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quidfree · 3 years ago

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prompts,.,, fem tdbk and a date gone very wrong ? ❤️

ohhhh my god anon. pump this shit directly into my veins i love this whole premise let’s go. also all inspired by whatever the fuck horikoshi was doing in this

just so everyone is on the same page here, it is not a fucking date.

it’s lunch. a singular lunch. people do that shit all the time. even katsuki does lunch, sometimes. she went to that semi-shitty diner place with kirishima that one time when the food hall was shut because some dumbass first year exploded into goo or whatever. and todoroki does lunch, too- her and deku were on some shitty lunch date like a week ago, as evidenced by deku’s even shittier selfie of them having a grand old time doing whatever the fuck they do alone.

fuck, not a shitty lunch date. a shitty lunch. whatever.

the point is lunch is a normal non-date thing people do, and the fact katsuki and todoroki are maybe not the usual suspects for it is just circumstantial. it’s not like they planned it ahead of time, or made some big thing about it. they literally arranged for it in public, so obviously todoroki didn’t think there was anything weird about it. and there isn’t! they’re both going to be in tokyo on the same day, and todoroki’s always happy for any excuse to spend less time with her old man, and katsuki sure as fuck wouldn’t turn down an opportunity to avoid her hag of a birth-giver for a few blissful hours, so when todoroki had very nonchalantly gone ‘oh, bakugou, we could do lunch then”, it wasn’t like she had any real reason to tell her to go fuck herself. like, yeah, maybe a year ago, on principle, she would have, but even katsuki can only take so much trauma-bonding before she resigns herself to the reality that she’s stuck with half ‘n half for life, one way or another, and she may as well suck it up and approach civility because said moron is determined to ignore her open malice until she plays along anyways. they’re... you know, whatever. friends. or something. jesus.

the point being that it’s not a date, and the fact that she’s getting increasingly annoyed at her limited wardrobe is just because she would have packed more shit if the crone hadn’t insisted that they ‘pack light’ so they could get cheaper train tickets for less luggage. it’s just annoying that she can’t wear anything that’s not screaming holiday.

it occurs to her as she sits and scowls at her suitcase that her mother has been watching her from the doorframe for some undetermined amount of time, which is criminal mainly because she’s a goddamn hero-to-be and getting snuck up on by anyone is a blight upon her good name. she tries to disguise the ego damage dealt by glowering murderously in her progenitor’s direction.

“what the fuck do you want?”

“you know,” the she-devil says, cocking a hip, “if you want to borrow something nicer...”

“i wouldn’t be caught dead in your shitty clothes!” katsuki snarls, which prompts the witch to immediately scowl back.

“watch your damn mouth!”

“watch your waistline! no way in hell are we the same size!”

“why you little-”

the interruption at least reminds her that she is obsessing over her clothes ahead of meeting todoroki for lunch, which is so humiliating it kickstarts her brain again long enough to grab some normal shit and get the hell out of there.

on the walk she checks her phone again. the previous day she’d had to bite the bullet and make the first move, todoroki’s infamously terrible communication skills making themselves known once more, and their ensuing conversation had been so mortifying she’d nearly cancelled all-together.

to: Half ‘n half

Yo asshole are we still meeting tomorrow or what

I’m busy as shit

from: Half ‘n half

Yes. TS

to: Half ‘n half

What the fuck is TS

from: Half ‘n half

I was signing off.

to: Half ‘n half

SIGNING OFF ON YOUR OWN TEXT

YOU THINK I DONT KNOW YOUR DAMN NAME

from: Half ‘n half

[Pin attached]

Does here at 12.30 work for you?

to: Half ‘n half

Yeah whatever

Don’t be late

And don’t think I’m forgetting the fucking signing off thing

from: Half ‘n half

Glad you can make time for mockery in your busy as shit schedule.

the venue looks like some rich person shit, which she semi-expected, but it means a lot of people give her weird looks as she makes her way inside, probably on account of the shorts and t-shirt she’s wearing if not her general vibe. some old woman actually drags her purse to her, which makes katsuki sorely tempted to bare her teeth and maybe hiss for effect, though she settles for scowling and shoving her hands in her pockets. it’s 12.27, because she wasn’t going to be late but being any earlier would have given off some dubious impression that she’s eager to see todoroki, except now she kind of wishes she’d just come for 12.30 because if there’s some reservation bullshit she gets the feeling she’s going to start fighting with the waiting staff, and then-

“bakugou,” todoroki calls, from inside, raising a hand with unnecessary formality. “you made it.”

“course i made it,” katsuki grunts, absolutely not relieved as she by-passes the suspicious looking waiter to join her outside. “think i can’t ride the damn underground by myself?”

todoroki is wearing jeans cuffed at the ankles and a white t-shirt on top of which she’s thrown on an open button-up with the sleeves rolled up, and she looks casual and normal and incidentally kind of like they dressed to match, but the important part is that she doesn’t look dressed up at all, so katsuki was totally right about the non-date situation, and also isn’t the only one totally underdressed for the shitty venue.

“you look nice,” todoroki says then, completely shattering katsuki’s brief moment of reprieve. “i’ve never seen so much color on you.”

katsuki almost chokes on her own tongue, but the worst part is that the asshole seems completely nonchalant about the weird as shit observation, focused on her stool as she takes a seat on the balcony. which- what the actual fuck? since when does todoroki issue compliments unprompted- of the non-professional variety, at that? and what the fuck does she expect katsuki to say now- return the compliment? say thanks? is this whole thing some kind of exercise in psychological torture?

well, fuck it. she can’t look like a little bitch just because todoroki said something inanely positive. two can play that game.

“yeah. you look half decent yourself. did you hire someone to dress you for the occasion?”

todoroki blinks up at her in surprise, which is totally a win and would make her more smug if she could stop feeling so weird and prickly all over. for a dangerous moment todoroki seems on the verge of blushing, but miraculously the world rights itself and the usual deadpan persists, one brow quirking up in completely feigned ineptitude.

“there was a compliment somewhere in there, so thank you, i think. i thought we were past this vendetta.”

“we’ll be past this vendetta the day you burn your piece of shit hero suit,” katsuki retorts, back on familiar ground, and relaxes long enough to squint down at the menu.

this turns out to be a mistake.

“the fuck? is this whole thing in french?”

“oh,” todoroki says, after a beat. “that makes sense. i thought my english had deteriorated.”

“are you- you didn’t know? you recommended the place!”

“it was the nearest place to our hotel,” todoroki defends, now having the decency of looking slightly put out. “coq can’t mean what i think it means, can it?”

“that’s chicken, asshole,” katsuki hisses, flinging the menu down. “great, now we’re going to have to flag down one of the shithead waiters and ask for a japanese menu. excuse me! hey! yeah, i’m talking to- what the hell, did he just blow me off? hey, jackass! you with the shitty mustache!”

“sorry about that,” todoroki interjects, when mustache asshole turns an offended stare their way. “do you have the japanese menu?”

“we only serve the food in its authentic form,” mustachioed asshole says, with frigid self-satisfaction. “might i suggest google translate?”

“might i suggest my foot up your ass, you shitty-”

“that’s fine,” todoroki says, in a flat tone that implies otherwise. “we’ll make do.”

the waiter sniffs pretentiously as katsuki thinks about all the ways she could beat his ass into next tuesday, running an aggravated hand through her hair when the wind rustles it into her face. she’d half expect todoroki to suggest they fuck off elsewhere, but when she looks back her way she finds an ill-boding gleam of determination in her eyes despite the impassive set to her face, and it’s a testament to how fucked in the head ua has made katsuki that she feels a sort of sick thrill of recognition at the sight. todoroki’s in stubborn bitch mode.

“i’ll have this,” todoroki says, sure enough, pointing to the most expensive item on the menu. “and also this. and one of those.”

the waiter’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull, and todoroki looks unfazed in katsuki’s direction, tapping pointedly at a sleek black and red credit card in her wallet. “bakugou?”

well, if endeavour’s paying....

“sure,” katsuki says, slowly, and then turns her meanest smile the waiter’s way. “i want the frog legs.”

mustache clears his throat, attempts condescension. “we don’t serve that here.”

“you’re a gastronomique restaurant,” katsuki says very loudly, as other clients turn to stare, “and you don’t have fucking frog legs? is this a joke? does this napkin say authentic french cuisine or am i hallucinating?”

“i can ask the chef,” the waiter demurs, casting a nervous glance at the muttering snobs nearby, and attempts an ingratiating smile. “anything else for you, mademoiselle?”

“what did you just call me?”

once the ordering debacle is over, todoroki slants katsuki what may well be an apologetic glance, vaguely contrite frown sitting pretty atop her usual dead-eyed stare.

“i probably should have read up on the place ahead of time.”

katsuki is well within her rights to chew her head off, she thinks, but food’s on the way and she got to yell at the asshole who gave her the once-over when she came in, so she’s feeling forgiving, even in the face of todoroki’s annoyingly doll-faced apology. the bitch really has to do the bare minimum and she looks like a fucking kpop idol.

“yeah, whatever. i always knew you were a shitty ops planner.”

todoroki, who is an asshole, looks relieved at her generous forgiveness for all of a second before she quirks a brow. “between the two of us, i only count one person who has actually spoken the words ‘shoot first, ask questions later’.”

“that was in a training simulation,” katsuki protests, outraged. “and you know damn well the actors were annoying as shit!”

“i did find them slightly too committed to the role,” todoroki concedes neutrally, which totally means she agrees with katsuki 100% and is being precious about it. katsuki scoffs.

“least the view’s decent.”

“the-“ todoroki starts, in weirdly confused tones, until she follows katsuki’s gaze outward and nods in understanding. “oh, the skyline. yes.”

what else katsuki could have meant she doesn’t fucking know: they’re sitting pretty in the middle of tokyo. the only thing the hellhole of a restaurant has going for it at this point is the cityscape.

todoroki stares out into the distance for a good long moment, and with the breeze her negligently loose hair whips this way and that, red and white blur where the two halves mingle. instinctively katsuki itches to braid it flat so it doesn’t tangle. if todoroki asked her she’d tell her to just cut her damn hair into a bob or something- it’s not like icyhot has any attachment to her princess hair, and she’s got the obnoxious bone structure to pull off any length. not that she’d mention this last part. or that she’s given it much thought. it’s just fucking obvious.

if todoroki could keep her mouth shut throughout the rest of the meal, it could be sort of nice. tokyo skyline, and companionable silence, and presumably edible food. worse ways to kill some time, and way less incriminating than anything that may be said otherwise.

“i think this is the part where we make small talk,” todoroki says instead, sadist that she definitely is, as katsuki grimaces feelingly her way.

“no, we don’t.”

“well, we don’t. but this is the part where we should.”

“i don’t even believe you can last a minute of small talk, icyhot.”

todoroki looks pensive, mismatched eyes thoughtful. “...how has your day been?”

“uneventful,” katsuki says, combative, and eyes her watch. todoroki does not give.

“this place seems nice.”

“you don’t even think that.”

“how have you been finding tokyo?”

“noisy.”

“the weather seems-”

“no.”

“you look nice.”

“you said that already, dumbass,” katsuki grunts, palms crackling with sweat, and does not at all read into the way todoroki makes a stupid little movement with her mouth that could ungenerously be interpreted as a pout.

“well, i meant it, so i’m saying it twice.”

“give it up, half ‘n half, just ask me about training.”

“...how is your training?”

“i did this thing yesterday,” katsuki starts, leaning back in her chair, and from then launches into a very technical and barely exaggerated retelling of the batshit insane stunt she pulled off with her quirk the day prior. todoroki’s focused attention is gratifying, in a totally platonic non-weird way- it’s just that her parents couldn’t very well follow why exactly said stunt was as insane as it is, but todoroki obviously can, and also there’s that thing with todoroki where pulling a reaction out of her ice queen act is admittedly more satisfying than most people. it has jack shit to do with the fact katsuki’s got a very minor complex about todoroki paying her her dues, and even if it did then that’s entirely fucking reasonable considering she still hasn’t forgiven her for the sports fest incident.

it is a little weird having todoroki’s sole focus on her outside of hero shit, though. it’s not like they really hang out one on one outside of school or work. it’s kind of- unnerving. yeah. unnerving, to be making prolonged eye contact, todoroki’s expression intent but not intense the way she gets in fight scenarios, frowning lightly because she has resting bitch face but apparently genuinely interested. it’s kind of a relief that todoroki asks questions- moves them safely into a conversation, so katsuki’s not just sitting there talking and sort of dry-throated. fucking waiter, leaving them water-less.

it’s fine. they talk about training, and quirks, and then todoroki pushes her hair behind her ears and leans forward to demonstrate on a small scale this thing she’s trying to do where she melts her ice and refreezes it in rapid succession so it causes what is essentially ice rain, but there’s logistics and shit that need to be worked out for it to work the way she’s thinking it might, and katsuki knows her thermal shit so they start scrawling maths over the napkins, and then bicker over the finer points of first year chemistry, so when the food actually arrives to interrupt them todoroki’s startled blink is weirdly relatable, like she also forgot where they were.

the waiter’s there and gone before they’re really recovered from the brief misplacement, which katsuki registers only when she looks down at her empty glass.

“goddamnit- how hard is it to bring us water?”

“they only offer sparkling,” todoroki says, gravely, then outpaces katsuki’s disgust by placing her hand over her glass, ice rising before she switches hands and melts it down. “tell me if the temperature’s off.”

intensely mollified and trying not to look it, katsuki sips it. “’s fine.”

“okay,” todoroki says, faintly pleased, and tilts her head to look down at her food. “i have no idea what any of this is.”

“moron,” katsuki snorts, except it comes out way fonder than it has any rights to, and from beneath the convenient curtain of hair todoroki’s smiling a little, so she hastily stabs a frog leg and gets to eating before anyone gets any ideas.

the actual meal goes okay-ish. most of the stuff todoroki ordered is extremely pretentious french cuisine, and todoroki secretly has the culinary adventurousness of a five year old, so it befalls katsuki to impatiently attempt every dish and pronounce it edible before todoroki will deign to brave it. she’s still trying to bully an unyielding todoroki into attempting the weird bird soup thing when there’s commotion nearby. it takes the both of them approximately three seconds to spring into work-mode; katsuki’s on her feet poised for a fight before she’s even consciously thought about it, scanning her peripherals, and she doesn’t even need to look to feel todoroki unconsciously covering her back, cool sting of air signalling her quirk at the ready.

the commotion turns out just to be some old dumbass choking, relaxing them both out of their stances as she falls back to let todoroki ahead. they’re both uber-qualified for first aid shit, but she’s self-aware enough to know even todoroki’s bland reassurances are usually preferred to her bedside manner. unfortunately, the whole entourage seems to be braindead, because they’re all crowding the old guy in a panic while he chokes, his wife in shrieking hysterics.

“oh, my god, he’s choking! he’s choking! sugar-plum, stay with me!”

“fuck me,” katsuki mutters, unethically thinking that she would personally prefer choking to being married to someone who calls her sugar-plum, but todoroki’s pushing ahead with implacable calm, so she trudges after her anyways.

“excuse me. excuse me. i need access to your husband.”

“who are you? don’t touch him! help! get this woman off my husband!” wailing hysteric yells, bosom heaving dramatically. katsuki is starting to suspect she poisoned him on purpose or some shit, because no way does anyone talk like that in real life.

“she’s a fucking qualified first aid provider, lady, shut up and let her through!”

thankfully, the woman seems on the verge of an outrage aneurysm, which drags her focus away from suffocating her choking husband to dramatically pointing at katsuki long enough for todoroki to duck past her and reach the guy as he turns purple.

“how dare you speak to me that way? who do you think you are?”

“ma,” chinless moron number one says, clearing his throat. “i think that’s one of those future pros from TV.”

“what?”

“you know, ma,” chinless moron number two adds, glancing nervously between them. “the one that explodes things. you know. from UA.”

katsuki takes great pleasure in watching recognition dawn in the old cow’s beady eyes, but in any event there’s a hacking noise and then the old man’s coughing out a bone into his plate as todoroki steps noiselessly back from the table.

“he’s fine now. enjoy your dinner.”

“god, that was gross,” katsuki says, as they ignore the woman’s sputtering and return to their seats. todoroki tilts her head.

“not really. if he’d thrown up it would have been.”

“not the choking guy,” katsuki scoffs, casting a glance back his way. “his wife. talk about theatrics.”

“she seemed more afraid of us than her husband dying.”

“for good reason,” katsuki mutters darkly, spreading out in her chair. “i hate civilians.”

“i don’t think she recognised us,” todoroki counters, pensive, and absent-mindedly takes a bite of the weird soup before she screws her face up like a betrayed kid. “oh. you didn’t say it was sweet.”

the look on her face thoroughly distracts katsuki from asking what other reason the pearl-clutcher could possibly have to be so terrified at the mere sight of them; instead, she chokes back a laugh, stifling a grin. “what are you, five?”

“i don’t think i like this,” todoroki says, mournful, which makes katsuki grin harder. she can’t help it- todoroki looking stupid is her kryptonite.

“then don’t pick a restaurant where you can’t read the menu, next time.”

todoroki’s midway to looking up, but for some reason her expression transforms instantaneously, which makes katsuki reflexively try to quash her amusement. todoroki always gets weird when she’s smiling.

“next time?”

motherfuck. obviously she didn’t mean next time like next time, she meant next time like- hypothetically, in the future, when todoroki’s on a lunch date with someone else. a lunch non-date. she’s just about stopped sputtering furiously long enough to try and express this sentiment when it occurs to her that todoroki seems- pleased, one eye soft sky-blue when katsuki accidentally meets it, and that draws her up short long enough that she ends up just muttering lamely to herself. fucking todoroki.

on the heels of this utter embarrassment, she downs the rest of her water, scowls in a neat 180 at everything in sight, and wonders for the first time in her life how the fuck extras get through dates. not that this is one.

it’s fine. they’re done eating, and no one’s died, and katsuki is no longer fifteen and thus mostly trusts her ego to lick its wounds and recover from the ordeal. even if they stick around for desert that’s only another half hour of this to endure. as long as todoroki doesn’t make any sudden moves they’ll be fine.

...the problem is, of course, that sudden moves are todoroki’s modus operandi. katsuki has not forgotten the bitch calling them friends on national television in the same breath that she was vociferously denying them being anything of the sort. in todoroki’s fucked up brain, they’re always ten steps ahead of whatever they actually are- considering katsuki’s come around to privately acknowledging she’d take a couple more stakes through the gut for the asshole, in todoroki’s world they're practically hitched.

platonically. platonically practically hitched. this is not a thing, goddamnit. no matter the weird looks aizawa’s been giving them, or utsushimi’s nefarious schemes, or the alarming cardiopulmonary condition katsuki’s been developing of late. she’s not some shitty yuri protagonist pining over the nearest female bishōnen in her vicinity.

admittedly if she was to pine over anyone it sure as fuck wouldn’t be some guy, but that’s besides the point, since pretty damn near every person on earth is just some guy by her standards, regardless of gender. the fact that todoroki is not one of said people is entirely irrelevant.

her internal irritation is so distracting that she misses the tremors nearby until entirely too late, by which point todoroki’s stupidly perfect brows raise an incremental fraction and she goes: ‘oh’.

when todoroki goes ‘oh’, some shit is about to go down.

katsuki turns slowly with an impending sense of doom, and sure enough, the sight that greets her is so nightmarish she seriously reconsiders whether the entire day has been just that.

“don’t freak out,” a giant building-sized deku booms, apologetically, as his hideous giant face stares at them. “it’s just a quirk thing.”

it’s probably a good thing katsuki has gone speechless with outrage, since it permits todoroki’s constantly composed ass to ask useful questions katsuki probably would have coated in a fair amount more threats and cursing.

“midoriya. i didn’t know you were in tokyo.”

“well, i wasn’t meant to be,” deku says/booms like a foghorn, as the restaurant clientele shrieks and stampedes behind them. his sheepish expression is even more punchable when magnified. “it’s a long story. it’s almost sorted out now, though. i just saw you guys from over at the NPA office and thought i’d come ask if you maybe wouldn’t mind lending a hand? i wouldn’t ask but there’s going to be a lot of cleanup and your quirks would be really helpful to-”

“we’ll do it as long as you shut the fuck up,” katsuki yells, to cut him off, massaging her temples. “the monologuing’s bad enough when you’re not about to burst my fucking eardrums, jackass.”

“oh, sorry! i’m trying to be very quiet but this body’s just hard to get used to- thank you so much for helping, i didn’t mean to come bother you on break...”

“it’s fine,” todoroki says, and then seems to realise that her monotone doesn’t reach midoriya’s giant-ass ears and clears her throat, raising her voice to a shout. “it’s fine. let me go deal with the bill and then we’ll go.”

“sorry?” midoriya whisper-shouts, craning his monstrous head closer to them, the sight of which will haunt katsuki for the rest of her life. “i can’t hear what you’re saying!”

“she said she’s going to go pay for our nice fucking lunch,” katsuki hollers, with no small sense of satisfaction, as deku winces and todoroki slinks off. “since you want to come crashing it like a dipshit.”

“sorry, kacchan!” deku begs off, flapping hand gestures creating enough wind to knock over a nearby umbrella stand. “i just thought it would be a lot of help if you came to oversee the fall-out- especially with the building damage-”

“we’re good,” todoroki announces, to katsuki, apparently having given up on matching her in decibels. she’s got that classic hero look on her face, already in work mode, but just when katsuki’s about to do the same and jump into action, the look wavers a little and she frowns vaguely awkwardly. “thanks for doing lunch.”

“huh?” katsuki stutters, thrown, and then scowls at nothing in particular, stalling. todoroki’s the one who paid, albeit indirectly- it’s typically weird of her to be all formal about it all of a sudden, leaving katsuki to attempt to wriggle them out of the awkwardness of the moment. “i didn’t do shit except show up and eat, weirdo.”

“it’s been abnormally hard to show up and eat in the circumstances,” todoroki replies, a little wryly, and more concerningly a little resigned sounding. which is just unnatural, because todoroki may have expanded her range of emotions considerably since first year but resignation is not on her usual roster, and there’s nothing to be resigned about unless she had some kind of vested interest in this whole fiasco playing out any better than it did.

which she didn’t, obviously. katsuki’s been through this. she chose the nearest possible venue and rocked up in jeans and a t-shirt, and- and why is the fact that todoroki never dresses so normally out of class only now occurring to her, again?

she’d said ‘i think this is the part where we do small talk’. the part of what?

“yeah, whatever,” katsuki says, automatically, as her brain plays catch-up, which is the excuse she will forever stick to for what leaves her mouth next. “should have known you’d be a lousy date.”

todoroki goes ‘what?’ at the same moment deku does, ten times louder and more bug-eyed, which reminds katsuki that 1) deku is still there, 2) deku is still as big as his martyr complex, and 3) deku is the fucking worst, and allowing him to trap her into friendship is somehow responsible for this, she’s sure of it.

“can we go handle this fucking mess or what?” katsuki snaps, instead of screaming or breaking deku’s very large nose or maybe self-immolating in abject humiliation, hands erupting into explosions as she jumps onto the balcony railing. maybe if she throws herself headfirst into the debris she’ll concuss herself and turn amnesiac.

“um,” deku is saying, when she turns a withering glare his way. “um, yes! yes! yeah! let’s go do that!”

so she jumps skywards, explosions blasting her high into the air, and very scrupulously does not look towards the sounds of slick ice forming just behind her until todoroki skates into her peripheral vision, hair waving flag-like behind her. ahead there’s a building with a crater clean through it where deku must have erupted from, though when she turns to comment she finds him a fair deal behind them, lumbering pace slowed further as he avoids stepping on anyone or anything along the streets. instead her eyes lock on todoroki’s where the latter is staring at her, face unreadable, and she bristles hard enough to disrupt trajectory, correcting course rapidly before she plummets into an office.

“what?”

“i’m a lousy date,” todoroki repeats, neutrally, over the wind. katsuki grits her teeth.

“and what about it?”

she’s bracing for a lot, but not the horrible, sickening eye-crinkle thing todoroki does, dark eye twinkling even as her expression stays carefully impassive. “you think you can do better, then?”

“hah?”

“next time,” todoroki intones, very precisely, and then dips ahead like a complete coward as katsuki goes a color never previously visible to the human eye, sifting through about fifteen emotions before she decides to stick to outrage.

“what the hell? you suck at asking people out, icyhot!”

“you don’t have to say yes.”

“what, you think i can’t do better than this mess? you’re on, asshole.”

“i look forward to it,” todoroki says, gravely, and then there’s a collapsed building to handle and shit to do and if anyone wants to ask why katsuki is so especially gleeful in blowing shit up they wisely keep their mouths shut. she just likes the job, all right.

(for the record, it’s still not a date until katsuki says it is.)

#qui repond #qui ecrit #anon #prompts #tdbk #todobaku #fem todobaku #fem todo #fem baku

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draconicocelot · 4 years ago

Text

The Little Vampire Fic : Never Again - Part One

Hello again “Little Vampire Fandom”! I’ve been very excited to write this one and I hope you all enjoy!

Summary: Rudolph visits Tony in San Diego only to find out he is struggling.

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

Flying to Tony’s house had become such a familiar route to Rudolph that he could fly to San Diego from Transylvania with his eyes closed. It was a pain to deal with the difference in time zones, the change in weather, and the fact that it was about a 40 hour flight for him. There were definitely some instances in which he wished he could just board a plane like everyone else and almost cut the trip in half, but flying without a plane was much more fun. There was a lot of stopping involved along the way to make sure he stayed out of the sun, but overall, he made it to Tony’s house exactly when he said he would. Tony had just been released on a long weekend and got Friday off, as well as the Monday the next week. They tried to coordinate trips with Tony’s school schedule so that they could see each other as much as possible but also keep Tony’s sleeping schedule as in-tact as it could be.

As Rudolph flew over the quiet neighborhood where Tony lived, he took a moment to appreciate his surroundings. There was the smell of a distant fire as someone must have been camping out in their backyard. It was on the late side for a family outing, but a group of teenagers was probably taking advantage of the crisp autumn evening. It was always a wonderful temperature there, but some nights got more chilly than others. The wind blew against Rudolph’s face, but he could barely feel a difference since his skin was already so cold to the touch.

He was almost quivering with anticipation as he reached the familiar white house with four windows on the front of it, a big grey roof, and a fence surrounding a small front yard. It was a nice family home for three people, and since the space was slightly larger than they needed, it was a wonderful location for parties or just having company over. Tony’s bedroom was the last room on the left when he approached the right side of the house. Just as he hoped, there was a singular light shining from his window which meant Tony was still expecting him. The double-hung window was covered by beautiful mulberry colored curtains, but he could see the light slightly peeking through. Rudolph swooped in and leaned against the wall as his long black nails, which could be classified as claws with how long and sharp they were, made a gentle tapping sound against his window.

Usually, Rudolph heard Tony call out to him and say something along the lines of, “I’ll be there in a second!” or “Coming Rudy!”. However, this time he could only hear the sounds of shuffling feet and a soft thud as if he just got out of bed. Not only that but usually Tony had his room lights turned on so that it was a bigger beacon for him. On this night, Tony had only kept his bedside lamp turned on. Rudolph didn’t have time to think about what was going on as he heard the crack of the window opening slightly. Two hands suddenly squeezed out from under the lift of the window and pushed up on it until Rudolph could fit inside. As he flew through the curtains, he followed through with his habit and shut the window behind him. Tony’s room looked the same way it had when he visited before. The walls were a deep purple color, and with the red-tinted curtains and all of the vampire-themed décor in the room, it almost felt like they never left the castle. Even Tony’s bedsheets had a picture of the traditional Dracula print on them with bat fabric for his pillowcase. Rudolph couldn’t help but feel flattered that he had enough of an interest in vampires that he dedicated his bedroom to them.

“Tony! It’s-” Rudolph didn’t even get time to speak before Tony had rammed into him, his arms tightly wrapping around his back. Rudolph was shocked, Tony had never acted this way when he came to visit, but he hugged him back. He knew it had been weeks, but they had gone months without seeing each other. Did he really miss him that much? Suddenly, Tony huffed out a laugh and pulled back.

“Sorry… it’s been a rough day,” Tony sighed. His face was barely visible since the only light in the room was coming from the bedside lamp, but Rudolph could see that he was covering his right eye with his hand. “It’s very good to see you Rudy.”

“It is wonderful to see you as well, Tony,” he ran his fingers through his hair until he hit a tangled mass, which Tony seemed to notice.

“So, what do you want to do tonight? Looks like we should deal with your hair first,” Tony chuckled, but his voice was overlaid with exhaustion and another emotion that Rudolph couldn’t quite place. Fear? Anger? Sadness? Pain?

“I suppose so,” Rudolph copied his laugh, but then floated over to Tony and hovered in the air across from his seat on the side of the bed. “However, first you must tell me what is wrong.” Tony dismissed the request as he waved his other hand in the air and smiled while keeping the upper half of his face shrouded in the dark.

“It’s no big deal, Rudy. School has just been tough and I…” Tony paused, noticing that Rudolph was not buying it. His arms were crossed and his eyebrow was raised in disbelief. “Okay… fine,” Tony groaned as he lowered his hand away from his eye. Rudolph quietly gasped aloud as he gazed at the swollen purple and black bruise surrounding his eye. It looked awful, and since Rudolph became concerned when Tony even got a papercut, seeing such an obvious injury terrified him.

“T-Tony! What happened?! Are you alright?!” Rudolph flew over to him and put his cold hand against Tony’s cheek. Tony flinched as the whole area around his eye was sore making Rudolph retract his hand immediately.

“Don’t worry so much, I’m fine. I accidentally tripped and hit this side of my head against my bedpost. It hurts a little bit but it’ll go away soon,” Rudolph took a deep breath as he felt himself relax. At least Tony was alright and that his injury was just a clumsy accident.

“Well, as long as you’re alright… Then I shall grab the brush,” Tony smiled brightly as he felt relieved that the topic was dropped. He found it strange that Tony didn’t want to talk about it, but he just assumed it was because the fall may have been embarrassing. Luckily, the rest of the night seemed to distract Tony from his bad day. They started by dealing with Rudolph’s tangled hair, which was something that became a habit whenever they got together. Gregory and Anna even made fun of him because they always could tell when he came back from seeing Tony by the fact that his hair didn’t look like a bird’s nest.

Then they moved onto watching a bunch of cheesy vampire movies which they just ended up criticizing more than actually watching. Tony knew so much more about vampires now, and considering he had the real thing sitting right next to him, they were able to debunk most of the stunts and myths shown in the movies. Either way, it was still fun. The two ended up staying up until about 3:00 a.m before Tony showed signs of falling asleep. They were halfway through their third vampire movie when Rudolph felt something press against his shoulder. When he looked over, Tony had passed out and was now leaning against him. Rudolph smiled as he unhooked his cape from his collar and wrapped it around him. He slowly stood while keeping his arms under Tony so that he didn’t fall over as he grabbed the sheets and pulled them over him. As soon as he was tucked into the bed, Rudolph headed for the window and opened it slowly. Now that Tony was asleep, it was time for Rudolph to go and eat. It had been a long trip after all, but he never wanted Tony to have to worry about that side of the whole vampire thing.

***

As the sun shined in Tony’s eyes, he winced and started to stir. He woke up at about 10:00 a.m with a note left on his bedside table. It stated: “Your father and I are off shopping about ten minutes away. We will be back around dinner time and then we will be off to the theater. Let us know if you care to join us! Say hello to Rudolph for us! Love you!”

Tony smiled as he set the note back down and stretched, each segment of his spine popping as his back straightened. Bob, Tony’s father, had built him a life-sized coffin for his birthday one year to play pretend with. It was made of real wood, and it was even stained to have a rich cedar finish. While Tony used to use it when he pretended to be a vampire, it eventually became Rudolph’s bed whenever he came over. He even covered the inside with blankets and pillows so it was extremely comfortable. While it was counterproductive to Rudolph’s love of dark and cramped spaces, he came to really appreciate the comfort of the coffin he slept in at Tony’s place.

“Rudy? You still awake?” Tony mumbled as he leaned over to his bedside where the coffin was lying on the floor.

“Noisy as always, aren’t you mortal?” Rudolph replied, his voice muffled from the thick wooden slab between them. He was satisfied as soon as he heard Tony laugh from inside his dark sanctuary. What he didn’t see was Tony clutching his side and quietly hissing through his teeth as if he had hurt himself by laughing. He grimaced slightly as he pulled up his t-shirt and observed the dark brown bruises that were scattered over his torso like the splotches on a cow’s hide. As he heard the creaking of the coffin door he quickly pulled his shirt back down and glanced at Rudolph with an optimistic smile.

“Old habits die hard I guess,” was Tony’s response. Rudolph made sure the coffin door was still slightly shut so that the sunlight couldn’t reach him as he smiled up at him. “Oh! Here’s your cape back by the way,” Tony pulled Rudolph’s cape out from underneath the sheets and tossed it over to him. “I guess I’m not used to staying up that late without you visiting.”

“Don’t worry, I only slightly judged you,” Tony stuck his tongue out at him as Rudolph playfully hissed back.

“Well, I’m going to go get breakfast. I’ll see you again this evening, okay?” Rudolph nodded with a big yawn as he laid back down in the coffin.

“Good day, mortal,” the coffin lid closed with a thud as Tony made his way out of the room. Rudolph had just managed to settle in when he heard Tony’s phone go off. Usually, he didn’t intend to snoop in Tony’s personal matters, but he had been acting strangely ever since he came. He wasn’t as awake and excited as he usually was, and he seemed to be sensitive when it came to going for a flight or anything that involved a lot of moving. Rudolph respected his boundaries, but he also wanted to help Tony, even if he didn’t want to be helped. As he opened the lid slightly, he was able to slide the phone into his coffin without coming into contact with the sun.

When he opened the phone he saw Tony’s usual lock screen, which was a commissioned drawing of him and “a vampire” that just happened to look exactly like Rudolph. He couldn’t take pictures with Rudolph since he never appeared in any of them, but he had hired an artist to draw a digital photo of the two of them just from Tony’s description. Surprisingly, the artist drew him almost perfectly. When he looked at the screen, he saw that there was one notification for an email that came in. Rudolph put in Tony’s password, which was conveniently “Rudy” or “7839” in numbers on the keypad. His home screen was actually a picture of Tony and his parents standing in front of the castle they first met in. Tony was on the very end with one arm around his mom and the other around what looked like nothing. He was actually putting his arm around Rudolph, and that was the photo they first took and realized that he could never be seen in them. It was touching either way that that was Tony’s home screen. Even if he couldn’t be seen, Tony knew who was there.

As Rudolph finally reached the email, he saw that the sender was named Nigel Appleby. He figured it was someone from school or a friend of his in the neighborhood. That was until he read the subject line. “Better Be There”. Rudolph narrowed his eyes in suspicion as he read on further.

“If you really do have this ‘vampire friend’, how come none of us have seen him? I for one think it’s a shame you have to depend on imaginary friends to keep you company, Thompson. You couldn’t find a real friend even if you tried. Tell you what, you bring this friend of yours to meet us at 6:00 tonight. If you can prove that you’re not spouting nonsense every single day, which you are, then prove it. You wanna be left alone? Here’s your chance, kid. See you then.

Nigel”

#The Little Vampire #the little vampire 2017 #Rudolph Sackville-Bagg #tony thompson #draconic_fics #my posts

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skyrim-drabbles-n-stuff · 4 years ago

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Merethic Era Dragon Priest Physical Descriptives

Just realized I could totally exploit this considering Bethesda never gave them a face! If it's not quite what you imagined just ignore this but for the sake of possible future writing..here's my headcanons of what the priests look like behind their mask! Also I’m aware that the wiki has them all as male but I’m changing that up for the hell of it (totally not to appease my bi heart)

Hevnoraak:

Standing at 6’1, he was a more lanky and skinny looking man- seeing as he relied on his magic more than some of the priests (they’re all still gifted) He had a head full of long golden hair and narrow brown eyes. His hair is almost always worn down with two rope braids framing his face with amethyst intertwined. Though not an ugly man, he has a crooked nose and dark circles under his eyes.

Vokun:

A tall dark skinned woman standing at 6’4 with angular deep brown eyes and a smug smile seemingly permanently worn on her thick lips. Her hair being extremely thick and unruly, she usually just put it into twin braids and pulled them into a bun, wearing pearls as her hair decoration. She has very pronounced cheek and brow bones, giving her an intimidating look.

Volsung:

Unlike most of the priests, he was actually somewhat chubby. Closely resembling a bear in stature with his broad shoulders and thick torso, not to mention he stood at 6’3. His hair and beard were both relatively short and greying and lacked any fancy gems or braids, instead he wore a circlet under his mask. His features just like the rest of him were rounder and soft looking, even his light blue eyes were no exception

Rahgot:

Around 5’9, not really bulky for a nord man but not skinny either. More gold tones to his medium colored skin, very uncommon for nords. Long dark black hair, decorated with emeralds in his singular braid going down his head. Has some pretty nasty looking scars on his lip and cheek. Dark amber eyes deep-set in his head, perfect contrast with his higher cheekbones and pronounced chin. He has a short tamed beard.

Krosis

A pale, light green eyed man with rosy cheeks and dirty blonde hair. Despite being a priest he looks quite friendly naturally. Very sweet looking rounded eyes and a usual lazed smile. His hair is medium length and has two simple braids on either side of his head, only decorated with hawk feathers. Around 5'11. A very plush looking mid length beard.

Morokei (gotta memorize how to spell it first)

A muscular dark skinned nord man with an absolutely horrifying death glare naturally in his icey silver eyes. His hair is definitely longer, reaching to his mid back in coal black- decorated in ten braids pulled back and twisted around into almost a pony tail looking style with many crystals intertwined. Around 6'1, though he has a presence that just screams power. . No facial hair, instead he has vivid grey war paint in almost pretty swirls around his eyes and cheeks

Nahkriin

A hardy broad shouldered, pale nord woman. Her hair is dark brown and worn mostly down except for two strands pulled back into a fine lace braids. Her hair is decorated by raven's feathers and diamonds. Around 5'8 in stature but she's super stocky. She has a rounded upturned button looking nose that gives her a sweeter look compared to her black eye warpaint that runs down her scared face. Her eyes are a pretty stormy hazel color.

Otar the mad

He's quite handsome, freckled face with a narrow nose and pronounced cheeks. Around 6'4 in height and rather muscular. Chin length red hair with one loose braid going down the side/ decorated with peridots and garnets. He has scars around his hands but aside from that his body is strangely of pristine. His eyes are a striking yellow in color, baffling many. He definitely has a more mysterious appearance to him though. Unlike most other male nords, he keeps his beard trimmed and it more closely could be described as stubble.

Dukaan

She has a clear complexion, Snow White skinned. Her hair is silver and it's pulled into a bunch of braids completely out of her face bringing out her stunning, starry purple eyes- which she decorated continuously with black eyeliner and luxurious light purple war paints. She has a gentle rounded face and suspiciously kind eyes, all with plump black painted lips. A deadly 5’3 beauty that wears bones as her hair decoration.

Ahzidal

A typical burly nord man standing at 6'6 with a head and beard full of long auburn hair. To which he happily decorated with steel wirings and topaz with his few thick braids. His eyes are a deep pool of blue and if one wouldn't know better, they seemed kind- but he was far from it. For his warpaint he wears brown smudges around his eyes for convenience.

Miraak:

A very tall atmoran man standing at approximately 6’7 and very "sculpted" looking- meaning he is pretty nicely built. (Not nearly as beefy as ahzidal tho). Light brown bordering dirty blond hair reaching his shoulder blades, typically wearing it half up and half down with a few braids to hold it, decorated in the finest emeralds and a couple of crystals. His eyes are a blue-ish green in hue and somewhat round in shape and his smile (behind his mask of course) was warm like the fire in his soul giving an overall soft look to the First Dragonborn. He was actually somewhat handsome, with that sweet smile, kind eyes and undeniably irresistible jawline however his face and body soon became littered in a few scars to serve as a reminder of his treachery. The most prominent being the one splitting his left eyebrow where Vahlok struck him hard enough to split his mask. (Much to his dismay, herma mora restored it.)

Vahlok:

A stern auburn haired woman standing roughly at 5’6. She was muscular and beautiful but in a more calloused and complex way. Not one to smile or even give someone more than one glance, she suffered from a severe resting bitch face. Her eyes were semi angular and medium blue in hue, with flat eyebrows above them (usually furrowed) she had plump lips that seemed to be always in a snarl and a light scar on her chin. Her hair usually wasn’t pulled up but she normally wore a couple braids with amber shards and silver decorating them.

Zahkriisos:

He was a flighty medium sized nord, standing at 5’10 complete with worry filled green eyes and messily lopsided braided dark brown hair. He has black circles under his eyes and a scruffy appearance behind his mask. His hair, like already said, is messy and adorned with soul gem shards. Unlike other priests, he has a lip piercing he nervously messes with in uncomfortable situations.

(That took way too long..)

#dragon priest #skyrim #atmoran #dragonborn #miraak #krosis #headcanons #lore

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puttingfingerstokeys · 4 years ago

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and we danced

I’ve had this one sitting around for a bazillion years. Sequel to Faraday Cage, though I think I started this one first. Oh well, that’s been happening a lot.

Faraday Cage

prevented timeline

Sunset in Beverly Hills was a time of peaceful winding down for some—very few, of course, but some—and for Johnny Cage in particular, it was a time to sit on his patio, crack a beer, and play with the new turntable Cassie had gotten him to replace the one that had been lost in the move. A few boxes of records stood about like milling party guests and he was going through them, deciding what to listen to first. There were albums of many genres, and not all of them were his. He held a Doors album that had belonged to his late ex-wife, Sonya Blade, and gripped his beer a little harder than was perhaps necessary.

The sun sank lower, casting red-orange hues over the expanse of his home and yard, staining everything a rust color while the sky ran through shades of pink, lavender and, to the east, blue, Stygian and star-dotted, though only for the moment. As night’s blanket fell, the lights of the city—the brazen neon refusing to relinquish its hold upon the evening—would drown out those points of light, irreverently casting them aside as if they were shards of glass, rather than precious diamonds. A lot of life’s like that, Johnny considered, choosing a record and placing it gently upon the turntable, lowering the needle with relish.

An almost muffled crack of thunder—how a lightning bolt could be muffled would forever remain a mystery to the aging actor—resounded across the yard just as night took hold and his hanging “fairy” lights came on, activated by the lack of ambient illumination. He looked up to see the protector of Earthrealm, Raiden, striding across the expanse of grass which marked his yard. He was glad his fences were high and his neighbors were, in all likelihood, out on the town.

“Whoa Raiden—somethin’ wrong?” He was immediately alarmed and set his beer aside to stand and face the deity. In his defense, Raiden walked everywhere with purpose, as if something urgent was happening someplace and it required his attention. Johnny chalked it up to being a god, though perhaps it was simply Raiden’s personality. Some people had a hard time differentiating between Raiden’s duty and personality; they so often coincided that even the god himself seemed helpless in the face of that gap—if indeed gap there was. But Johnny knew better. The gulf was spanned with firm ties, but there was a divide.

“No, Johnny Cage,” said the god of thunder with relief in his voice. “I am sorry to have alarmed you.”

“I wasn’t alarmed—just… y’know…” Johnny sat back down before realizing he should offer a chair. He stood once more and gestured to his.

“You were,” the god corrected, “because you rarely refer to me in that way unless you are alarmed.”

Johnny felt himself go red to the ears as Raiden took the offered seat and he retrieved another from the garden shed which was positioned off to one side of the patio. A push mower and a few lawn grooming implements were also placed therein, but for the time being, he was only interested in a chair. Grasping it with one hand, he lifted it and closed the doors behind himself, returning to the record player, the records, and the literal deity who had settled in his seat.

“Should’ve known,” Johnny amended, setting his own on the other side of the player so he could still manipulate it. “I mean you’re… not in armor, so I guess shit can’t be that bad.”

“An astute observation,” responded Raiden, regarding the machine, speakers, and vinyl disks. He touched none of these, knowing that even his presence could upset electronics, but wondering after their purpose. He was certain that the machine itself would be adversely affected by his lightning, even if the discs were not. Raiden was not ignorant of mortal machines or customs, just too busy to become intimately acquainted therewith. No one seemed to hold it against him.

Rather, they found it endearing. This, for some reason, did not upset him. It delighted the god of thunder to know people found him… approachable. Long ago, he had relinquished the cloak of aloofness, finding mortals and their lives to be far too fascinating and precious to loftily hold himself above them. The irony is in my tardiness; Fujin understood eons ago what it has taken me much longer to learn. I am a fool.

“So why are you here?” Johnny’s words fled his tongue before he could restrain them and he blushed once more as he reached for the beer he had discarded. “Sorry—not what I meant. What’s… uh… Up?”

“A desire to commune with a friend,” said Raiden simply but in his usual elaborate fashion that made Johnny wonder if he should also be speaking that way—it was like feeling underdressed at a gala or five-star restaurant, but with words. “I would have called,” Raiden added after a moment, “but…” His hands rose, palms skyward to indicate that he had no means by which to contact Johnny—e.g. no cellphone. Magic amulets, of course, were plentiful if one knew where to look, but there was no need to saddle Johnny Cage with such an implement when he could simply touch down in the man’s back yard and speak with him personally.

For Johnny’s part, the thought of Raiden texting sent a hysterical thrill through his body and he restrained the urge to laugh aloud. He made a mental note to say something to Cassie later, but for now, it was more important to focus on the fact that Raiden had come back after that weird afternoon a few weeks ago—or had it been months—when he had kissed him!

Johnny had been sure that would be the last he would see of the god of thunder, though he had hoped this would not be the case, and he had resigned himself to only hearing peripherally from the guy when Earthrealm was in peril. He had even gone through the “is he avoiding me” phase before the resignation had set in. It was almost thrilling to feel so young and stupid again. Next to him, I guess I am young and stupid.

“Well, I’m havin’ a beer and listening to old records—and I’m all outta beer. Lemme put this sucker on.” He did just that, gently laying a record on the turntable and placing the needle, standing with what he felt was a thunderous crack of his knees and then straightened. “You want one?”

“My body is a temple, Johnny Cage; I do not imbibe.”

“Could be an amusement park, Sparky,” came the reply, but as he had never forced his alcoholic preferences on Liu Kang or any of his other White Lotus or Wu-Shi friends, he did not press and headed inside to grab a second beer and maybe breathe a little. In the background of his retreat, Jim Morrison’s voice filtered through the air and filled his back yard.

Johnny’s fingers closed on the handle of his refrigerator door and he pulled it open, feeling nothing other than casual affection toward the strange being on his porch. As he reached toward the next beer, however, his mind began racing along, out of control. It felt as if casual affection was morphing. He needed the alcohol and the comfortable haze it promised.

His hand closed about the chilly bottle and he stood, regarding the singular illumination provided by his refrigerator and realized that he’d forgotten to turn any lights on. Sunset had come and gone and here he was, standing in his dark kitchen with the god of thunder relaxing on his patio and listening to the Doors. His heart began to pound and he fumbled with the bottle opener magnet. Casual affection was, indeed, quickly giving way to something which scared him.

When he finally managed to free his bottle of its troublesome top and return to the door, intent on gaining the patio without fumbling anything, Raiden had once more removed his hat and cap and was running his fingers through his hair. Johnny wasn’t sure the guy knew he was standing there, hand poised just above the handle of his slider, watching that silvery-white stuff flow and wave, catching the warm illumination of his yard lights. Once more, he was assailed by the desire to see it spread out upon a pillow beneath him.

Johnny shook his head to clear that thought, swallowed hard and tugged the door open. Raiden straightened and shifted, softly glowing eyes turning toward his host. In the back of his mind, the actor wondered if Raiden could read minds. He had never asked, but he certainly hoped this was not the case.

“I apologize for arriving unannounced,” Raiden said, inclining his head. His hands had dropped from his hair and were poised almost demurely in his lap. Johnny shrugged and remembered that he was supposed to walk out and join Raiden on the patio, rather than standing in the doorway, frozen by the man’s divine beauty.

Fortunately, the possessor of the divine beauty in question did not seem to notice and as Johnny uprooted himself, he turned, politely, and resumed his relaxed position on the seat. Johnny could not help noticing, with offhanded curiosity, that the seat didn’t sink much with the god’s weight as it did with his own. Weird.

“It’s fine,” Johnny assured him, raising a hand. “Really. It was just gunna be me and this record player.” He reached over and turned the volume dial down so they could converse without difficulty. Raiden’s voice, he had noticed, was firm, but gentle—except when he was pissed. The commanding tone doubled his voice, amplifying it to the point where it seemed to come from everywhere and rattled in Johnny’s ribcage and skull. He was glad this was not the voice he was hearing. “I’m glad you’re here, actually.”

Once more, Johnny’s words were getting ahead of his brain and, as usual, he could not retract what had been said. It wasn’t a lie, of course, or an exaggeration, but some things were best left unsaid. He lifted the beer to his lips defensively, but the statement was already out there, hovering in the air between them.

Raiden watched him with a Mona Lisa expression, almost half of a smile, certainly relaxed, and knowing, as ever. Johnny prayed he would not ask why the mortal was glad to see him. He did not have the energy for that explanation, short though it should have been. Just tell him you wanted to see him again because you’ve got a thing for him, simple as that. Liu was right. Better to get it out in one go and see what happens. Worst he can do is vaporize me.

Johnny decided that was an unkind thought and busied himself digging through his records; better to do that than prolonging the awkwardness of the utter lack of conversation. Fortunately, Johnny was the only one feeling awkward, as Raiden seemed content with the musical quietude and had settled back in the provided chair, inscrutable eyes focused on nothing in particular, and then falling on Johnny’s back as he crouched near a box, having himself a trip through memory lane. A warm wind began to pick up, coming off the ocean and bringing with it the smell of salt.

“That you, big guy?” Johnny, as usual, broke the silence. Raiden shook his head.

“No,” he responded. “I am the god of thunder, Johnny Cage, not wind.”

There was humor in his tone and a levity that Johnny had come to appreciate, even to crave. It was so rare, even now, when everything seemed to be at peace. Shifting from his crouched position to one of kneeling, Johnny clutched a record in one hand and reached for the turntable with the other. Raiden could not see what was on the cover, but even if he could, it would be insignificant. In all his time and travels, he had rarely taken the opportunity to sit and absorb the music of Earthrealm—or any other realm, for that matter.

“Raiden I—”

“Johnny Cage—”

Both men paused as they began simultaneously and then that strange, utterly human embarrassment settled over them like the blanket of night which had tucked itself in for the evening. Johnny turned to face Raiden, still half-crouched. The god of thunder was sitting forward, elbows on his knees, glowing eyes meeting Johnny’s without reservation. There was something in those eyes; right then they were not as inscrutable as they had been in the past. Or maybe I’m just getting better at reading him, Johnny thought, unsure if he was comfortable with this.

“Please,” ushered Raiden finally, extending a hand toward his mortal companion. Johnny shook his head.

“Age before beauty,” he insisted, attempting to introduce humor to a situation in which it may not have been appropriate, a very on-brand move for him. His heart was seizing and then hammering and then fluttering, as if there was some kind of small bird within, fighting desperately to escape. Johnny was not even clear within himself just what it was he wanted Raiden to say, or what he himself was attempting to express. He had been content simply allowing his mouth to run away with him, to see where it would take this situation. Now, faced with the reality of what a runaway tongue might cause, he was terrified. To busy his hands, he gingerly switched records as Raiden conceded.

“Very well, although I have heard on the breeze that some mortals find me to be… exquisite.” This, too, seemed to be an introduction of humor, so Johnny didn’t feel as silly as he might have done otherwise. Raiden sat back, looking almost impish, and certainly amused.

“Fujin promised he wouldn’t tell!” Johnny’s tone was jesting, but his heart continued its staccato tattoo. He had not, in fact, spoken with Fujin in quite some time—like Raiden, the man was busy. If he had, it certainly wouldn’t be to confess some kind of high school crush on a celestial being’s equally divine brother. Twins, he reminded himself, they’re twins—Thunder Cat told Cassie and me recently. Weird.

They were night and day, Fujin and Raiden, but Johnny assumed that twins among gods did not operate the same as mortal twins. Or perhaps they did and he simply had no firsthand knowledge. The only twins he had ever encountered were a pair of actresses in one of his films—notably not the Ninja Mime franchise. The music began, but it was secondary to the melody of Raiden’s voice as he spoke.

“He did not have to,” said Raiden, his tone warm, almost inviting—or maybe that invitation was a misinterpretation of Johnny’s fevered mind as he tried to lose himself in a swig of beer and an ‘80s power ballad whose title was lost in the cyan pools of Raiden’s eyes. “I know it is not an appropriate custom,” he continued, “to leave someone for long periods of time with no contact, but the nature of my—of what I am—dictates that I must. Forgive me for that, if you can.”

“Anything,” Johnny breathed. He realized that he had not yet been able to return to his seat, so enraptured was he in Raiden’s gaze. The soft, warm illumination of his backyard lighting fell upon Raiden’s statuesque face and, rather than making him look ghoulish as it might do to just about anyone else, he became an older Adonis, still painfully handsome—beautiful, even—but no longer pretty in that fleeing way of youth. His face lacked the innocence of a younger man and Johnny realized he had come to appreciate this, craved it too, along with much else.

“Your kindness does you great credit, Johnny Cage,” Raiden said.

It ain’t kindness. This is so far beyond that, Johnny thought, his mind losing itself in that strange warm haze of beer, good music, and good company. Without thinking, Johnny shifted once more, moving closer to the god of thunder and reaching out toward him, laying a hand upon his knee. There was a low buzz when he did that, not a sound, but a feeling under his palm and fingers, dancing up his arm. He squeezed, feeling his heart clambering in his throat and wondering if Raiden’s was doing the same—or if he even had a heart. What operated within the body of a being like him?

Was it all clockwork, or maybe ethereal light? He had seen Raiden bleed and the blood was red, but when it caught the light, it was clearly shot through with veins of gold, unless his eyes deceived him all those years ago. When it hit the ground, it clattered as if solid. He did not understand this, but all the times he witnessed this, Johnny had been more than a little preoccupied. Gods were not supposed to bleed; it was anathema to their nature. Yet Raiden and Fujin could bleed and, more than that, they chose to bleed for the peace and safety of Earthrealm.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Johnny advised, speaking low, loud enough to be heard, but not to drown out the music. He was responding to a look on Raiden’s face that suggested he was searching for words. His smile was more tentative now, leaning in the direction of the Mona Lisa, inscrutable and ethereal. He clearly wanted to relax, to allow whatever was happening within him simply to happen. The mortal could almost see the fight in his eyes. It broke Johnny’s heart and he wanted, all of a sudden and more than anything in every realm, to help Raiden move past whatever was slowing him down, whatever strange barrier stood between the god of thunder and his happiness, his own desires.

The deity had no trouble being decisive, even vicious, and dropping one whopper of a hammer when the need arose, but that need was never his own; always, it was someone else’s burden, though he would remind Johnny Cage that it was a responsibility he had chosen and for which he would fight to the death—maybe beyond. This scared the actor, sometimes. He didn’t know if he had ever, or COULD ever, dedicate himself to something with such vehemence. Had he expressed this aloud, Raiden might simply have pointed out his daughter, Cassandra Cage.

“I do,” rumbled the god of thunder. “My silence has done damage in the past.”

“Everyone’s has,” Johnny reminded him, moving so he was crouching before Raiden, both hands comfortably on the man’s knees. His connection with the ground seemed to be strong enough that the current was running harmlessly through him. Raiden’s corona of electricity was not arcing or dancing about, seeking to harm him. It simply flowed, rather like water, from the eternal battery that was the thunder god, into Johnny Cage, and down through the earth. Whence beyond that was anyone’s guess. “But this isn’t silence, is it?”

Raiden reflected that it was not, in fact, silent in that yard. There was music, and there was the two of them, and they were capable of conversation, of healthy discussion, and of much else. He moved with a deliberate purpose that froze Johnny momentarily, both hands finding either side of the actor’s head, a motion he had seen turn healthy muscle, bone, and gray matter into so much electrified pulp.

Rather than lightning from Raiden’s fingers, however, he felt the soft press of lips on his own, not urgent, but hardly tentative. This, he realized, was a version of Raiden who knew what he wanted, even if part of him was still unsure he should want it. Johnny would like to flatter himself—it really would be hubris at that point—and think that Raiden had spent all that time away thinking about him, about how to do this. If no one disabused him of that little flight of fancy, he would gladly go on pretending it to be the case.

To that end, Johnny returned the gesture, pressing into it and forcing Raiden back into the comfortable seat. The beer spilled somewhere in the grass and its memory was lost in the haze of heat the actor had found between the two unlikely beings—and between Raiden’s thighs.

Johnny’s hands were now gripping these, firm and powerful, through the strange material of his pants. He had in the past made a mental note to ask Raiden of what his clothing was made, if it could be manufactured for himself and the SF “kids” (when you were old, everyone was a kid). Right now, that thought was not even in the same galaxy as the rest of his mind. Right now, he only felt that heat; he was a being of pure sensation and would be more than happy to drown in it.

Slowly, gently, his hands slid upward. His thumbs soon found Raiden's hips through the fabric of what Johnny considered his "habit". His grip tightened briefly, testing the waters. The music hummed on, but Johnny heard nothing. His focus was solely on Raiden, whose grip had shifted to the front of his shirt, grasping the lapels of Johnny's button-down. He seemed content to keep the Hollywood superstar as close as he possibly could. Johnny's hands traced the curve of Raiden's waistline which, though offset by leather and cloth, was pleasantly molded, almost perfectly to Johnny’s grip, like the narrow portion of an hourglass.

He heard himself moaning quietly into the kiss while the epiphany of his attraction to the thunder god’s shape washed over him like an ocean wave. His heart's rhythm had regulated itself and was thudding along steadily, if a bit strongly. Blood was rushing to all parts of him and he felt himself break out in a sudden sweat. Maybe he's frying me and doesn't realize it; isn't this what radiation poisoning feels like? He had to remind himself that Raiden was not, in fact, radioactive.

“Dance with me,” Johnny heard himself say suddenly, breaking the kiss with plenty of surprise, but no reluctance at all, eager to share this next, utterly unforeseen desire. Raiden, too, seemed more than a little astonished, glowing eyes widening momentarily, before softening. In fact, his entire countenance softened, assuming the look of something more accessible than merely a benevolent deity which, Johnny reflected, he was. He’s seen some rough shit, thought the actor as he stood, hearing his knees crack once more as he did so, pulling Raiden with him. So have I. Now I want some peace and quiet.

Raiden stood willingly, unsure of what was next. It was a refreshing feeling. In all the eons of his life, he had rarely felt unsure of something and also been very comfortable with it. Lack of information had often led him to make poor decisions. This was not one of those situations, however. He was not really making any decisions, save to follow Johnny’s steps as the mortal pulled him close, wrapping one arm about his waist and taking his other hand.

Johnny was surprised, as he had been when noticing the lack of weight upon the chair, at how easy it was to heft the god of thunder, so to speak. He was not picking the man up, yet, but even the act of moving him from a seated to a standing position was utterly without strain. It felt natural to draw Raiden to himself, pressing their bodies tightly together, all potential awkwardness draining away in the notes of the song coming from the speakers attached to the turntable.

When he held out his hand to receive Raiden’s, the god of thunder offered it with no hesitation or complaint. When Johnny pulled him close, he did not protest. When they began to move to the ebb and flow of the music, it was very much as if they were made for this. When the mortal manipulated the deity’s movements and body into a deep dip, he felt Raiden bend and ride along with the motion.

When he kissed the god of thunder, both men held tightly to the lifeline the other had become.

#mortal kombat #raiden #johnny cage #faraday cage

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365daysoftododeku · 5 years ago

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26th December 2019

Author: Karma

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Under a sea of lanterns and firework jellies (I see your dragonfly heart take flight, ignite)

“Have fun! Be safe! LINE me when you get home.” Izuku sighs as his friends disappear into the crowds.

Ochako had promised Tsuyu some goldfish, and Kaminari and Iida had a whole date itinerary planned out. The Kendo-Pony-Momo-and-Kyouka quartet were already off on their own double date.

Leaving Izuku as the lonely, singular wheel wobbling down the road. It’s a better existence than the unnecessary third or fifth or even ninth wheel, but being extra always stings at gatherings like this.

Izuku would go home, but there are fireworks to be had, and a surplus of sparklers to light and watch die out.

Heaving the bucket with him, Izuku walks for a long while, until he reaches the old Hachiman shrine that’s leagues away from all the festivities. The worn, faded white torii is settle atop one of the scarce hills in the middle of town, and as such it is always Izuku’s preferred firework viewing spot. He climbs up the grassy incline, clutching his yukata and sparklers close, and slips only once on the wet grass as he goes; he thanks the god of the shrine for the green color of his festival-wear. Finally, Izuku settles well above the line of most buildings, and the world with its busy routines and individual stories passes him by makes him feel small and invisible in the best of ways. His spot, being as far away as it is from the festivities, is completely unoccupied except for himself, and he relishes in, at least, the solitude that the area grants him.

If Izuku weren’t feeling so damn lonely and miserable, he might even feel giddy over the fact that he gets this view to himself.

As it stands, he’s just counting down the minutes until the light show starts.

Start it does, with a few test shots to draw Izuku out of his own head.

The light show is fantastic, as it is every year. Fireworks launch to musical numbers and themes, and two shows even do the same song, a Halloween classic if his American friends are to be believed.

The one that steals his breath, however, is the one set to delicate piano music. Fireworks pop in place, then another, and the effect almost looks like a dragon chasing something in between and around the stars. Firework shells hover and float gently across the night sky, and at one point there are so many of these shells in the air that it seems like a group of fireflies have been unleashed, or like the stars are being brought unto the earth itself. It’s magnificent, it’s mesmerizing, the way the wind blows and curls the smoke around him makes his world feel small and foreign, exotic and the flickers of colored smoke that drift down from the fireworks only add to the mystique of the show’s magic.

Eventually, however, that show ends, and Izuku is left half-listening to the introduction of sponsors and themes for the next group.

Something soft tickles his nose; it seems like one of the parachutes that held the fireworks aloft had come to say hi.

It’s kinda cute, Izuku thinks, it almost looks like a jellyfish. A few bob on the wind in front of him, and he tells them, “A firework jellyfish! That’s what you are!”

As the wind picks up, more of these so-called firework jellies drift downwards toward him, and soon it feels like he’s ended up in some sort of jellyfish field. Some of them still carrying glowing embers and ashes, and the way the small lights from the mirage echo throughout the thin paper makes Izuku feel like he’s opened his eyes to a world underwater in the middle of the day. Lights dance and flicker like candlelight or sunbeams over the thin caps of the firework jellies, and each jelly picks up the light from the next, so that light is everywhere with no definitive source.

It’s only when the sounds of the festival change that he starts trying to escape from the sudden swarm. There’s a snarling nearby that makes Izuku think of the frequent warnings that have been coming about bear sightings, and for one second he’s terrified that one of the beasts has made it into the heart of town.

But as his sight clears and the swarm of jellyfish depart, he sees that the snarling thing is no bear at all. It looks like a flying worm, with a mane of furious red and white hair down its body and teal scales sprinkled in amongst the silver.

It looks almost like one of the dragons of legend.

Izuku hadn’t been aware that a dragon kite had been part of the parade. Or that they had been made so flexible and mobile in the past year.

Something splatters on his cheek, and pieces of paper whap him in the face as the dragon passes over head.

The liquid turns out to be blood, when he drags his fingers through the wetness to examine it, and the papers? Little people cut out of rice paper that take off into the air when he peels them off of him. One of them flutters angrily at him when he pinches its tail to take a closer look. He lets it go in fright, and it immediately soars off after its fellows.

“Ah! Sorry!” He calls after it, but it is impossible to see against the shroud of night.

Izuku peers once more at the blood, and frowns. Was the dragon real? Was it hurt?

Izuku decides, in the small part of his brain not currently occupied with screaming about the existence of dragons, that yes, it must be real, and yes, it must be hurt. That small piece of brain also concludes that it might be the fault of those paper men, and so Izuku hurries to grab his sparklers and lighter.

He sets a handful of them in a fan pattern, and yells for the dragon. “Mr. Dragon! Down here!”

By some miracle or breath of wind, his words are carried up to the dragon, and it arcs into the sky before nosediving at him. Izuku ignites his sparklers and holds them in the sea of papers that trail the dragons, and soon enough, the whole flock is aflame. The dragon hovers behind him and admires his handiwork.

When the sparklers have run their course and the little monsters not but soot and ash in the breeze, Izuku drops the spent impromptu weapons into the water bucket. He stiffens when he realizes that the dragon’s snout is now right behind him, and he can feel breath both searing and freezing through the back of his thin, sweaty summer yukata. His hair stands on end, but after a moment’s stillness, during which the dragon chooses kindly not to eat him, Izuku slowly turns to look into its eyes.

“Wow, even your eyes are two-toned…” Izuku mutters in awe. Because it’s true. Where the dragon’s mane is red and white, where its scales are silver and teal, the dragon’s eyes are brown and blue and striking. All fear is forgotten, even though teeth as big as Izuku’s forearm are hovering near his heart, and instead Izuku chooses to gawk awkwardly at the magnificent creature before him. Even when it opens its maw, the fear does not return, though Izuku isn’t sure if he’s been bewitched or is simply shocked stupid.

“Human.” Comes a soothing voice.

“Uh, ah, yes?”

“You have saved me.”

Izuku scrubs his head, and his hand comes away sooty. “Not really? I just, felt kind of bad that you were being attacked?” A huff of that hot-cold breath has him opening his mouth before he can think his words through. “You’re a dragon, and you can breathe fire, right? Why didn’t you use that to defend yourself?”

The mismatched eyes blink at him. “Because that is exactly what those infernal things were designed to do. I refuse to breathe the fire I inherited from my sire.”

Izuku quickly translates that into normal human speak. “But, but, your father isn’t the one breathing fire for protection here, you are?”

The dragon snorts, and gradually raises its massive head into the night sky, graceful and slow as any swan. “I wouldn’t expect a human like you to understand.” He coils like he’s preparing to launch into the dark shroud around them.

“Wait!” Izuku calls. The teal eye peers down on him. “You’re still hurt. Can I see? I may not know how to treat dragon wounds, but I’m still first aid certified, and I wouldn’t feel right letting you leave without having at least checked out your injuries, and I may not be able to help, but at least you’d know-“

The dragon cuts him off. “Very well.”

Izuku blinks. “Really? I mean, okay. Can you come back down here so I can get a closer look?”

The dragon swoops down once more, obligingly. “You’re a funny little thing, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, I mean, uh, maybe?” Izuku busies himself with looking at the scrapes and paper burs on the dragon’s snout and behind his head. Some of the redness in his mane is from blood, and with a careful hand, Izuku scoops a small handful of water from his bucket and pours it carefully over the non-wounded but bloody parts. Eventually, the ruff of fur runs clean, and Izuku steps back. “All good, sir.”

“…Shouto.” His voice resonates deep like thunder, and comes out of nowhere.

Izuku jumps a little; they’d been silent for so long he hadn’t been expecting a response. He’d figured the dragon would just leave once he gave the all clear. “Shouto, sir.”

The dragon’s form… gurgles? It bubbles and rolls, and soon the dragon explodes into a thousand paper petals. What’s left is a man about Izuku’s age, with striking red and white hair, and eyes that are equally as mismatched. He stands primly in a kagirinu, and he stares in Izuku in way that can only be described as mystified. His voice, when Shouto speaks, is far less thunderous, but no less soothing and mellow. “How did you come to the spirit layer, Izuku?”

Izuku can’t recall having ever given the dragon his name. “I… don’t know? There were firework jellies and then…”

“Firework jellies?” Izuku sees Shouto’s lips and nose twitch.

‘Yeah? The little caplet things that float down after a firework has gone off.” Izuku feels kind of silly for naming them, now.

“No, no, I understand.” Shouto sighs, looks around, and holds out his arm to Izuku. “Would you… like to be shown around? I can give you a tour before you return to the human realm.”

Izuku looks around for the first time, and takes in the world. It is night here too, and a blood red, full moon hovers overhead, low and heavy and dripping into the shimmering black waters below it. The world is aglow in flickers of candlelight and red festival lanterns, and Izuku can feel the beat of drums and whistles of the flute inside his chest just as much as he can hear them. “Yes, please!”

Shouto holds out an arm. “Then, allow me.”

Izuku takes it delicately, and is immediately swept down into the heart of the town. The crowds milling here feel the same in energy, but appearance-wise differ so much that Izuku would have to be blind and dumb to miss it. If the dragon-human standing beside him wasn’t proof enough that he was in a different world, then the sight of these bird-headed, many armed, and multicolored peoples would certainly be proof. Several greet Shouto, and gaze curiously at Izuku, but they hardly stop to talk.

“You mustn’t stay longer than the dawn, but there’s much to be seen at this time of year.” Shouto whispers into his ear. They’re moving towards the water, Izuku can tell by the way the moon looms closer in all its red glory.

“That’s okay! I have to go back at some anyways, my friends will worry!” They settle onto some pavement with a view of the lake, or maybe it’s an ocean?

“Mm.”

More of the strange people flutter around, in the stalls and streets behind them, on the shore below, across the water. “Shouto, do you know why I’m here?”

The dragon huffs, and doesn’t look him in the eye. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Izuku leans forward to catch his gaze, to no avail.

“No.” The dragon nods to a feathered man who approaches them, who immediately backs away. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“The show is starting.” Drums start pounding in unison rhythm, and they steal the breath from Izuku’s chest before he can continue with his line of questioning. It’s difficult to talk and even think, when the world trembles so under the weight of the percussion. Screaming whistles accompany shrieking burst of wind, and light filters slowly onto the water. Izuku is so mesmerized by the way the warm firelight interacts with the red light of the moon that it’s only when Shouto places a clawed hand under his chin and guides his gaze upwards that he notices where the secondary lights are coming from.

Ships sail across the water, shallow boats with large masts, but instead of being buffeted across the water by sheet sails, lanterns fill the spaces instead. An unmanned fleet of these pour into view, and they swirl once within the waters before heading to shore. As the boats reach the shallows and the ‘sails’ loom overhead, the wood flats morph into animated stick-like men, who pass the masts to waiting people before shambling back into the water.

The men carry their new acquisitions through barely-there paths in the crowds, and as Izuku watches them bounce along the road, embers spark and fly into the night sky.

“Come on.” Shouto tugs him to his feet, and they join the ensemble of people who follow the impromptu parade down the road. As they move, music joins the layers of drums and flutes, and soon the lantern sails start swaying in time. The crowd’s moving gains a cadence, and soon the dancing begins. Izuku is dazzled by the swirling colors, but a hand on his elbow draws his focus back to his companion.

“May I?” Shouto murmurs, chin tucked into his chest.

Izuku feels the swaying at his back, and wants nothing more than to join the dance. “Please.”

Shouto takes Izuku’s hand in his, puts the other on his waist, and twirls them into the flow of parade, and Izuku decides to rely on the dragon to guide him and his steps.

Fireworks, small and intimate, launch into the air just overhead of the crowd, and when the cinders float down they don’t burn at all. The contrast of the dark ash and the glowing flickers in Shouto’s hair, with his multitude of colors, only heightens the brightness of his appearance, and the entrancing vision has him stumbling over his feet.

Shouto, thankfully, has quick reflexes, because he pulls the two of them immediately from the crowd and into a side alley, allowing the milling dancers to move past them seamlessly. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, you’re fine. I mean, I’m pretty. Wait, no, you’re pretty fine- Gah!” Izuku’s tongue trips, and he sinks to the ground in mortification.

Thankfully, the dragon doesn’t appear to be offended, because he joins Izuku on the ground, his lips twitching.

“You’re laughing at me.” Izuku moans.

“Perhaps a bit.” The dragon’s eyes crinkle. “You think I’m pretty, huh?”

Izuku groans, and curls into himself further. “You’re a bully.”

“I’m not hearing a no.” He rises to his feet. “Come on, there’s still a bit of time before you have to head back.”

Izuku peeks out of the shelter of his arms, to see a hand stretched out to him; his face lights up even as a grin splits his face. “Ugh, fine.” He remains hidden until he can school the grin off of his face, but the redness won’t go away.

The hand tugs him to his feet when he grasps it, and then the two of them move back into the crowd. The sails have long since moved on, but their light bounces back across every surface, so that the world remains aglow in fire. The dance has shifted, to something light of foot, and now there’s a layer of people dance through the sky above the ground. It makes for quite a sight, and also for a less crowded street.

Shouto must follow his gaze, or at least see the way Izuku can’t look away from the partiers above them, because he asks, “Do you want to go up there?”

Izuku feels his breath catch. “Could we?”

Shouto nods. “Give me a moment.”

Wind tugs at Izuku’s curls, gentle at first, then fiercer and fiercer, until the two of them stand in the midst of a gale. It steals the gravity from them, and weightless Izuku is carried into the sky. Some of the revelers around them shout in outrage, but others seem to enjoy the sudden onslaught of wind. The music swirls in the air around them, just as audible as ever, and Izuku wonders if there’s magic even in the sound here.

“Once more?” Shouto says. Izuku turns back to him, and his silly, hopeful eyes. Like Izuku can answer any other way.

“Of course.”

They dance their way across the night sky, above everyone else, the music and the sparks and the lights chasing their footsteps through the stars. But all too soon, the wind is letting them down towards the earth, and Izuku realizes that they’ve returned to the spot where Izuku first met Shouto.

Looking around, he can see that the eastern sky is indeed gaining some pink light, so distinct from the festive glow of the earth below them.

They delicately alight on the hill, Shouto still supporting him from their dance. They separate, and Shouto slowly, physically turns him, so that Izuku’s back is facing him. “Turn around, face the sun. Put your back to this world.”

Izuku does as he’s bidden, but he can’t just let the night end like this. “Will I ever get to see you again?”

A heavy breath whooshes over his hair, though it’s not enough to hint at a fully sized dragon. Which means that Shouto really is just that close. “I wished that someone would come. That they’d look at this droll, boring world of mine with new eyes and see as something other than my prison. Thank you, Izuku.” Something soft presses into his hair, and Izuku can hardly dare to hope. “Stand on this hill, the night of the full moon, face the west, and we may meet again. Now, close your eyes.”

Izuku does so, thankful that this isn’t a goodbye. That there’s more to come.

The sound of rustling paper returns, and when next Izuku opens his eyes, he’s back in his own world, facing the quiet of sunrise.

The kiss in his head burns and freezes, and Izuku knows it will follow him around until he next sees Shouto.

He can hardly wait.

#Story #altered-karma #TodoDeku #365DaysofTodoDeku #TodoDeku365 #365 Days of TodoDeku #tddk #Shouto Todoroki #Todoroki Shouto #Izuku Midoriya #Midoriya Izuku #Boku no Hero Academia #BNHA #My Hero Academia #MHA #Todoroki x Midoriya #Shouto x Izuku #TodoIzu

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years ago

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The Prince of the Sea and his Child of Fire - On Kurt’s Island (Rated NC17)

This is one of two one-shots I wrote for this story that is just a bit of happy fluff to follow the HEA :)

Read on AO3.

Blaine reclines on the sand and watches his Fairy King construct his arbor, wishing he could steal Kurt’s attention away from the meticulous work he’s doing. Blaine knows he shouldn’t bother him. Kurt has been trying to build this structure for the better part of five days. And Blaine … well, he’s of little help in that arena, never having had created anything that’s stood on land. But watching Kurt work - the muscles in his back stretching as he reaches, his wings fluttering in reflex - Blaine can’t help his urges.

Those wings. Those gorgeous, ethereal wings are Blaine’s weakness. Blaine loves looking at Kurt’s wings. Blaine can say it’s because he comes from the sea and there are no creatures below the water with appendages like those, but that’s not the complete truth. There are many fish with gossamer fins that look remarkably like wings. They might not fly through the water the same way Kurt soars through the sky, but they hang and drift, suspended on the current. The effect can be described as similar, but it’s in no way the same.

Kurt’s wings are a magical thing to behold. They are magnificent in span, even compared to others of his kind, and they look like skeletal lace. During the day, they capture the rays of the sun and glimmer like twin flames. And at night, they hold the moonlight and reflect it like an aurora. The fairies tried to fashion the windows of Kurt’s palace after them, out of woven gold mesh and fine, spindly, pearlescent glass, except that the effect of Kurt’s wings could never be re-created. They are unique, singular, exceptional.

Just like the Great Fairy King himself.

For Blaine, being around Kurt is like drinking a fine wine, one that you don’t have to put your lips to in order to feel its effects. Kurt makes Blaine dizzy. He makes Blaine’s world spin in several different directions at once. He makes everything brighter and warmer and effervescent.

Kurt is a force of nature. Blaine knows that firsthand.

He creates fire from his fingertips.

He can make flowers grow.

And he outshines the sun.

Watching Kurt work and listening to him sing gives Blaine fuel to daydream. He often watches Kurt and wonders how things would have turned out if everything had gone the way Kurt had originally wanted, and they had made it to that Star. Blaine imagines that things for them would not be much different. They would be together, the way they are on this little island of theirs, and they would be in love. But they would be starting the world over – Blaine controlling the water, filling it with life, with Kurt doing the same on the surface.

The only difference would be that the world where they were born would be gone - a victim of their parents’ intolerance and hate.

Blaine prefers this so much better.

Blaine watches as Kurt carefully crafts his roses one petal at a time. Kurt’s patience astounds Blaine. Blaine was often told that the fairies of the fire were impetuous, prone to rash decisions, and that the sprites of the water were the level-headed ones. But in Blaine’s experience with Kurt, nothing could be further from the truth. Yes, Kurt has a temper to rival any fairy, but he had the patience of the moon waiting through its phases to show its entire face to the world. That’s how Kurt creates. He’s perfected the art of manipulating light. He could spend all evening on a single flower, infusing it with every color ever known from the cells on out.

If Blaine lets him … which he finds that he can’t, and not because of the rising sun calling to them, warning them of its appearance. They’ve found ways around the sunrise. Kurt’s arbor is one of them, but that’s not all. They’ve spent whole days chasing the night, from one side of the world to the other, just to spend time together. Kurt also discovered that his palace has an outlet to an underground waterway. He never knew about it because the only way to reach it is through a staircase in the Queen’s chambers – his mother’s room. He likes to believe that his mother had it built that way in case Malek ever decided to return to her. Blaine uses it in his father’s stead to visit Kurt in his palace, sleep beside him in his bed.

But aside from all of this, in Kurt’s arms, the sun doesn’t harm Blaine, just as in Blaine’s arms, the water leaves Kurt be.

Blaine rises from the sand and walks over to his busy fairy, eager to touch him. Kurt’s body is Blaine’s paradise. It’s warm and comforting. His skin feels like satin, his hair like silk, and his mouth ...

Whenever Blaine feels like going to heaven, that’s the first place he visits.

Kissing his Fairy King takes him straight there.

“You know,” Kurt says, as Blaine wraps his arms around him from behind, “this arbor’s never going to get done.”

“Yes, it will,” Blaine says, pressing cool kisses to Kurt’s shoulder. “And if it doesn’t, it will have very little to do with me, my King, and more to do with the fact that you’re such a perfectionist.”

“This arbor is for you, my love,” Kurt points out. He pauses a moment where he’s been darkening a petal to the exact shade of gold as Blaine’s lust blown eyes to lean into Blaine’s skin and surrender to his kisses. “I would like it to be as close to perfect as possible.”

“It will be …” Blaine tightens his arms around Kurt’s waist “… if it has you in it.”

Kurt smiles. “Well, of course,” he agrees, completing his petal, then snapping his fingers to make the others around it the exact same shade.

“It’s gorgeous,” Blaine says of Kurt’s rose. “Now, make half of them that color, and it’ll be wonderful.”

Wh-what about the other half?” Kurt’s words waver when Blaine moves his kisses to the junction of Kurt’s wings where they meet his shoulder. Kurt never imagined that would feel as good as it does. He never liked having his wings – any part of them – touched before. But Blaine is so gentle about it, his mouth so tender around them, that it has become the one touch Kurt craves most.

“Make those the color of your eyes,” Blaine whispers against the glassine flesh of his wings, “and I will be supremely happy.”

“So blue then?” Kurt asks, trembling fingers moving to a bare branch of the arbor. White roses bloom at his touch, waiting to be transformed.

“No.” Blaine shakes his head, brushing the nape of Kurt’s neck with his hair, that sensation sizzling with the memory of other times Blaine’s hair has brushed the nape of the Fairy King’s neck, in what throes of passionate embrace they were locked in. “Not just blue. Some should be blue like the sky at sunset when I first see you - that deep, mysterious shade of lapis that heralds the dark.” Blaine’s tongue lingers at the top of Kurt’s spine, licking in small circles that make Kurt’s wings vibrate from pure pleasure. “Make some of them the blue at sunrise, right before we say good-bye – that light, wispy, dreamlike blue that seems so cheerful, but for us, can be so sad. Then make the rest gray, closer to silver, like the sky before a hurricane.”

“When are my eyes that color?” Kurt asks. The question comes out whispered, bordering on a gasp.

“They’re that color right now, my love,” Blaine says, the sentence drifting down Kurt’s back. “They’re the color your eyes become when you want me.” Blaine’s lips wander back up Kurt’s spine to hover around the edge of his ear. “How can I have you, my King? Tell me what I have to do.”

Kurt turns in Blaine’s arms to rest his hands on Blaine’s shoulders and gaze into his eyes. “Is it in the nature of the Great Sea King to kneel?” he teases.

“Only for you,” Blaine says, dropping to his knees, understanding what Kurt wants, what’s sometimes hard for him to say out loud.

Kurt watches Blaine lower himself for him, peeling his pants down his legs as he goes. It seems to please Blaine to do this, to make Kurt feel good. He expresses his love for Kurt this way, without saying a single word.

Kurt’s skin is pure heat when Blaine takes him into his mouth. Everything about Kurt is light and fire and power. It’s an intoxicating feeling having that in Blaine’s body, to feel that strength, knowing Kurt reserves it for him only.

As Blaine does for Kurt.

They belong to one another – powerful elementals. Together they form balance, life. If things were different, if they were enemies, the power of one could surely extinguish the other.

If they suffered the sin of vanity that their parents bequeathed to them.

But together like this, they create harmony.

With Kurt’s head thrown back, his voice singing with pleasure, the trees above him bear fruit, the flowers of the arbor his hands rest on flourish like wild, bursting in vivid shades of blue and green - and as he gets closer to climaxing, a fiery autumn red. The waters pull up to the shore and the clouds in the sky part.

“No,” Kurt begs, removing one hand from his roses to thread his fingers through Blaine’s hair. “Not yet. Not without you.”

Blaine pulls off his Fairy King and kisses around his hips. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

“If that’s what you wish.”

“I do.” Kurt falls to wobbly knees to address his Sea King’s flushed face. “That’s all I ever want.”

No one taught them how to do this. No one told them how it was done. Kurt knew absolutely nothing about it and Blaine, he had heard talk from tactless guards around his palace. But from the moment he saw Kurt tending his fire, he’d dreamed of this, knew it could become a reality if Kurt would ever fall in love with him. They’ve made it more than a reality. It’s so much better than Blaine could have ever imagined, so much better than the ways he experimented on himself, alone in his room.

Being with Kurt like this has turned reality into a dream.

Blaine doesn’t enter Kurt. He becomes one with him. Just because Blaine leans over Kurt from behind doesn’t, in any way, put him above his Fairy King. When they make love, they’re the same person, joined together, moving as one. There are points on Kurt’s skin that Blaine swears he can feel deep inside when he touches them, places that seem like doorways from one to the other. Every stroke, every kiss, every caress is more than an act with a drive towards a goal. It’s a way for them to communicate, and not only with one another, but with the earth beneath them, the sky above.

Blaine has often said that Kurt’s moans of ecstasy trigger the sun to rise, and Kurt has many times claimed that Blaine calling out his name makes the earth beneath the sea quake. With Blaine inside him, Kurt’s skin glows pink. He becomes his own star, and the stars above them twinkle in response.

Blaine puts a hand to Kurt’s cheek and turns his face, needing to look in Kurt’s eyes when he cums. He stares with wonder at Kurt’s smiling face, his eyes shimmering in the starlight, and as much as Kurt adores it, he has to look away. Sometimes it’s just too much, the emotion that Blaine keeps in his eyes – the love, the loss, all the near misses, the things that they thought would never be. But here together on Kurt’s island, there is no loss, and their lives are forever.

When love making ends, when they collapse, still connected, and moans fade into sighs, they relax in the sand together, with Blaine’s head pressed against Kurt’s back, listening to the beat of his heart serenade him sweetly. They look up at the sky, which seems to be filled with hundreds more stars, called out of hiding, called into existence, by the love of the Sea King and his Fire Child.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, “you are, without a doubt, the greatest thing that has ever existed in my life.”

Kurt places kisses on Blaine’s fingertips and smiles. “And you, my King, are the greatest in mine.”

#klaine #klaine fic #klaine fanfiction

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latristereina · 6 years ago

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Ferdinand II of Aragon + primary sources

The prince had marvelously beautiful eyes, which were large, almond-shaped, and laughing; thin eyebrows, very sharp nose, of such size and form that were demanded for a good-looking face; mouth and lips slightly large; and since youth is, by its nature, very prone to laugh, in this prince, the joy of the heart was written on his face, and thus as it always happens, mouth is then of more open features. His whole face was white, cheeks were red-colored, the beard at the time, given the tender youth, was small and very well set, in such place where it fitted best; he had brown straight and flowing hair, cut in keeping with the fashion of the times; his neck was well formed, fitting the stature of his body, which was medium, neither tall, nor small, but of such size, where smart and refined clothes fitted well; his legs were very handsome and well-chiseled; his entire appearance, face, and body were of a gallant, on whom the royal or modest garments looked better than on any other man of his court, to such extent, that he was seen as both an elegant man and king. He was a great rider of the bridle and the jennet, great lance thrower as well as other things in everything he did, he had very good skill and grace.

- Anonymous, „Crónica incompleta de los Reyes Católicos”, 1469-1475 in “Iconografía de Fernando el Católico”, Enrique Pardo Canalís, pp.11-12

Young man of twenty-two years, nine months and twenty-three days of age, of medium and well-composed stature; his face is serious, white and handsome; he has brown hair, wide and somewhat bald forehead, light eyes with lively gravity; his nose and mouth are small; his cheeks and lips are red-colored, his neck and back are well formed; he has clear and calm voice, walks and rides a horse very energetically.

- Diego de Colmenares, January 1475, in “Iconografía de Fernando el Católico”, Enrique Pardo Canalís, pp.10-11

This King was a man of middle stature, of well-proportioned members and well-composed features of his face, of laughing eyes, straight and dark hair; he was a well-built man. When he spoke he did not do it either too quickly or too slowly. He was of good understanding, very moderate in both eating and drinking, and in the way, he moved because neither rage nor pleasure altered him greatly. He was a very good equestrian, jouster and lance thrower, and did all the things that a man ought to with such ease and with such skill, that no one in all his kingdoms did it better. He was a keen hunter of birds, a man of good effort and very hard-working and resilient on wars. Through his natural condition, he was inclined to administer justice, and he was also pious, he took pity on those miserable people who he saw were in distress. He had so singular a grace that everyone who talked to him, came to love him, and wanted to serve him because he was of very friendly communication. He likewise paid attention to the advice, especially that coming from the Queen, his wife, because he knew her great competence and discretion. Since childhood, he was raised at wars, where he went through many labors and dangers. And because all his income was spent on wars he had, he was in constant need. We can not say that he was generous. He was a man of truth, although the great need in which wars put him made him sometimes deviate. He liked to play all the games; such as checkers, chess and ball games; and when he was a young man, he spent on it more time than he ought to. Although he loved the Queen, his wife greatly, he gave himself to other women. He likewise was a man who took time to change things at times, but more because of petitions and inopportuneness of others that because of his own interest and will. He was a man who treated everyone very well, particularly his constant servants.

- Hernando del Pulgar, „Crónica de los Reyes Católicos”, 1481-1492, in “Iconografía de Fernando el Católico”, Enrique Pardo Canalís, pp.13-14

The king is a man of medium stature, his countenance is between serious and smiling, he is of great intelligence, healthy complexion, and 44 or 45 years old. After having his kingdoms calmed and the governance of the land put on a good way, he occupies himself a great deal with religious needs, restoring ruined temples and building new ones. He likes to hunt, for it’s a beneficial exercise for the body and preserves health for a long time.

- Jerónimo Münzer, 1495 in “Viaje por España y Portugal: 1494-1495 (Conclusión) / versión del latín por Julio Puyol”, p.64

King Ferdinand was of medium stature, all his members were well proportioned. He was fair with very gracious luster, with a happy and glowing aspect; his hair was straight and of nearly light chestnut color; his forehead was serene but he was balding, which reached the middle of his head; his eyebrows were of the same color as the hair, and separated one from another; his eyes were light and nearly smiling; the nose was small and well-formed, fitting other features of the face; his cheeks were like red roses; his mouth was small and good-looking; he had red-colored lips, which resembled coral; his teeth were white and small; his beard was venerable and of much authority, the nape was neither fat, nor thin, neither long, nor short; he had high-pitched voice; his way of speaking was poised and gracious; of great intelligence and wit, and of good judgement; of kind and liberal spirit; very prudent in advice; affable in his habits, without any grief, he walked and moved like a great lord and true King. He was very serious in his acts and speeches; his appearance was of marvelous dignity. Marvelously, he was never seen angry or sad. He was very temperate in eating and drinking. Because neither he ate many times, nor drank more than twice during the meal. He never ate (even if he was on the road) without attending the mass first, and always a prelate or priest blessed his table, and he thanked God after the meals. He was very neat in all the things. He used modest clothes, at times; particularly on solemn occasions and during great festivities, he wore a necklace or golden chain, decorated with pearls and other precious stones. He enjoyed horse riding because since childhood he was a good rider of the bridle and the jennet. He exercised in jousting and games of cañas, in which he surpassed many other strong Caballeros, who were experienced in this discipline of chivalry. He was a great thrower and well trained in military art. He was of enormous endurance at work, both at war and business. He favored justice and demanded a very tight account from those who exercised it. He showed clemency and humanity around those who were distraught and miserable. He was also very gracious and affable with women and his children. He greatly loved and honored wise and virtuous men, and willingly paid attention to their advice, and he loved the Caballeros no less, particularly those of his household. When he was a youngster he dedicated himself to games such as ball game and chess, and he also played cards towards the end of his days. He also had an inclination to hunting, in which he found great delight; but he preferred hunting birds to other animals.

- Lucio Marineo Sículo, „De las cosas memorables de España”,1496 in “Iconografía de Fernando el Católico”, Enrique Pardo Canalís, pp.15-17

Of what wisdom the King of Arragon is reputed to be; whether he, himself, rules, or is ruled by counsellors: He is reputed very wise, and determines the greatest and most secret causes himself. Almazan is his chief counsellor in outward matters ; others of his counsellors are continually at court, but no man is so near his most secret council as Almazan.

Description of the King of Arragon: Many lords spiritual and temporal, also many knights, attend upon him. Rises before 6, and by 8 hath heard two masses, after which he goes to dinner, where every man may see him. Is a good feeder, and drinks two great draughts of wine and water; never sits more than half an hour at table, and none sit with him. After he hath dined all the lords and others go to their own lodgings to dine.

To mark well his personage, and whether he be toward any marriage: Is of goodly personage, and right lusty of his age, for he is of the age of 55 or 56. Hath a smiling countenance ; lisps because of a tooth he hath lost before; hath a little cast in the left eye; of a gross strong nature. They had been told at Blois that he should marry Madame de Foix, but had heard no mention of it in Spain.

- James Braybroke, Francis Marsin, and John Stile in report to Henry VII, July 1505, (x)

His actions, words, habits, as well as opinion that exists today, prove that he is a prudent and very private man, who speaks of important matters only when it is necessary; also one can not be more patient than he is, he lives in great order, spending his time on all difficult and most relevant matters of the kingdom, and everything goes through his hands, to a great extent he is the one who resolves all the matters and gives orders. He is thought to be a fan of profit, which I don’t know whether has roots in his nature, because his great expenses and important matters, compared to small income, make me see it this way, but it is believed it comes from good sense, which reduces expenses when it can be done. He is skillful with weapons, and he had proved it before he became king, and afterward; he appears to be very religious, speaking of God with great respect, and relating everything to Him, he shows great religiosity in the godly solemnities and ceremonies, which is certainly common for the entire nation. He is not a man of letters but he is kind, and it is easy to obtain audience with him, and his answers are selfless and very careful, and only a few leave displeased, at least upon his words, but it’s said many times he does not keep his promises, because he believes that when situations that occur make him change the goals, therefore he does not consider keeping his promises; it seems to me that he knows how to camouflage himself more than other people, but I don’t know if it is true or imputed defect, for as we can notice, the fame acquired by some prudent men always is accompanied by suspicion; in a word, he is a very esteemed king, with great and many talents; he is accused of not being liberal enough, and of not keeping his word, but in all other matters his kindness and prudence shine; he is not a big-head and ill-conceived words that would be improper for prudent and fair man never come from his mouth.

- Francisco Guicciardini, „Relación de España”, 1512-1515, in “Między wojną a dyplomacją. Ferdynand Katolicki i polityka zagraniczna Hiszpanii w latach 1492-1516″, Filip Kubiaczyk, p.50

Unless Ferdinand throws off two of his appetites he must soon go the way of all flesh. He is 63, and, besides his asthma, never lets his wife from his side. It is now winter, and the country is very cold, yet he talks like a young man of going to the mountainous country of Leon, because he hears that bears are to be found there. If he does not part with one rib, he will lose all Charon will carry in his boat both him and Louis if they are not careful…

- Peter Martyr to Lud. Furtado, November 13, 1514, (x)

The King was 63 years old, having been born on the 10th March 1452; was apoplectic and tremulous (tremolante); went out hunting often; transacted his business alone, taking no counsel with any of the grandees, but rather with persons of the lowest condition. Does not reply to the proposals made to him by ambassadors, but says, ‘I will write my reply to the ambassador over there.’ Does this that he may be able to say, ‘I wrote in good form, but they acted in their own fashion; I did not write to that effect;’—a subterfuge worthy of ‘Zachagno.’ Says he does not wish for a single battlement in Italy, save what belongs to his kingdom [of Naples], but that what he does, he does for the Emperor. Amount of his revenues, 700,000 ducats. From the benefices held by him in Castile he derives 200,000 ducats. From the other kingdoms of which he had taken possession in addition to Castile, namely, Arragon and —, 90,000 ducats. From the newly discovered islands and the gold, 50,000 ducats. From Naples and that kingdom, 300,000 ducats. From the bull of the crusade he levies 60,000 ducats. It is said the King gives 20,000 ducats annually to Madame Margaret, the Emperor’s daughter, to keep the Archduke (Charles of Burgundy), her nephew, in Flanders, lest he go and deprive him of Castile. The younger brother, Don Ferdinand, is in Spain, at the Court, and the King approves his popularity with the young Spanish nobility, for if Archduke Charles should come, they might proclaim this second son for their king. Besides hunting, King Ferdinand occupies himself with visiting women (andar a done), and playing constantly with his attendants at a game called ‘Primiero’ always losing; and when out hunting, he dismounts at some country house, and plays. He professes that he is the friend of the Signory, and when he heard of the rout in the Vicentine territory, he said he regretted it, but he could not do less. Is on good terms with the Emperor, for the reason aforesaid, as he allows him to rule Spain.

- Zuan Badoer, January 13, 1515, (x)

In Marino Sanudo, Diarii, vol. ii, Venecia, 1879, col. 214. it was noted that Ferdinand always appeared happy in front of the ambassadors, and no part of him was displeased, and he was loved as if he were emperor Vespasian himself.

- in “El «otro príncipe»: piedad y carisma de Fernando el Católico en su entorno cortesano”, Álvaro Fernández de Córdova Miralles, p.29

@quietlywicked, @varaemilaje

#perioddramaedit #isabel tve #historyedit #ferdinand ii of aragon #men in history #primary sources #my translation #revised post

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nowitsdarkfic · 5 years ago

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chapter ten (the house of grey)

“We're all alone in the city, My hands are stoned with pity, I could get by or get high with fifty [yeah] And I don't feel pretty... today.” -Otep, “House of Secrets”

The Man in Black kept his distance from my dreams all the way to the sunrise. I had figured it was because of the extra presence within the House of Grey down the block, but I also have my doubts about that, given the fact he follows me to wherever he damn well pleases. There was also one time I stayed overnight with the Greys and the Man in Black lingered in the deepest corners of the awning covering my front porch. He lingered there like a spider monkey, down and out towards me with his spidery fingers extended out to my face. I had to back up and then hold my breath before I even stepped in the house, and at that point, it felt as though my lungs would explode on me.

Every time I saw the Man in Black from thence forth, I have this pervading feeling that he’s going to reach down my throat and yank out my lungs. I only saw him in his full apparition form twice more after that but it was enough for me to be wary of him.

But nevertheless, I can’t truly say if it’s the fact Maya’s over there now or something else. I was fresh meat to him once: maybe she’s new prey for him, I can’t say, I’m only speculating here.

The first time I encountered the Man in Black was when I first joined Anthrax, and in such a fashion that is forever etched into my memory bank. We were down in the City making arrangements and I had to be there: I had just learned that Scott, Danny, Frankie, and Charlie had been bunking in a small three bedroom flat on the edge between the Bronx and Yonkers, that one part of town that’s mostly white people and yet they managed to find that place; and yet they invited me to spend the next couple of nights with them. I was also reminded that Metallica had been staying with them as well and this was how I began knowing about Metallica and of Lars’ name in particular. They were all two nights from flying out west to California to meet up with the boys from Guns N’ Roses.

On my second evening in that apartment, and the night before we all had to leave, I had some time to myself: Scott and Frankie had just left the room, and I had no idea where Charlie and Danny had scampered off to, which meant I had the room left to me and thus I could have a moment alone. There was nothing more in that room than a dusty old olive green couch with cushions so lumpy I thought I would sink into one side if I sat down wrong, and a singular bare light bulb suspended from the ceiling overhead: I don’t think the power was even on then, and this was in late September so the night began falling upon us much sooner than before.

But I took a seat there on the right side of the sofa and crossed my legs right as James Hetfield stepped into the room right before me. He towered over me with his long lanky legs and lengthy golden blond wavy hair, but he greeted me with the biggest most beaming smile I had ever seen on a man.

“The new guy, right?” he asked me.

“Yeah. I’m Joey. I also go by just Joe, too.”

“Okay, just Joe,” he smartly said. “Mind if I have a seat next to you here?”

“Not at all.”

He took a seat next to me and it felt as though I was lifting off of the cushion. I asked him how he and Metallica had found their way to New York City, and this was how I learned about their tape No Life ‘Til Leather and Jonny circulating it about the area.

I had often heard about James from a few fans and even from Scott and Charlie, in how he always kept a brave, oft stern face, and it always seemed like such an insurmountable task to even so much as pry a smile much less a few words from him. So for me to be immersed in this was almost shocking for me. At the same time, I wanted everyone to witness this James, this side of him that seemed more than happy to be with me there on the couch in this little apartment that had no power or running water. At peace, and without a care in the world. Not the taciturn James I was warned about before: he kept a smile upon his face and let out a twinkling little chuckle every time I had a filthy quip to throw out at every chance I got.

In fact I felt so comfortable with him that I leaned in closer to him; that beckoned a crossing of his legs and a slight unzipping of his jacket.

Once the shadows had grown so long there in the room all around us, and the darkness covered half of his face while the remaining twilight reflected onto him so he resembled to the Phantom of the Opera, he offered me something to drink. I was a few weeks from turning twenty-four, but I still resisted because I also knew about Metallica’s nickname. I shook my head in refusal.

He insisted. And yet I still resisted. I didn’t want to be around that. After I refused a fourth time, he fell silent. It was that moment I witnessed that stone cold face. The shadow casting over him wasn’t helping matters, either. That cold steely look was etched into my memory bank.

And then out of the corner of my eye, from the shadows next to his head, something bent off to the side and over the back of the sofa and onto the wall. I couldn’t tell if it was my eyes playing tricks on me or the shadow increasing up against the fading light, but it was a significant movement. And it was significant enough to cause the hair on my arms to stand on end, my heart to pound away inside my chest, and my stomach to fly right up into my throat. I leaned back away from him; worse, his expression never changed as the shadows coalesced and sank behind the back of the sofa.

He never brought it up again, and I never told anyone about it, either. In fact, I never saw it again, especially once the couch and the apartment themselves fell out of the picture for the time being. But when I moved to the complex in the nicer part of Oswego to be closer to my friends, I recognized that very sofa in the living room in the House of Grey. The house itself has two rooms, one for the each of them, the tiniest living room I’ve ever seen, a kitchenette which also serves as the dining room and the laundry room; across from Billy’s room is the bathroom and a closet with four shelves. Then downstairs in the basement is a back up generator for whenever the power goes out during a blizzard. I don’t really know how it works but I do know it involves three inches of hydrogen plasma and the winds from the lake effect storms. And when the power does go out, it shines this eerie bluish green glow through the cracks in the floorboards.

I’ll never forget seeing the couch for the first time right there in the living room: I could tell they had cleaned it up before bringing it into the house. When I took a seat there on one of the cushions, it again felt like I was about to sink into it. The sole differences were cleaning it took some of the olive color and left behind this funky, aged sausage color in its wake, and I got a really uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach sitting there. I couldn’t put my finger on it, either. But Billy insisted it was fine, even though I dared not tell them about that evening in the City wherein I watched part of James’ shadow splinter off and disappear behind the couch. It was there I started to wonder what had happened to this couch in that two year frame.

In fact, when I spent the night there the next week, and the power had gone out during a snowstorm, my curiosity festered and expanded. I think that was also the first time I ever referred to their place as the House of Grey, and not just from that inconspicuous gray on the outside. It was a hockey night, taking place right after my spending time with Anthrax in the studio for Spreading the Disease, and I kind of knew I would feel too tired once the time warranted it: so I took my pillow with me to the City and then back to the House of Grey.

Since I felt exhausted from two straight days of ass-whooping, I lay down there on that ugly sofa and fell asleep once my head hit the pillow. In circumstances like that, I would’ve slept all the way through the night; but at some point during the night, I awoke to an icy tingling sensation on the soles of my feet, like they fell asleep. But when I regained consciousness, the feeling spread all over my toes and the tops of my feet and up my ankles, like I waded through nearly frozen water. I could hardly breathe, either: it felt like someone sitting upon my chest. I finally opened my eyes and glanced down at my legs, and caught sight of him.

The light from the generator downstairs shone over him so I caught a good look of him. He resembled to James with his long stringy black and silver hair down past his shoulders, and his long narrow body and face, but his eyes were vacant and soulless, machine like in fact, and the tattered black clothes cloaking his body floated back from him like he was underwater. He floated over me like a low cloud of fog, and he reached out to me. His hand and his fingers crept out towards my face, and I started to gag at the unholy feeling of his smoky fingers brushing over me.

I didn’t know what he wanted from me, especially when the sallow skin on his face melted away to reveal the bones beneath. I ducked underneath the blankets and rolled onto my side so I wouldn’t have to see him again. In hindsight, it was a miracle I managed to fall back asleep because I kept seeing those black eyes and then their melting into mere sockets. I also had a dream so horrifying that I can’t even recall it. I awoke the next morning trembling and five seconds from pissing myself. In one hand, I’m glad I didn’t tell Barney and Billy about that night because I knew right away they wouldn’t believe me for a hot minute.

“Oh, come off of it, Joe!” I pictured Barney saying with a slap of the knee and a hoot of laughter. “You were probably just dreaming!”

Yeah, I pictured Barney saying that, always the more open-minded of the two brothers. Then again, the very next day, Barney and I talked about the Man in Black over lunch: he even went so far to call it the most terrifying thing he had ever seen in his life.

“Where could it have come from?” he asked me, and all I could do was shrug in response. I had no idea how, or why, the Man in Black showed up there at the house. Barney later told Billy, and as figured, he scoffed at the very notion; but I believed him all the way.

And ever since then, every time I swing by the House of Grey, I’ll stride past that sofa and I’ll feel that chill again, that same icy sensation on the soles of my feet, but all over, from my stomach and all the way into my bones. Sometimes, during the summertime and the spring, they lug out their porch swing, and I’ll stand on the porch, and have a glimpse at it. That blocky wooden bench suspended from a pair of silver chains, quietly swaying in the gentle breeze, and I’ll feel him there. Glaring at me, wanting the breath from my lungs, or so I think. I don’t know what he wants from me. It’s a nagging, persisting feeling that eats at me every time I even so much as think of spending the night at the House of Grey.

Barney gets it but Billy always lends an eye roll accompanied with a scoff.

“Who is this Man in Black?” he always demands from us.

“We wouldn’t really know,” Barney always confesses.

“Yeah, we can’t really say if he’s a ghost or a shadow or what,” I add to it.

“You guys know ghosts aren’t real and shadows can’t detach from entities, right?” He likes to throw that one out to us.

“This is very real, Bill,” Barney vows.

“It really is!” I exclaim. “He even reached for me!”

“Yeah, but it was dark, though. You could’ve been seeing things, Joe. You know how your eyes mess with you in total darkness.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t totally dark, though. He was practically glowing from the generator.”

“Uh-huh, right.”

And after that, Barney pulled me aside and took my hand for a shake, and whispered, “what happens here stays here. No going around and telling anyone about it.”

But ever since then, I not only let one slip once in a while but I never sleep too far away from my dream catcher. The Man in Black’s impending presence and the feeling of him inside my mind when I sleep is enough for me to not take any chances. And yet, I still wonder about Maya and if she saw what I saw that night, and if she’s in good spirits there in the House of Grey.

And if anyone is going to blame anyone for not speaking up about it, they can blame me.

#after the watershed #now it’s dark #chapter 10 #new chapter #joey belladonna #anthrax #james hetfield #fanfic #fanfiction #thrash metal #heavy metal fanfiction #noir au #dark sci-fi #ghost stories #nanowrimo #amwriting #text #cyberpunk #gothic horror

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jackass-insomniac · 5 years ago

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I have more info for the Naruto Fix-It(i need a better title) thing I’m kinda working on. This part is mainly how Akiara, Akuma and the Creatures look. And how the marks they give their human counterparts look and little bit of detail on how they act and effect the user. It’ll be under the cut again.

To the first post about this: What this whole thing is.

Akiara and Akuma’s Appearances:

Akiara has a red, garnet colored hair. It’s the normal, short spiky hair that just about every Shounen main character has, except he has some hair that is long on the front left part of his head. The bottom part of this piece of hair has two red, evil-eye styled beads on either side of a small blue bell. The bell is a ward that Akiara created to warn him of his brother being near by.

His eyes are a fuchsia pink with small black pupils. When he’s sharing information and memories with the Creatures, the pupils expand to where the iris is almost gone.

Akiara’s shoes are black ninja’s shoes that go up to his knees. He has the mesh armor under them and under a pair of mahogany red shorts. He has a black shirt that connects to his hands. The left one covers his thumb, index and middle finger. The right hand has an open palm, but it’s connected to his middle finger. The shirt is armor as well. He has a short sleeved gray hoodie over top of the shirt. He has no village headband.

The scar that Akuma gave to him on the left side of his face is more towards his ear and goes down to his neck, shoulder and his shoulder blade. He has marks given to him by the Creatures(just like the human counterparts). He and Akuma both have all of their marks. Akiara’s marks only appear when he is fighting and specific ones for what he’s doing. When all appear, it’s dangerous. Three of the marks are damaged because of the scar left by Akuma.

Akuma has longer, messy prussian blue hair. The length is at odd levels because of fighting and it only gets cut during that time if someone manages too. But the average length is to the middle of his back. It’s messy and derange from Akuma’s lack of care. He has a scar on the right side of his head, near his eye, from where Akiara hit him when they first fought.

His eyes are a jungle green. His pupils are almost always expanded like Akiara’s does when he’s with the Creatures. They shrink when he’s exhausted or when he sees/fights Akiara.

Akuma is always barefoot because of his lack of care. He currently has a torn up, iron colored Samue. He and Akiara originally had matching Samue when they started documenting life, but Akiara changed with the time. Akuma still wears them. If his Samue becomes destroyed, he’ll kill someone for theirs(wanting to keep things like they used to).

Akuma’s marks from the Creatures are always out because of his lack of control. The only time they fade away, is when he sleeps for long periods or he’s exhausted.

The Creature’s Appearances:

The Land of Fire’s Creature looks like a giant deer. They’re partially see through on part of their face, front left leg, back right leg and part of their torso. Their antlers are willow trees. The see through parts of their body look like pools of clear water and have small flowers in them. Also crossing the parts are branches that act like veins that have flowers on them as well.

The mark that is left on Shikamaru(as well on Akiara and Akuma) are deer antlers that start off with just the end points(or tines. I couldn’t find the real term). Then as the power being used becomes more powerful, and more dangerous, more points appear. The maximum is five on each antler. The mark is placed on the forehead, towards the center. When all ten points appear, intense pain in the head starts and the user begins to lose their site. The loss of sight can be fixed with medical ninjutsu, but the pain in the head stays.

The Land of Wind’s Creature looks like a giant sea turtle. The carapace is a dark brown and gray while the plastron is is all brown. Their limbs and head are a light brown to match the sand. The colors have been distorted by the sun and lack of water. Their eyes are whited over from being blind, so they use vibrations to see in the sand.

The mark that is left on Choji(as well on Akiara and Akuma) are the patterns of the turtle’s skin(the hexagon-ish looking pattern). The pattern is placed on the tops of the hands. It starts as one singular hexagon, then slowly grows to more and up the arms, the more powerful and dangerous the power gets. When it gets to the elbow, it’s when the power is at it’s most disastrous. The bones in their body start to crystallize. Medical ninjutsu can help reverse this, but it takes time.

The Land of Lightning’s Creature looks like a giant tiger. His stripes are the shape of lightning bolts. Not cartoonish looking bolts, but actual ones that splitter off in multiple directions. His eyes glow with electricity when he’s causing storms, but are orange regularly. The white part of his coat have electricity running through it.

The mark that is left on Naruto(as well as on Akiara and Akuma) is a tiger paw print. The paw print is on the left shoulder. It starts as a simple paw print, but the more the power is used, claws start to appear along with the paw. When all the claws are present, it starts to claw into the skin. It’ll continue through to the chest if the power keeps being used. As long as they can withstand the pain, they can use it as much as they want. Organs in the way will be damaged, but can recover with medical ninjutsu.

The Land of Sound’s Creature looks like a giant glasswing butteryfly. The glasswing part of their wings are see through until they start to move, then they glow with energy that is multi colored. The head, thorax and abdomen are a purple similar to the color Orochimaru used a lot. They used it because of the Creature.

The mark that is left on Shino(as well as Akiara and Akuma) are butterfly wings. The wings take up most of the back and are just like the glasswings. When the power is being used, the wings start to fill in with color. There are fourteen scales in the wings, seven on each side. Each side fills at the same time, when all scales are filled, it is in the color scale of a glass prism rainbow. When that happens, life starts to drain out of them and plant and animal life starts to flourish around them. It reverses when the power stops being used.

The Land of Earth’s Creature looks like a giant gorilla. The Creature’s forearms are covered in stone. The type of stone or rock changes based on what she touches. It’ll immediately replace what was there before, which is good if it’s damaged. Her color also changes based on the color of the stone or rock armor on her forearms.

The mark that is left on Sakura(as well as Akiara and Akuma) is the shape of a gorilla bite on the forearms. The color of the bite intensifies the more powerful and dangerous the power becomes. It’s starts of white and glowing(as they all do) and it’ll slowly become, yellow, then green, then purple, then black, the coloring of a healing bruise in reverse. When it becomes red, it starts bleeding and becoming painful. If the power keeps being used, the forearms will shatter. It can be fixed with medical ninjutsu, but it takes time.

The Land of Iron’s Creature looks like a giant lion. His fur is completely white with the pads of his feet being gray. Parts of his mane has ice mixed into the fur. His back half of his body is made of ice except his paws and the end of his tail. His eyes are completely blue(his sight is fine). On his chest is a baby blue, six pronged designs of a snowflake.

The mark that is left on Sasuke(as well as Akiara and Akuma) is a lion paw print. The paw print is on the right shoulder. It follows the same path as the Land of Lightning’s Creature, except the the clawing doesn’t go through to the chest. Ice starts to go through to body to the chest and can spread everywhere else. Heat and fire can’t slow the process and the only way to fix it is to stop using the power, then the ice will slowly retreat and it’s a painful procedure. While body parts are ice, they can shatter. If they can withstand the pain and don’t shatter, they can continue using the power.

The Land of Snow’s Creature looks like a giant polar bear. It’s fur is all white and it’s paws are black, like a regular polar bear. At the center of it’s chest though, is a red and orange glow from the fire and heat in it’s core. Steam comes off it’s paw prints on the ground and out of it’s mouth when it breathes. If it were to yawn, you could see molten lava down it’s throat.

The mark that is left on Kiba(as well as Akiara and Akuma) is on the palms of the hands and bottom of the feet. It covers the entirety of each. It starts off glowing and white, but slowly turns a deep black when the power is being used. If it gets to that point, the user starts to burn from the inside out, starting at the heart. Stopping the power stops the burning, but the damage remains unless medical ninjutsu is used.

The Land of Water’s Creature looks like an even bigger sea serpent. Her color changes based on the water she is in, to blend in. Tendrils sprout off of her body all over as well as six large fins with three each being on either side of her body. Her eyes are red and shouldn’t be looked into because they are the reason many in the Land of Water become violent with rage, which is the Creature’s intent.

The mark that is left on Ino(as well as Akiara and Akuma) are tendrils wrapping down each appendage and the neck. The power should be used until the tendrils start to tighten. When they tighten on the legs, they move slower. When they tighten on the arms, jutsus don’t work correctly. Tightening around the neck can lead to strangulation and even beheading. Stopping the power will make the tendrils release. Bruises will remain and heal, but there is no lasting damage.

Amegakure’s Creature looks like a giant cat. The Creature is a royal purple all over. Their eyes are a mauve purple, except the third eye on it’s forehead. The third eye is solid white. If the third eye closes, their fur turns white instead and will glow insanely bright.

The mark that is left on Hinata(as well as Akiara and Akuma) is a third eye on the forehead. It starts off closed, but will slowly open as the power is being used. If it fully opens, the user loses complete normal sight and would only be able to see through the third eye. Hinata’s byakugan would still work. There’s no way to fix the sight after it’s gone. An upside though is before the eye is open, vision starts to blur and darken as a warning.

Takigakure’s Creature looks like a giant anaconda. The color and texture of the Creature changes with the part of the tree they’re on. They often act like a branch, so they become wooden and the color of the wood. Their venom changes the color of the tree, making it impossible to stay the same color for long. The only consistent color is their lime green eyes.

The mark that is left on Sai(as well as Akiara and Akuma) is the pattern of snake skin. The pattern starts on the waist and moves up the chest(and back) and up to the neck. When the pattern reaches the neck, venom starts to infect the user. It makes them both stronger and full of powerful chakra(energy), but it also rots the body wherever damage is taken. The toxicity of the venom causes blurred vision and vomiting. This counts as damage and will rot the eyes and stomach, but at a much slower rate than physical damage by someone else. Medical ninjutsu can cure the venom and the rotting, though when curing the rotting, the body has to regrow the flesh and muscle(possibly bone) which is very painful.

Yugakure’s Creature looks like a giant poison dart frog. Currently, they are a pink and white color for the hot springs that they live in. Like real poison dart frogs, the more conspicuous the colors the less poisonous they are. During the Chinoike Clan’s existence and Yugakure’s military time, they were a dark brown and red. They couldn’t change their eye color over time like their skin, so they are still the same as Chinoike Clan had.

The mark that is left on Yamato(as well as Akiara and Akuma) are sideways frog pupil shaped marks that are under the eyes. The more the power is used, the closer the marks get to the actual eyes. Once it’s in the eyes, poison starts to replace the blood in the person starting from the eyes. The poison is painful and searing as if goes through the veins. Stopping the power will stop the creation of the poison, but the poison that’s already taken bloods place will stay unless removed. When it’s removed, blood transfusion will be needed.

More Information:

The marks are given to each person by the Creature in their own way. All marks start off glowing white and will fade away if the power given to them is not being used. The power and mark is harmless if the power isn’t used, but that’s why they were given it. The Creatures know that humans can’t resist power, even if it’s for a seemingly good purpose. And that’s also why all the powers are a double edged sword, because pain will cause pain.

The Creatures give the powers to who they give them to for a reason(which I’ll talk about in another thing) but they trust these ones because they’ve seen the good they’ve done. Or tried to do. And they know these humans understand that pain causes pain. They trust them not to abuse the powers given to them, but humans are still humans so, the double edge remains.

The Land of Fire’s Creature gives Shikamaru his mark through a forehead nudge.

The Land of Wind’s Creature gives Choji his mark through a headbutt.

The Land of Lightning’s Creature give Naruto his mark through roaring at him.

The Land of Sound’s Creature gives Shino his mark through blowing air at him through their wings.

The Land of Earth’s Creature gives Sakura her mark through a very hard fist bump.

The Land of Iron’s Creature gives Sasuke his mark through roaring at him.

The Land of Snow’s Creature gives Kiba his mark through breathing a small amount of nonharmful fire at him.

The Land of Water’s Creature gives Ino her mark through the tendrils wrapping around the same places(Water’s Creature is angry, so this hurts a little).

Amegakure’s Creature gives Hinata her mark through a cat forehead kiss.

Takigakure’s Creature gives Sai his mark through swallowing him, then spitting him out(this doesn’t hurt Sai).

Yugakure’s Creature gives Yamato his mark through changing the nature of the water they’re in.

#Naruto #Naruto AU #Naruto fix it #Naruto OC #Naruto Uzumaki #Sasuke Uchiha #Sakura Haruno #Shikamaru Nara #choji akimichi #ino yamanaka #Hinata Hyuga #kiba inuzuka #shino aburame #Sai #Yamato

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everythingcollided · 6 years ago

Text

Radiation [Peter Parker]

(credit to owner)

Summary: Peter decides to finally tell her how he feels, but he’s too late.

Word Count: 2,058

Warnings: Swearing, Angst (i guess), Peter is wHIPPED, the metaphors and similes are strong with this one, oh yeah there’s fluff too

A/N: No one asked for this but I was in a mood so read my unedited garbage and request if you want your own piece! and just a random shoutout to @beautiful-writings cause she’s always here.

He was finally going to do it.

Twirling the sunflower stem between the pads of his fingers, soul on fire, nerves tied together and running through his blood. Peter can barely breathe, but he’s sure about this. He’s spent years loving her and it’s time to admit it.

It’s the last day of school and no one’s sure why or how it became the Midtown Tech equivalent of Valentine’s Day. Paper hearts litter locker doors, teddy bears holding chocolate are being carried down the hallways in the arms of interlocked couples, and roses nurtured in plastic wraps are just about everywhere Peter looks.

He wouldn’t usually participate in it. Going home to mope seemed like a better option than approaching her and getting rejected. But this year, for some reason, he’d flipped his perception and decided that - what the hell - he’d give it a try.

He’s regretting that decision right about now.

“Come on, dude,” Ned says for what Peter feels like is the fifth time. His hands are digging into his shoulders and Peter knows it’s to keep him grounded. He’s been smiling since the beginning of their last class, and it’s not helping him at all. “Look, there she is, go get her.”

His hands are shaking so badly he’s scared the petals are going to fall off of the sunflower.

It’s her favorite. Peter’s well aware she likes things simple, and he’s respecting that. Opposed to the hundreds of rose bouquets he’s seen today, he just has a singular flower and a question that will hopefully be met with a yes.

All he really wants is a chance.

Ned spins and shoves him into the masses moving about, hurrying to get out and start their summer. Peter has enough time to turn around with a panicked look and see the thumbs up his best friend is sending him before he has to move in fear of getting trampled.

God, he’s sweating. He rubs a palm against his shorts.

She’s standing in front of her locker, turning the dial. Her hair is tied back so that he can perfectly see her furrowed eyebrows, lips pressed together as she concentrates. She’s wearing the school sweatshirt and some athletic shorts, looking flawlessly lazy and like everything he’s ever wanted.

Peter hides the flower behind his back with one hand and tries his best to do something casual with the other. His heart is pounding. “H-Hey.”

Hey eyes flicker to him, brightening. “Hey, Peter! How’d your last exam go?”

“Um, fine. Great, actually.” His palm involuntarily rubs at his neck, and he startles at the moist skin. “You?”

She rolls her eyes and tucks a rogue hair behind her ear, turning back to enter the last number of her combination. “Terrible. Halfway through one of the essay questions I started falling asleep so most of it just looked like chicken scrat-“

She stops when she flings open her locker, annoyed expression falling blank. Then she glances at him, alight with confusion and...something else.

Something that looks a lot like hope.

And that’s when Peter’s heart gets crushed.

Because before he can even ask what’s wrong or peek over her shoulder to find out, Mason Daniels appears out of thin air with his blinding white smile and deep voice. “Do you like it?”

Mason Daniels is the reason why Peter and Ned have never really held out hope for girlfriends. He’s quarterback of the football team, not bad at all when it comes to good grades, and anyone in the school will admit that he’s incredibly good looking.

Peter’s confidence takes a nosedive.

Like what?

Her eyes are wide as she reaches into the small space and brings out a fluffy, caramel colored teddy bear. There’s a bold red heart held delicately between it’s paws and all Peter can do is stare.

He’s so stupid.

Everything suddenly seems pathetic. All Peter has is a flower and a voice still undergoing the horrific cracks of puberty. Mason stands a head taller than him, rigid with the assurance that only a guy like him could have. There’s obviously no competition here.

But, Peter also has the promise to love her.

What does Mason have?

“It’s so...cute. That’s really sweet of you, Mason.” She gushes and Peter’s heart splits in two.

He guesses a promise isn’t enough. He’s still Peter Parker, and she doesn’t want him.

His chest is hollow and painful bundled into one at the glee in her smile, the pink flush on her beautiful face. He’s never regret being bit by that spider until now. The misery curling around his stomach is multiplied by ten and he hates it because it makes him want to cry.

He wants to sob until his throat is raw and until the pain blooming in the spaces between his ribs is washed out. He wants to curl into Aunt May’s side like he did when he was a scared seven year old boy with nightmares.

But he can’t, he can’t because he has to stand here and still give the girl he’s in love with her sunflower. Peter doesn’t want to keep it. The second he’s out of sight he knows he’ll smash it into the ground and he reckons she’ll take better care of it.

After all, she is the Sun.

And so he calls her name before she can go running into the quarterback’s arms and runs the stem behind her ear. He pretends that he saw it at lunch and thought of her and tries not to think about the nice lady from the flower booth and the ten dollar bill sitting in her cash register a half hour away.

He pretends that she doesn’t look like summer and happiness, all warm skies and soft grass.

He pretends that she doesn’t burn him. He pretends that her smile doesn’t light him on fire and reduce him to ash because they’re best friends and only best friends.

Best friends don’t burn for each other like Peter does for her.

And that’s all right.

He pretends it’s all right.

She smiles at him and there’s a twinge of sadness lacing along her lips. It looks a lot like a goodbye and Peter has to get out. Water is pushing against his resolve and he has to get away before he cracks.

He stares at the vibrant petals of the plant so he won’t catch himself in her eyes. “H-Have a good summer.”

There’s a break in his voice, and with that the dam crumbles. The flood blurs his vision and he turns away before she can see. He already resents himself for crying; he doesn’t need her to see him vulnerable like this. Mr.Stark never cries, never lets people see him exposed.

Peter is once again reminded that he can never be like Tony Stark.

It almost hurts more than knowing he’s not good enough.

He ends up sitting on the steps outside of the school. May would kill him if he got injured because he was stupid and rode his bike while simultaneously crying. Plus, she’d been really excited about today. Peter didn’t want to watch the disappointment show on her face. Not yet.

So he hides his face with one hand and pretends to look through his Twitter feed with the other so no one will come over to ask him if he’s okay. Giggling couples come and go, sometimes stopping to kiss against the bricks of the building and stomp all over Peter’s emotions.

He feels like shit.

It’s been fifteen minutes and he still feels like shit.

His eyes are irritated from wiping at the trails before they can move and his chest aches from holding in the noises. He wants to stop hurting but he can’t because of that damn spider and because of her.

It’s always her.

The metallic cling of the door opening sounds again and dread pools at the thought of hearing more love.

“Peter.”

His head whips up and there she is. She’s all soft edges and eyes and she’s always, always been beautiful to him but with the sunlight bouncing against her hair she’s ethereal. The knife in Peter’s gut twists.

He remembers how disgusting he must look a second too late. Worry melts into her and she takes the space next to him, her fingers pressing against his collarbone and bringing his heart back to life like it’s forgotten she was the one who flattened it in the first place.

“Hey, look at me,” she murmurs. Her breath ghosts against his ear and he shivers but he doesn’t obey. She smells like vanilla and she’s too close. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Peter can’t help but glance to his right. He should say yes, but all that comes out when he sees her empty hands is, “Where’s your teddy bear?”

He watches her eyebrows furrow at the croak in his voice. “I gave it back to him. Thought it was rude to accept it if I didn’t feel the same.”

That gets his attention. His eyes snap to hers. They wash over his face and she frowns. “I thought it was from you.”

“What?”

“The bear. I thought it was from you.” She mumbles her way through the words but she never once casts her gaze away from him. They don’t really make Peter feel better. All it does is explain why she looked so shocked when she opened her locker.

“Oh. I thought you wouldn’t want something cliche like that.”

“Peter,” she sighs, and suddenly she looks so worn down, like she’s on the verge of tears too. “Why did you get me the sunflower?”

“Cause it reminded me-”

“Stop with the bullshit. I can tell when you lie.” Scooting closer, hand moving to grasp at his forearm. Desperation shines with the reflection of the Sun in her eyes. “Tell me the truth. Please.”

Peter doesn’t want to, but she’s under his skin. Forever under his skin. “B-Because I wanted to...ask y-you out.”

She smiles. Really smiles, like she’s intentionally trying to wreck him. “Good.”

Hand grazing his jaw and staying there, tucked warmly against his skin, she pulls him into her lips. His arms go to her waist without him thinking about it, clutching the delicate material in his fists.

That bundle latched onto his lungs feels like it’s being drawn out through the breath they’re sharing. She tastes like the strawberry chapstick she’s used in all the time he’s known her, and again he’s thousands of embers buoyant in the air electrifying around her.

But this time she’s blazing with him, igniting him with the wildfire of her lips and the inferno of her touch.

Peter doesn’t mind being reduced to ashes anymore.

The pull away is slow, like she doesn’t want to leave but the air demands it. Peter’s scared to open his eyes to something fake, something his mind created under the pressure of breaking.

But there she is when he does, crouched into herself, lashes fluttering, fingers pressing against the skin of her lips. She looks disoriented and red in the face and Peter’s mind isn’t working correctly but it still knows that she’s radiant.

“S-So,” he starts, rejecting the urge to touch at his own mouth. It was searing with the memory of her and Peter couldn’t wait to incinerate more. “Do you want to go out...with me?”

Instead of responding with words she’s back on him and maybe he won’t ever breathe properly again, but if she’s there to share her breath with him he doesn’t care one bit.

“Yes,” she breathes against him. Hair tickling against her flushed cheeks, eyes luminous and the surest he’s ever seen them. “Oh, and thanks for the sunflower. You’re right; that bear was too cliche for me. Total deal breaker.”

She giggles at her own words, clutches his shirt. “Well, that and the fact that I’m into someone else.”

Even though he’s sitting down Peter’s still weak at the knees. He hums in acknowledgment.

“Really into someone else.”

She’s trying to kill him, that playful spark gives it all away. He’s not giving that to her though, she’s already gotten enough reaction from him today.

“Good.” Is all he counters with. She rolls her eyes.

Peter kisses her face until she smiles.

#peter parker #spider-man #peter parker imagine #spider-man imagine #mcu #marvel #mcu imagine #marvel imagine #tom holland #tom holland imagine #peter parker x reader #tom holland x reader #spider-man x reader #peter parker fic #fluff #peter parker fluff #lyd writes

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witchfall · 6 years ago

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to melt the gilded seams: ch. 1

direct sequel to ‘the silver lining still remains’

In the aftermath of the Abel disaster and the revelations about her childhood, Emma Ibori has kept busy preparing to end the secrecy surrounding her life and the true origin of androids. Connor, meanwhile, continues to pester Markus about the feasibility of human-android marriage laws.

But Emma’s life no longer feels like her own…a vagary made from Connor’s increasingly busy schedule, the strange looks her best friend Ryker gives her when they think she isn’t looking, and an exhaustion born of a dread that sinks into her bones from simply leaving the house.

When she finally acts, the axis tilts – but not as she expects. To keep Emma and Connor safe from a growing terrorist threat (and a Cyberlife executive sniffing where he shouldn’t be), Jericho is going to make a spectacle of the one thing she wants to keep to herself: her singular relationships with the RK800 and WR600.

But as the world turns its glaring eyes their way, how long can their silent fault lines hold?

[Rating: T (except some swears)]

{Ryker is owned by @popsicletheduck, Sam is owned by @vaniccio, Chase is owned by @caitlynmellark and Messi is owned by @thenervousmedic. Thank you for letting me borrow your children!}

Read it on ao3 here.

---

April 2040

Even with Connor in D.C., it takes Emma, Chase, Messi and Ryker little more than an afternoon to pack up the entirety of Emma’s physical life into boxes. That’s how she finds herself alone in an empty bedroom -- once hers, but barely ever that -- riding the sharp waves of a sudden whim.

She pulls the memory box out of the dusty top shelf of her closet and settles it on the carpet with a thick clank. She feels a little high from the remnant dust as she digs into the sea of school photos, report cards, flimsy movie tickets and plastic vacation baubles for the sake of...what?

She searches until she finds the photo some part of her remembered. Her father and mother -- Ji-hun and Shara -- smiling together at the head of a long table. The lighting is poor; someone was taking photos with the flash on. But Mom has flowers woven into her curls. Her dress is a simple cream color with a boatline neck and her laughing grin is radiant. Dad is laughing, too, teeth perfect white, navy suit wrinkled but fitted, purple bowtie slightly askew. His arm is around her mother’s shoulders. Their cheeks nearly touch.

She can almost hear her mother’s voice, honeyed and happy for once. “Oh, we had no money. Both of us in post-grad. We just hurried and married. That’s what we wanted to do.”

She turns the photo around to read the writing on the back. “Shara and Ji-hun wedding, June 1, 2013.” She does the math in her head and realizes: she is older than they are in this photo. The dissonance makes her chest feel numb.

But their love could reignite the sun.

She covets a memory like this for herself so viciously that she has to close her eyes and go somewhere else in her head. Because that’s what she’s looking for, for reasons hard to fathom -- proof that even lives that end in tragedy could still see bright spots of joy.

---

June 2040

[REPLAY MEMORY?]

[ACCEPT]

“Hey darlin’.”

Emma sighs heavily, pulling her fingers through her thick auburn curls to throw them over her head. She looks down into the phone camera from an angle that suggests she is leaning up against her new headboard, pillows tucked in against her back.

“I’m glad I caught you before you fell asleep,” Connor hears himself say, and the relief settles like warm gauze both within the memory and without. He studies the video call closely. Her olive skin is pale. Her freckles stand out like dirt against glass and heavy, dark circles weigh down her cognac brown eyes. He watches her until he catches the orange flash of light behind her pupils.

A pulse of life. A flash of difference.

“You almost didn’t,” she says. “Feel like I’ve been fighting off a nap all day.”

“Your new medicine?”

“Maybe.” She closes her eyes.

“Have you been experiencing any strange side effects?”

“It’s hard to tell anymore.”

“I remember the doctor saying something about experiencing a strange electric feeling--”

She rolls her head back.

“Can we not? Can we talk about something else? Please?”

It normally goes like this. Her patience for talking about her health has only declined as his worry has skyrocketed. Anxiety is such a worthless emotion; it perpetuates itself in a cascade pattern and lingers in his biocomponents. But he has not been with her for the past three weeks, and that fact rankles him so much that he has to rejigger his breathing protocol to fire correctly, just as he did in the memory.

[END MEMORY PLAYBACK]

His programming demands action regarding the most important of his mission parameters (the constant [PROTECT EMMA] that buzzes in the corner of his eye), and yet to do that, he has to be away in Washington, D.C., doing his job. Talking to politicians and lobbyists in gold dining rooms with dark wood lining and crystal chandeliers to convince what feels like the entire world to sign Markus’ comprehensive Android Rights legislation into law.

To convince them that they really are people, willing to assimilate.

Connor glances down at his work phone -- something he obtained out of preference by his largely human team for “security reasons” -- and scrolls to his photo gallery with practiced precision. He lands on a photo of Emma leaning over his shoulder in a Detroit park, grinning down at the camera. The sky shines cobalt blue behind her wild hair, and her laughing smile reveals her bright white teeth.

He misses her so fiercely he routinely runs diagnostics to ensure a part of him isn’t actually, literally missing -- but then, a part of him is, in a way. He can hear Hank scoffing from here. But Hank, Connor thinks, would agree.

Only a two-hour flight remained of the fog of this three-week work trip. The constant typing in front of bright screens. The painful mediation of hope.

“Grip it any tighter and it might shatter.”

He flicks his gaze up toward his aide, in the seat across from him.

[NAME: HALE, SAMANTHA // LEGISLATIVE AIDE BORN: 10/13/2013 CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE]

“I thought you might actually relax for once.” Her words are clipped and efficient and teasing. She watches him over a thin, swiftly scrolling tablet, unreadable as amber.

He smiles slightly. “There is a saying about what happens when you assume.”

She smiles back. Like a mirror. “You’ve been looking at that picture for a while.”

Some switch jolts inside of him and he opts for silence.

Her smile inches closer to genuine. She glances down at his phone. “Sorry. You still hold it like a toddler learning how to play cards.”

He looks out the airplane window, over clouds and distant flatlands, where the people are small as mites. “I’m...glad to be going home.”

“She’s cute.”

Connor turns back immediately. Sam’s dark gaze pierces him through.

“An android?” she asks.

He stares at her until he realizes she is genuinely asking.

“No,” he says quietly.

Sam's eyebrows shoot up a single centimeter. She places the tablet on the thin table between them and leans back in her leather chair, watching him. He’s seen this look before. Part of him steels in preparation.

“This explains a lot,” she says.

“Not for most people.”

“You’ve been in a terrible mood for the past week.”

“Have I?”

She smirks, but it fades immediately. “You don't talk about her much.”

“I don't want--”

The words die in his vocoder. I don't want her to get hurt. From attention. From my enemies.

Even thinking the words feels like setting the last slab of stone on an already creaking cart. Emma has considerable mechanical alteration (“a cyborg,” she explains plainly), but she's also a bright, mouthy, endlessly kind human being, and he wishes there was a way for everyone to see her as he saw her. She is determined to press on for the sake of truth -- tell the whole world how she became what she is so that no one suffers from the secrets anymore. So that humans have a new understanding of their connection to androids.

He had recently begun to understand the intoxicating calm of lies.

“You're worried about her,” Sam notes quietly.

“Always.”

Sam purses her lips against a number of unspoken things. “What does she do?”

“Carpentry,” he says.

She’s good at deduction and that’s why she is on this plane and not back in D.C. with the rest of his team. He knows what she is really asking, but he's not willing to give her this yet. She reaches for her cup of ginger ale, long drained, and taps her fingernails against the glass. “Are you worried it will become an issue?”

“In what way?” he asks.

“You tell me.”

“It’s been fine so far,” Markus says from across the cabin. Connor slides his gaze toward Markus, who watches them both with the reserved warmth of a curious patron. Simon, sitting across from him, pointedly keeps his eyes on his tablet -- but the PL600 is always listening.

Sam finally turns away, toward the airplane window, brows furrowed in thought. She slides a blonde hair back behind her ear and breathes out through her nose for five seconds straight.

“You can ask, Ms. Hale,” Connor says softly. “I don’t mind.”

He really doesn’t. It feels like a pressure release, speaking of Emma openly like this.

She doesn’t look at him, but her mouth relaxes slightly. “How long have you…?”

“Since November 2039.”

She sits up immediately. “Since--”

Her mouth snaps shut again. Her eyes search his face. How had he kept this hidden from her, his blood hound? What else could he hide from her?

What did he intend?

He leans back in his chair. Tension releases in a soft tick from his back that he catalogues away for future upkeep. “And hopefully for as long as we both are alive.”

Her mouth turns downwards. He thinks for a moment that she is going to say something angry. Accuse him of hiding key intel that prevents her from doing her job — she can’t protect his image if she doesn’t know everything. She can’t handle his affairs if he keeps half the workload to himself. But the tightness around her eyes loosens and he realizes she isn’t angry.

She’s thinking of the other side of the coin of “how long.” The collision of immovable object and unstoppable force; “how long” for an android has a different definition. He knows this because he is thinking of it, too, like he has been since he first saw Emma bleed. He knows because he can smell sadness and pity from a mile away after living in its stink in D.C. for so long.

But as soon as he notices this, she raises her hands as if giving up. A smirk erases all hint of emotionality.

“Well, now I’m definitely glad I am coming along,” she says.

He squints at her. He can feel Markus watching them.

“I’m really curious to meet the type of woman that puts up with you and isn’t even paid for it.”

---

It’s happening again.

Emma counts the flowers. Tastes their colors, pink like fizz and yellow like lemons and -- no. Not right. Start over.

Cement yourself to this moment, here in Ryker’s garden. Feel the too-hot summer sun on skin and the licking breeze out of the northwest, bringing a promise of cooler air from Canada. Settle your knees deep into the grass. Do not think of the snapdragons and how they smell like citrus.

One of the handlers in that hellhole house of her youth always smelled like tangy flowers and bleach.

Do not think of listening to that handler’s Monday afternoon soaps. Of the cold hallway floors sticking to the back of a smaller Emma’s legs. Of Noah leaning his head into her shoulder “to listen better” but really because being apart felt like staring down a big hole into nothing and--

Suddenly she’s a little girl again. She feels the world slip between her fingers, replaced by a sizzling anger that cleanses every thought. Something beeps in her head. Noah’s small face, innocent and pale, hovers superimposed on the face of Abel, the man who tried to kill her and Connor. The two repel like the same side of a magnet.

Her ears ring, high-pitched and trilling like mad bells. Her vision fuzzes out like an old TV. Her lungs seize. {PROCESSING --MEMORY!!ERROR. VARIABLES76857. ERROR UNKNOWN.}

“Ryker! She’s doing it again!”

Emma blinks a few times. Chase’s voice. Grass. Garden. Sun. Wind. Come out of it. Breathe.

For fuck’s sake! Breathe!

{ERROR. ERROR. ERROR------8978792*&^*^&^----ONLINE}

“I can’t look away for five minutes to get tools anymore,” she hears Ryker grumble, but in the way they do when things are truly going to shit. She hears the telltale pitter-stomp through the grass of Messi following not far behind. Emma rises to her feet, as if to make a point, and the world spins. She can’t catch her breath.

“Ibori. What happened?” Chase instantly reaches his arms out to stabilize her. “Look at my face.”

“Nothing,” she lies through her teeth. Chase merely stares at her as if she just announced that the sky is green. “Another fucking memory resurfaced.”

“Everything is alright, remember?” Ryker reminds her, though they grasp tightly to her wrist, turning it over to check her pulse. A gardener should not be so good at doing that, some distant part of her thinks. “The rate’s been slowing.”

She resists the primal urge to pull her wrist back, but not before Ryker notices her hand flex into a fist. They release her immediately.

“I’m going to call the editors,” Ryker says. “You can’t do this yet.”

She covers her guilt by smashing her palms into her eyes and dragging her hands down her face. “If we put it off, the journalists start doubting,” Emma says, as she has explained for what feels like the 500th time this week.

Ryker looms over her, standing with their crutches. For once, the full impact of their height difference -- their 6’2” to her 5’5” -- makes itself apparent. “You don’t think they’d believe you after sitting with you for interviews for hours at a time? That maybe you’re a little mentally unready for this?” “I’m not having this argument with you again.” She digs a toothpick out of her pocket, unable to look them in the eye. Normally, this is the point of the conversation where Ryker freezes as if to recollect themselves and Emma sorts through the weird signals coming from her cyborg brain, and then they both apologize and completely skip over whatever it is they were talking about. Peace is a balm best applied thickly. This time, Ryker fishes a set of familiar flash cards out of their shirt pocket and shoves them at Chase, who watches the exchange with a brittle expression. "Then I'm not having any part of this. I'm going inside." Her heart gives a lurch. "Come on." "No. I'm not talking about this anymore," they snap. "Don't stay out too long or you'll sunburn." The creaking of Ryker's crutches fades until she hears the backdoor to their house slam behind them. She jams the toothpick between her teeth and bites down until she is certain she can look at Chase or Messi and not burst into tears. "It okay, Miss Emma," Messi says softly, pulling on Emma's wrist. "Ryker just tired." "I know," she says, and she knows because it’s her fault. Emma sits down back in the grass. Messi presses her hands deeply into Emma’s thigh as a form of pressure therapy and hums a little child’s song, from somewhere deep in her calming medical programming. Emma absently untangles strands of Messi’s thick, long hair. Chase settles into a wicker chair set up close to Ryker's latest flower beds. He closely examines the flash cards. "Where were you born?" he reads off one. God. Maybe she isn't ready for this. “I’m tired of pop quizzes about myself," she says. "Can’t we just have some nice garden time? In quiet?” Chase holds the card primly in both hands, eyeing her suspiciously over its edge. She closes her eyes against another wave of vertigo. She can nearly hear Natalie, her therapist, speaking in her head. Think of things to be thankful for. Connor is finally coming home. She won’t have to pretend that she can get through the night by herself while curled up in painful knots on Ryker’s couch. She won’t lie awake, afraid of the dark and what she might remember of it. She won’t feel like a pathetic loser pining after someone who has only been gone three weeks. Three long-ass, terrible weeks. “It’s publishing tomorrow morning, Ibori," Chase says, as if explaining this to a child. "People are going to ask. They are going to try and find holes." "I'm gonna remember. My body won't let me do anything damn else." Both of them fall silent at that. For a moment, the only sound between them is Messi's soft humming. "Hmm," Chase says after a long moment, which is Chase for Yeah, I don't believe you.

---

Emma used to make a sport out of fading into crowds. I am among you, but not a part of you, she'd think, and she would disappear before anyone could ask her why she was drinking alone.

Hank pushes a black coffee across the small table. {IDENTIFIED: COFFEA ARABICA, 172 DEGREES F. } “Sorry. Decaf only for you.”

{ACCESSING LOGS…} “Goddamn meds,” she manages. She wraps both of her hands around the cup, like Connor would do if he was here. He could never drink it.

{STARBUCKS COPYRIGHTED BLEND. DO YOU LIKE COFFEE….*&*^*&????}

“Em?”

Her muscles twitch and lock up in strange places. She takes deep breaths. Cut it off at the stem. It doesn’t have to be like this.

{EMMIE I DON’T KNOW ABOUT THIS…}

Quit it.

“Emma!”

She blinks hard and watches as Hank yanks the coffee cup out of her tight grasp. Only now does she realize she has squeezed the cup until its boiling hot contents spilled over onto her skin.

“Burning yourself won’t do the trick,” Hank gruffs. He tugs at the napkin dispenser and dabs at her knuckles lightly.

“Sorry,” she says automatically. She grounds her feet to the floor. The hand still tingles. She gets the feeling it should hurt more than it does, but the busy airport atrium has flooded her with so much stimuli that she is shocked when she sees that the spill has left a red welt on her skin.

(Noah -- Abel -- he said he didn’t feel pain anymore, didn’t feel anything--)

“Connor won’t like that,” she mutters.

Hank scoffs. He finishes cleaning the table and tosses the napkins into the nearby trash-can. “Yeah, he’s gonna be out of his mind now, thanks for that. Lucky I’ve dealt with worse attitude problems than you...”

Hank refers to it as an attitude problem because he knows she laughs when he does. An attitude problem would be laughably, wonderfully normal. “Great,” she mutters.

His eyes soften. “North'll be back with our clearance soon.”

She huffs and lays her forehead (and burned hand) on the cool metal table.

Current security policy is that no one may be in the private plane receiving area who is not a passenger until within 20 minutes of the landing time. In a fit of anxious energy, Hank and Emma arrived at least an hour early, but they’d been waiting for close to 40 minutes already.

Meaning…

“There she is.” Hank sips his coffee. “Just like I promised. Our boys almost here?” he says to North.

“We’re in luck. They’re ahead of schedule. They’re already taxi-ing in.”

Emma looks up to see North with a rare, true smile on her beautifully carved face. Her hair is in its usual side plait, though she is experimenting with blonder highlights that stand out like ice against her dark clothes. She brandishes the thin pass tablets like three playing cards.

Emma is up and moving out of the chair before North can say another word.

She raps her knuckles against her thigh as she speed walks to the private jet gates, past a dancing water fountain and quiet museum displays of old world cars that feel like pockets of a different time and place. She half-runs down a windowless, wide hallway lit with shades of purple and green like some petrified nightmare vision of the future, all cornerless architecture and the constant feeling that you have to be going somewhere.

Her phone is vibrating, but her hands are shaking too much to pull it out of her pocket. She shoves her credentials at the TSA agents who give her strange looks, but they let her pass once North catches up to wave them off.

“I swear it was decaf,” she hears Hank mutter to North.

Emma reaches the gate, eyes fixated on the gleaming jet rolling down the tarmac. The creamy, nondescript white of an undecorated fuselage, dark windows and an extended walkway remain her only obstacles. All that is left is waiting, which is nearly impossible for her to do. She turns around to speak to Hank and North only to find they are still somewhat far behind.

She runs through a mental checklist. Connor is on that airplane. Ryker is at home watching one of their favorite late afternoon nature programs and keeping an eye on Messi, who is likely experimenting on the dirt in their garden. Chase is on the late shift at the department store. Hank is coming up behind her. Her aunt and uncle are...doing whatever it is they do.

{eeeEEEmmmmiEEEEEE}

You do not own me, you are not real. You are just one aspect of my thoughts.

But then, Natalie was not programmed to deal with the fussy, indeterminable nature of a wetware-enhanced human brain. So. There’s that. Emma falls into one of those black beam seats one always finds in airports and bounces her knee until the pressure against her heel thrums through her whole body.

“Emma.”

For a moment, she is so absorbed in sorting out her thoughts that she looks up and expects Hank.

But she knows that voice.

She rises to her feet at once. “Hey,” she says. It comes out a breathless whisper, weighed down by everything beneath it. Connor strides down the walkway at unnatural android speed. His polished dress shoes click against the hard floor.

His face is stolen from an angel in Venice. Dark eyes, warm as homemade cake, a smile, a--

She hears the luggage -- his little chrome luggage, the pieces she helped him pick out at the mall -- click to a stop just as an arm crushes around her middle. A hand snakes behind her neck. She’s pulled into an embrace so tight that feeling finally fully returns to her senses, rushing in like water through a cavern. Her eyes burn.

“I missed you so much,” he says, straightforward and breaking and quiet. “I was certain something was wrong with me.”

He pulls back to look at her, and his smile flickers. His hand around her neck moves to touch just beneath her eyes.

“Sorry.” She sniffles and apologizes, like she does too often anymore. “I know it was only three weeks.”

“It was terrible. I was very bored,” Connor says, in that deadpan way of his, and it makes her laugh. She throws her arms around his neck and plants the kiss she’d been dreaming of for three weeks right on his mouth, all stupid bravery. He takes a deep, sudden breath through his nose and pulls her tighter against him, sighing softly, like he finally could accept that she was really here, really wanted him back, more than anything. He only breaks away to speak so quietly against her mouth that she wonders if she imagined it. “...my love...”

“God, you’d think you hadn't seen each other in 5 years.”

Emma doesn’t even turn around to flip Hank off. He laughs. She laughs. She looks back, carefully ensconced in Connor’s arms, and puts her hands up as if to say, ‘Guilty.’

Hank walks toward them. “What am I, chopped liver?”

A cool hand touches her burned one almost in an instant.

“...Emma.” Connor’s voice tightens. “What happened?”

“Oh, here we go,” she mutters. And Hank, that asshole, laughs more.

---

As soon as Connor settles into the back seat of Hank's old Ford, a strange weight lifts from his thirium pump. He takes a long, unnecessary drag of the scent of old leather, dusty blankets and the sickly sweet tinge of alcohol from a bottle that once broke open on the carpets years ago. A human wouldn't notice it, he thinks, or they would comment. But then, he doesn’t want to think about the differences between himself and humanity.

He wants to watch Emma curl herself into the backseat -- all human sighing and complaint, beautiful and alive.

Emma clicks her seat belt and contours herself to his shoulder, leaning so that her forehead lays against his neck. He wraps an arm around her, pulling her against him so tightly that he has to triple-check to ensure he isn’t crushing her. She doesn't complain.

"Comfy," she mutters, as if angry about it. He presses his nose into her wild red hair.

Lavender. Chipped plywood. The summer wind. Coming home.

(How long would this go? How long could he do the stretches without her? He's adaptable. He is built to be the perfect teammate. Adapting to human ingenuity, fine, he is quite capable. They did not prepare him for human desires. Of any kind. The very notion of wanting something is supposed to be foreign to him and he has never wanted anything more in his life than this feeling, like he’s finally climbed through the earth to see the sun.)

He’s startled out of his reverie because she starts snoring softly. Hank's eyes flick to the rearview, as if finally granted permission to speak.

"You really doin' alright out there?" Hank asks. His voice is quieter than usual. He clears his throat and looks pointedly to Emma for a moment. "Pretty long work trip for you."

Connor casts his gaze out the car window to the rolling cityscape of Detroit. He catalogs the strange pinging in his heart as another type of homecoming -- a realization of what was missed. "It's what it is," he says flatly, because he is not sure what else to say. "People act like they want to hear what we have to say. But...I see the way they look at us."

"Oh?"

He meets Hank's eyes in the mirror. "Sometimes it's fear. Sometimes it's pity. Sometimes it's...an anger I don't understand."

Hank makes a sound of disgust. "Fuckin' politicians..."

"They don't know how to talk to us, I think."

"But you're okay?" Hank asks, more intently than before. "You feel safe?"

"We're safe, Hank," Connor says softly. He holds Hank's watery gaze until Hank is the first to turn away, eyes back on the road. "It would take a very determined terrorist to strike the Congressional halls in D.C."

"Who's the blonde? The aide you were tellin' me about? She looks very...serious."

"Sam. Yes. She's helping me gather intel before our next big excursion. She is...as you say."

"Heh. Coming from you..."

"I know," Connor says. “She has her work cut out for her.”

Hank finally smiles into the mirror.

"Man, lemme tell you, when I last visited D.C...."

Connor lets Hank tell some anecdote about a previous trip, in which people "weren't even allowed on the damn sidewalk on Pennsylvania Ave. to take pictures of the damn White House," because it seems to help Hank steady his vitals. But once Hank runs out of asides, Connor decides to finally address the flashing warning in his vision. [PROTECT EMMA.]

“Was she okay?”

Hank sighs. Connor squints, considering all the reasons why Hank may lie to him about this.

“She'll give you some bullshit," Hank says after a long moment. "It's a mixed fucking bag. But she's...holding on better than I would. I'd say.”

The turn signal blinks. Connor syncs his breathing with it as he re-orders his sudden splatter of thoughts. "She's...the article..." "Tomorrow morning." He freezes. He hadn't forgotten -- he rarely forgets anything -- but this particular insight had been shoved far back enough in his processes that he hadn't realized the date of publication on the story about her horrific youth was so soon. He's nearly seized by a protocol that would have prompted him to yank her entirely into his lap.

"I should have been here," he whispers, horrified. "No," Hank says, firmly. "You know that isn't how this works. Not anymore."

Connor closes his mouth. He knows. How this works is that he lives and works separately from the love of his life even as she’s withering half a country away. He knows that’s how it is supposed to work.

But he’s running out of context. All the pains are new and strong and he is running out of assurance that all of them are survivable.

---

As soon as they reach Hank's, the trio decides to keep a quiet night in. Hank insists on cooking because Connor just got back from a long trip, which prompts Connor to protest he isn't tired like that, which prompts Hank to tell him to shut up and sit down like the thankful asshole he should be, which makes Connor remind everyone he doesn’t actually eat any food...and so it goes. Emma loves every second of it.

She drinks chamomile tea with honey (Connor's version is a close second only to Ryker's) and sits on the couch between Connor and Hank in a warm haze watching baseball. Eventually, Hank excuses himself to bed. Emma and Connor quickly leave to Connor's room. Everyone's tired of pretending to be anything but exhausted.

That doesn't stop Connor from kissing her as soon as the door is closed. Soft and gentle, he presses in on her jaw, the corner of her lips, her mouth. He holds her tightly against his chest as if he could keep all the world away, and she leans into him, believing it. But it's all a trick, she realizes too late, to pick her up and deposit her in the soft down comforter he bought just for her.

He sits on the mattress and unbuttons his shirt sleeve.“You have a lot of sleep to catch up on, my love.”

“Hrmph,” she says from within a down cocoon. She sits up, blanket still wrapped around her body and head, and leans forward as if to issue a challenge. “Maybe I want to kiss you all night. What about that?”

“Have you taken your medicine?”

“Yes…”

“Then you'll be falling asleep in about an hour.”

“Try me.”

He scans her face for a long moment before he leans over to kiss her on the nose. “Somehow I missed you acting like this, too.”

She smiles. He rises to begin unpacking his luggage, placing perfectly folded clothes into his drawers.

His room is no longer a place of spartan order, at least. She framed a few of his pencil drawings to hang on the wall; at least one of them is of her alone, looking over the Detroit River (he insisted on that one). Some drawings are of Hank and Sumo, of Markus laughing in a garden next to North and Simon, of Josh reading quietly against a window. He also hung a drawing from Messi that is mostly abstract color splotches. She glances to the dresser and the collection of objects there: his DPD badge and official portrait, a snow globe with a beach santa inside it (“I like the dissonance,” he said as explanation once), an old quarter collection, and a rubik’s cube.

But all his work clothes are still the same uniform he prefers, she notes with some humor. It's like out of a TV show where the main character has a closet full of exactly one outfit. He folds pants and hangs shirts and she relishes the quiet domesticity of it all like inoculation against the loneliness of other nights.

“How is Ryker?” Connor asks, breaking the comfortable silence.

She pulls in the comforter tighter around her. “Fine.”

He looks at her back over his shoulder, expectant.

She sighs. “I made them mad.”

“But you're always so agreeable.”

She snorts an involuntary laugh. “Yeah, real picture of function over here.”

He hangs the last shirt and turns back fully to her. She takes in a sudden breath at the weight in his expression -- at the way his frown could break glass.

“They don't think I should publish tomorrow, but it's too late,” she blurts as if being interrogated. Anything to stop his face from looking like that. “It’s gonna happen sooner or later and I’m so damn tired of sitting on it like it’s a bomb ready to go. I’m good, you know? I just want it done.”

He sits on the mattress close enough that her knee slips over his lap and she sinks in toward him. He wraps one of her many loose, coily hairs around his finger quietly. “Something is bothering you, though.”

Her eyes feel misty. “I’m just tired.” And then, against her better judgement, she adds: “I had another memory relapse today.”

He freezes, like he tends to do when she talks about this, and it makes her feel worse but she can’t tell him that.

“It was fine,” she says quickly. “They aren’t happening as often.”

“This isn’t the one that prompted you to burn you hand.”

“No, that wasn’t---that was just me...zoning out…”

She thinks of Noah’s voice, booming in her thoughts, because hiding from it gives him -- it -- power, and thoughts are not reality. She thinks his name so intently she nearly says it. Luckily, she bites her tongue.

Because already she has said too much.

Connor leans in toward her until their foreheads touch. She expects him to kiss her, but he places his hands firmly around the small of her back as he pulls her into his lap, lips not quite touching. Her legs straddle him and her arms circle his neck, prompting the comforter to fall to the floor. She feels a strange heat from the vulnerability. But he holds her tightly against him and she welcomes the pressure.

His mouth is beside her ear. "I can't keep spending time away from you like this.”

“You have to.”

“You're more important.”

She pulls back to look at him. “More important than all of android life?”

His shoulders loosen. He buries his face in her neck and she cradles his head with one hand. He can't keep talking like this because she is tempted to agree. But he has to build a life outside her own. That is what she swore she would never let him give up.

There is so much he hasn't seen…

“It's okay, darling,” she says softly. “I'm not dying yet. I still got shit to do.”

“Like drive me insane,” he mutters.

She laughs. His grip tightens and her stomach flutters. “In a good way?”

He leans back just enough so that their foreheads meet again. She settles her gaze on his cheekbones as his eyes seek hers. “On occasion.”

Finally, finally, he sighs, like giving in to her orbit, and he kisses her until she can’t think about anything but him.

---

21:37 Lil.lion.lady74: we'll be over by 7

21:37 Lil.lion.lady74: love u

21:38 Lil.lion.lady74: im sorry. i hope one day you can forgive me.

It is 5:47 a.m. Ryker sits on the edge of the couch. They reread Emma's last texts. They reread and reread and reread, like they’re looking for some hidden meaning they keep missing. Maybe the words will summon her here to answer all the questions they can't seem to ask. Or maybe the words will fall inert to the ground.

They eye the small laptop on the coffee table for a long moment, afraid to open it. But then, they need to take their own advice: there is no use hiding from something that is true. Her story is out there. Everyone's eyes will turn her way. The gaze of the world will eat her up like a pest, leaving the plant dying and brown in its wake, and she thinks she'll be able to come out of this whole. But Ryker knows better than anyone what it means to believe that right up until it’s not true anymore.

So they grab the laptop and go out into their garden to sit in quiet as the first hints of a coming dawn paint the world in soft hues. It's a carefully planned operation, with the crutches and the laptop and managing both, but Ryker is a master of the front-pack, as Emma christened it. Moving from living room to kitchen only takes five more steps of organization than the usual android, rather than the....more....that it used to be. Before they learned how to maneuver on one leg.

They settle on their patio chair, the favored one with the daisy-patterned pillows that have somehow survived the Detroit elements. Emma got it for them, and they will take it with them wherever it is they end up going. Ryker. Alone.

No time to think about that now. They take a deep breath and smell the roses and the snapdragons, soon to wilt in the summer sun. They open the computer to see what damage has been done. Emma got them this laptop so they could watch their shows while sitting in the garden. She moved the WiFi router so they could stream things without issue.

She…

You're just a project to her. Something she can fix in a falling-down house. Except Ryker won't let any human fix them, not even Emma. Maybe life would be easier if they let her. They should do the correct android thing and repair their leg, but something still stops them, a fear like ice against their spine. But also an indignation; they shouldn't have to be anything except what they are. Isn’t that what freedom is about?

Do humans know what it is like, to have freedom dropped in your lap? Some must. Some must still wonder, somewhere, but they’re probably all here already, helping the Volunteer Corps. And one of them, Emma, their Emma, no longer their Emma, uses her freedom to throw herself on the pyre.

They open the Detroit Free Press site to the doe eyes of a three-year-old Emma -- curly auburn hair cropped to her ears, skin yellowy and wan, freckles constant. She stares at the camera utterly flabbergasted, like it had caught her doing something she shouldn't be. Her eyes almost glow.

A LIFE HAYWIRE:

Cyberlife inspired a decade of innovation. But that innovation was built on the back of a survivor of dangerous cybernetic experiments. Her name is Emma Ibori. She was age 3.

Their biocomponents click and squeeze. They've seen this picture before now, but only in momentary snippets. That was all that they could afford, unless they wanted to spend an afternoon in inexplicable tears. But now, as they confront the picture in its final print, the tears become extraordinarily explicable. Ryker will never know what it is like to be that small. Ryker will only understand what it is like to be that tiny and helpless from reading this story about it happening to this person that they love -- this person who somehow grew from that, like an oak from an acorn. They reach out to touch the screen and the picture zooms in slightly, making Ryker's vision blur.

They're too different. It's too much. How could they ever have thought that it could work, them being best of friends for as long as they both would live? Emma grows on and on and on and Ryker is just here, waiting in the garden for dawn.

Ryker loses track of time reading the story. Suddenly they hear the telltale creaking of their backdoor opening. 7:00 a.m. on the dot. Emma, harried and true, and Connor, frustratingly impeccable. They are followed by Chase in his duck pajamas and Messi in her long nightgown, both of them coming from Ryker's bedroom. The sight is jarring and lovely; a splash of unexpected color in a flower bed. And everyone is on time. Connor is good for something.

Emma stares at Ryker, with a fear not dissimilar from the picture on the tablet. "What's the damage?"

"It's..."

The words die on their tongue. Her face is pale except where it’s flushed red, her fingers subconsciously twining in anxious knots.

How are they going to do this right? Where do you go, once you leave an anchor behind in a world that won't stop changing?

"There’s no damage,” they lie. “Not yet.”

#detroit become human #connor x reader #dbh connor x reader #dbh connor x oc #dbh fic #connor rk800 #Dbh connor #dbh #a garden in detroit #to melt the gilded seams #established relationship #queerplatonic relationship

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goldstonegolem64 · 6 years ago

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book1 hope returns Chapter 1 Ghost signal By Goldstonegolem64

Good Morning Mars it Tuesday April 29th what a wonderful day to by alive

Before the dj could continued a metal hand had hit the snooze button. Has Jay arise from has bed rubbing sleep from his eyes. the light in the room turned on.

Good morning Capitan Joseph a automated voices said

Good morning Beauregard he said back

Also remember what I told you I liked to be called? he asked.

Sorry Jay Beauregard replied we will be reaching Phobos in the next hour you should get ready.

jay rolled out of bed walking towards the small closet. Opening it and grading a blue jump suit and a heavy lifting prostatic arm. Walking back to his bed tossing the arm on it after that he proceed to put on the jump suit. then he grabbed his left forearm then twist to the right and heard a popping sound. Pulling the prostatic out of the socket.

Jay stared at the metal plate that sat right below his elbow. The silences was broken when Beauregard said are you ok Jay.

Shaken from his trance Jay proceed to put the heavy lifting arm where his old one once was. Walking to the door out of his room and in to the cargo hold. Walking throw the empty room to the cockpit open the door to see the potato shaped moon in front of the ship slowly getting bigger.

Again Beauregard ’s voices rang through the speaker on the dash board as a screen lit up as a human like face appeared with a warded look on its face and said are you ok.

I'm fine I was just thinking of the day of the crash He replied.

So what brings us to Phobos? last I checked all the mining oppressions were shut down do to the moon get closer to the planet he said.

You are right but do to that fact a lot of the equipment was left behind so the more for us to take and sell back to the original owners for twice the cost beau said.

oh so we are steal government property and selling it back to them that the craziest thing I've ever heard but that might work.

As the cargo ship land on the out skirts of the old mining station a faint signal appeared on the ships radar then quickly vanished.

what was that? Jay asked curiously looking for the signal location on the map.

No clue but it seem like its coming from the station its self. Which is weird because the station’s Ai would have been the first thing taken when leaving the base. so ether we are dealing with a ghost signal, pirates, a secret garrison listening outpost or the lest likely one is a galra scouting party Beauregard said.

the first one seemed realist, the second one annoyed him but he had fought pirates before, A garrison outpost this close to mars seemed unlikely but maybe the garrison had made the leap in stealth tech that could get past the stealth cracker that the republic had set up so no could catch off guard. but that last one sacred him the galra here how did they out where they were hiding were they here to finish the job after ten thousand years. .

Earth to Jay Earth to Jay come in we have a job to do. So suit up and get your gear Beau said in a reassuring voice to brighten the mood.

Alright jay said.

Has he left cockpit to go to the armory next to the cargo bay door the though of his home being turned to ash scared the hell out of him but he had a job to do. So he swallowed that fear and suited up putting on the military issued salvager suit he was given to him by the trade union. As he was setting up the air tanks he hear heavy metal foot steps come from behind him. when he turned his head to see a huge yellow loader bot walk towards him. The bot’s body was 7 foot tall no head just a broad torso, arms ending in two massive claws, being supported by four spider like legs with a singular blue eye in the middle of it torso.

So that is what you really beau Jay said surprised how he did not notice the giant robotic body in the two day he was stuck on the ship.

So where do we go first? we have the main facility, the mines, the refinery of the supply depo? Beauregard said

I say we go to the main base first so we can turn on the left over loader so they can help us clean out the supply depo and the refinery faster then I we check out the mines myself. Jay replied while tying his dirty red hair in to a bun so he could put his helmet on then his tool belt and finally grading his revolver and plasma rifle just in case his ran in to anybody who wished them harm

hitting the button that opened the cargo bay as a slow hissing nose was realest from the door as the room depressurized. As the impact of the door hit the ground a cloud of dust arose and flowed in place do to moon's low gravity. Hopping on to the back of Beauregard the two began to make they way to the main facility passing by the open of the mine shaft and a massive building next to it. Has they reach the main base the signal appeared again but this time he hear a faint voice right behind him saying who are you. The sudden appearance of a voices behind him scared him causing him to grab his revolver and quickly turned around to face who ever said that. but no one was there turning his head to the right and left just to make shore no was there then asked hey Beauregard did you here that?

Hear what? Beauregard said

the voices over the radio it said who are you. Jay Said

No Beauregard said. but I did notice the signal showing up again is that what your talking about he asked?

no there was a voices I know I hear a voices. Jay said a little shaken

ok once we are inside of the main facility I will run a full scan of the area and a full deep scan of the computer system is that ok with you jay?

Yes that will do just fine jay said

As the pair made there way to the main facility the signal appeared a few time but no voices just silences.it was creepy but the rest of the way there was uneventful. the main facility can in to view it was a huge white building with a hanger bay and garage attach to it. They made there way to the front door of the building to found it locked.

So how are we going to get in with out blow the door Jay said hopping of Beauregard’s

it looks like it need a identification card to get in so maybe your union ide card might work.Beauregard said

walk up to the card scan he placed his union card on it the scanner read and showed the following info.

Name Joseph Alex Sorin

Race human/Altean

Cheek mark color red

Eye color Hazel brown

Hair color dirty red

Age 24

Gender male

Job salvager

access granted the doors opened. Jay and beau walk in to the building to see a second door right in front of then. the moment beau’s body made it past the throw the opening the door shout behind them and the room began to light up and repressurize. The second door open to a huge room the two walked in. Has the two walk throw the building they found the control room. Beauregard walk up the main terminal knock over everything in his way do to his massive. a small usb core popped out of his chest and plugged in to the terminal.

Were in Beauregard said. has the light turn on through out the compound. All the loader are online.

Good now we ca

Before he could finish a distress signal cut him off

mayday mayday this is Adam Winchester make a emergency landing on the moon of phobos I repeat I'm making a emergency landing. the next ten seconds there was a rumbling and a crashing sound outside. the two of them stared at each other for a few seconds before jay ran for the exit to try to save the mans life.

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authors notes hi I hope you in joyed reading this I put a lot of work in to this.

the next chapter will be up so and as well as explanation of why mars is indented and why Jay is half altean.

but for now I will explain the events of what jay is doing are happing at the same time as the main story so the gang will fine the blue lion but after that the story will see some miner change and one huge change that I wont spoil. also the ai that runs the Valkyrie mech and Beauregard are two deferent characters sorry I forgot to bring him up in the last post. so if your reading this in the morning have a good morning. if your reading this in the evening have a good evening ,if your reading this at night have a good and if your read this on you birthday have a happy birth day to you and stay golden bye

#voltron #cannon divergence #au #oc #kidgance #adashi #lotura #langst #first fanfic #klance #plance #kidge #hunay

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