “Nico-chan should be done with cleaning duty soon, so you don’t have to worry about me.”

After saying their goodbyes, the other two girls departed, leaving Maki alone in the clubroom. She was just about to go back to reading when her phone vibrated.

NicoNii: Sorry, going to be delayed a little bit

NicoNii: Eli and Nozomi need me to do something

NicoNii: I’ll try to make it quick

NishikinoMaki: That’s fine

NishikinoMaki: I’ll see you when you get here

Maki returned to the home screen and was about to turn off the screen when the icon for the app store caught her eye. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to take just one more quick peek at that game, right? Downloading it didn’t mean she was really interested, right? After all, the music was in the same genre of everything she had heard from school idols, µ’s included, so if anyone asked, she could just pass it off as research and inspiration. Yes, that was it; research and inspiration. Those were the only reasons.

Apparently, the initial download wasn’t enough, and more data started loading once Maki had opened the app. However, chibi versions of several of the girls appeared on screen, including the twin-tailed girl she had noticed before. Out of curiosity, she tapped the character and jumped when a voice came out of the speaker telling her to stop touching her. That was her voice? It was actually… kind of cute. Kind of. Not as cute as someone else’s though. Not that Maki was thinking about her, of course.

After finally getting to the game itself, an opening scene began that introduced what Maki assumed were the main characters. For some reason, she found herself relieved that the twin-tailed girl was among the main cast. The characters talked, explained the player’s role in the story and then walked her through a quick tutorial concerning gameplay. And finally, it was time to play her first song. She pressed Start and…

“Buweehh?!” Maki practically jumped out of her chair as arms draped across her shoulders from behind.

“Maki-chan plays that game?” A voice asked from next to her ear.

Pause! Pause! Where is the pause button?! Surely there is a Pause button, right?

The notes scrolled down the screen and with hands trembling, Maki began to tap at the screen.

Maybe… Maybe this isn’t so bad. Actually, even with Nico-chan scaring me, this is pretty ea… What?

The game made a dissonant sound as it did not accept Maki’s attempt to tap one of the special notes.

Maki grimaced as she heard Nico giggle, but continued to hit the normal notes with perfect timing. Nico giggled again when another special note was missed and Maki held back a growl. Finally, the song ended and the game tallied her performance; all Perfects, sans two Misses for the special notes.

“Still learning those notes, eh?” Nico asked.

“I… I only missed them because you scared me.” Maki grumbled.

“Uh-huh. Look here.” Nico held out one hand flat to mimic a phone before holding it with the other. “For those notes, you have to make this kind of gesture” She moved her thumb across her other hand as though it was a screen. “And for the other type you will see, you do this.” She moved her thumb again. “The tutorial doesn’t really do a good job of explaining them. Even Nico had to look it up online.”

“Hmmm...” Maki mimicked the gestures she had seen.

“Yeah, like that. That’s good, Maki-chan. Practice that for a few more songs on Easy.”

“Easy?”

“Yeah, I can see you got the normal notes down, but that was still on a slower speed. And the real world is full of distractions so you’ll have to learn how to do the special notes even if someone scares you.”

“Hmmm…” Maki wasn’t quite sure if she detected teasing in that tone.

“Maki-chan may be a prodigy with the piano but it will be years before she catches up to Nico-nii on rhythm games.”

Now that was definitely teasing. Maki’s brow furrowed as she tapped the screen again.

“Wha? Maki-chan that’s…”

“Mmph.” Maki grunted.

The song started again, but this time there was a significant increase in the number of notes cascading down the screen. And their speed had at least doubled. But Maki didn’t care. She knew the rhythm of this song now; it wasn’t overly complex. And as expected, the notes matched perfectly, meaning the only thing she had to watch was placement. Well, and the special notes, but Maki was confident she knew how to handle those, so long as Nico’s demonstration was accurate.

As her thumbs danced across the screen, Maki wondered if it might be easier to hold her phone in one hand and play with the fingers of her other. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her thumbs to keep up, just that she was more accustomed to using all of her fingers in tandem.

“Wow…” Nico breathed, about halfway through the song.

Almost there. The end was in sight. Maki felt her jaw clench as she concentrated on the last few… the arms around her shifted ever so slightly. A finger barely brushed her arm.

Maki’s breath hissed with a rapid intake through her teeth as the game released another discordant clash and her combo was shattered. With her concentration in shambles, her saving grace was that the remaining notes that were missed were not enough to completely deplete her stamina.

“Oh! Oops… Sorry, Maki-chan!” Nico pulled away quickly. In her haste she ended up backing straight into the bookshelf behind her. “Keh…”

“Nico-chan…” Maki griped, turning toward her senior.

“I’m sorry!” Nico repeated, throwing up her hands defensively. “Really, I am! I-I-I was just so impressed with your skills that I didn’t realize what else I was doing and… and… I don’t know! I’m sorry!”

Maki paused. She couldn’t recall seeing Nico like this; truly repentant. She wasn’t apologizing, grudgingly, because she was told she had to. She also wasn’t pulling the puppy dog eyes or falling into her idol persona. Rather, she seemed honestly upset after having disrupted Maki’s game. Was a mobile game really worth such a reaction?

And sure, Maki was annoyed, but she wouldn’t say she was actually angry with Nico. As such, she let her posture relax and opened her mouth to speak.

“That really was impressive, though.” Nico probably didn’t realize she was interrupting, as technically, Maki hadn’t actually spoken yet. “How long have you been playing?”

“I just downloaded it before you got here.”

Nico blinked. “Really? That’s impressive, Maki-chan.”

Maki felt a smile tug at her lips. “Thanks.”

“So, uhm… you aren’t… actually mad at me, are you?”

“Not really, no.” Maki admitted. “Just… don’t do that again.”

“You don’t want me to hug you anymore?” There was no mistaking the concern in Nico’s voice.

Ah, so that’s what she was worried about. Maki couldn’t help laughing a little. If she were being completely honest, she knew she would miss the hugs if Nico actually stopped.

“No, that’s not it.” Maki shook her head. “Maybe just not while I’m trying to concentrate on something?”

“I’ll try to remember that.” Nico said earnestly. “But Maki-chan is really cute when she’s focused and Nico can’t help wanting to hug her…”

Maki felt heat building in her cheeks. “W-well just t-try, alright?” Geez, why was she stuttering?

“Alright.” Nico smiled, finally. “So, uhm, we never did decide if we were going to your place or mine.”

“Either is fine, though it might be quieter at my place.”

“Sounds like we’re going to your place.”

“Alright.” Maki nodded.

“Oh, and maybe when we take a break, we can play together?”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a function that lets you set up private rooms, so you can play in a team with your friends to get higher scores and better rewards.” Nico explained. “And since you’re a new player, your teams won’t be that strong, even if Maki-chan’s skills are amazing, so Nico can lend you the strength of her teams and get you some nice early bonuses!”

“Sounds fun.”

“Then let’s get going!” Nico cheered with renewed vigor. Her smile was now as brilliant as... no, more brilliant than that of the character in the game as she held out a hand to her junior.

“Alright.” Maki agreed, grabbing her bag before taking her senior’s hand and letting her lead her out of the clubroom.

Author’s Note Continued: No, the game in the scene is not SIF. I still maintain that SIF does not exist in HtHaN. However, with as many mobile rhythm games as there are in the real word, it’s not hard to imagine some iteration of them occurring in this world. And since at least one is themed around idols, of course Nico and Hanayo play that one. However, just because the game isn’t actually SIF, or any other game from our world, doesn’t mean I can’t reference certain parts from any real world game. So, I’ll see where things go.

So, HtHaN has a rhythm game in it now. I guess I’ll probably want to bring it up again at some point. More notes for the collection!

#NicoMaki #Nishikino Maki #Yazawa Nico #How to Handle a Nico #Love Live #fanfic

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goodfortune-au · 4 years

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Good Fortune (Soulmate AU) Chapter 4: Angel's Guardian

Thursday was a curiosity in that it passed without much incident. Angel woke that morning to a hairball at the foot of her bed courtesy of Mayor Jello, but after she had gotten the mess cleaned up and thrown the comforter in the wash, she headed off to another mundane and uneventful day at the library. As she tended to her duties and watched the minutes tick by on the clock, she found herself stewing in anticipation of a sort. At first she thought it might just be jitters about the upcoming concert. Beside her reservations about big crowds of people, it’d been quite a while since she’d been to a live show; Derry wasn’t exactly known for booking the kinds of acts she found herself interested in. A lot of times she needed to go out of town to attend anything decent, usually to the likes of Augusta or Portland, and that was a significant trek to undertake on a weeknight. She didn’t exactly have a way out there beyond a taxi cab, either, and those could run up quite expensive tabs. For lack of time and financial means she often found herself sitting things out, with only the occasional outing for the sake of sanity. Derry was a rather dull place to live, after all.

But no, she was actually quite at ease about the concert. She had a bit of a game plan for the night, had been thinking about it all week really; she wanted to get there with plenty of time to spare, snag a t-shirt from the merch booth and maybe a patch for her jacket, make her way up to the front after the opening act was over and stay as close to the rail as humanly possible for the duration of the show. She debated the mosh pit but decided she’d rather opt out for this particular occasion, wanting to simply enjoy the music rather than get consumed in the capricious, wanton violence of the circle. That tended to be her standard procedure for concert-going. She liked to mosh for rougher, local acts she didn’t follow and sing along for bands she had a liking for. But despite her conclusive decision she still felt those butterflies in her stomach, more like buzzing bees humming away against the walls of her insides.

She’d been walking around all day, expecting to see something, though that something was a little lost on her. Another marble, a lost earring, perhaps a busted keychain lying abandoned on the ground, just waiting to be found by her wandering eyes. Gifts from a mysterious benefactor whom she couldn’t put a face or a name to, leaving behind offerings like a befriended magpie. After the sequence of the flowers, the marble, and the opal ring, she reasonably assumed that something else would follow, but nonetheless, it didn’t seem to be the case so far. She kept holding out for the possibility, even finding herself checking nooks and crannies all day wherever she could reasonably fathom the presence of a lost curio or trinket, but the effort was for naught. Even as she walked home she continued the search, even going so far as to eye the same red maple she’d passed on her way home Wednesday afternoon, for maybe there was a second ring to accompany the first dangling unassumingly from another branch. No such luck.

It began to occur to her that perhaps all this was something of her own imagining. Though she couldn’t deny it was certainly bizarre, the things she found herself stumbling upon, there was all the likelihood that it was simply a strange coincidence and nothing more. It was a disappointment to be sure, but she would be lying if she said it wasn’t the more likely of the two scenarios. A guardian angel? Pfft, grow up. The world was too cruel for such things. More specifically, Derry was too cruel for such things. If there was such a thing as a guardian angel around these parts, why were there so many disappearances and grisly happenings? Why was it all without consequence or closure? It simply didn’t make sense. If there really was such a thing, they were either lousy at their job or exceptionally negligent. Either way, it didn’t seem likely. She would do well to forget the notion entirely, for putting her fate in the hands of an imaginary protector seemed like it would get her into some nasty circumstances around here.

Thursday came and went, and Friday came following after. The end of the week, and the day of the concert. Angel put in her hours at the library (yet another day without a finding, she notes disappointingly), and went home immediately to get ready for her dubious night on the town. The concert started at seven and she could waste no time, taking into account how long it would take her to coordinate her outfit and makeup on top of how long it would take her to get there. She quickly decides on an old, faded Descendents shirt tucked into a pair of high-waisted, black washed jeans. She puts her hair in a high ponytail and laces up her Doc Martens, taking to her full length mirror to get started on her makeup. Once she’s suitably satisfied with her eyeliner she details a little swirl jutting out from her waterline and fastens her favorite spiked choker about her neck. Before she leaves her bedroom, she takes out her trusty biker jacket, studded and spiked and festooned with an eclectic assortment of pins and patches, slipping it on and shutting the bedroom door behind her. She’s already called ahead for a taxi, and she’s simply waiting on it to arrive.

Once she hears the telltale sound of a horn outside the front of her house she bids an affectionate goodbye to Mayor Jello and sets out. The drive over to the Terrace is quiet; she’s not quite the talkative type with strangers so she keeps verbal distance from the cab driver and passes the time looking out the window instead. The town looks the same as ever. Derry hadn’t changed much in the years since she’d been living there; rather, it almost seemed as though it resisted change, like the town would simply collapse in on itself if anything truly challenged its status quo. When the cab turns from Witcham back onto Up-Mile-Hill she looks on the people meandering up and down the street, patronizing businesses and fulfilling errands with casual ease. From a distance they seem almost like dolls, walking to a predetermined destination at the hands of something else entirely, with only simulated autonomy to their wooden limbs. She presses her forehead against the glass and sighs.

The cab drops her at the curb of the Terrace. She pays her fare, gets out, and thanks the cab driver, who gives her a curt nod before driving off and leaving her to her destination. The merch table was a bit of a hectic mess unsurprisingly. Once Angel had crossed the threshold into the main hall she was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people inside. Derry was such a small town that she was used to small turnouts; this, however, was anything but. She thought about it and decided it made sense. Bad Religion was garnering a bit of a following as of late, so she could only surmise that people must have showed up from out of town for this one. She finds the wait pleasantly quick as she moves from the tail end of the line into the front in no less than ten minutes or so. She stuffs her chosen tee into the pocket of her jeans and takes a deep breath before heading towards the sea of people congregated outside the stage. The sound of the opening act is cacophonous on the mounted speakers, some nameless hardcore band putting their heart and soul into their ten-song set and she finds rhythm in her feet as she moves through the crowd. The crowd resists her entry the further up she gets and she finds herself having to elbow past people, the spikes on her jacket doing the brunt of the work as she slowly but surely makes her way to the front. And then, once she reaches the safety of the rail she clings to it for dear life, letting the feedback from the close-by amps turn to static in her ears as she waits for the first show to end.

When the band finally takes the stage, she finds herself getting caught up in the energy of a live performance again, calling back in response to their interactions with the audience and singing along at the top of her lungs when they begin every new song in their set. Their energy on stage is on par with that of the circle right behind her and the lead singer is charismatic and expressive, wildly gesturing with his hands as he belts out the lyrics to songs she’d listened to a thousand times over, wearing out the vinyl on a brand new album and driving all the neighbors crazy. This album, in her opinion, was one every bit as engrossing to listen to as their first, a refreshing welcome back to their initial sound after a decided, less well-received departure in their second. She’d been following them ever since she’d gotten her hands on their 1985 EP Back to the Known, and they were very quickly becoming one of her favorite bands. The current song ends and the lead singer talks up the audience for a bit before announcing the next.

“Alright, this next one is from our new album Suffer, s’called Do What You Want. Okay- one, two, three YA-HEY! ”

The band surges forward again into rhythmic, chaotic energy once more, calling the entire crowd forward in their deafening siren song. Angel sways with the sea of people, dancing and stomping her feet in tandem with the drum beats, calling out the lyrics and getting lost in them.

Hey do what you want

But don’t do it around me

Idleness and dissipation breed apathy

I sit on my ass

All godd*mn day

A misanthropic anthropoid with nothing to

The circle behind her is a vortex, slowly pulling her towards the chaotic eye of the storm and away from the haven of the rail. She fights to keep her place but with one clumsy misstep she trips into the outer rim of the mosh pit. The inner core is alive with discordant, screaming misfits; running rampant, elbowing one another, punching, slamming, stomping. Contained chaos just begging to break free.

Say what you must

Do all you can

Break all the f*cking rules and

Go to hell with superman and

Die like a champion, ya-hey!

The voices of the crowd are like a breathless, restless chorus and her voice is just one among hundreds blending seamlessly into one another. She finds herself succumbing to the energy of the circle, pushing and shoving with the rest of the outer rim until she herself is ushered into the center of it all. And from there it is every man for himself, struggling to stay upright in a maelstrom of mayhem and disarray; thrashing, each person leaping and pirouetting furiously in an endless, rolling gait to words of passionate anger. She tumbles headfirst into the rhythm and has no choice but to follow it, taking the perimeter of the circle at a jilted skip until she finds her stable footing again.

Hey I don’t know

If the billions will survive

But I’ll believe in god

When one and one are five

My moniker is man and

I’m rotten to the core

I’ll tear down the building

Just to pass through the door

She’s dizzy with exhilaration, now lost in the relentless, delirious disorder before her, adrenaline pumping through her veins as she shoulders into someone else, survival instincts of a sense consuming her in the moment as she fights to stay on her feet. She sees a path out of the circle and back to the rail, and as she rounds the circle for the umpteenth time, she lunges forward with a hand outstretched-

So do what you must

Do all you can

Break all the f*cking rules and

Go to hell with superman and

Die like a champion, ya-hey!

Stinging pain bites her in the face and she hits the ground with a thud. The impact is enough to knock the wind out of her and she gasps air into her starving lungs as her sight starts to fade. A hand reaches down to pull her back up before the stampeding herd can trample her and she wastes no time, she grabs hold and pushes back up onto her feet again. The roaring crowd cheers as she catches her breath. The circle has calmed; she finds the strength to amble out of the crowd and make her way towards the bathroom to get herself cleaned up.

“F*ck. F*ck f*ck f*ck! ”

She stares at herself in the mirror, looking down in dismay over the breast of her jacket. There’s a blank patch where a button had sat before, an old, yellowed one that read “Re-elect Graider for Council.” Inherited from her great grandfather, and very much irreplaceable. She must have lost it when she hit the ground. Finding her mood for the night soured by this unfortunate development, she spends the rest of the concert by the phone booth outside, listening to the concert from a distance as she calls for another cab. She tries not to let the self-hatred flow through her, trying very keenly not to let it turn into one of her infamous and self-destructive spirals. It wasn’t a huge deal. Or at least, that’s what she tried so earnestly to tell herself.

“Yes, can you come pick me up? I’m at Derry Riverside Terrace, just off Center Street by the Penobscot River. Okay, yes, thank you, I’ll be here.”

She hangs up.

“Shit, man…”

The ride home is silent and dismal. Derry is dim and black from the window of the cab, and it offers her no comfort as she rests her weary head against the frosty glass. The driver thankfully doesn’t offer much in the way of conversation, leaving her to stew in her quiet discontent until she’s dropped at the curb outside her house. She straightens her jacket over her shoulders and walks towards the front door, listening to the cab drive off behind her. She’d left it unlocked because she didn’t want to take her keys with her. It was fine; not like there was anything around her house that anyone in their right minds would want to steal around here anyway. Twisting the knob, she sets foot onto the polished hardwood, her boots thudding gently in the silence of the room as she does so. A meow greets her from the other room, and Mayor Jello comes sauntering in to wrap himself around her leg after she flicks on the light.

“Nice to see you too, pal. Been a long night, how about you?”

He doesn’t answer, but instead walks over to his food bowl. He starts pecking at it with his muzzle, seeming to disregard her now. She snorts.

“Kay then, I’ll leave you to it, Mr. Mayor. As for me, I’m heading to bed. I’ll leave the door cracked if you… You know, if you wanna come in- oh, what the hell am I saying, he knows the drill.” She says, now starting to talk to herself. She turns on her heel and kicks off her boots, leaving them by the doorway. Peeling off her socks, she tosses them into her laundry basket and starts to get undressed. She strips her bra from her chest, stretching with a big yawn as she casts it aside. With a wistful glance at the jacket sitting on her bed, she places it back on its hanger in the closet, stashing it out of sight so she wouldn't have to think about what she'd lost. Falling asleep, she forgets it all.

She sleeps in the next morning. It was her ritual to disregard alarms on the weekend, for there was simply no reason to get up early on days like these unless she explicitly had errands to attend to. The only alarm she wakes to is the biological one in her bladder, which has her stirring uncomfortably in her bed until she can take it no longer. Her eyes flutter open and she rubs them groggily, sitting upright to slip out of bed. Her feet land on the cold floor, one after the other, and she stretches with an indulgent yawn. The memories of dreams brush away from her mind like a schooner carried away by the waves and wind on an ocean shore, visible in the distance but fading slowly over the horizon with time. Derry seems deathly still and warm sheets ruffle quietly with the squeak of springs as she scoots forward off the mattress.

Clack!

She turns around in confusion, looking down to find a curious sight. There, laying innocently at her feet...Is her lost button. Her heart pounds in her chest as she picks it up, her mind racing a thousand miles a minute with more questions than she can keep up with. Shaking fingers brush against something on the back, and she turns it over to find a piece of folded paper tucked into the bronze pin. Pulling it out, she quickly scans over the words and her breath catches in her throat.

She’s speechless; a tingling warmth is starting to spread throughout her body. Her cheeks are getting red but the room is as cold as ever. She thinks of the feelings in her gut that had been building through the week, the persistent feeling of something new, something different. She thinks of all the things she found, the circumstances; how each little thing seemed to be left just for her and no one else. She remembers last night at the concert, and her encounter with whoever had saved her skin in the mosh pit. She thought it strange; their hand was silken and elegant against hers, and as she stared up into the sea of thrashing people she thought she could see two stars, gold and brilliant, staring back at her, but when she’d broken into the surface once more that hand had mysteriously disappeared, and the person along with it. The sky was black and soulless again, no signs of the lights that had beckoned her back. As she stands in the silence of the room, all existing skepticism once lingering in her consciousness had gone to the wayside now. Strange as it may seem, the answer to her was clear, having made itself unmistakable to her through the paper in her fingers.

“Lost and found.” The note says, and it's accented with a little heart.

Maybe she had a guardian angel after all.

#pennywise #daddywise #good fortune #chapter four #angel's guardian #it 2017 #it chapter one #pennywise x oc #pennywise x angel #tenpence

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fullmetalcarer · 7 years

Text

Arranged Marriage / Soulmates AU - Part 2

(link to Part 1)

King Charles and Prince Erik met every day in the fortnight prior to the wedding. As was customary, they were attended by hordes of courtiers. Every time they met Charles was rendered speechless and stupid with possessive lust. Every time they met Erik leant towards him like a sapling in a high wind, "accidentally" touching Charles' fingers, or nudging his shoulder, or brushing his arm. Every night Charles jerked off frantically, picturing Erik in a variety of erotic poses.

Conversation was stilted at first, with Charles inquiring about such inspiring subjects as Erik's journey, the weather in Genosha as opposed to the Westchestrian climate and comparative farming practices. Erik gave monosyllabic answers.

The war was an obvious conversational no go area. Erik had fought in his country's wars from the age of sixteen. Charles was a seasoned campaigner; first as a guerrilla fighter against the usurper, Kurt Marko, then in the civil war against Kurt's son, Cain, and finally as a commander and participant, despite the pleas of his generals, in the war against Genosha.

A chance reference to chess changed everything. Conversation flowed as they discussed, and argued about, their preferred strategies. They adjourned to the library to use the ebony and whitewood set that had belonged to Charles' long dead father. It was a close fought game. Eric won. Charles had never been so happy to be beaten in his entire life. Admittedly, he had been distracted by Erik's habit of rolling the pieces between his long, tanned fingers. They played daily from then on. Honours were about even.

The conversational floodgates had opened. They talked about books (Erik favoured factual works, Charles preferred novels and poetry), the sciences (Erik was fascinated by metallurgy, Charles by the study of living things), the rights of omegas (in Westchester omegas had virtually the same rights as alphas, in Genosha they were very much second class citizens, except that they were expected to fight, which was rare in Westchester) and the lands they had travelled (Erik described the icy fastnesses of the north, Charles waxed lyrical on the tropical jungles of the south).

Erik was well on the way to beating him yet again, which would put him three games ahead, when Charles noticed him rubbing at a broad scar on the inside of his wrist.

"Old war wound?" he asked, forgetting the war was out of bounds.

"No," replied Erik, tone somber.

Charles was just about to apologise for asking when Erik continued:

"It's where my soulmark was."

The Genoshans were remarkable for removing children's soul marks as soon as they appeared. Soulmarks were considered a frivolous distraction from the serious art of waging war. Soulmarks encouraged people to waste time searching for their perfect mate when they could be usefully serving their country.

"When . . . when did you have it removed?"

"I was three."

"Did it hurt?"

"I don't remember. I don't remember what it said. It was a man's name, I know that."

"Do you regret losing it? I don't mean to offend. I know it is the way of your people and would not be the custom if they did not feel there was good reason for it. Forgive me, I express myself badly."

Erik smiled, not the fierce grin that ignited a fire in Charles' groin, but a soft, sad thing that stirred something painful in his chest.

"You express yourself well and I am not offended. I know we are the only people to remove our soulmarks. When I was young I thought nothing of it, it was the way things were. As I grew older, I was glad it was gone as I knew my marriage would be arranged and a soulmark might make it harder to accept. Recent events have made me wonder . . . oh . . . many things."

Recent events could only mean their impending marriage.

"I have my soulmark still and I swear I could not feel more strongly for my soulmate than I do for you," said Charles.

He took both Erik's hand's in his. His fingers were cool between Charles' heated palms. His scent intensified, the rain on green, growing things smell particularly strong.

"I have no soulmark, but I care not for I have you," Erik whispered, voice husky with need.

They were falling into each other, lips within inches of meeting, when a Genoshan courtier coughed meaningfully. It was the Regent, Shaw. Fucking bastard. They drew back and carried on playing, the match descending into a messy draw.

Their conversation was never so intimate again, but Charles repeated Erik's words in his head night and day.

"Stopped moping about your soulmate, have you?" teased Raven.

Charles blushed and told her loftily "you should have more respect for your King."

She blew a raspberry and sprinted off before he could retaliate.

The day of the wedding came at last. Charles was ritually bathed and dressed as was the custom. Erik would be going through the same ritual. Charles was clad in gold, Erik in silver. Only alphas and betas were permitted to attend to Charles and only omegas to Erik. Raven, as a beta and his nearest relative, despite being a half sister only and a bastard at that, had the duty of girdling him with his sword belt and placing the crown upon his head. She looked unusually serious as she did so, the solemnity of the event affecting even her high spirits. Neither Charles nor Erik would eat until the marriage feast.

Charles struggled to keep his temper. He should be meeting Erik in the library right now. They'd be playing chess and talking and Charles would gently tease his omega and Erik would pretend to be offended, then burst out laughing. Logic said he'd see Erik in just a few hours. His alpha nature curled his fingers into claws and put a growl in his throat at the delay. He managed not to swear at anyone or punch his attendants by saying as little as possible and practising breathing exercises.

He processed through the castle - which took hours, it was a bloody big castle - and then through the streets. The people cheered and threw flowers. There were a few boos and sullen faces because some of his subjects resented him marrying the Genoshan prince who'd waged war on their land. In most kingdoms the people would have been afraid of openly expressing their displeasure, but Charles had always been determined Westchester would be different. The vast majority seemed to be celebrating. Of course that might be because free food and drink had been laid on.

Erik would be making his way to the cathedral by another route. As an omega, he would be in a carriage, rather than on foot, and hidden from the gaze of the crowd, which was ridiculous as the public would be seeing him all the time once they were married. Something primitive in Charles rejoiced that his omega would be concealed from prying eyes. He'd arranged to have the Erik's route strewn with yellow rose petals, as his prince had mentioned in passing that he preferred them to the more traditional white.

Both processions arrived at the cathedral at the same time. Charles handed Erik down from the carriage. Erik's fingers were cold and trembled slightly. Charles gave them a reassuring squeeze. Erik squeezed back. He had strong grip. His scent - lemons, cloves, new mown hay - washed over Charles, hypnotic and entrancing. Erik was draped from head to toe in a fine silver veil. Once the massive cathedral doors had slammed shut behind them, Charles unveiled him.

"You are as beautiful as the moon," he whispered.

Erik smiled and whispered back, "You are as magnificent as the sun. Oh, and yellow roses, you remembered."

"I remember everything you say."

The Regent made a sort of "ahem" noise. God, Charles disliked the man, plus he was an alpha so shouldn't be anywhere near Charles' omega, but he was perfectly right, they were keeping three thousand people waiting.

Charles led Erik down the aisle. The huge, echoing space was brilliant with a thousand candles. Light streamed through the stained glass windows, painting the pale stonework in a myriad of jewel colours. The right hand side of the nave was hung with blue Xavier pennants, the left with Lehnsherr green and silver. Above the altar two great banners were joined in a complex knot, symbolising their union.

The priest began speaking of "the alpha taking into him the omega and the omega cleaving to the alpha." Charles didn't take in much of the service. Erik was too distracting.

He repeated the ancient words:

"I, Charles, rightful King of Westchester, Lord of House Xavier, take unto me Erik, anointed Prince of Genosha, Lord of House Lehnsherr, to be my omega. I pledge on my life and my crown to love, honour and protect him, forsaking all others, even into the end of our days."

Erik gazed at him with shining eyes.

"I, Erik, anointed Prince of Genosha, Lord of House Lehnsherr, give unto Charles, rightful King of Westchester, Lord of House Xavier, myself, as offering to my alpha. I pledge on my life and my crown to love, honour and obey him, forsaking all others, even unto the end of our days."

They exchanged rings, silver for Charles and gold for Erik, and drank from the cup of joining, Erik's fingers clasping the jewelled handles, Charles' hands atop Erik's.

"And now, your Majesty, your Royal Highness, you may exchange the kiss of binding."

Charles placed one hand on Erik's cheek and the other on the nape of his neck. The short hairs tickled his fingers. Erik's hands fastened on Charles' waist. Erik bent his head - he was half a head taller than Charles - and their lips met. Erik's lips were soft and warm. His scent intensified - he smelt like an orangery hung with drying spices - and Charles' scent - earthy, musky, smoky - mingled with it. Charles was on verge of slipping his tongue into Erik's welcoming mouth, when the priest cried:

"People of Westchester and Genosha, behold King Charles, the Third of His Name, and Prince Consort Erik, the First of His Name. Alpha and Omega, may they rule long and well under God's grace."

Charles disengaged and he and Erik turned to face their cheering people with dazed faces. Erik had tear tracks on his cheeks and it wasn't until Charles saw them that he realised his own face was wet.

They were married.

Part 3 to follow

#cherik #arranged marriage au #soulmate au #Fullmetalcarer fic #fanfic #fic

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ladyjessmusic · 5 years

Text

TONI MORRISON TRIBUTE PROJECT AT THE SCHOMBURG :: UPDATE I

After days of procrastination, days of research-laden procrastination...

I have finally managed to at least outline, through excerpts, how I’m going to structure this tribute piece to TM. From the minute I was asked, I’ve been planning. It has been overwhelming, to say the least. How to put together something about someone who means so very very much to me? How to represent that in the most fitting way possible? ..shuddering at the idea of gaming the queen from wherever she is observing in the afterlife...

SO HERE, HERE IS THE QUOTE OUTLINE I HAVE CONCOCTED:

___

MAVIS (pg 21):

The neighbors seemed pleased when the babies smothered. probably because the mint green Cadillac in which they died had annoyed them for some time.

___

GRACE (GIGI) (pg 65):

The man with the earring didn't come looking for her. She sought him out. Just to talk too somebody who wasn’t encased in polyester and who looked like he might smoke something other than Chesterfields.

He was short, almost a dwarf, but his clothes were East Coast hip. His Afro was neat, not ragged, and he wore seeds of gold around his neck, one matching stud in his ear,

They stood next to each other at the snack bar, which the attendant insisted on calling the dining car. She ordered a Coke without ice and a brownie. He was paying for a large cup of ice only.

“That ought to be free,” Gig said to the man behind the counter. “He shouldn’t have to pay for the cup.”

“Excuse me, ma’am. I just follow the rules.”

“I ordered no ice. Did you deduct anything?”

“Course not.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” the short man said.

“I ain’t troubled,” Gigi told him, and then, to the counterman: “Listen, you. Give him the ice you weren’t going to charge him for, okay?”

“Miss, do I have to call the conductor?”

“If you don’t, I will This is train robbery all right - trains robbing people.”

“It’s all right,” said the man. “Just a nickel.”

“It’s the principle,” said gig.

“A five-cent principle ain’t no principle at all. The man needs a nickel. Needs it real bad.” The short man smiled.

“I don't need nothing,” said the attendant. “It’s the rules.”

“Have two,” said the man, and flicked a second nickel into the saucer.

Gig glaring, the eagle man smiling, they left the snack bar together. She sat down across the aisle from him to expand on the incident, while the man crunched the ice.

“Gigi.” She held out her hand. “You?”

“Dice,” he said.

“Like chopping small?”

“Like pair of.”

___

SENECA

“The chauffeur had picked her up for Norma like a stray puppy. No, not even that. But like a pet you wanted to pay with for a while - a little while - but not keep. Not love. Not name it. Just feed it, play with it, then return it to its own habitat. She had five hundred dollars, and other than Eddie, no one knew where it was. Maybe she ought to keep it that way.

Seneca hadn’t decided much of anything when she saw the first place to hide - a flatbed loaded with cement sacks. When she was discovered she was held against a tire, splicing his questions, curses and threats with mild flirtations. Seneca said nothing at first, then suddenly begged permission to go to the bathroom. “I have to go. Bad,” she said. The driver sighed and released her, shouting a final warning at her back. She hitched a few times after that but so disliked the necessary talk she accepted the risk of stowing away in trucks. She preferred traveling resolutely nowhere, closed off from society, hidden among quiet cargo - no one knowing she was there. When she found herself among crates in a brand-new ‘73 pickup, jumping out of it to follow. coatless woman was the first pointedly uninstructed thing she had ever done.”

___

DIVINE

“Let me tell you about love, that silly word you believe is about whether you like somebody or whether somebody likes you or whether you can put up with somebody in order to get something or someplace you want or you believe it has to do with how your body responds to another body like robins or bison or maybe you believe love is how forces or nature or luck is benign to you in particular not maiming or killing you but if so doing it for your own good.

Love is none of that. there is nothing in nature like it. Not in robins or bison or in the banging of tails of your hunting dogs and not in blossoms or suckling foal. Love is divine only and difficult always. If you think it is easy you are a fool. If you think it is natural you are blind. It is a learned application without reason ro motive except that it is God.

You do not deserve love regardless of the suffering you have endured. You do not deserve love because somebody did you wrong. You do not deserve love just because you want it. You can only earn-by practice and careful contemplation-the right to express it and you have to learn how to accept it. Which is to say you have to earn God. You have to practice God. You have to think God-carefully. And if you are a good and diligent student you may secure the right to show love. Love is not a gift. It is a diploma. A diploma conferring certain privileges: the privilege of expressing love and the privilege of receiving it.

How do you know you have graduated? You don’t. What you do know is that you are human and therefore educable, and therefore capable of learning how to learn, and therefore interesting to God, who is only interested in Himself which is to say He is interested only in love. Do you understand me? God is not interested in you. He is interested in love and the bliss it brings to those who share and understand that interest.

___

PATRICIA

“What did Daddy say to you at that AME Zion picnic? The one held for colored soldiers stationed at the base in Tennessee. How could either of you tell what the other was saying? He talking Louisiana, you speaking Tennessee. The music is so different, the sound coming from a different part of the body. It must have been like hearing lyrics set to scores by two different composers. But when you made love he must have said I love you and you understood that and it was true, too, because I have seen the desperation in his eyes ever since-no matter what business venture he thinks up.”

___

CONSOLATA

“It was while Consolata waited on the steps that she saw him for the first time. Sha sha sha. Sha sha sha. A lean young man astride one horse, leading another. His khaki shirt was soaked with sweat, and at some point he romped his wide flat hat to wipe perspiration from his forehead. His hips were rocking in the saddle, back and forth, back and forth. Sha sha sha. Sha sha sha. Consolata saw his profile, and the wing of a feathered thing, undead, fluttered in her stomach.”

...

“Casually, perfunctorily, he looked her way. Consolata looked back and thought she saw hesitation in his eyes if not in his stride. Quickly she ducked into the sun-baked Mercury, where the heat emend to explain her difficult breathing. She did not see him again for two months of time made unstable by a feathered thing fighting for wingspread.”

...

“They drove for what Consolata believed were hours, no words passing between them. The danger and its necessity focused them, made them calm. She did not know or care where headed or what might happen to them when they arrived. Speeding toward the unforeseeable, sitting next to him who was darker than the darkness they split, Consolata let the feathers unfold and come unstuck from the walls of a stone-cold womb. Out here where wind was not a help or threat to sunflowers, nor the moon a language of time, of weather, of sowing or harvesting, but a feature of the original world designed for the two of them.

Finally he slowed and turned unto a barely passable track, where coyote grass scraped the fenders. In the middle of it he braked and would have taken her in his arms except she was already there.

...

“He kisses her lightly, then leans on his elbow. “I’ve traveled. All over. I’ve never seen anything like you. How could anything be put together like you? Do you know how beautiful you are? Have you looked at yourself?

“I’m looking now.”

...

“Let your mind grow long and use what God gives you.”

...

“They had promised to take care of her always but did not tell her that always was not all ways nor forever. Prisoner wine helped until it didn’t and she found herself, full of drinker’s malice, wishing she had the strength to beat the life out of the women freeloading in the house. “God don’t make mistakes,” Lone had shouted at her. Perhaps not, but He was sometimes overgenerous. Like giving satanic gifts to a drunken, ignorant, penniless woman living in darkness unable to rise from a cot to do something useful or die on it and rid the world of her stench. Gray-haired, her eyes drained of what eyes were made for, she imagined how she must appear. Her colorless eyes saw nothing clearly except what took place in the minds of others. Exactly the opposite of that blind season when she rutted in dirt with the living man and the thought that she was seeing for the first time because she was looking so hard. But she had been spoken to, half cursed, half blessed. He had burned the green away and replaced it with pure sight that damned her if she used it.”

...

“Non sum dignus,” she whispered. “But tell me. Where is the rest of days, the aisle of thyme, the scent of veronica you promised? The cream and honey you said I earned? The happiness that comes of well-done chores, the serenity duty grants us, the blessings of good works? Was what I did for love of you so terrible?”

Mary Magna had nothing to say. Consolata listened to the refusing silence, more wondering than annoyed by the sky, in plumage now, gold and blue-green, strutting like unrequited love on the horizon. She was afraid of dying alone, ungrieved in holy ground, but knew that was precisely what lay before her. How she longed for the good death. “I’ll miss you,” she told Him. “I really will.” The skylight wavered.

...

“My child body, hurt and soil, leaps into the arms of a woman who teach me my body is nothing my spirit everything. I agreed her until I met another. My flesh is hungry for itself it ate him. When he fell away the woman rescue me from my body again. Twice he saves it. When her body sickens I care for it in every way flesh works. I hold it in my arms and between my legs. Clean it, rock it, enter it to keep it breath. After she is dead I cannot get past that. My bones on hers that only good thing. Not spirit. Bones. No different from the man. My bones on his the only true thing. So I wondering where is the spirit lost in this? It is true, like bones. It is good, like bones. One sweet, one bitter. Where is it lost? Hear me, listen. Never break them in two. Never put one over the other. Eve is Mary’s mother. Mary is the daughter of Eve.”

_______________________________________

These are the quotes I’ve chosen to use to frame the piece. These are the quotes that have struck me at my core, the pieces of this masterpiece that stick to my soul like glue (for lack of a better way to describe the intensity with which these vignettes travel my bloodstream).

The plan is to structure cells that apply to each character. Within each cell, I will record an idée fixe that works for each character of the novel, each representing a different nuance that any black woman may or may not experience.

This morning was the first time that I’d even conceived of using the cadenza I wrote to accompany the CSG Concerto in G. In lieu of a standard cadenza, I wrote my own. The work exits as a standalone piece as well, and I wrote it, contextually, from a place that gives consideration to the emotional profile of CSG’s mother, a free slave from Guadeloupe. It’s incredible how this writing, hundreds of years later, completely removed from the life of its author, or from my own, can serve as such a powerful link between cognizant realities.

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letdecemberburninflames · 7 years

Text

Whack-A-Nazi

Fic Type: Winchester Sister!Reader

Warnings: mentions of Neo Nazism, minor violence, blood, mention of school shooting

Song: Pumped up Kicks by Foster the People

I roll out of bed, a yawn slipping through my lips as I stretch. Throwing on some clothes (a flannel shirt, jeans, the usual) I walk down the winding hallways and into the kitchen where Dean was cooking breakfast.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Dean hands me a plate with bacon and some eggs. “There’s orange juice in the fridge.”

“Thanks, Dean.” I peck him on the cheek before pouring myself a glass of orange juice and making my way to the library, where I knew my other brother would be slaving away. The only person we were missing was Castiel. He was gone, and we hadn’t heard from him in months. Yeah, I was worried. But I also knew that Cas could handle himself, and that if he needed help he’d ask. Hopefully. It had been stressful, between meeting Henry Winchester, my grandfather, and finding out about the Men of Letters, I had had a very busy few months. But, we finally had a place to call home. The Bunker. Sure, we had a minor problem. Abaddon, a Knight of Hell. She was a bitch, but not exactly a major problem at the moment. I mean, she wasn’t causing any mass destruction, so it wasn’t high on our to-do list. Not that we weren’t hunting her. Of course, Kevin was still busy trying to figure out a way to close the Gates of Hell forever.

I sat down next to Sam, taking a drink of my orange juice.

“So get this,” Sam looks up from his computer screen. “Apparently, this high schooler, Timothy Byrnes, from Arlington, Virginia shot up a three of his classmates at school.”

“And?” I ask through a mouthful of bacon.

Sam rolls his eyes. “And, all these kids had something in common. The three kids he shot all had the same brand of shoes, Air Jordan 3 Retro Soulfly’s. They’re about $7,000 on Ebay.”

I sigh. “How is this our kind of thing? How do we know he just didn’t want the money?” I put down my fork and scoot closer to peer at Sam’s computer screen.

“Because he didn’t need the money.” Sam’s fingers flicked across the keyboard. “Timothy Byrnes’ family owns almost half of Apple in stock. He could’ve just as easily bought the shoes himself. On top of that, he’s a straight A student with an immaculate record. Real mild-mannered, from what it looks like. But here’s the kicker. Mr. Byrnes is a real big World War II history buff, and apparently likes collecting antiques from that time period.”

I grin. “Sounds like we’ve got a case.”

---

“Mrs. Byrnes, I’m agent Natalie Ackerman and this is agent Keith Banner. We’d just like to ask you a few questions about your son.” I flashed my fake FBI badge to the woman who strongly reminded me of Mrs. Dursley from Harry Potter.

“Yes, yes of course.” Mrs. Byrnes opened the door wider and invited me and Sam in. Dean was off investigating the crime scene and interrogating Timothy, leaving Sam and I to do some sleuthing of our own.

Mrs. Byrnes was tall and skinny with brown hair and a pale, pointed face. Behind her stood a little girl, who she promptly shooed off saying, “Abby, mommy has to talk with these nice agents. Why don’t you play in your room for a while?”. She had the posture of a pencil, and would’ve been quite intimidating if it wasn’t for the fact that she was dressed in Bugs Bunny pajama pants and looked like a disgruntled emu. The Byrnes residence was more or less a mansion, probably an inheritance from a wealthy uncle. Mrs. Byrnes led us into a living room with a grand piano and motioned for us to sit.

“I’m so sorry, the house is such a mess. I’ve been meaning to call the cleaning lady, but just haven’t gotten around to it.” She sat down on a white silk couch opposite of my brother and I.

I tried not to gape at the huge crystal chandelier hanging above us. “It’s quite alright, Mrs. Byrnes-”

“Please call me Janet.” She smiled warmly.

“You have a lovely house, Janet.” I complimented. It never hurt to butter people up a bit before you roasted them.

“Thank you, I inherited it from father.” She smiled warmly at us.

“Janet. If you don’t mind, my associate would like to look around Timothy’s room?” I motioned to Sam.

“That’s no problem, dear. Just up the stairs and down the hall, fifth door on the right. On the left is his game room, if you’d like to look in there as well.” Janet motioned to a grand staircase just visible through the wide doorway. Sam nodded and excused himself.

“Janet, did you notice anything odd about your son’s behavior before the shooting? Maybe a drop in grades, less appetite than usual, bouts of anger?”

Mrs. Byrnes’ brow furrowed. “No, not that I can recall. I mean, he’s always been a bit strange. He’s very smart you know- took all the AP classes, was in chess club, the debate team, mathletes group, TAG programs.” She gestured to a glass case by the fireplace full of trophies and photos and letters from the mayor, governor, and president. “He was very upset when his father wasn’t able to make it to his birthday last week…”

I looked up from scribbling notes as she paused. “Go on.” I encouraged.

Mrs. Byrnes took a watery breath. “My husband, James, is on a business trip in Germany currently. He was supposed to be home a matter of weeks ago, before Timothy’s birthday, but he wasn’t able to make it, something about a business transaction mishap. He sent him a lovely phonograph for him to play his vinyl record collection on, though.”

“Uh huh. So, anything else odd? Maybe cold spots, traces of sulfur or-”

Mrs. Byrnes’ eyes narrowed. “Are you asking if my son was involved in the Occult?”

I swallowed hard. It wasn’t every day that people knew what we were talking about when we mentioned demonic omens and signs of hauntings. “Uh…”

Mrs. Byrnes lowered her voice and leaned closer to me, covering her mouth with her hand so no one could read her lips. “Meet me at the Blue Cafe at one.” She sat back up and resumed her normal demeanor. “No, nothing like that. In fact, I’m insulted that you’d suggest such a thing.” Her voice was icy and stuck up.

“Right... well my partner should be finished by now. Would you mind if I went up to Timothy’s room and looked around a bit before we leave?”

Janet sighed exasperatedly, as if I was wasting her time. “I suppose. But make it quick, I have to go down to the juvenile detention center in an hour. My son has been given the death penalty.”

---

I peeked into the fifth room on the right to see Sam digging through a box of records. “Find anything?” I asked. Timothy Byrnes’ bedroom looked just like every other high school boy’s bedroom: messy. A half eaten box of pizza sat on the desk, along with stacks of calculus books and classic literature like Gulliver’s Travels. A Call of Duty: Black Ops 4 poster was hanging on the wall, next to a Sports Illustrated calendar featuring a bikini-clad model. Shoved up against one wall was a flat screen TV and almost every XBox game in existence.

“Other than a stash of Playboy magazines and enough A+ homework assignments to choke a dragon? Nothing.” Sam tossed me a record. “I did find this.”

“Hey, I know this band!” I examined the vinyl record. “Okay, but what does a Foster the People record have to do with a school shooting?”

“I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the record so much as the record player. Come look at this thing. It’s gotta be from the 1940’s.” Sam motioned to the old phonograph perched precariously on top of a stack of comic books.

“Yeah, didn’t you say Mr. Byrnes was a huge WWII fanatic?” I trace my finger along the tone arm.

“Yeah… How about you? What’d you find out from Mrs. Byrnes?” Sam took the record from me, slid it back into its sleeve, and dropped it back into a box full of vinyls.

“Not much. Just what we already know; he’s a great kid, super smart, etc. She started acting really weird when I mentioned demonic omens though. Like, she knew about the sulfur thing. She told me to meet her at this place called the Blue Cafe at one.”

Sam glanced over to me. “Seriously? That’s kinda suspicious.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

“You’re welcome, Lieutenant Sarcastic.”

---

At one o’clock sharp I showed up at the Blue Cafe in downtown Arlington. Sure enough, Janet Byrnes was sitting at an outdoor table reading the latest edition of Vogue.

“Mrs. Byrnes.” I nod a greeting and take the seat opposite her.

“Agent Ackerman, thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m sorry for the cryptic invitation, but I can never be too careful, especially with my husband…” She shook her head. “Would you like anything to drink? My treat.”

“Yeah, sure. A beer sounds great.”

“It’s my husband, Agent. He’s… Well he’s very secretive to say the least. I believe he had something to do with my son murdering those three boys.”

I thanked the waiter for my beer and took a sip. “How so?”

Janet looked around nervously. “I have reason to believe he may be a part of a cult.” She ran a finger along the rim of her martini glass. “James’ family, well his ancestors were Nazis. That’s why he’s so interested in the history and collecting artifacts, but I think he’s gotten into more than just the history. He’s a member of the American Nazi Party.”

---

“American Nazi Party, huh?” Dean sipped his beer.

Sam’s eyes were glued to his computer screen. “Yeah, I learned about that in high school. It supposedly started here in Arlington, Virginia in the sixties. Big on socialism and white power.”

“But what does that have to do with a clean cut kid shooting up three of his classmates with $7,000 shoes?” Dean asked.

I shrugged. “Beats me. Mrs. Byrnes thinks that it was some sort of initiation for the ANP, but her husband’s off in Germany right now, so I don’t know…” I reached over to turn on the radio next to Sam’s elbow. Music usually helped me think.

All the other kids with the pumped up kicks

You better run, better run, outrun my gun

All the other kids with the pumped up kicks

You better run, better run, faster than my bullet

“SAM!” I yelled as the lyrics hit me, slamming my hand down hard on the motel table.

“Jesus fucking Christ Y/N, what the hell is it?” A startled Sam Winchester eyed me like I’d lost my mind.

“The record! Sammy, the record!”

“Yeah, what about it?” Sam looked confused and Dean shot us both a look that clearly told me he thought we were crazy.

“The vinyl album in Timothy’s room. The album, Torches, is the album that this song is on.”

“And?” Dean’s eyebrow was raised, and I could tell that he was wondering what drugs I had taken.

“Listen,” I turned up the radio volume as the chorus of the song played again.

All the other kids with the pumped up kicks

You better run, better run, outrun my gun

All the other kids with the pumped up kicks

You better run, better run, faster than my bullet

“Shit.” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “You can’t be serious.”

“Okay guys, what’d I miss?” Dean asked, still puzzled.

“This song, Pumped Up Kicks, is by a band called Foster the People. Timothy Byrnes had an album by this band with this song on it. It was on a record player in his bedroom. I’m not sure if you were listening to the lyrics, but the song is about a school shooting where this kid with a father who’s gone a lot goes after some kids with “pumped up kicks”, in other words, really high end shoes.” I grinned. “Cursed object.”

“Okay,” Dean took another swig of beer. “But what does this have to do with the Neo-Nazi thing?”

Sam shrugged, closing his laptop. “Probably nothing. The mom’s just in hysterics because her kid did just kill three students. She’s probably looking for a outlet, some explanation as to why her kid just acted up and just happened to affiliate her husband’s love of WWII history and the fact that they live in Arlington to the murders. When really it’s just a cursed vinyl that made him go Charles Manson on his classmates.”

Dean put his beer in the fridge. “Makes sense. Let’s go smash some records.”

---

Three hours later, the Foster the People album was burned and we were on our way back to Lawrence, Kansas when we got a call from the police station where Dean had interrogated Timothy Byrnes. Apparently, his little seven year old sister, Abby Byrnes (the little girl I had seen with her mother when I first visited the Byrnes residence) had jumped off the top of a bank building on Williamsburg Boulevard in Arlington. Nobody knew how she got up there, only that she had gone to the bank with her mother, only to disappear. When they found her again, she was nothing but a blood splatter on the pavement.

---

After talking with the local sheriff at the crime scene, Sam pulled Dean and I aside. “So apparently it wasn’t the Foster the People album.”

I shook my head. “Yeah, and I’d say that it was the phonograph, but Timothy isn’t dead and his sister is. It doesn’t add up.”

“We’re going back to the Byrnes residence anyway, so might as well check it out.”

---

“John Mayer. Guess what song it just played?” Sam held up a vinyl record.

Dean, the avid classic rock fan that he is, had his lips pressed in a thin line. “Free Fallin’.”

“Yep.” Sam didn’t even bother to resleeve the record before he tossed it back into the box. “Which means,” He sent a malevolent glance towards the phonograph. “We have some research to do.”

“I know a great place for lunch,” I pipe in. “The Blue Cafe.”

---

I swallowed a bite of my BLT club sandwich, an uncomfortable feeling that I was missing something important settling in my stomach. Dean was inhaling his second burger, and Sam was busy typing away on his laptop.

“Okay guys, get this. The building that Abby Byrnes was “Free Fallin” off of was the first headquarters of the American Nazi Party. The second was a mansion on Rudolf St. that belonged to a the widow of a man named Willis Kerns. When Mrs. Kerns died, she passed the house on to her daughter, Janet and her husband James Byrnes, an Apple stock investor and avid World War II artifact collector who passed away in 2005.”

Dean and I both dropped our sandwiches. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.” Sam glanced up from his computer screen. But it gets worse. “Apparently, the American Nazi Party was founded by George Rockwell, the right hand man of Commander Eckhart, leader of a sect of the Thule Society.”

I groaned. “Not them again. Please tell me you’re joking.” The Thule Society was a group of Nazi necromancers that could regenerate because of a successful experiment. We weren’t really on the best of terms with them, considering we destroyed a ledger that was the only remaining information from the experiment that gave them their regenerative abilities.

“Son of a bitch…” Dean muttered, rubbing his eyes. “So what about the phono-whatever?”

“I’m working on it.” Sam’s fingers were practically a blur as he scrolled through pages of information. “Right here. Apparently, the phonograph belonged to Hitler himself. It’s a myth, but yeah. Legend says it’s how he got his closest advisors and the foot soldiers to actually do all those horrible things to the Jews. Whatever is played on this phonograph, whether it be a recording of a voice or music or whatever, it would brainwash the listener or listeners into doing whatever was spoken. So, in Timothy’s case, he killed a bunch of kids with “pumped up kicks” and Abby went “free fallin”.”

“Wait.” I turned on my phone and started to do some research of my own. “Mrs. Byrnes told me that her husband was on a business trip to Germany and sent Timothy the phonograph as a birthday gift. Which means, assuming that her husband is dead, that she knew full well the capabilities of the phonograph.”

“Then why would she- Oh. OH. Sam, Y/N, Abby and Timothy aren’t dead. It only looks that way.” Dean’s eyes widened.

I nearly laughed. “She hid the truth in plain sight. She told me that she thought her husband was trying to get Timothy initiated into a Nazi cult, when it was really her all along. She’s a member of the Thule Society, a necromancer. Abby and Timothy aren’t dead, they’re back at their house, the Kerns Mansion.”

---

I double checked the bullets in my handgun. “Headshot, then salt and burn right?”

“Yep.” Dean kicked down the front door of the Byrnes’ mansion.

I could hear rushed chanting coming from the living room where I had first talked to Janet Byrnes. I followed Sam and Dean, keeping my eyes peeled for any other members of the Thule or the ANP. I peeked into the living room, only to see the bodies of the three boys Timothy killed lying on the coffee table, stomachs slit open and organs spilling out onto the floor. Blood stained the white marble floors and silk couch as the mother and her son and daughter continued to chant in Latin, oblivious to the fact we had just stormed the gates. Each person held one of the dead boys’ hearts in their hands, blood spilling from their palms as if they had pulled the hearts from the boys’ chests with their bare hands. They probably had.

We took no time in pumping as many rounds of lead as we could into their brains before dragging them out into the backyard gardens and having ourselves a nice, large Thule Society/American Nazi Society barbecue that we seasoned heavily with salt. With a side of charred cursed phonograph, of course.

---

Dean collapsed in an armchair in the Bunker library. “I’m getting real sick of those Thule motherfuckers.”

“You’re telling me.” Sam poured himself some scotch and grabbed a book to read.

“Let’s just agree that next time Hitler pops his head up, we’re gonna let someone else whack-a-mole him, okay?”

#dean winchester #sam winchester #sister winchester #sam x reader #dean x reader #winsister #bunker #supernatural #castiel

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