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fandomscombine · 3 years ago

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Heartbreak Woman [Cho/Cedric Ending]

Warning: Angst! Brokenhearted!Reader

WC:1454

I proposed 3 varying endings and the response was across the board so I decided why the heck not write ALL 3 choices!

a/n: I haven't been active on tumblr this past month. Motivation to read & write wasn't really there. Feelin pretty crap. I don't think it's my best work- I actually wrote this ending last month but delay posting it since I promised to post all 3 endings back to back- but with the recent burnout, my progress is slow. Proofread it and push the insecurities & anxieties away and here we are. Love was put into this, I hope you enjoy it! Don't worry, the other 2 endings are on the way.

I tried posting this 9 times now and it keeps saying error. this is me testing it with mobile so formatting is hard but I hope it posts

BG: You were hoping that your best friend, Cedric to ask you to the Yule Ball. Instead you were roped into helping him ask Cho out. It broke your heart, but at least this way while helping him out you could pretend that he was doing all the sweet things to you. On the other side of the picture, Harry was too heartbroken upon learning that Cho is going out with Cedric.

Read the main story before it diverges ending here!

>>>Heartbreak Woman [Main]

>>>MASTERLIST<<<

Did Harry Potter really just ask you out and you said yes?

Touching your forehead, it wasn’t bleeding anymore but there is still a slight sting to it from the collision with Harry’s broom. Yes. That definitely happened. You thought to yourself, this isn’t some delusion from the injury.

This is good. This is good. Hyping yourself up. You enjoy his company and that should be enough to stop your thoughts from going about a certain Hufflepuff boy. The same boy you had abruptly left alone in the greens. It’s not his fault nor it is Cho’s for wanting to date each other. You have nothing against them, they are both such lovely and kind people and not to mention popular- it was only a matter of time that they got together, Hogwarts’ Power Couple.

No, it’s just you and your stupid feelings falling for your best friend and agreeing to help with the courtship.

‘Y/n? Hii.” The voice reels you back to reality.

You blinked. “Cho! Hi!” Greeting her loudly had been taken by surprise. You dial down your volume. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s actually what you did, really… I just wanted to say thank you.”

You were confused, why was she thanking you?

“For helping Cedric I mean” She clarified. “He mentioned that you helped him with the picnic idea. It was very sweet. It was what made me finally say yes.”

“That’s awesome.” You force yourself to smile. “I’m glad you guys are together, I can finally get that git to stop bothering me with date ideas. That’s 3 weeks of my life I’m not getting back!” There was some truth to that statement, now that she and Cedric are together you don’t have to go through the pain of practice dates with Cedric.

“You y/n are the absolute wingwoman! Legend material!” Cho praised. “You're like my fairy godmother!” She continues, wrapping you into an embrace.

“yayyyy….That’s me…” You mumble into her luscious hair. Grateful that Cho couldn’t see your face. Pulling apart, you don’t let her go quite yet. With hands on her shoulder, you stare unwavering. “Just don’t break his heart yea? He’s really smitten by you, promise you won’t hurt him.”

Cho is taken aback a bit, your words clearly coming from a strong emotional bond with the boy. Thoughts of love, Eros, passed through her mind but brushed it away - It can’t be y/n help them get together. Y/n’s words must come from Philia love, y/n and Cedric had been best friends since before they could talk! Everyone knows that. They have a soul connection that can’t be replicated. “I promise.”

14th February.

Valentine’s Day.

This holiday sucks.

No, not for the reason that you’re single. Nah.

Today is a downer as you won’t be able to do your annual tradition.

See every since 3rd year you and Cedric would be in a pink ensemble outfit complete with red heart sunglasses. Spreading chants of self love and showering fellow single students and professors with compliments. This all started out when your roommates teased you for not having a date for Valentine’s day. When Cedric had heard about it, he went all out. The boy basically made sure that every single person knew how wonderful, beautiful and intelligent you are.

It was this day onwards that 2 things happened.

Complementing and advocating for self love, Philautia, in a pink get up became an annual Valentine’s tradition. (Even a couple of students joined the cause, expanding from you just both into an association/group of sorts.)

You started to see Cedric in a new light. In other words, you were falling in love with your best friend.

Scanning the Great Hall for pink cladded pupils, you were glad that the group had saved you a seat however a certain Hufflepuff was out of sight. Taking a deep breath, you cleared your head. Get it together y/n. Today is about sharing love and do NOT think about Cedric and Cho going on a romantic date in Hogsmeade.

You were about to take a step forward when-

“Argh!” Shutting your eyes as the hall spun around.

“Relaxx!! Relax! It’s just me.”

Feet back on solid ground, you turned towards the perpetrator, the one boy you did not want to see right now. “What the fuck Ced! Don’t scare me like that!”

“I’m sorry…” Cedric raises his arms in surrender. “Is everything alright?”

“Yea everything’s fine.”

Cedric raises a brow. You forget that this boy can see through your bullshit.

“Only had a couple hours of sleep, that’s all.” It wasn’t a lie, in fact you’d only gotten 3 hours of rest last night, it was just the case of omitting that his upcoming date with Cho was the reason for your restlessness. You don’t want to blame it on jealousy, but it is.

Grabbing hold of your hand, he pulls you towards the group. "Alright then, I've got some spare sleeping potion if you need."

You wave to your fellow singles as you sit down."uh..thanks Ced." You couldn't stop vocalizing your confusion as to why Cedric is still right next to you. Normally you wouldn't complain, but today was Valentine's Day.

"Ouch y/n!" Cedric sassed, eyes focused on piling food onto his plate." Just because I have a girlfriend now doesn't mean I would disappear on my best girl."

My best girl. It hurts to be called that in another context than you wanted.

"Don't you have a date with Cho today?"

"Yea but Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop doesn't open until 11am. Which gives me time for our annual Valentine's tradition!"

"But you're taken."

"Yes….but I could still help spreading the love!" Cedric glanced around. "No one minds that I come to join you right?"

A murmur of Nos filled your eyes.

"Haha! See I told you!" Cedric brags, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. Looks at you straight in the eyes, those gorgeous grey irises melting away your defenses."You can't get rid of me that easily." He whispers, loud enough only for you to hear. You could feel the heat filling up your face due to his closeness. Too busy lost in the rapid beats of your heart, you failed to notice his face getting even closer.

A softness like cotton grazes your cheek.

Cedric kissed you!

Your mind is close to being short circuited. The area of where Cedric's lips were a nanosecond ago is cold as ice. The cold contrasted with your now burning hot, blushing face.

You could live in this forever. All external environments quiet, blocked out of focus. Cedric's arms around you while the butterflies in your stomach bursts out, occupying your whole body with sheer giddiness from having his lips on you.

But the daydream breaks.

"Hey Love! You ready?"

"Morning!" He greets, kissing her. "Uh…" It's only 9:34am. You nod, silently telling him that it was okay to miss your annual tradition. You weren't expecting any quality time today, yet he managed even if it was just for breakfast. "Yea.. give me 10 minutes to go change and I'll pick you up at the courtyard?"

"Sounds great. Be quick cause I miss you already!"

"Sure will sweetheart." He pecks her lips again then waves goodbye to the table and he's off, running.

The tension changes once Cedric is gone.

"Can I talk to you outside y/n?"

"uh yeah" Once outside. "What's up?" Trying to sound casual. Cho inviting you to speak privately isn't usual-seeing that you were the couple's go to accomplice for surprises.

"I see the way you look at him."

"I'm sorry?"

"I know.you like him. y/n. I know you like Cedric."

"Cho.. you can't be serious, he's my best friend!"

"I wasn't sure then.but just now..the way you act around him. the way you look at him. y/n is undeniable. It’s so obvious-I had assumptions then but everyone just brushes it off as your childhood friend with each other. heck even both of you say that."

"Cho…."

"I didn't bring this up before because I felt insecure, jealous even that I can't live up to the standard of relationship you and Cedric have.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. There were too many revelations bombarding you all at once, that you are having trouble processing what is going on.

“But I am tired of what ifs and worrying.” Voice quivering, she continues. “You've got to tell him, y/n."

The words snap you back into place.

"Cho… I can't. I can't ruin your relationship."

If you love someone and they love someone else, you let them go.

Everything Taglist :@gruffle1

HP Taglist:@onlyfreds

Heartbreak woman Tagist:

@joalinbenefits @the-natureofme @romanoffs-heart @justmesadgirl @plumso @gleefulleve @wolf-phoenix-lover @ceofcedric @savvy7392 @cedricsfluffyhair @thewayilookatbacon @LIONLIKEWOLFLIKE @mellifluous-cosmos

#cedric diggory x reader #cedric diggory #cedric diggory imagine #cedric diggory angst #cedric diggory fluff #cho chang #harry potter x reader #cedric diggory imagines #cedric x cho #cedric diggory x cho chang #fandomscombine writes

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jostepherjoestar · 4 years ago

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An Educational Favour VII

ENDING!

NOTsfw // FEM! reader & pronouns

warnings/notes: 18+ content, minors dni, risotto x reader alone finally, interc0urse, soft, romantic, intimate, face riding, scent kink? a little, squirting (kind of), ris is a service top don’t @ me, aftercare with ris, u can read into what risotto is trying to say/do readers 👀

part 1- 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

PART VII: 🖤Risotto🖤

It took some time to finally assess what you’d learned over the span of time since starting your educational adventure with your colleagues. After every session you had been left with your own thoughts, albeit in a haze, but it gave you time to relax and reflect. Illuso taught you to be confident and ask for what you want and shy Pesci made you put those communication skills to good use as you received one of the most intense orgasms you’d ever experienced. Damn that man has some great skills; it still makes you shudder to think back to your thighs clamped around his face, trembling in pleasure. Ghiaccio showed you how fun it could be to be hammered into the mattress while also desperately trying to make your capo feel good. Unlike Formaggio, who let the slow tempo take over and took his time to make you feel amazing. Then Melone who wasn’t afraid to get involved with Risotto as well, to let inhibitions go and indulge together. And your last, Prosciutto, showing you what it takes to handle being an obedient sub, which may or may not have gone just as rough as you had hoped. It had been very educational to say the least but it also made you realise how much you appreciated Risotto’s care. He’d been there the whole way through, getting his needs met in a different way, building up even more patience and strength. Maybe that’s what he’d taught you: sometimes the wait is worth it. And oh God did you want the wait to be over! It had been a month since your last lesson, the roughest so far, and you ached to be intimate again. This time with the very man you’d been craving since the start: Risotto.

For a while you pondered if you should just ask one of your teammates to help satiate that yearning, but it felt unfair. Everyone’s had their fun with you, except Risotto. So you remained patient, sure that your broody capo was very busy and trying to find the right time to squeeze you into his packed schedule. But the days kept dragging on, every call for a meeting squashing your hopes and desires when its subject was merely a new hit.

Over the few weeks you had been waiting you tried your very best to go the extra mile; willingly taking on a big chunk of paperwork so Risotto didn’t have to work such long nights, cleaning up his office, bringing him drinks and snacks throughout the day. It didn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated but his thanks were never more than just the word and a nod. He tried to hide his usual broody manner from lifting when you were around. His shoulders would relax and the tight grip on his pen would ease up, that little crease knitting his lovely brows together becoming ever so slightly less dented as he could breathe a soft sigh of relief with you near. Of course he won’t tell, or rather show you just how much he appreciates all you do for him; at least not yet.

If Risotto was truthful to himself, the wait wasn’t a planned one. Work kept piling up and your tired capo needed every bit of rest he could grasp. Knowing how good and obedient you had been with Prosciutto, Risotto knew you could handle it; well at least a bit. Your dark eyed superior wasn’t planning on anything as extreme as the former session, quite the opposite actually. He needed it to be perfect: the right day, the right mood and the right time.

And if your capo was being even more truthful to himself, his thoughts were starting to turn on him. He would be your last lesson. And the last of his men that had already quite successfully showed you how well they could indulge that eager curiosity. The final. The pressure of having to somehow top all other orgasms, top all other deep thrusts and caresses… it nagged at his mind. Pulling at the smallest insecurities that he’d freeze up when he finally had you all to himself. That he won’t be as amazing as your depraved fantasies had conjured him up to be. Even your lovely smile, your eyes that glimmered and had fireworks sparking behind them with every quick glance could only ease his mind so much.

The great Risotto Nero doubted his own expertise. The imposing, brooding, domineering capo fighting his very own powerful battle under that silly little jingly hat. Oh, what have you done to him?

For once you weren’t busy, lounging on the couch in the shared living room resting next to Melone. He’s become a bit of a confidant since your night with him, lending his ears so you could air any of your worries and more than gladly airing his own to you. Along with lots of jokes and talks late into the night, the whole ordeal had brought you closer to the usually more emotionally distant man. He’d opened up a lot more which you greatly appreciated since he’d already known so much about you.

At the moment you were just enjoying your rest, the tv in the background offering ambient noise as you nearly drifted off from the relaxed atmosphere, still a bit tired from your previous hit that strained your body. Melone idly talked about anything and nothing, the cadence of his smooth voice bringing you closer and closer to sleep. Your eyes fluttered shut for what felt like mere seconds but as it turns out you’d been taking a nap for a little while.

You were roused from the comfort of slumber by strong arms holding you close to their owner’s chest which felt well built and defined. They felt somewhat familiar in your haze, not sure if it was Melone. Too tired to really care you mumbled some indiscernible babbling, trying to thank whoever it was that so kindly laid you down on your bed.

Wait. This wasn’t your bed, the covers felt satiny, too soft and slippery to be your own thick comforter you liked to huddle in. It smelled completely different too. It smelled like… Risotto. You turned and breathed into the soft pillow, moaning in satisfaction as his smell engulfed your senses making your head feel even foggier. If you could bathe in it, you gladly would. Drenched in the most wonderful essence that clouded your thoughts in a hazy bliss.

“Mhh Ris? S’that you?” you mumbled sweetly as you came up for air, slowly opening your eyes again to assess the room you were currently in. You sat up a little, supported on your elbows, blinking at the darker hues of his surprisingly monochromatic interior. Furniture remained a dark stained wood, nearing a cool black while the walls were kept a light grey offering a lighter feel to the heavier placements of his blocky closet and bed. It was simple and straightforward, offering a seeming simplicity that contained more than it let on.

The room only lit by the soft light of the setting sun that streamed through his thinly veiled windows. As you scanned the room for any sign of him you felt a large figure loom right next to you, a little ways past the square bedside table. “Oh there you are.” A small smile gracing your lovely features, eyes meeting his darker ones that glistened with a certain excitedness you hadn’t seen before. Risotto was getting easier to read as time went on, small hints becoming clearer to his mood and thoughts, leading you to connect the dots on your own.

“All my meetings got cancelled for the day. Our boss had a sudden personal emergency.” his voice rang out even deeper than usual, the sound shivering through your core and straight into the slick building between your thighs. There was a certain relieved salacious hint to his tone, indicating it was finally time to get ravished. The long wait was finally over.

Heat rushed to your cheeks in abandon as the realisation set in. Risotto moved from his previous spot to cage you in his form, denting the mattress further with his added weight. His domineering figure offered no way out from under him, a dark gaze glued to yours as he drank in your expression. So cute and flustered, eyes wide in anticipation, a single touch could melt you. Risotto’s previous anxieties and insecurities were hushed and silenced by your innocent little stare, reminded of just how much he wanted you. Somehow you had still retained a sliver of chasteness, even after your trail of debauchery.

You swallowed thickly, too intoxicated and mesmerised by the realisation of the situation to initiate any further action. Even now you’d gladly wait for your patient capo to strike. “Wh-what are we doing today, Risotto?” Throat starting to feel dry under his continued glare, afraid to lick your plump lips to wet them again.

Risotto inched closer, his beautifully angular jaw relaxed of any previous stress moving ever closer to meet you just a breath away. Lingering over your lips he breathed in gently, as if sniffing his favourite cabernet sauvignon, basking in its essence but only for it to be yours. The one he’s smelled over and over but could never fully take in, for it was never yours alone, there was always another muddling your true essence.

“So sweet…” he mumbled, his breath tickling your lips that ached to meet his, to finally get engulfed by the man you’d craved for so long. Deciding to take a sip, sampling his sweet summer wine, his lips finally met yours. They were soft, softer than expected. Even more unexpected is how carefully he moved them against yours. For a moment he roamed cautiously as if to make sure this was really happening. You were glad he kept his pace slow, his deep kiss nearing a full short circuit of all your brain functions.

Never had you felt this before, an act so common making you feel like you’d entered the gates of heaven itself to be engulfed by anything you’d ever dreamed of. You matched his tempo, letting his tongue linger between your lips, offering a way in if he so liked. And he did, moving it with similar care and motivation, tenderly taking the lead but only to please you further. A moan escaped into his mouth, vibrating through him while your hand reached up to caress the side of his face, into his hair. He’d already forgone his usual hat, letting his silvery locks roam free. He leaned into your touch, gently rubbing a small thumb across his cheekbones and jawline. Mapping out his features in case you’d ever forget.

It made him break his kiss, slowly letting your head fall back into the pillow, admiring how plump your lips had gotten and how he’d love for them to never leave his again. No words were needed to communicate, your bodies told stories and iliads by themselves like they had been doing it for ages.

You both regained your breaths, continuing to drink up each other's flustered expressions. He looked so at ease, so at home, it made you wish he could feel like this forever. As if you weighed nothing more than a feather, he curled his arms beneath you and hoisted you up into him, cradling you and letting you wrap your legs around his hips.

To your surprise he fell onto his back, returning to his lustrous dark satin sheets with you resting on his hips. He never for a moment looked smaller or any less in charge, leading the way of your movements, knowing just what to do and how it could please you. You felt yourself get more and more excited as time went by. Your core feeling ready to explode before much was even done. You rested your hands on his chest, feeling his large length strain against his trousers, a reminder of your final challenge.

Your cheeky streak never left you, not even in this thick heavy fog of desire that seemed to permeate your very beings. You shifted in your seat to rub your clothed wetness against his aching length. The movement alone made him slightly hitch his breath, eyebrow twitching up in a playful manner to ask if you knew what type of game you’d gotten yourself into. You smirked back to let him know just how ready you’ve been to start, commencing once again with a snap of your hips. The move itself making you shiver out a moan as his girth slid perfectly between your folds, rubbing deliciously against your sore clit.

It was as if the sound awakened a new sense of hunger in the man underneath you, his eyes glazed over in lust knowing that his cock made you mewl so sweetly. That only he could truly satisfy that hunger you’ve been trying to satiate with his teammates. The thought alone made his cock twitch, springing him back into action with a great need to hear you whimper out his name.

He lifted himself up to meet your cute little face again, a sit up so casual like it caused his muscled core no effort. You couldn’t help yourself, bringing your lips back to his for a hurried kiss, a quick one to settle the craving. “Get undressed, you’re riding my face.” he demanded, kissing your jaw. His voice so closely against your neck sending yet another jolt of pleasure straight through you. Walls clenching around nothingness and awaiting his tongue.

You quickly undressed, discarding your clothes as fast as possible while trying not to look all too desperate, which was quite difficult because of his previous order to ride his face. He took off his top slow and deliberate, letting you gawk at his muscled arms and torso as they contorted. Risotto bathed in the attention, normally not one to overtly want people to stare or to crave others’ attention that much. But watching your eyes rake over his torso, your eager little glint shining brighter than any light in the room only made him want to indulge you more.

For now he’d keep his trousers on, taking in your lovely form that sat on his hips. Your plush thighs spilling over him so invitingly, the curve of your sides leading the way to your breasts that lay sweetly against your ribcage, nipples stiffened from all the excitement. He wanted to cherish every single bit of you, give every patch of soft skin the attention it deserved. If he was lucky enough he’d get the time today, and many times after to complete that wish.

It didn’t feel embarrassing to let him stare at you, his crimson eyes were so gentle when they took you in, engraving every curve and mound into his memories. Surprised that there could be even more appreciation for you than previously thought.

Risotto’s large hand reached for your hip, taking in your shape and giving it a soft knead, as if to feel how pliable you were. His touch made your skin tingle, heated sparks spreading in pools around his digits. His other hand moved parallel, assessing the very handles he’ll be holding onto in a minute. “Come on then.” he smirked up at you, his dimple presenting itself so cutely. You felt like you could pass away at how adorable his smutty request was and how casual it felt to talk to your capo in such a way. Any shame or embarrassment just simply not invited to this party.

You did as you were told, positioning yourself right above his face, caging in his head like you’d done before to dear Pesci. Maybe today you’d writhe and moan in such pleasure again, the naughty thoughts sinking you down without Risotto even needing to guide you. It made him chuckle deeply into you as his mouth met your dripping folds, the ripples of his voice tickling you.

He began to lap at you, drinking up all of your sweet essence like it was his last glass of beloved cabernet. His tongue moving with the same care as before, tracing around your clit before giving it a suck with his lips, the aching bud of nerves already hardened with pleasure. You moaned at his ministrations, clamping your thighs while he worked you, bucking your hips rhythmically; setting a comforting pace. Risotto moved in tandem, holding onto your hips like before but gripping them tighter with his large palms, fingers digging into your gorgeous form. Hot breaths swiped at your mound, a dragon breathing steam out of his nose while he softly grunted into you. You felt even more slick trickle down, glad to hear him let go like he has before and not be afraid to be heard. You loved hearing how much he was enjoying himself.

Just like many times before, heat started rising, orgasm near and bringing in tsunamis of pleasure that crashed wildly at your insides, your head reaching new heights of haziness. “Fuck Risotto-” you got out the words between ragged pants and mewls, feeling your walls tighten around his tongue that would dip in from time to time to skillfully work inside. “M gonna come sh-it!” you hunched over to grasp at the sheets for any semblance of support, no place to hold onto the bed frame since it was just out of reach. As you snapped your hips a few more times, Risotto focussing all his attention on working you into a dizzying orgasm, you came on his face. A new sensation washing over you along with the pleasure of your peak, a gushing of sorts that made you moan out his name even louder while your legs trembled around his head.

The silken fabric was too soft, not giving you any grip whatsoever, having to support yourself on your hands while sparks rippled through every crevice of your being. And Risotto had no plans of stopping, keeping up his pace and gladly licking up all your juices, having felt him growl into you when you gushed over his face. You had stopped rocking now, too focused on remaining seated; panting and trying your best not to collapse into the mattress as he kept eating you out.

Risotto ingrained every single bit of your movements and the way he could make you squirm and tremble under his attention. How you yelped out his name during worn breaths, how your thighs and core were overheating from pleasure. He was making you feel this way and no one else for once. At this moment his only job was to make you come again, knowing how quickly you could be urged into your next orgasm if he just kept going. You weren’t the only one learning stuff on this educational favour.

With another strong swirl and suck on your overstimulated clit, your second orgasm was brought on. It made you fall onto the mattress, twitching as you lifted your hips away from his face to catch your breath. The cool air offering some sort of relief while your walls anxiously clasped around empty space. Risotto could finally breathe properly again, not that he wished to be doing anything other than servicing you, cursing his lungs for needing air. His chin and mouth were completely covered in your abundant slick; something he took in pride.

You slowly moved off of him completely, chests both rising and falling deeply. The only sound filling the room was that of your combined heavy breathing. For a moment laying there, relishing in the ambience of pleasure, realising that you were getting what you had wanted. You felt relieved, thankful that he’d made you wait because somehow it made it all the better. And getting in some experience certainly helped too.

“Please fuck me.” you plainly said, reminded of the first time you’d asked him and how nervous you felt, all of that gone now. You heard him breathe out a chuckle, making you turn your head to see why he thought it so amusing of you to ask such a thing. “What’s so funny Risotto?” you asked, smiling at his glistening lower face, wiping off the remainder with his sheets. You’ll just wash them later.

“You still think I’ll just fuck you.” he replied as casually as you’d asked. His facade did not let on any sort of humouring which made your stomach sink and eyes widen. What? Was he not going to fuck you? Your thoughts started spiralling into a panic, propping yourself up to question him further. But you couldn’t even do so, with one swift move he was back on top of you, caging you underneath him with that crimson glare boring through yours.

“I won’t just fuck you gattina.” he intoned, delicately moving a strand of hair back in place while speaking. He leaned back in close now, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear as he breathed out. “We’re going to make love. It’s your last lesson.” he purred, starting a trail of soft wet kisses from your jawline all the way down to your neck and collarbones. You still remained shocked, at least glad that he didn’t mean to reject you.

You were stumped. All that was somehow still a very smooth move despite scaring the actual shit out of you. You huffed out a relieved laugh now too. “You scared me for a second, Ris!” He was steadily working his way down to your chest, letting him take one of your breasts into his hand to knead it and sucking on the pert nipple of the other. His grip was strong but still careful, making sure to massage them just enough to hear your breath hitch. “I’d never leave you hanging high and dry. Unless you’d want me to.” you could feel him smile against your skin; the mischievous bastard. You playfully tugged at his silver locks, dark eyes shooting you a gorgeous smile that pierced right through you and melted your heart. He really was a bastard!

Your heart had settled back into its place, ready to continue and forget all about the short little panic he’d caused you. Guess that was just a bit more payback for testing his patience and strength throughout the sessions.

Risotto halted his succession of pecks right above your ribs, planting a trail where your bra usually made its home and planted a few more wet kisses over the indents that still marked your skin. Like his lips would make them fade and replace them with a loving memory of his touch. You could only stare at his deliberate movements, enamoured by the way he gently held onto your sides while he kissed you sweetly. You were squirming under him, trying your best to not ask him again to plow you into the mattress because by now you knew better; he’ll get to it. Eventually.

You sighed in satisfaction when he stopped, his thick fingers now moving downwards just above your mound. He ghosted over the area, digits barely felt which made goosebumps rise all over, a small yelp leaving your lips at the soft graze. He moved further down, dipping between your soaking folds carefully, avoiding any touch to your overworked bud which still ached to be stimulated again. A single finger slid inside your amply drenched hole now, pumping in and out of you at a slow pace.

Risotto looked up at you, meeting that expression he so loved to see. Lips slightly parted, a soft wet sheen over your forehead from your orgasms, cheeks that remained heated and puffy from arousal. With every thrust he heard a soft moan escape, eyes crinkled shut while he hit further and deeper inside of you with every push. The way your eyes shot open again as he entered another finger, the thickness of them stretching you open further. It felt amazingly tender to have him take all the time he needed - you needed- to adjust to his size.

Your soaked walls clenched and squelched around him, accepting more and more, ready for the precise thing you had been waiting to receive. He hadn’t been paying your sensitive clit any mind, the only focus on working you open. But the way his fingers curled, now three of them joined inside, tickling the most pleasurable spot nestled in your walls you let go and groaned loudly as he made you near another orgasm, head heavy and lost in a thick fog. He didn’t let you come however, feeling how your walls had quickened their grasp on his fingers and how your chest heaved and how those moans and groans sounded so desperate.

He moved himself out of you slowly, creeping up closer over you again and letting his coated fingers rest on your lips. Your eyes met again, glazed over in lust and a deeper craving to be even closer to him, those dark ones so trained on every small contortion and crease of your expression. You opened your mouth to receive them, suckling at the digits and lapping up your own juices with determination. Even propping yourself up a little to better your licks and sucks, eager to work him clean.

Risotto felt like he could burst, your tongue working with a focus that you couldn’t offer last time you had your mouth wrapped around him; too busy being fucked into oblivion on both ends. Satisfied with your cleaning he took them out of your mouth and kissed you again. Deeply and tenderly, tasting each other and your essence on his lips as tongues danced around. It was enrapturing to indulge so much but you were both ready to finally have his large leaking cock inside of you. He promptly discarded his trousers, his leaking head and impressive shaft bobbing as he got ready for you. The image alone never failed to surprise you, making your mouth water in anticipation.

“I’ve waited for this so long. Please don’t hold back, Ris.” you sighed as he kept you on your back, legs being spread open and moved up and wide with your knees bent closer to your chest. More than enough room to accommodate the man and his daunting length, the air no longer fresh or cooling; too heavy with the scent of lust and the heat of the moment. Risotto clasped both of your wrists in one of his hands, his large palms comfortably holding them and reaching them above your head where he held them pressed into the mattress. He leaned over you now, once again capturing you under him in a way that felt so protective and safe, the place where he’d take care of you and cherish every single moment pleasing you.

The familiar tip of his leaking member grazing just outside your hole, leaning at the entrance. Somehow the feeling made you tremble, the fires burning between your thighs lapping flames against him. “Oh I won’t hold back, you’re going to feel every single inch of me.” his wordiness surprised you, the way his deep voice carried making you weak.

His other hand supported his weight beside your head, letting his hips do all the work of carefully pressing deeper into you. The intrusion made you gasp, his head welcomed by your previously stretched walls. Wailing as he slowly inched further and further. He stopped every couple seconds, groaning deeply between heavy breaths, so vocal in how good you fit around him; so warm and inviting. “Cazzo you feel so good-” he muttered under his breath, starting to pump in and out of you, not even fully sheathed yet.

Being so stretched out, hitting every single spot and hidden pleasure-centers made you see stars, eyes pinched shut and squirming under his firm grasp on your wrists. It felt even better than you could ever imagine. He was perfect, made just for you and you for him. The final puzzle piece clicking in place.

When he finally buried himself inside of you, a thrust paced and calculated as to not hurt you in any way, his tip brushed against your cervix sending shivers down your body as you yelped at the sensation. He paused again, letting you pulse around him, feeling every contortion of your core. “Please keep going Risotto, please-” you whimpered, opening your eyes again to beg with a pleading gaze. Of course he can’t deny you, he’s never been able to.

Set back in action he started a steady rhythm, hips rolling his cock inside you with ease. Every single thrust brushing against your g-spot sending wave upon wave of pleasure through you. At this point no one was being quiet, much to your delight. His deep grunts and moans awakening a need to hear them on repeat every single day of your life. It only egged him on to hear you wailing, tears starting to prick the corners of your eyes while he continued. Completely lost in ecstasy, not a single thought in either of your heads other than this moment.

You felt your orgasm earn footing again, his cock reaching so deep and right. Feeling you clasp around him so often only made him twitch, getting close too and all too focused on making you come again before he can spill. “Touch yourself, I want to feel you come on my dick- You’re so beautiful.” He groaned desperately when you clenched even harder around him, his words affecting you greatly. He freed your wrists, letting his other hand support himself as well, letting him deepen his thrusts even further with the added grip.

You toyed your clit with vigour, your folds soaked with your slick letting you increase your pace. Desperate for your orgasm to wash over you while Risotto increased his speed as well. Chasing your peaks together, you reached it first. You could only mumble something that vaguely resembled Risotto’s name at this point, over and over like a mantra that lead your orgasm on. You felt yourself gush over his length again, dripping down onto his already soiled sheets. As you pulsed and writhed riding the waves of it to shore, Risotto followed suit. With a loud guttural groan you felt him tense up and twitch, releasing inside of you with languid spurt of his warm come. His thrusts slowed and sputtered as he kept coming. For a man of his expertise and experience, this was the first time someone had made him come this hard. Well, it was the first of many things he’s experienced with you.

Both breathing heavily as he stopped, resting above you and eyes opening again to adoringly stare at each other's satisfied faces. His eyes held a certain emotion he hadn’t let himself show before; he needn’t use words. You smiled back at him, that goofy satisfied one he always looked forward to seeing after a session, communicating back that you shared his sentiment.

As soon as he pulled out you felt so dreadfully empty again but never have you felt more full on a different level. That hunger that gnawed at you before now finally satiated (even if just for tonight). You had gotten what you wanted and so much more. The look on Risotto’s face told you much the same for him as he laid down next to you, pulling you into his arms where you nuzzled his sweaty chest. You placed tired kisses on him, basking in his soft caresses over your shoulders and into your neck where he gently massaged your scalp. You melted into his touch, sighing deeply and feeling your sleepiness settle in again. “Thank you Risotto. For everything. I… I really appreciate all you’ve done for me.” you admitted, listening to his heartbeat settle with your head pressed against it, drawing circles into his biceps with your finger.

“I wasn’t sure at first but I’m glad we did it. All of it. It might be strange to say but-” he sighed as he planted another kiss on the crown of your head. “I’m proud of you.” he felt relief wash over him for finally having said what he’d wanted to for so long. It may have been such an unusual thing to have gone through together but he really was proud of you. For always being open minded and learning along the way, for getting what you wanted and even bringing the squad closer together since commencing the journey.

Sat between his legs, enjoying the warmth of the water and letting small bubbles fizz at your skin while you let Risotto massage your scalp. He worked the shampoo through your locks with care and purpose as you sat there, eyes closed, head tilted back, fully enjoying the moment. Having him with you as you regained your senses felt so wonderful, usually doing it by yourself as Risotto retreated in the past. But now was his turn to take care of you like he’d wanted. He washed your limbs, running the washcloth soaked in your favourite scented body wash over every plane of skin. Giggling as he paid extra attention to your breasts. “They need cleaning too.” he mumbled playfully. It was like you’d opened up a whole other side to your capo, finally showing slivers of his more vulnerable side, not afraid to let you in.

In return you washed his hair too, scratching and circling every spot that made him putty in your hands. You don’t think he’s ever been this relaxed before. You traced the lines of his muscles, mapping out dividing routes and connecting them again only to break off and discover new ones.

Perhaps staying in the bath a bit too long as you both pruned up, digits crinkled like raisins. Dressed back in the most comfortable clothes you owned, Risotto and you went out into the shared headquarters again. You felt renewed and somehow a bit changed since last walking through these halls. Everyone was seated at the long dinner table that faced the kitchen, talking loudly and passing plates and scooping up helpings of pasta and sauce. Their noise dissipating once you and Risotto entered, eyes now pointed towards your direction and following as you both took your usual seats.

You remained quiet, a smirk gracing your lips as you tried to contain your laughter at the curious stares of your colleagues. “Good nap?” Melone quipped, a salacious smile covering his face, he knows he’ll get all the details later on. “Uhu!” you nodded happily as you held out your plate for Illuso to fill it with pasta, who did as asked with a quirked eyebrow. “Learned enough?” Formaggio asked next, wolfing down his food and basking in the moment of openness. “One can never stop learning.” you replied politely, watching as your plate got handed to Pesci who had turned as red as the sauce he was ladling onto your plate. “Got good grades?” Prosciutto asked, letting himself join in on the questioning with a minuscule smile curling the corner of his mouth upwards. “Top of her class.” Risotto interjected, letting his dimple return as he started his meal. “I might do some extra credit, just in case.” and with that you began your dinner, happily twirling the pasta around your fork and letting your colleagues figure out how you will ever be satiated.

#it is done my dearies!! i hope you enjoy because i had a lot of fun doing it #jjba x reader #risotto x reader #la squadra x reader #risotto nero x reader #risotto imagine #jojo smut #jjba smut #jojo x reader #minors dni #notsfw #jjba fic #jojo's bizarre adventure #risotto nero #la squadra

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yarichin-imagines · 3 years ago

Note

Hi!!! okokok, how bout a s/o who has a kind of quirk (just like bnha!), how do you think they would react? Like, I think they'd probably integrate into something related to sex or develop a kink (? LMAO

y'all i am so into bnha you have no idea!! also, for neutrality purposes, i'll be using the quirks of deku, todoroki, bakugou, uraraka, kirishima, denki, sero, iida, and satou, all from class 1A, mostly just because none of their quirks rely on physical appearances!!

tw: impact, dubcon (drugging, somno), dummification if you squint

Toono – S/O's Quirk: One for All – This Quirk is a union of two different Quirks, one that stockpiles power and one that passes itself on to another. The user can momentarily gain strength and speed far greater than any other Quirk and hero.

thankfully by the time he'd met you, you'd mastered the use of your Quirk

you were never the prance about type to flash around your power anyway

you preferred to use it for more mundane tasks – like opening pickle jars and carrying the groceries into the house in one trip

he found out about it on accident

he was on his way out when he caught you in the parking lot coming in––

with your car in hand, two feet off the ground

you'd dropped your fob somewhere underneath it and couldn't see

toono passed out

when he came to, his first questions revolved around whether or not the car was okay

once he wraps his head around it though..

he's way more into it than he tells you

but it also fuckin terrifies him

so much so that he really doesn't want you to use it on him

definitely has watched you use it so intently that he can nut off to it later

maybe one day he'll pluck up and ask you to activate it for some pictures he can keep

Kashima - S/O's Quirk: Half-Cold, Half-Hot – This Quirk splits the user into two, half of the user's body can emit ice, the other half emits fire.

honesty is a pillar to kashima's relationship

your quirk came to light a month or so into seeing him

and at first, he was mostly excited about the health benefits

he decides then and there that you gotta do him a solid and chill his side of the bed

that way he can keep cool when he sleeps

sometimes

even if he's half asleep

he'll grab your right hand with a lil soft tug

and in your drowsy stupor you chill his pillow so there's no need for a flip

makes him grin like an idiot every time

when he comes home from practice or from the gym he has you freeze and unfreeze the bathwater-- saves you guys a whole lot of ice

he doesn't mind letting you ease his muscles with your left side after all the heats works wonders that would make any rice pack green with envy

as a top, kashima's got complete control in the bedroom

all day, he'll ask you to close your eyes and heat something up, maybe it's a vibrator or a dildo

or when you chill something, they're usually beads or a plug

all for him to torment you with later on that night

Yacchan – S/O's Quirk: Explosion – This Quirk allows the user to sweat a substance similar to Nitroglycerin from the user's palms and ignite it to create explosions.

kyosuke recognizes it's too dangerous to use in the bedroom

but that being said, there's plenty of other stuff around the place to let you show off

your firework shows are always the best on the block

especially when he sets some off right when yuu isn't expecting it

mainly, yacchan appreciates your quirk when it comes to pulling pranks

It's really funny when you're popping ziploc bags full of nothing right outside tamura's dorm when he's trying to power nap before exams

and even funnier when he storms out in just tighty whities to yell at you

only to meet the flash of yacchan's cellphone

toono will fall asleep during study sessions sometimes and yacchan will facetime you so you can let out a boom and wake him up

he will most definitely fall off the bed and yacchan will most definitely record it

the two of you are the best of the worst that way

Shikatani – S/O's Quirk: Zero Gravity – This Quirk allows the user to cause people and items to float on contact. There is a weight limit on how much the user can levitate, and if this Quirk is used to much, it will cause the user to get sick.

it's really helpful when you help him deep clean

after all, if the supplies are gracefully floating behind him, that leaves his hands free to do twice the work, saving him half the time

but you're content to watch the beautiful boy work

if you help him clean like that, he won't ask for much more that day

he is very very conscious of how much you use your quirk

because he cares about you too much to let you get sick

since he knows for a fact that because of his ocd he won't be able to take care of you

and that stings

so on the days where the chores have all been done he gets the honor of experiencing the effects of your quirk in bed

he likes how it feels when your tease him from the air above

your throat feels more open

but it's not like he can do too much about it since the instant he gets too eager you always float just out of reach

sometimes if he's behaved very well, you'll suspend him

the headrush he gets is euphoric

but the best is how good you are when you blow out his back with your strap

after all, without gravity, your stroke game is literally out of this world

Akemi – S/O's Quirk: Hardening – This Quirk allows the user to harden any part of their body. This shell can withstand several tons of metal falling on the user, along with shock waves, explosions, etc.

there's nothing cuter to akemi keiichi than a brat

if you want to misbehave?

by all means

go right ahead

he'll leave it to you to exhaust yourself

that's the first time he saw you use it

he wasn't aiming to cause any major damage, he was only spanking you with his hand

but he'd been at it for almost an hour

then suddenly he'd pushed you off him after he'd slapped what felt like a solid rock

not that it could stop him

his eyes only grew darker

from then on out, it was all a game to see how far he could push before the shell wore down and you gave into him

Itome – S/O's Quirk: Electrification – This Quirk allows the user to discharge electricity out of the user's body. It goes out in all directions around the user, and can be used to even charge objects, such as batteries. There is a limit to how much this Quirk can be used, and if used too much, the user will short circuit their own brain, and won't be able to do anything for an hour.

of course you can charge his phone in a pinch when it dies at the worst possible moment

hotwire his car when he's already running late

restart the fusebox when there's a power outage

after hours, itome's not a hard dom

not in the slightest

but every once in awhile, he can be particularly malicious

like when he has you overcharge your vibrators to give him the liberty of overstimulating you for longer

really it's less about the scene and more about what comes after

due to the limits of your quirk, aftercare is all on him

that's what he likes the most

taking care of you completely

being able to coax you through your braindead state

clean you off and pose you all comfortable

you're all the sweeter when you come to, when you come back to him

Yuri – S/O's Quirk: Tape – This Quirk allows the user to shoot extremely strong tape from openings on the user's elbows.

the tape is good for fixing most messes yuri gets himself into, clumsy fuck

also waxing!

of course he's gonna be into it

he loves the sting it leaves when you pull it off him the most

and he feels it all over again when there's red rectangular patches all across his skin the next morning

though the gluey part is a bit of a pain to wash off

sometimes he'll leave it for him to pick at throughout the day -- that way he'll get the shivers, makes him hot all over again!

he literally cannot get enough

when you do your school work or anything that diverts your attention from him, he'll be tugging at your elbow

this way you can restrain him until you're ready to ahem

put him to use

you can also use your tape to toss him around, floor to bed to floor to wherever

sometimes you even tape up his face, cover his mouth until the drool renders the tape into a thin flimsy strip

you tie his hands tighter and tighter every time, and it never breaks him

he loves it

on the other hand, yuri can be quite the slippery fuck

for emergencies, you've got some of your tape stored away

you've woken up more than once hogtied, your quirk turned against you

like it or not, yuri can easily turn the tables and you're almost never expecting it

you might have an unlimited supply, but he's too quick for your own good

Tamura – S/O's Quirk: Engine – This Quirk gives the user incredible speed by engine-like protrusions in the user's calves. The engines are fueled by orange juice, and carbonated drinks will mess the engines up.

he calls a 40 meter dash every single weekend

he sets his treadmill to train for it the whole week

but he never beats you

and it seriously pisses him off

you're always faster, no matter the game

if anything, it motivates him

he'll take the bruised ego if it helps him get into better shape

the fact that sometimes, you let him win makes his "engines" overheat faster than you can blink

he'll chase you and chase you for hours

fueled on adrenaline and testosterone, there's no way he'll tap out before you

expect a long, hard bite once he catches you

he goes absolutely animalistic

that lilt in his voice when he finally gets to sink his teeth into your shoulder, even if it's through a shirt, that doesn't matter to him

"caught you"

Jimmy – S/O's Quirk: Sugar Rush – This Quirk allows the user to become stronger and faster every 10 grams of sugar they eat for three minutes. The more the user uses this Quirk, the dumber they get.

every time he catches you snacking on a chocolate bar his whole brain turns off

he's practically jumping, the way he bounces around

waiting for you to inevitably choke slam him against the nearest surface

wall, couch, bed, anything

he likes it when you just toss him over your shoulder

even more the way your hits are harder than usual

he antagonizes you on purpose

making sure to stuff a grocery cart full of sweets he knows you like so that he can catch you snacking and make him pay through the nose

he always asks so nicely

but when you won't give in, well that just won't do!

doses your miso with sugar, drops in three extra cubes in your milk tea, encourages extra flan for dessert

for the next three minutes, you're nearly tripping over yourself

everything is lighter

and then when the crash hits---

jimmy can finally take what he wants

and karma is quite the bitch

#admin yari #bnha au #ybc #yarichin b club

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misscorn · 3 years ago

Text

Day 5: Roleswap/Formal

This @takaritsuweek prompt inspired me to do something I've been putting off for years: a rewrite of my fic Stalker-Senpai. So, please enjoy the first chapter :D its pretty much the same except third person now lol, we'll see how much I change in the future!

***

It was such a stupid reason to fall in love with someone.

Onodera Ritsu had been struggling to reach a high up book on a shelf, wobbling slightly on his tiptoes for a few brief moments before Saga Masamune decided to intervene, mostly just because something about watching the underclassman struggle was both sad and annoying. The older teen grabbed the book for Ritsu, handing it over with a blank expression.

Ritsu returned the simple, polite gesture with such a wide and sincere smile that Masamune's heart reached incredible speeds that he didn't know were possible. Why is he looking at me like that? Masamune wondered, shifting from one foot to the other, feeling warm from Ritsu's gaze.

Masamune swallowed hard as Ritsu took the book out of his hands and said an enthusiastic thank you, one that was way too cheerful considering all Masamune had done was reach up and grab something. The older boy couldn't help but to notice Ritsu's cheeks were a little red from what he assumed was embarrassment and Masamune suddenly wished to see that adorable expression every day.

God, what am I thinking? Adorable? He's a guy, Masamune hoped none of his thoughts were showing on his face. Apparently they weren't since Ritsu gave a quick and polite nod before scampering off. Masamune found his eyes following the underclassman and his feet almost followed as well. Almost. But Masamune somehow managed to hold on to a string of self control.

All he did was smile and say thank you, why am I acting like such an idiot? I don't even know his name, Masamune silently scolded himself. It was too late, though. Masamune was already on his way to become a hopeless, lovelorn fool.

It didn't take long for Masamune to notice that Ritsu was in the library as often as he was after their minuscule interaction. It was like Ritsu had suddenly appeared and was now here everyday. Not that Masamune was complaining; he found the underclassman's constant presence very comforting.

He reads a new book almost every day. Either he has a short attention span or a lot of time on his hands, Masamune noted. It was quite difficult to keep up with Ritsu's appetite for literature, though Masamune did his best. I want to read all the books that he reads, Masamune thought as he grabbed a novel Ritsu had recently finished. The older teen was hoping that he could use this as a way to get to know Ritsu better. Masamune was particularly ecstatic to learn from his book-stalking that his Kouhai's name was Onodera Ritsu.

The two of them always sat at different tables, but Masamune made sure to keep Ritsu in his sights. Masamune loved seeing the brunette's reactions to what he was reading. At times Masamune would hear a small chuckle leave Ritsu or see Ritsu purse his lips in thought or even see Ritsu rub at his eyes insistently to hide the fact that he was tearing up. I want to know what he's reading, Masamune would think desperately before he was able to get his hands on the book, I want to know what makes him smile and laugh, I want to be the one who makes him smile and laugh. Masamune felt positively pathetic with this train of thought, but he couldn't help himself.

Yes, it was official: Saga Masamune was in love at fifteen years old. He didn't understand how it happened so fast nor did he fully understand why, but he had enough self awareness to realize he was totally whipped for an underclassman who he hadn't even said a single word to.

That was precisely Masamune's problem; talking with people wasn't exactly his forte and he feared that he would somehow scare Ritsu off if he approached him. Not to mention, this feeling of want, this inexplicable desire to hold someone through the night and into the day, this need of seeing someone's face just to feel at ease, all of it was new to Masamune. It was scary to be so enraptured in someone. It was terrifying to know that someone else had so much power over him, power that Ritsu didn't even know he had. If Masamune confessed his feelings, he'd be freely handing that power over and Masamune didn't know if he was even capable of being vulnerable and trusting like that.

It didn't help that watching Ritsu from afar suddenly wasn't entertaining enough for the cruel deity laughing at Masamune's hopelessness. What other possible explanation was there for their paths crossing once again? He had peacefully watched Ritsu and stalked his library cards for three years, but now those days were seemingly over.

Masamune was reaching toward a book when a smaller, more delicate hand came into contact with his. Masamune looked over, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of Ritsu. Ritsu was quick to rip his hand away and met Masamune's eyes with an anxious gaze. Ritsu opened his mouth, looking like he was about to apologize for nothing.

"You can take the book, Onodera." Masamune said quickly before he could speak, not enjoying the sight of Ritsu appearing so guilty and worried. He wanted to alleviate the anxieties clear on Ritsu's face, but he seemed to only make it worse.

"How do you know my name?" Came the quiet, nervous response. The book was quickly forgotten by them both. Masamune felt like he was short-circuiting as he wracked his brain for any possible excuse or lie, but his mouth started moving without his permission.

"I love you."

What?

What the hell did I just say?!

There was a pause between the two of them, the air around Masamune feeling as if it were crushing his bones.

"...eh? Eh?!" Ritsu's face flushed a beautiful shade of red, but Masamune didn't have the time to admire it because he was desperately trying to think of a way to prevent Ritsu from sprinting away.

"What I meant to say was-well-would you want to go out with me sometime?" Masamune asked, watching Ritsu's surprised, flustered expression closely. The brunette shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, as he opened and closed his mouth, grasping at straws for a response.

"Y-Y-You know I-I'm a guy r-right?" Ritsu finally settled on after a few seconds of awkward silence.

Masamune almost wanted to laugh. Out of all the things Ritsu could've said, that was what he decided on? Masamune's lips quirked up ever so slightly in amusement as he started to find it a little easier to breathe.

"Yeah, I'm aware." Masamune replied dryly. "Does it bother you that I'm a guy?" That had been one of the reasons Masamune had been so hesitant to approach. It was possible that Ritsu wasn't even into guys and now maybe the two of them didn't even have a chance of being friends.

"I-no! Not really? I don't-" Ritsu inched closer and closer to retreating, which simply wouldn't do.

"It's alright, Just take a breath, okay? You don't have to say yes." Masamune quickly assured him, though I really, really want him to say yes, Masamune hoped it didn't show.

"I-I don't even k-know your name..." Ritsu started, seeming to try to find some sort of excuse, perhaps wanting to spare Masamune's feelings instead of outright rejecting him. However, Masamune's heart was stubborn and dead set on Ritsu. He wouldn't be dissuaded easily and not knowing his name was an easy fix.

"It's Saga. Saga Masamune."

Ritsu nodded slowly, visibly swallowing as he wrung his hands, seeming to be carefully considering his next few words.

"O-O-Okay...I-I'll go out with you...Saga Senpai..."

When an upperclassman grabbed a book for Ritsu and handed it over he was grateful for a few seconds, but forgot about the interaction quickly. It had been nothing particularly special after all. If there was anything he did remember from the brief conversation-if one could even call it that-it was that he felt terribly embarrassed for being too short to reach a book. And then a certain name started to pop up everywhere...

Ritsu scanned the shelves for a new read, not looking for anything in particular, just something unfamiliar and fresh. He started to reach for one when a larger hand met his and he instinctively recoiled away from the touch as if it had burned him. He looked over to see an older student that was often slinking around the library, somehow always seeming to have a certain aura of sadness around him.

"You can take the book, Onodera." He told Ritsu quickly, his expression blank and unreadable.

"How do you know my name?" Ritsu asked hesitantly, though he already knew the answer. This is my stalker. Saga Masamune, Ritsu felt nervous now that he was face to face with him. Ritsu had been ignoring the behavior for the longest time, three years in fact, but now his stalker was right in front of him.

Ritsu often liked to reread books that he particularly connected with and it didn't take long for him to realize a certain name kept appearing and reappearing underneath his own.

Saga Masamune.

Ritsu didn't know anything about this 'Saga' person. He was far too shy to ever venture out to try to talk to many people, especially an upperclassman. He was still young and fresh enough to high school to think that upperclassmen were untouchable Gods. Though, after noticing the name he also noticed that a certain upperclassman was constantly in the library: the one that had helped Ritsu grab a book. Ritsu decided he was as good as a suspect as anyone to be his stalker. It wasn't like many other students spent hours upon hours in the school's library. To confirm his suspicion, Ritsu once quietly walked up to his table when he had fallen asleep sitting up and took the opportunity to look in the back of his book. There was his name: Saga Masamune. The upperclassman shifted and Ritsu took that as his que to quickly put the book back down and retreat.

Ritsu tried to ignore it, not understanding Masamune's motives or actions and wondering if perhaps he was looking a little too much into it. That was, until the two had bumped into each other again.

"I love you." Masamune said.

Ritsu's heart punched the inside of his rib cage before beating erratically in all directions. A confession had been about the last thing he was expecting.

"...eh? Eh?!" Is all Ritsu could choke out in response with his legs feeling weak yet also prepared to sprint a mile if necessary.

"What I meant to say was-well-would you want to go out with me sometime?" Masamune asked, but Ritsu's confusion didn't cease.

"Y-Y-You know I-I'm a guy r-right?" That question sounded much dumber out loud than it did in my head, Ritsu thought as he refrained from facepalming. Masamune smirked a bit at his question and Ritsu tried not to frown, feeling like he was being made fun of and this confession had perhaps been a joke of some sort to mess with him.

"Yeah, I'm aware. Does it bother you that I'm a guy?"

Ritsu struggled to swallow as he started to shake his head. "I-no! Not really? I don't-" He wanted to hide behind the bookshelves at this point and forget this entire conversation.

"It's alright, Just take a breath, okay? You don't have to say yes."

"I-I don't even k-know your name..." Ritsu lied, wanting to somehow escape this situation.

"It's Saga. Saga Masamune." He replied smoothly. The upperclassman obviously didn't see their lack of knowledge of one another as an issue and suddenly Ritsu was out of excuses.

I should say I don't like guys, or that not interested, or that I have a girlfriend, Ritsu thought, but instead he just gulped nervously and nodded slowly.

"O-O-Okay...I-I'll go out with you...Saga Senpai..."

Why did I say that, why did I agree to this, what am I going to do now, oh God, I bet this really is just a joke and he's going to start laughing at me now, if my parents find out about this I'm completely done for-, Ritsu's panicked thoughts continued to race, but stopped once a gentle hand reached up to ruffle his hair.

And that was how the wonderful, complicated mess of their relationship started.

#onodera ritsu #saga masamune #sekaiichi hatsukoi #takaritsuweek #fanfiction

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vpyre · 4 years ago

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The Geek Division

Grelle was annoyed. She generally was these days, but this time there was a tangible reason. Why on earth did she need to experience “the science side of Grim Reaper Dispatch” when they knew full well that she had no interest in academics and would rather be out learning something useful like how to collect souls? She was in Retrieval training for christ's sake. To hell with “having an understanding and appreciation for all branches of the Dispatch”. It was just pointless. Pointless and stupid and just another thing for her to suffer through. She sighed and tapped her fingers against one of the black lab tables. Beakers and vials bubbled and hissed in the back of the room, barely audible over the clamor of the new trainees as they filed in and found seats with their new friends. No one sat with her. She was left alone to sulk, not that she particularly cared. They were all the same anyway; afraid of her, unnerved by her, rude to her. She would tell them all to drop dead, but it was a bit too late for that.

When everyone had found a seat, four reapers in white lab coats made their way to the front of the room, and one of them stepped forward. As soon as the first word left his mouth, Grelle knew she'd be dying of boredom ten minutes in, if that. Pointless. What a waste of time. As her gaze settled on the view through the long window on the other side of the room, she propped her chin on her fist and twirled a strand of her short hair around her finger. I wish it was longer. To my knees even! I’d be gorgeous if I grew it out; and then maybe they would see me the way I really am. Her thoughts continued drifting wistfully, like a cardinal’s feathers in a breeze.

"Hiya."

Grelle started and whipped around so hard she almost fell out of her chair. Sitting in the previously empty seat beside her was another man in a lab coat, though he was decidedly more rumpled than the other scientists. Where their clothes and hair were tidy and their demeanor formal, his dark hair stuck out in odd places and he was slouching in his seat. When she saw the open, laid-back friendliness on his face, she felt some of her tension evaporate as her mind processed that he wasn't there to harass her like the others. But still... why is he talking to me?

"My name's Othello. What's yours, my dear new reaper?" he asked. She didn't see a single hint of negativity or ulterior motives in his face, so she replied,

"Grelle Sutcliff. From the Retrieval Division." If he was really genuine in his friendliness, she couldn't see the harm in making conversation to pass the time.

"Good to meet you! Now, what're your pronouns, Dear Grelle?"

What? She blinked, trying not to let her surprise show. No one had ever asked her that before; they all just assumed. She couldn't blame them, not really. She'd never met someone like her, never met someone who was aware of anything other than what the societal norm was. But somehow he knew. Why did he know? Reapers must really be ahead of their time, or at least this one was. He seemed to have picked up on her line of thinking when she didn't respond right away, so he continued,

"I've seen you around, so I noticed that you carry yourself a certain way and that you don't appear to like being referred to as male. I wanted to make sure I wasn't assuming anything, 'cos you seem like an interesting person to know."

It was the sincerity in his voice that stifled the last of her apprehension. She relaxed and murmured,

"I... I'm a woman. And thank you. Y'know, for asking. It isn't often that people are this considerate."

"No need to thank me, it should just be common decency. Anywho, it doesn't look like you're particularly enjoying the forensics lecture." Before she could finish stuttering out a defensive response, he waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna tattle on you. I'd be in the same boat if I had to visit the retrieval division, seeing as I'm physically incompetent and nothing fascinates me more than science." There were sudden rustles of movement around them as the instructors shooed everyone out of the room for a demonstration. Grelle sighed and stood up to follow,

"Well, it was nice to meet you, but-" a hand on her arm gave her pause. "What?" She turned to look at the other reaper, and he mouthed,

"Come with me!" She hesitated for a moment, deliberating. Then she shrugged. She had nothing better to do; plus he was considerate and kind, which was more than she could say for anyone else as far as she was concerned, so she nodded, relief and mischievous curiosity bubbling up and lifting her spirits. Stifling a grin, she followed him as they scurried through the lab and away from the group, quietly slipping out into the corridor.

She glanced around furtively and asked, "What are we doing?” as he tugged her onward through the stark white halls.

”Alleviating your boredom. You looked like you were about to snap and smash some of those beakers, so I thought I’d save you from the inevitable cleanup duty punishment. And like I said, you seem like an interesting person to know. Plus, I want to show you my lab. Forensics will never interest you if those stuffed shirts are the ones talking. They don’t ever say anything interesting. They all think I’m ‘eccentric’ just cos I’m not satisfied with their dull science; and I very well may be, but at least I’m not boring.” She rolled her eyes, but she couldn't deny that listening to this geek talk was infinitely more entertaining than sitting in that stuffy lab, listening to those stuffy scientists regaling her with their stuffy lecture.

His lab wasn't far, thank god. As much as she hated the Dispatch and its rules, she didn't want to get caught and written up, not when she was doing so well in her retrieval training. They stopped at a plain wooden door in the middle of the hall. It was unremarkable, but from what she could already tell about Othello himself, it was sure to be more interesting on the inside. He unlocked the door and they entered. What she saw was unexpected, but she had expected it to be unexpected, so really it wasn't all that surprising. Where the other lab was neat and orderly, equipment organized and surfaces uncluttered, his looked like a tornado had torn through it. Beakers and papers were scattered across all available tables and counters, almost completely obscuring every horizontal surface. There were science-y odds and ends everywhere. On top of that, there was a huge pile of unrecognizable mechanical parts, metal, and machinery on the floor in the back of the room (strangely enough, the floor was clean and absent of any other clutter).

"What on earth is that thing?" Grelle asked, leaning on a table and gesturing to the back of the room. She hoped he wouldn't get all technical about it; she didn't understand these sorts of things, nor did she want to, but she couldn't help feeling curious.

"It's a dynamo, a generator; or, rather, it will be. I'm still working on it. Humans probably won't have it for the next hundred years or so." He strode over to the desk near the metal thing -the generator- and started digging through the papers. Despite the mess he seemed to know exactly where to find what he needed, emerging a moment later with a diagram, which he waved around enthusiastically, excitement shining in his eyes. "It converts AC into DC using a commutator, which is a set of rotating switch contacts on the armature shaft that reverse the connection of the armature winding to the circuit with every 180 degree rotation, creating a-"

She shook her head and cut in, waving a hand, "Wait wait wait wait. I don't speak geek; mind translating that to English?"

"Essentially, it just generates energy in the form of electricity. But there's so much more to it than that! Lemme show you the diagram." He motioned her over to the desk. Pointing out parts as he spoke, he explained what each one did, how it worked, and how they fit together. When he finished rambling about the generator, he moved on to some of the other blueprints and formulas scattered throughout the room as well as some of the chemical vials sitting in their various nooks and crannies. She didn't understand a word that came out of his mouth, but his enthusiasm was contagious; though she tried to act aloof, she found herself smiling and nodding along as he spouted scientific gibberish. It was entertaining just to watch him gush about it all, and honestly kinda endearing. It certainly took her mind off of her bitter thoughts. Even with the difference in interests, she was just glad to be around someone who seemed to enjoy her company and who didn't harbor any negativity towards her. Someone who went out of his way to cheer her up. Someone who trusted her not to lash out at him. Someone who was thoughtful enough to ask about her feelings and respectful enough to listen to, then act on her answer.

Still, she wondered. "Why did you come talk to me, y'know, back in the other lab? Most reapers would rather avoid me."

He shrugged and put down his test tube. "You just seemed lonely. Not only at that moment, but almost every time I saw you around. To other reapers, your loneliness and hurt might come across as anger, but that's just 'cos they don't bother trying to understand you. Honestly! You'd think they'd have no trouble understanding on some level; after all, we all got here the same way, but some people just don't seem to have it in them to be sympathetic anymore. I make a point of doing things others are afraid of doing, which too often includes being a decent person. On top of that, you're just a very interesting woman, and I like interesting people. Besides, you're really tough and I'm physically weak, so if I stick with you no one will dare mess with me, ha ha!"

Grelle rolled her eyes, but she chuckled a bit all the same. Truth be told, she genuinely appreciated this reaper, someone she had just met, for speaking so openly and kindly. He certainly was eccentric, but he made that a good thing. He continued on as if nothing had happened, and she relaxed in the casually comfortable atmosphere.

All too soon, she heard the trainee crowd walk past Othello's lab, instructors herding them back from the forensics tour. To her surprise, she found that she wanted to stay and simply listen to Othello rave about his beloved science, even though it just went in one ear and out the other for her. She turned to bid him farewell.

"I'm going to head back before I get us in trouble. It was a pleasure to meet you, even if you are a huge geek. And just... thank you. For going out of your way to make me feel more welcome. I may not like or understand science, but if you have to talk about that sort of thing, I suppose I'll humor you and listen."

He smiled a bit and shrugged. "Anytime. And I guess it's too much to hope that I've piqued your interest in forensics?"

"Yes. I'll leave that to you geeks." She shook her head in mock exasperation, but as she walked away, she smiled. Just a bit.

#for the people without ao3 accounts #fanfic #my writing #platonic grellethello #grellethello #grelle sutcliff #grell sutcliff #othello #black butler #kuroshitsuji

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katsukiscaramel · 5 years ago

Text

crush culture

Pairing: Bakugou x Reader

Summary: Bakugou hates crushes, plain and simple. So, how does he react when he finds himself developing one? He attempts to ignore his feelings, quickly realizing it’s easier said than done.

Song: Crush Culture by Conan Gray

Bakugou Katsuki absolutely despised the concept of crushes.

The whole idea of obsessing over someone just because they happened to unconventionally attain your attention completely irked him. It especially bothered him when he’d see couples in the halls, too busy staring into each other’s eyes to do anything else, laughing at whatever the other person said, and living like the world revolves around their own little bubble. Like goddamn it, didn’t they have anything better to do? Just seeing their sickeningly love-struck faces never failed to put a scowl on his face.

He was perfectly content with being alone, too focused on his goals to really care. So, he couldn’t seem to fathom exactly why these extras would prioritize other people before themselves; obsessing over every word their crush said, waiting for any text they might receive, and spending every moment hoping the other would just notice them.

He couldn’t seem to fathom why, that is, until after you crashed into his life.

You were supposed to be a nobody, just some extra in his class whose name he probably would have never learned. Except for some reason, and much to his frustration, you managed to inexplicably attain his attention and he had no idea why.

Was it because he couldn’t help but admire your stubbornness and determination to succeed, no matter how obnoxious he sometimes found it? Or was it because of the way you’d always have a comeback to whatever comment he’d make, resulting in relatively enjoyable conversation? Maybe it was because of how some part of him had found your weird mannerisms somewhat adorable.

Whatever it was, one thing was for certain. His friends were sick and tired of watching Bakugou ignore his blatantly obvious feelings.

“Hello? Bakubro? You there?” Kirishima asked, waving his hand in front of the distracted blond’s face, trying to snap him out of his thoughts. Kirishima’s eyes followed Bakugou’s gaze across the crowded cafeteria, landing at the nearby table where you were currently sitting.

“Looks like he’s staring at Y/N again,” Kaminari commented, his smile shifting into a smirk. “I think his brain short-circuited or something.”

“Well, you’d definitely be the one to know,” Jirou remarked, rolling her eyes at Kaminari’s offended gasp.

“I’m not staring at her, Dunce Face,” Bakugou snapped, averting his attention back to his friends. Kaminari flinched as his eyes met Bakugou’s harsh gaze, quickly attempting to hide it with a lighthearted smile.

“All I’m saying is, you stare at her so much you’re slowing creeping into Mineta territory,” Kaminari said, looking at Bakugou. His eyes widened, his body barely dodging the fork that came flying his way.

“Real ironic coming from you,” Sero quietly mumbled, swiftly catching another flying fork before it hit Kaminari.

“I’m sorry to say Bakubro, but Kaminari has a point,” Kirishima said. His smile barely faltered at the sight of Bakugou’s deadly glare, the rest of their friends cautiously sending Kirishima warning glances. “If you like her so much, why don’t you ask her out?”

“Like her? Where the hell did you get that stupid idea?” Bakugou asked, a light blush spreading onto his face, much to his dismay.

“It’s so obvious! You have a crush on her!” Mina squealed, growing increasingly frustrated at Bakugou’s denial. “Just ask her out already! You two could be like the ultimate power couple!”

“I don’t have a crush on her, that’s just fucking absurd,” he crossed his arms, red eyes glaring at all his friends. “The whole concept of crushes is stupid, just a whole exhausting game of manipulation.”

“Damn bro, who hurt you?” Kirishima asked, sympathetically patting the blond on the back. Bakugou scoffed, shrugging off Kirishima’s hand.

“Well, if you do like her, you better make a move quick. Before Todoroki or Deku do.” Kaminari nodded his head towards the table you were sitting at, specifically pointing out the two boys who were sitting awfully close to you.

Kaminari never saw the next flying fork coming.

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After that conversation during lunch, Bakugou made it his goal to avoid you. Because there was no way in hell he was going to let a silly crush keep him distracted.

Except, his blatant attempts to ignore you was becoming increasingly frustrating for you. As determined as Bakugou might have been to ignore you, you were even more determined to talk to him.

And that’s how he found himself cornered in the hallway, with you standing in front of him, an infectious smile planted on your lips.

“Hey, Bakugou, how have you been? We haven’t talked in a while,” you said, waiting for any sort of reply from the blond. You would never admit it, but some tiny part of you may have missed talking to him. You stared at him expectantly, waiting for a reply. You only received nothing, as he started walking away.

Rolling your eyes, you began following him, poking his arm as a way to gain his attention. It didn’t take long for you to feel the irritation practically radiate off of him. His glare was piercing through you, but that didn’t stop the smile on your face.

“What do you want?” He snapped, realizing you weren’t going to quit bothering him until he talked to you.

“To talk to you, duh.”

“Bold of you to assume that I want to talk to you,” Bakugou grumbled out, shoving his sweating hands into his pocket. He leaned his back against the wall, his eyes casually focused on the ground. A part of him knew that if he looked you in the eyes, it would almost be game over for him. And he had come too far to lose now.

“Ah-ha! That’s the Bakugou I know and love!” You excitedly blurted out, immediately gaining the blond’s attention, your poor choice of words echoing in his head.

Did you just say love?

“What did you say?” Bakugou asked, already feeling his face heat up. His eyes looked around, desperately looking for somewhere to escape. It’s not like he didn’t enjoy talking to you, but he was growing increasingly frustrated at how much he liked talking to you.

It took you a brief moment to realize what you said, an embarrassed blush forming on your cheeks as well.

“Well-- you see, what I meant was--“ you started stuttering out, suddenly unable to form coherent sentences. Not like it mattered, as Bakugou quickly brushed you aside, walking straight into the closest room you couldn’t follow him into; the bathroom.

And while he stood in the bathroom, glaring at his reflection, angry at himself for developing such a stupid little crush; you found yourself standing alone, slightly surprised by how quick he was to leave. Did your poor choice of words really weird him out that much?

It’s not like you actually did love him or anything like that. But after days of being given the cold shoulder, you were just beginning to miss talking to him. And maybe you were also missing that feeling you’d get whenever he accidentally laughed at one of your corny jokes, or the way he’d managed to motivate you to be better with his stupidly unnecessary comments, and the way he had such a cute smile on his face when-

You paused for a moment, being hit with sudden realization. Maybe you did like him.

But with him so persistent on ignoring you, what were you supposed to do now?

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You were patiently waiting outside of the cafeteria, your eyes searching the crowd of students for a particularly familiar group of faces.

It had been a few weeks since the hallway incident, and Bakugou had been more determined than ever to ignore every single thing you did. There was the occasional shared glance between the two of you; those lingering looks where it clearly seemed like you both wanted to talk to the other, but Bakugou had made it a point of leave before any real conversation could take place. And to be perfectly honest, your patience was running thin.

And so, deciding you were running out of options, you turned towards the one group of people who knew Bakugou better than he knew himself.

Just then, spotting a familiar head of spiked red hair, you quickly rushed towards them before they could enter the cafeteria.

“Oh hey Y/N! What’s up?” Kirishima asked, sending you a cheery smile. You smiled back, waving at the group.

“I’m sorry to barge in like this, but considering you all are his best friends, I was wondering if you could tell me why Bakugou is ignoring me?” You hesitantly asked.

The group just blankly stared at you, sending confused glances at each other. Almost as if a collective light bulb lit up above their heads, their eyes slowly widened, all of them simultaneously mumbling a soft “oh”.

“Well no wonder why he’s been angrier than usual,” Sero realized, leaving you confused. Did you do something to make him mad? That sounded like something you’d do.

“I swear to god he’s such an oblivious simple-minded idiot,” Mina grumbled, the whole group nodding their heads in agreement.

“Am I missing something?” You asked, making Kaminari let out a laugh.

“Oh, I guess you don’t know. You see, Bakugou really likes-“ Jirou quickly jabbed Kaminari with her elbow, effectively shutting him up as he groaned in pain.

“Don’t pay attention to a word he says, he’s an idiot,” Kirishima explained while sending a quick glare towards Kaminari. He then averted his attention back towards you. “But why don’t you sit with us during lunch? That’ll get him to talk to you for sure!”

Well, that wasn’t what you were expecting.

“Well--uh, sure I guess--“

“Great!” Mina exclaimed, excitedly clapping her hands. “Just grab your lunch and meet us at the table, okay?”

You nodded, wasting no time heading into the cafeteria to grab your lunch. As you made your way towards where the group usually sat, you were surprised to see the table empty.

Almost empty, that is, the only person sitting there was none other than Bakugou.

Hesitantly making your way towards him, you awkwardly cleared your throat, effectively gaining his attention.

Bakugou froze, his eyes meeting yours. After weeks of ignoring you, he was truly beginning to believe his stupid little infatuation with you was gone. But seeing you standing there, nervously smiling at him, told him otherwise.

“What are you doing here?” He snapped, part of him just wanting nothing more than to get rid of you.

“Aw, c’mon! You know you love me,” you jokingly said. Unfortunately for him, that comment only smacked him in the face. “Can I sit here?”

After taking a couple seconds to compose himself, he nodded his head, realizing his friends were off doing god knows what. He felt himself stiffen up, realizing how you chose to sit directly beside him.

He really hated this.

“Why aren’t you sitting with Deku or that icy hot bastard?” As soon as that sentence left his mouth, he inwardly cursed at himself, realizing he might have just given you a reason to leave. Not like he cared if you had left or stayed.

“They’re too busy making heart eyes at each other to notice I’m not there,” you simply said before taking a bite of your food.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love them and all,” you looked towards the blond, “but I’m really tired of seeing them be so in love with each other. Really reminds me how lonely I am.”

Bakugou found himself nodding along to what you were saying. Damn, he really did miss these conversations with you.

“Don’t even get me started on all those couples that just stand there in the hall,” Bakugou muttered.

“I know right, like don’t you have anything better to do? It’s so ridiculous!” You exclaimed, eliciting an amused smile from the blond.

“Crushes, in general, are ridiculous,” he grumbled out. You looked at him, his words grabbing your attention.

“Oh really? Why do you think so?” You asked, turning towards him.

“It’s ridiculous because of how much of your time crushes take up,” Bakugou began, his crimson eyes radiating nothing but pure frustration. “You’re so distracted by them that you can’t even focus on yourself. And then you want to do nothing more than just talk to them. Even when you try to ignore them, wanting those stupid feelings to go away, you just end up missing them even more. It’s just so fucking annoying,” he ranted, the words just flowing out of him. He didn’t even realize he needed to let that off his chest

“Well, that’s awkward,” you said. Your eyes met Bakugou’s confused ones, making you smile. “You’re really gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”

“Say what?” He snapped, feeling himself grow increasingly frustrated. What was so obvious to you that he couldn’t seem to get?

“I have a crush on you, idiot.” You could feel your face immediately burning up, instant regret filling you as you said those words. Did you just ruin a friendship? Possibly. And what exactly compelled you to admit your feelings? You had no idea.

Except while you were facing an internal crisis, Bakugou just sat there, his brain processing what you had just said.

You liked him?

He slowly blinked, his eyes looking at you. In an instant, something inside of him just clicked into place.

Maybe he never hated the concept of crushes, instead despised the fact that crushes were full of so much uncertainty. Because at that moment, as he stared at your blushing face, he couldn’t help but believe that maybe having a crush wasn’t so bad.

“Well, this is awkward,” Bakugou started, effectively gaining your attention. At that moment you wanted to do nothing more than spontaneously combust. You looked at him, feeling ironically crushed, as you awaited the worst.

“The reason I said all those things was because,” Bakugou moved his face slightly closer to yours, “I have a crush on you too.”

Bakugou Katsuki might have absolutely despised the concept of crushes, but for some reason, you made it somewhat tolerable.

#hope you enjoyed! :) lowkey screaming this is my first fic aaahhhhhhh #okay i'll stop now #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo imagine #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha oneshots #bakugou #bakugou katsuki #boku no hero imagines #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bakugou fluff #bakugo x reader #mha imagines #bnha imagines #katsuki bakugou #mha fanfiction

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shotgun--rider · 5 years ago

Text

Love Your Neighbor - One

A Dean x Reader Series

PART ONE

Y/N just wants her neighbor to find some sense of decency and shut the hell up. Her so-called brilliant plan gets messy, though, when it turns out that Dean Winchester is actually kind of perfect, and maybe taking her friends’ advice wasn’t the best move after all.

Word Count: 2900

Warnings: Allusions to sex, Dean Winchester is a fanboy

Dean Winchester isn’t a bad guy. As far as you can tell, actually, he seems to be a perfectly normal, average, unassuming guy. You’ve shared a few elevators and gotten your mail at the same time, waved politely on your way to take out the trash, and your beater car lives next door to his pristine ‘67 Impala in the underground parking ramp. Considering that the neighbors in your last apartment almost blew up the building making meth, living next to a harmless, pie-eating contractor sounded like heaven when you signed the lease.

There’s just one little problem. And, strictly speaking, it’s none of your business if Dean Winchester also likes banging everything with legs in a twenty mile radius. More power to him, really. It’s just that the walls are cripplingly thin in this building, and while you’re happy your neighbor has a thriving sex life, you’d rather not be forced to listen to it every single night.

Laying flat out on your bed, clad in the least amount of clothing you can pull off while still being decent, you grit your teeth. It’s a scorching night in July and the A/C in your unit has given up the ghost, leaving you to sprawl out sweating, hoping in vain for a cool breeze from the fire escape. And somehow, in spite of the fact that moving two feet has you wanting to pant like a dog with heat stroke, Dean Winchester has found the motivation to work up a whole other kind of sweat on the other side of your wall. Loudly.

The apartment you’re renting is a pretty cheap one, and you knew what you’d signed up for when you signed the lease. It works for your purposes, and it’s not like you have loads of spare cash lying around anyway. The issue with the tiny one-bedroom is that it only accommodates your stuff in one possible layout, and yes, that does in fact mean that your bed is directly on the wall you share with Dean. In fact, you’re pretty sure your apartments are mirror images of one another, which is only an issue when he’s railing Lisa two feet from your head and banging the headboard on your shared wall.

‘Lisa’ has been around for almost a month now, which as far as you’re aware is a new record for Dean, and she moans like a porn star that’s trying too hard. It can’t possibly be natural, you’ve decided, because sure, sex is good, but nobody in real life is having sex that’s that good. And sure, you’ll concede that Dean is an incredibly attractive guy, from what you’ve seen of him, but you’ve learned the hard way many times that that doesn’t automatically make them good in bed. Which means Lisa is just being obnoxiously dramatic.

You thump your head in frustration against your pillow, contemplating pulling it over your ears as a new round of moaning starts up. God, how does anyone have sex for that long, anyway?

“Yes, Dean, harder...right there… oh, fuck, yeah, yes, yes, yes!” She subsides into unintelligible screaming, punctuated with the occasional lower-pitched groan and the shuffle-shuffle-bang of the bed frame against the wall.

“Oh my god, yeah, I’m gonna come, please make me come,”

Cursing under your breath, you sit up, adjusting the spaghetti straps of your tank top as they try to slide down your shoulder. “Nobody says that shit,” you grumble aloud, shuffling in defeat off of your bed and out to sit on the fire escape.

It’s not any cooler out here, and you can still vaguely hear Dean and Lisa getting it on, but at least your bed is no longer vibrating. Leaning forward on the iron railing, you pull out your phone and send a vomiting emoji to your best friend. There’s no context needed; she’s heard you complain enough times to know exactly what’s usually happening between the hours of ten p.m. and midnight in your building.

Kinda impressed with this dude tbh, Meg replies back instantly. I wish I got off that much.

You answer her with an eye roll. The point is I don’t want to hear it

Just tell him to shut the fuck up. Or kill him. You know like a bazillion ways

Once, when you’d only been living there for a handful of weeks, you’d thrown a shoe at the wall between you in a fit of ill-handled rage. You’d followed that up with taking off your other shoe and repeatedly thumping the wall with the heel, just in case they thought the original noise had been an accident.

The resulting blissful silence had only lasted for about a minute, after which it was followed by a bout of laughter, and then more enthusiastic sex. No, Dean Winchester was evidently not the type of person to back down after being told to shut the fuck up, and you’d never quite managed to get the courage to just attack him about his sex life in front of the downstairs mailboxes.

That doesn’t mean, however, that you haven’t been thinking up subtler ways to deal with the issue. And now, because living on the fire escape until October doesn't actually sound like a pleasant experience, you might just have the perfect excuse.

The ‘67 Chevy that lives in the parking space next to yours gets periodically replaced with a slightly rusty old pickup, the words Winchester Contracting emblazoned on the doors. And it’s not like you haven’t seen Dean sporting paint-stained jeans and a bag of tools before. He’s clearly the obvious, convenient choice to ask about the A/C. And if you happen to interrupt his bang-fest while complaining about the heat, well, that’s just two birds with one stone.

You don’t bother with shoes for the short walk down the thinly-carpeted hall, only realizing once you’re standing in front of his door that you’re not really dressed for this. That could only work in your favor, though, right? Maybe a barely-clothed girl showing up would send Lisa into a jealous rage and she would leave on the spot, rendering Dean mercifully single and silent. And maybe you just need to solve this so you can get some god damned sleep, you thought wryly.

Before you can change your mind, you knock sharply on the door of apartment 914, rocking back on your heels as you wait, straining your ears for any noise from within. For a moment, there’s silence, and then a tell-tale, high pitched squeal. Nope, they’re definitely still shamelessly boinking, as your old roommate Donna would have announced cheerfully.

At this point, it’s just getting a little ridiculous. Clenching your jaw in anger, you raise your fist to pound on the door again, harder this time. You have a book deadline in two weeks, no A/C, and you just want some fucking peace and quiet. Clearly, the universe has just chosen to laugh at you instead.

Resisting the urge to hiss aloud in irritation, you pound on the door once more, this time hearing soft voices from inside. There’s shuffling, a muffled yelp, some slightly uneven footsteps, and then the door swings open to reveal Dean Winchester, irritated, half dressed, and making no attempt to hide what he’s been up to.

“What?” he snaps out, all green eyes and sex hair and bare chest, which somehow manages to short-circuit your very angry brain, leaving you stuttering in his doorway. Seriously, though, knowing you have an attractive neighbor and seeing him in nothing but a pair of sweats are two different things.

“Uh,” you mentally shake yourself. You didn’t come here to drool over him, you’re here to solve a problem. “Listen, I’m really sorry to bother you,” you start. You’re not really all that sorry, but you need the time to try to organize your thoughts.

“Oh, are you?” Dean returns grumpily, crossing his arms over his chest and Jesus but that’s a lot of tanned skin and biceps right in front of your face.

“Yeah,” you falter, “I just was wondering if you could maybe help me?” You were laying it on a bit thick now, but who could really blame you? “The A/C quit on me and I know you have that construction business…”

“Dean? Who is it?” That would be Lisa, evidently, coming to the doorway in a bathrobe and, unsurprisingly, looking stunningly beautiful. She blinks at you over his shoulder, pushing dark hair out of her face and giving you an uncertain smile as she looks over your tank top and skimpy sleep shorts.

“Oh I’m sorry,” you somehow manage to keep the sarcasm out of your voice. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,”

“You’re not,” Dean says, and, behind him, Lisa raises affronted eyebrows. Maybe there is trouble in paradise. Filing that information away for later, you shift on your feet, pushing some of your still-slightly-sweaty hair off of your forehead. Dean seems to jolt at the motion, glancing back into his apartment and opening the door wider. “Right, yeah,” he runs a hand through his hair, doing nothing to quiet the wild spikes. “You said A/C? Lemme just…”

Dean disappears behind the half open door, one bare foot still holding it in place, and you can hear him moving something around, saying something in a low voice to Lisa, who audibly huffs back like she’s annoyed. When the rest of his body reappears, he’s got a black Metallica shirt most of the way on (a shame, really), and he’s carrying a slim black canvas bag of tools.

“--probably not gonna take long,” he’s saying to Lisa over his shoulder, and it occurs to you suddenly that this plan requires you to bring Dean inside your apartment. Which makes sense, obviously, given that you actually do need the air conditioning fixed, and as long as he’s doing that he’s not banging his girlfriend, but you’re kind of awkward at the best of times and this is probably going to require conversation. Picture everyone naked, Donna would say, but somehow, having seen him shirtless really, really doesn’t help.

Resigned to your fate, you shuffle back to your own apartment with Dean following, and you wince at the blast of hot air greeting you as soon as you swing open the door. Compared to the hallway, it’s like stepping into a particularly miserable sauna, and Dean huffs a surprised noise behind you. “Damn, you weren’t kidding, were you?”

You show him over to the sad little A/C unit wordlessly, hopping up on your kitchen table and crossing your arms as you watch him squint at it. “Thank you,” falls from your lips belatedly, and you have to remember that for all your irritation with him, Dean Winchester is still, fundamentally, the kind of man who apparently lets his neighbors interrupt sex so he can fix their broken appliances in the middle of the night. “I know it’s really late…”

“S’fine,” Dean shrugs, neatly pulling off the cover to the air conditioning and going after something inside with a tool you couldn’t have named if your life depended on it. “This way you won’t have to sleep on the fire escape.” He smiles at you over his shoulder, those green eyes bright, and your retort about sleeping on the fire escape anyway because of him gets lost somewhere in transit. Not for the first time, you wonder if this is really the brightest idea you’ve had.

“Still,” you say instead, “you probably don’t want to come home from work and do more work,”

“It’s really not a big deal, Y/N,” Dean glances back at you. “It’s Y/N, right?”

“Yeah,” you confirm with a little shake of your head. “What’d you do, read my mail?”

“No,” Dean says quickly, followed by a slightly sheepish, “Maybe. Look, the mailroom’s tiny,”

He’s not wrong, and since you initially collected his name from the moans through your bedroom wall, you’re not sure you’re in a position to talk. When you look back at him, Dean’s wearing a slightly hesitant, definitely-not-adorable look on his face, and you laugh softly, watching him break out into a relieved smile in return. And damn it, he wasn’t supposed to be funny. It’s far easier to vilify someone who’s only kindness has been holding the elevator doors a few times, because plenty of colossal douchebags still have surface-level manners.

But now your A/C is humming contentedly, working overtime to compensate for its lapse, and you have your loud-ass neighbor to thank for it. Your funny, smiling, half-dressed-at-midnight neighbor who’s currently giving you a great view of his ass in sweatpants as he bends over to grab his tools. Fuck.

“Thank you,” you get out when your brain gets back online, and you hope it was a brief enough lapse that he didn’t notice. “I might actually make my deadline now that I’m not dying,”

Dean raises an eyebrow at you, shifting to lean back on the wall. “Deadline for what?”

“I’m a writer,” you explain, shaking your head ruefully. “Which is why I live in a crackerbox apartment with shitty air in the first place,”

Dean’s green eyes perk up in interest, and that was hardly the reaction you were expecting. “Oh yeah? What d’you write?”

You uncross your arms and slide off the kitchen table, crossing the living room to pull a black-and-red hardcover out of your hanging bookshelf. “Murder books,” you deadpan, watching for a reaction as you flash him the cover, featuring a man’s limp hand lying in a pool of blood. There’s kind of a small part of you that’s hoping you’ll scare him out of your apartment, because now you’re not really sure how to get rid of him.

Surprising you as usual, Dean’s mouth drops open shamelessly instead. He gapes at you like a very handsome fish for a few moments before his tongue darts out to wet his lip and then he’s tripping over himself, talking almost too rapidly for you to follow. “No freakin’ way! I didn’t...I mean, you’re Y/F/I L/N. You never have a picture on the jacket--” Dean trails off, a flush rising in his cheeks as he collects himself, only serving to make the freckles dashed across his face more obvious. It’s kind of, maybe, just a little bit cute. “I’ve read them all,” he blurts out, stuck somewhere between shy and kind of proud. “They’re...this is awesome,”

You can’t help but laugh a little, surprised but pleased with the reaction. Your books do fairly well, garnering a moderate amount of attention and the occasional creepy fan message, but Dean’s enthusiasm is...pure. He’s standing in your living room with wide eyes and an embarrassed blush creeping its way down under the collar of his t-shirt, and damn it you were supposed to be mad at him.

“I’ll sign copies for you as a thank you for the A/C,” comes out of your traitorous mouth instead. “If you want,”

Dean lights up like a little kid at Christmas, warmth spreading in your chest at his reaction. “That would be awesome. I mean, yeah. Yes, please. Thanks,” He says roughly. Dean swings the compact tool bag awkwardly, rocking back on his heels for a moment, and then he looks hastily back at your little air conditioner. “Well, that’s done, so…”

“Right,” you return quickly, suddenly painfully aware that it’s past midnight as you turn in the direction of the door. “I really do appreciate it, Dean. Bring me whatever you want me to sign sometime, okay?”

He’s still got that terribly endearing, vaguely-stunned expression on his face when you lock the door behind him.

The air’s had a chance to start working while you were talking with Dean, and you end up spread like a starfish on your bed after he leaves, reveling in the cooling air and the blessed silence. It’s the best sleep you’ve had in months.

Of course, because the universe and everything in it hates you with a mad passion, the reprieve only lasts two days. You’re sitting cross legged on your floor, scowling at your laptop and your misbehaving chapter, still cringing at the latest biting deadline reminder from your agent, when a soft whimper catches your attention.

For a moment, you’re prepared to dismiss it, hoping for the first and only time in your life that your apartment has rats. Kinky rats. “Fuck yeah, oh my god, want your cock so bad!”

You flop on your back on the floor helplessly, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes like that’s somehow going to make a difference. There’s a large part of you that just wants to shout through the wall that nobody in real life says shit like that when they’re having sex, but it probably wouldn’t do any good. “You have got to be kidding me,” you whisper aloud.

Then again, you weren’t sure what you were expecting. Getting Dean to fix your air conditioning hadn’t actually involved addressing his stupidly loud sexcapades. Because, of course, the thought of bringing that up to him made you want to crawl in a hole and die of embarrassment.

Defeated, you grabbed for your phone and pulled up your text conversation with Meg.

I need your help.

#supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #x reader #reader insert #series #supernatural fanfiction #spn

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d0llhousess · 4 years ago

Text

self care

⇢Pairing: Kimishita Atsushi x Reader

⇢Requested?: No

⇢warnings/tags?: fluff (like a sickening amount of fluff), Kimishita is so in love that it damn near hurts, mild language, proplayer!Kimishita, domestic fluff basically, established relationships, slightly nsfw? (they take a shower together but it’s not sexual lmao)

⇢Summary: Living with a significant other can be a hard adjustment, yet Kimishita believes that he’s adapting quite well. He just wishes that your night time routine wasn’t so damn long.

⇢word count: approx 2k

⇢A/N: this is completely self indulgent and I only wrote this because my night routine is hella long and i would love to force this grumpy boy to do it >.>

⤆ Back to the Masterlist �� ~ crossposted on ao3 ⤇

Kimishita likes to believe that he’s a simple man.

He doesn’t ask for much, and when he does ask for something, he likes to believe that it’s reasonable.

So when the two of you first moved in together, the only thing he asked from you was to give him space from time to time, and keep up with your end of the chores---and you follow those guidelines well. Sure, it’s still an adjustment. He has to get used to sharing his living space with another human being, your little habits, and even adjust his sleeping schedule to fit yours, but it isn’t anything to gripe too much about. Besides, your quirks and habits aren’t as bad as others, so he has no complaints.

Well, he has one complaint.

You take an abnormally long time to get ready for bed, and it drives him up a fucking wall.

Again, He is a simple man. He likes simple things such as patterned shirts, and going to bed at a reasonable time, yet apparently you do not.

At first, it didn’t bother him.

When you’d announce that you were heading to the bathroom to take a shower, he’d use that time to go over stats or past recorded games. Yet, instead of you exiting the bathroom after he’d done his work for the day, he’d find himself waiting in the bed for another hour completely alone.

When you finally appeared out of the steam filled bathroom, he’d question you, but you’d just get an oddly teasing glint in your eyes and say-- “If you’re so snippy about me taking such a long time, just join me.”

So that’s how he finds himself in your shared bathroom the next night, glaring at the array of products that littered the counter. Frankly, all he wanted to do was crawl into the bed and have you in his arms, but you insisted on taking him through this elaborate routine. His seemingly permanent scowl deepened as his eyes grazed over the multitude of products on the small bathroom counter, and he suppressed a slightly over dramatic sigh. How the hell did you do this every single night?

“You don’t have to do this with me, ya know?” He hears you say, and his eyes shift from the products to your soft, smiling face. You’re still dressed in your work clothing with your hair pulled away from your face, allowing him to see your radiant features. He knows that you’re attempting to give him an outing, that despite your eagerness to share this routine with him, you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. Kimishita’s gaze softens for a brief moment, and he looks back to the counter.

“Don’t be stupid,” He grumbles, hand going to rub the back of his neck, “I said I would do it with you, didn’t I?”

The only response you give him is a soft hum as you turn on the tap water, rinsing your hands off. His eyes follow your every movement, from the way you rinsed your fingers under the warm water, to the way you grabbed the facial cleanser off the counter once your hands were dry. Kimishita knows he should mimic your movements instead of just standing beside you like some idiot, but he just can't help but become entranced by you. Shit, you’re not doing anything extravagant, yet you somehow make the most mundane tasks look heavenly.

You turn to him, gazing him with those soft innocent eyes that made him fall for you in the beginning of your relationship. He holds your gaze as you begin to place the cleanser on his face, moving in small circular motions as your lips spread into an even larger smile.

“You do know that I could wash my own face, right?” He questioned, tone as gruff as ever, but you just let out a soft giggle that causes his heart to stutter.

“Yeah, but where is the fun in that, Atsu?” You coo as your eyes flicker over his features, “We’re supposed to be pampering ourselves.”

“No,” He denies, “We’re supposed to be getting ready for bed.”

You snort, eyes rolling as you continue your task, “Why does there have to be a difference?”

He doesn’t answer your question, instead he watches as you step away from him and begin to apply the cleanser onto your own face. Seconds pass, and once he’s rinsed the cleanser off his face, he aids you by turning on the shower water as you pat your face dry. His gaze meets yours once more in the reflection of the mirror, and he hears you giggle once again. His lips twitch into it’s seemingly natural frown, and he raises a brow.

“What?” He questions, and you shake your head, discarding the small periwinkle face towel in your hands.

“You’re just so cute.”

Kimishita’s brows furrows. He disagrees with your statement; he isn’t cute. Sure, he knows he’s attractive on some basic level, but cute just wasn’t an adjective meant to describe him. No, he was definitely not cute. But you? You were the cutest being he’s ever laid his eyes upon. Yet, he doesn’t tell you this. He just steps closer to you and begins to assist you in the task of removing your work clothing.

His touches are light as he avoids your gaze, quickly discarding your shirt and simple bra. He knows you’re staring at him with so much love in your eyes that if he met your stare head on, he’s sure his mind would short circuit.

Instead, he helps you step out your pants and underwear, hands skimming over the smooth skin of your thighs, listening to the light laughter that left your lips as he grazed over one of your ticklish areas. Suppressing a snort as you somewhat stumble to get your ankle out of your pants leg, he begins to undress himself, watching as you languidly move to check the temperature of the shower’s water before you stepped under the warm spray.

Once he is undressed, he joins you, a hand going to briefly rest itself on your waist as he reaches over you to grab the bodywash the pair of you share. Yet, before he could reach the translucent container, your hand is slapping at his wrist, and his eyes flicker down to your pouting face.

“We have to exfoliate first!” You exclaimed, reaching for a completely different bottle and a small handheld exfoliating brush.

His eyes rolled because of course there was an extra step. He waits for you to pour the concoction on the brush and reaches to take the brush away from you, but you’re shaking your head, moving your hand just out of his reach. He raises a singular brow in question, and you’re tilting your head.

“We’re pampering, remember?” You chastise him before going to exfoliate his warm damp skin.

He doesn’t know why it’s considered ‘pampering’ if you do the task, but he doesn’t complain. Hell, he can’t complain when your small hands are caressing his skin as if he were made of porcelain. The slightly humid air of the bathroom is quiet as you focus on your task, and Kimishita allows his eyes to roam. He examines your soft features, the slight flush of your skin from the hot water, the soft curves and contours of your body as you reach up to brush at his broad shoulders.

His eyes flicker to your smooth, pouty lips and before his mind can fully register his actions, he presses a soft kiss to your lips. Your movements still, eyes fluttering closed as you briefly indulge yourself in the soft kiss. There’s no heat in the kiss, no alternative motive for it. It’s just a simple peck between a man and the woman he loves. He pulls away, and once his eyes are fully open he can see the faint smile that plays onto your lips.

“I love you too.” You mummer before resuming your task, and he allows a small smile to make its way onto his lips. After he is rinsed off, he returns the favor, gliding the brush across your already smooth skin, and the two of you fall into a comfortable silence. You take turns washing each other's bodies and hair, and after many moments, he’s wrapping a warm fluffy grey towel around your figure.

As he begins to dry off his own body, he watches as you reach for the lilac scented lotion, and begin to massage the cream into your bare skin. He watches as your hands graze over the smooth planes of your body, and finds himself caught in a trance, only to blink out of it when he notices you handing the lotion to him. There's little ceremony in the way he quickly moisturizes his skin, and before he knows it, your small, soft hands are smoothing a toner across his unmarked face with freshly blow dried hair, and a pajama clad body.

You’re gazing at him again with those love sick eyes, and he sure his own gaze mirrors yours. As you move to gather the face moisturizer, he still thinks that you could cut at least five steps out of your nightly routine, but he can’t deny the fact that his body feels extremely relaxed. Fuck, even his mind feels relaxed, which is a rarity for his overactive brain. It takes every bit of willpower in his body to not simply fall asleep against the caresses of your fingers as they massaged the moisturizer into his skin.

“I promise we’re almost done,” You whisper, hands sliding down to his neck to massage the residue on your fingertips into his flushed skin. He just hums, opting to rub circles into the small patch of bare skin where your pajama shirt met your loose shorts.

Kimishita allows you to finish your routine in comfortable quietness, the only sound in the air is your soft humming of whatever song that has become stuck in your head. He doesn’t gripe at you to hurry up like he usually does. No, he just watches you buzz through your half of the routine, before he tugs you into your shared bedroom.

Finally, after almost two hours, he has you in his arms, something he has wanted since the moment you returned home from work. Your head is resting on his chest, and he knows you’re listening to the sound of his steady heartbeat. Eyes fluttering closed, he allows himself to give into the complete relaxation that his body felt.

He’s almost asleep, until he feels you begin to move.

“Atsu?” You call out softly, and he opens his eyes once again, peering down at you with an annoyed expression, but he knows his glare doesn’t deter you, instead it makes your smile widen. “It wasn’t that long, was it?”

Kimishita rolled his eyes for what seemed like the umpteenth time that night.

“Go to sleep.” He huffed out, shutting his eyes again, ears perking up slightly at the sound of your light jubilant giggles.

“I love you, Atsushi.”

Instead of verbally responding, Kimishita tilts his head down to place a small, soft kiss against your forehead. Settling back against his pillow, his fingers trail the side of your bicep.

“I love you too, idiot.”

#days tv #days #kimishita atsushi #kimishita atsushi x reader #oneshot

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smallblueandloud · 6 years ago

Text

i’ll take your part when darkness comes

summary: Her body is changing. She’s operating just as well on less and less sleep, and meals are more of a personal choice than a necessity. She’s not sure what’s going on, whether it’s the Void jumping or it has something more to do with the gold that she dreams of every night and the strings she can feel around her, like they’re tying everyone into some great tapestry that she can’t see yet.

She keeps jumping.

(or, Rose Tyler is more than human. this results in more good than bad)

(dimension hopping bad wolf!rose, journey’s end fixit, brief cameos by thirteen and ryan, the tenth doctor, the ninth doctor, and nine’s leather jacket.)

notes: this started germinating thanks to @doctorroseprompts' Bad Wolf!Rose prompts, so thanks, y'all. the title is from 'bridge over troubled water,' which fits the feeling of this story, but you should also listen to 'million years ago' if you want rose feelings.

if you voted today or in general for this midterm election, this story is dedicated to you!

read it on ao3 | more of my doctor who writing | more of my writing

Rose jumps.

Sometimes she sees people, or places, or events that she knows - “You don’t know a party until you’ve seen the Ymertle festival for the first rising of their sun in three years, Rose!” - but she never finds the one thing - personplaceeventsign - that she’s looking for.

Day after day, month after month, as the stars in the sky wink out on by one. It didn’t take them very long to find the right universe using the clothes that they’d been wearing that day, but even a single one is vast, and they’re only looking for one man.

It’s like the universe is taunting her. You’re running out of time. You’re never going to find him. You are a child who can’t do anything to save herself or those she loves.

Never let it be said that she listens to criticism.

She keeps jumping.

“Is there anyone else, who does what you do?” she asks him one afternoon. They’ve been having a lazy day in, watching telly and talking in the console room as he tinkers and reading their books seated next to each other in the library, most recently.

He sits up from his near-horizontal slouch. “What’dyou mean?” he asks, his mouth full of popcorn. He makes a face, chews exaggeratedly for a moment, and then swallows big and loud. Rose brings a hand up to cover her smile.

“I mean, the travelling. Are you the only person who does this?”

“Hmmm...” he says, tapping his lips and frowning. “I’m sure I’ve encountered... Well, I’m sure there is. Give me a moment.”

“You can’t remember, can you!” she exclaims, smiling wide and glad, so very glad to be here with him. “You can’t remember if you’ve run into anyone like you!”

“Now, that’s not fair-” he says, wagging a finger at her. “There are plenty of people that I’ve encountered over the years. There was this one woman- blonde, I think, her hair just like yours but short. She knew who I was before I introduced myself - told the woman next to her that I was the Doctor and to note the fact that I was in fact taller than both of them. I don’t know, I think it was for a bet.”

“You’re making that up!” Rose says, picking up a stray kernel and throwing it at him lightly, still smiling. “Tell me about someone who’s true!”

“Why, Rose Tyler, are you accusing me of telling tales?”

“‘M not accusing you of anything you don’t do already,” she says. “Now tell me a true tale.”

“I’ll have you know, that woman was completely true, and so was her friend Yasmin. Don’t quite remember her name, but the fact remains. Now, as for others... There were others, from my species, who travelled with me or did what I did even if they refused to be in the same room with me.”

“Oh,” says Rose, her smile disappearing rapidly, folding in on itself as she worries her lip. “I’m-”

“No, no, it’s quite alright,” he says, waving his free hand at her. His other is currently engaged in holding his book, a rather beaten-up copy of Pride and Prejudice. “You know, when I’m with you, it doesn’t make me as sad.”

“That so?” she asks, tilting up an eyebrow as she deems it not-touchy enough to tease him about. “Well, I’m flattered.”

“You should be!” he says, grinning at her, the wild mop of marvelous hair on his head almost sticking straight up. “Having the company of the Last of the Time Lords, that’s something to be proud of!”

“Shut up, you!” she says, picking up a handful of popcorn and hurling at him as she leans forward.

She meets the blonde woman for herself, one day. It’s her third jump in a row - Mickey and Pete and Jackie all hate it when she does them in sequence, but they’re running out of time and they don’t have time for unnecessary precautions or precautions in general - and she’s tired enough that she has to rub her eyes and make sure that she’s really seeing the sight in front of her.

“The famed Singing Towers of Darillium,” proclaims a guide a few meters away from her, to his motley group of assorted beings. He’d told her about them several times, said it was on his list of places he was saving for a special occasion.

(In the dark of night, when her body is exhausted but her mind is still racing, she wonders - what did he mean by a special occasion? What was he waiting for? What did he want-)

As she’s staring up in awe at the beauty of the deep brown towers against a slightly yellow sky, she hears a voice that stands out against the ethereal singing and noise of the crowds. The only reason why she could tell what the guide was saying was that he’d taught her the actual name for the Towers, in the original dialect and everything, just like he had with so much else. It’s kind of cheating, to use a Time Lord’s translation circuit, he’d said, tugging on his earlobe the way he did when he was afraid to tell her something. It’s good to learn what it’s really called!

But this voice catches her attention because the speaker is definitely English, just like her. As she freezes in a desperate attempt to hear what he’s saying, she catches nothing more than “Yasmin said she would catch up, and that wife of yours will keep her company, anyway! Come on, I want to go!”

She spins wildly, trying to find the speaker, and- there! He’s a black man - probably human, based on his accent, and gesturing at the Towers while speaking to someone she can’t quite see. She almost starts towards them, but stops.

The man is joined by a blonde woman - the blonde woman, smiling and nodding along with whatever he’s saying. She looks human, too, and for all that Rose knows she’s a companion and he’s the Doctor, from sometime before or even after her. But- she doesn’t want to rush up to just anyone-

She remembers the conversation that she had with the Doctor, so long ago. She hesitates. He’s not here with the Doctor, probably, especially after mentioning the famed Yasmin.

“Have you ever been here before?” he asks, gazing at the Towers with an inspired glint in his eyes. “God, I’d love to sit here forever. Earth doesn’t have anything like this!”

“You’d do them justice with that camera of yours, I think,” she replies, hopping forwards slightly. “And no, I haven’t been here before. I was planning to- we were going to come, a long time ago, but- but it- it didn’t happen. And then we never really remembered to, once everything was fixed. But my niece has been here before - highly recommended the scallops, in fact. Want to grab a quick bite?”

“Sure!” says the man, and they turn away from the Towers. Rose is so busy adjusting - this is the blonde woman, most likely, and this man is certainly human, from the way he’s talking - that she doesn’t realize that they’re headed directly towards her until they almost crash into her. The man apologizes hastily and then keeps walking, too absorbed in his surroundings to really worry about her. But the woman-

The woman stops stock-still right in front of her, staring at her face for several long moments. She glances quickly down, taking note of Rose’s leather jacket - it is what one wears after losing a home, after all - and her short hair. She swallows, and Rose notices that she’s suddenly gone bright pale, standing out against her blue shirt with stripes on it and long blue coat.

“You- you know who I am?” she asks. The woman nods slowly, apparently unwilling to say anything. Rose sighs. She has been searching for so long, and she is so tired. “Can you help me find him?”

The woman opens her mouth, holds up a finger, and closes it again. Sighs. Looks down at her again, sadness in her eyes. “I can’t. I’m sorry, I just- I can’t help you. It has to- it- No. I’m not going through this again.”

“Why not?” asks Rose, because she can’t let this chance go now. The woman doesn’t answer, just brushes past her and keeps walking. “Wait!” she calls, hurrying to follow her, but she’s disappeared into the crowd and the cannon is beeping, anyway. She sighs, slowing to a stop, and looks down, considering calling it quits for today. She’s exhausted, after all, and the woman is definitely not going to talk to her. It’s either waiting here for another twenty minutes or just leaving now. She makes her decision quickly and hits the return button.

Guess he wasn’t lying, she thinks, and feels the fade start to kick in as she’s pulled back through dimensions. I hope I get to tell him that he was right.

After the mess with the fireplaces and Madame du Pompadour, Rose- Rose elects to avoid the both of them for a few hours.

It’s for everyone’s good, really. If she sees either Mickey or the Doctor right now, she’s going to- she’s going to say something she’ll regret, and she doesn’t want to mess anything else up with either of them. So she’s just... removing herself from a dangerous situation.

Yes.

That’s what she’s doing.

Regardless of her motivations, she finds herself deep in the wardrobe room, thankfully far away from any kind of French clothing. Instead, she’s surrounded by various items of weird clothing, including - but not limited to - a waistcoat covered in question marks, a jacket with celery pinned to the front, and a multicolored scarf that’s got to be at least three meters long.

She’s not really sure what’s in this section, but something tells her to keep going. Sure enough, at the end of this row is hanging the one thing she really, really needs to see right now - the jacket. The jacket, the leather one that he wore when he was all big-ears and blue-eyes and sadness - the first him that she loved.

She takes the jacket off of its hanger and slides down to the ground, pulling the jacket up to her nose and breathing in the still-there smell of him.

This him that would never leave her anywhere.

“There isn’t anywhere I want you stranded,” is what he said when they were investigating a time window that led to pre-Revolutionary Russia, and now that she thinks about it, the similarities between that adventure and the rather awful one they just finished up with are rather numerous, aren’t they?

Except he told her what he was planning before he did it, and he even gave her a- a ribbon of some kind, that took her back to the TARDIS as soon as she needed it. This him, this time, did nothing of the sort.

Ah, he’s just being daft, she can hear him saying in her mind’s eye. His eyes are wide and his head is bobbing, the way that he always used to speak to her, like it was his favorite thing to do in the world. You know how daft I can be.

Yes, but you were never this bad, she thinks back, and then tries not to laugh at herself as she thinks about where is she is. Sitting on the ground, sniffing a jacket, and having an argument with the imaginary version of a man who’s long gone.

‘M not gone, Rose, he says, quietly, almost like he’s sitting next to her and rubbing her arm reassuringly. You know he would have moved heaven and earth if you had been in any kind of danger. You know he was going to come back for you.

I didn’t, though! she thinks, and he smiles, kind of sadly. Well, that needs to be fixed. Rose Tyler - and even imagining his voice saying her name is enough to bring tears to her eyes - I will always come for you. Wherever you are, however daft I’m being, whatever kind of jeopardy-friendly thing you’ve done, know that I will never leave you behind.

At some point, his voice has morphed, and now he sounds like her current Doctor - all Estuary, just like her own accent. She’s never dared to think what that might mean, how much he’s had off her in making himself, but she at least is sure that he still feels the same way that the last him did.

The last vestige of hurt softens in her heart, and she gets up, hanging the jacket up again for the next time someone will need it. Then she goes to her room, to get some sleep - because the hurt isn’t gone yet, and she still wants to be alone. But it’s better now, because she’s somehow sure now that he cares about her.

The how, though, she’s not quite sure about. But she’s tired, and it can wait another day.

She spends so much time thinking about their time together that she sometimes realizes things that he probably never intended for her to figure out. For example, she really doesn’t remember very much of what happened on the Game Station. Or that the TARDIS was more telepathic than she ever realized, and that so was he.

That the “imaginary” conversation that she had with him after the France incident? Was probably Her being meddling and showing her how he was really feeling in that moment.

It explains why everything he did for the weeks following fit exactly with what he said in her head, she realizes in the middle of a jump to some kind of beach planet in the middle of a twin-sun galaxy.

The realization makes her pause, and she doesn’t check her surroundings as soon as she should’ve.

This immediately results in her arrest, because apparently blonde hair is illegal in this part of the planet. Of course, all of her effects are confiscated, including the canon and her jacket - which she hunted through parallel-London for days to find - the first time she’d really done anything, after the Bay. She isn’t about to abandon it anywhere, and of course, the canon is programmed to automatically return to Pete’s World after thirty minutes. So she has to get to it before her ride leaves her behind.

It’s not really that difficult to break out and steal it back, though. And in the process, she discovers a planet-wide corruption scheme with a side of trafficking innocent beings. All in all, not an awful day - and everyone lives, which not even the Doctor can claim to have the best track record with. She turns everyone into the proper authorities and resets the timer on the canon, which she’d turned off as soon as she caught word that something was up. “You take a stand,” she remembers telling her mother, as she dusts off and dons her jacket again.

It’s remarkably similar to what her life with the Doctor was like, how they would turn up in a random place and be exactly what those people needed at that exact moment. She’d asked him about it, once, about how there was no way anyone - even him - is that lucky.

“Oh, well, the TARDIS is an eleventh-dimensional being, Rose,” he’d said, pulling on his left earlobe. “She can see all that’s happened and all that will happen. Is it any surprise that she meddles and takes us places where she thinks we’ll be useful?”

“I guess not,” she’d responded, shrugging.

So their destinations hadn’t been as random as she’d previously thought. But where she goes, when she’s dimension-hopping with the canon, is completely random, because they can’t really be more precise than ‘this certain dimension.’ Time period, location - all are so off because of the having-to-go-through-the-void-first that it’s impossible to know where she’s headed.

Except this isn’t the first time that she’s been placed right-smack in the middle of some kind of revolution.

(It’s been happening with alarming frequency, actually, considering that they really don’t have any time to waste with saving people that the Doctor could probably save with much better efficiency.)

The coordinates are completely random, though. There’s no way that they could be anything but. She designed the algorithm herself. She knows that it’s foolproof.

Of course, she knows that she designed it in kind of a daze, after waking up from a dream with the theory behind the algorithm fully formed. The dream had been full of gold light, distant, distorted screaming, and pain. She woke up with tears on her cheeks and on her pillow and the sense that if she just reached, she could reach, and pluck the strings of -

Jack. And the Doctor. Which is ridiculous, and doesn’t make any sense. But the lack-of-memories that she has, about creating the algorithm, reminds her of that period of time between ripping the TARDIS open and waking up on the floor of the ship with a regenerating Time Lord in front of her. She feels like there’s something missing there, something important that she should really be thinking about, but- but she’s too busy to be chasing dreams, despite how much she-

I bring life.

Despite how much it intrigues her. Because somehow, if there’s something influencing her jumps-

If the TARDIS is somehow interfering with her, even from another universe-

She tries not to think about it.

She keeps jumping.

She doesn’t ask the Doctor about Jack, again. She tried, of course, but he waved her off and then he was regenerating and they were crashing and she had the worst headache-

And then she tries one more time, one quiet evening where he’s doing repairs and she’s slouched on the jumpseat, reading some Agatha Christie. He drops his wrench as soon as the question leaves her lips, and then with a flat voice tells her that he doesn’t want to talk about it.

Well, that’s confirmation enough for her. He’d said before that he was “rebuilding the Earth,” but she can tell a lie when she sees one.

She doesn’t try to ask him about Jack again.

But she doesn’t forget, either. She loves Jack, of course she does, of course she still does, because everyone falls a little in love with Jack. He’s always charming and considerate and caring and he always treated everyone like they were the centre of his universe. Which they were - he orbited around people, after all, and if he got a little caught up in their personalities and forgot a little bit of his, she always pretends not to notice.

Or she did.

Because he’s gone, now, and however much she loves him isn’t going to bring him back.

Sometimes, there’s a glimpse- a vague memory of “I give life-”

He isn’t coming back.

She gets fed up with the silence on the Doctor’s end and the sadness on hers, and clears his stuff out of the kitchen, and the library, and the television room, and the console room. The TARDIS helps her out, moves his room close by, and the first time she walks inside, she has to stop and try to hold back tears because it smells like him. Her best friend, or one of them, at least, and the man who loved her so much that he kissed her softer than anyone ever had before and said that she was worth fighting for. She will never stop missing him, never stop loving him, but she has to move on.

The Doctor is an expert at that, and she needs to figure out how to.

So she dumps all of his crap - his coats, and books, and notebooks that she will never read, never breach his trust and his secrecy - onto his bed, which he never really slept in, and turns to walk out.

She stops at the doorway, though. Stops, and hesitates, and then kisses her fingertips and presses them to the doorway.

If I could bring you back, Jack, she thinks, and ignores the gold-gold-gold-pain in her mind, I wouldn’t hesitate. She exhales, and tastes the salt of her tears.

I’m so sorry.

She closes his door.

Rose’s dimension hopping gets less and less random, it seems.

One day, she ends up on some kind of dystopian form of Earth, arriving just in the nick of time to save a woman from being killed by some sort of- some kind of flying spheres, or something. She never catches the woman’s name, in the days that she spent with her afterwards, because she was wanted by the overlord and he’d stop at nothing to kill her. Her name is kept secret - everyone calls her Canterbury, or the Walker, or the Preacher, and pretends not to know who she really is - and every time they leave a town, word comes hours later that it’s been decimated, or at least searched thoroughly by the main man’s forces.

She thinks it’s a all little cliche, personally. What kind of person calls themself the Master?

But she’s in the right place at the right time, again, and it feels like there are ants under her skin every time she considers not doing anything, so she just does what she can and then gets the bloody hell out of there as soon as possible.

She keeps jumping.

Mickey’s worried about her, like he always has been, since they were first stuck in this bloody universe. She tends to ignore him, until his worrying gets to the point where it might hurt the mission, and then she goes to sleep for a couple of hours and eats something real, to make him feel better.

Her body is changing. She’s operating just as well on less and less sleep, and meals are more of a personal choice than a necessity. She’s not sure what’s going on, whether it’s the Void jumping or it has something more to do with the gold that she dreams of every night and the strings she can feel around her, like they’re tying everyone into some great tapestry that she can’t see yet.

She keeps jumping. She tries not to let anyone notice, but eventually Pete does, because he cares about her and she forgets to account for that. He corners her without making her feel like she’s cornered, and tells her that his door is always open to her, regardless of what it’s about.

Rose doesn’t want to go to him.

She lasts three days before she breaks down and tells him everything.

First he wants to go to her mum, which she vetoes immediately. Then he tries for Mickey, and she shuts that down too. They may be the only other people who have any idea of what happened that day they pulled the TARDIS open - the day that she thinks is the cause of all of this.

He puts his foot down on the doctor issue though, and drags her to Torchwood medical. It’s kind of the middle of the night, and Owen, everyone’s usual doctor, may be crazy but he isn’t this crazy. Instead there’s a woman manning the office who looks to be straight out of med school.

When they approach her, her back is turned and they can’t see her face. But when she turns around to greet them-

The flash of gold hits her so strong that she almost falls down. This was meant to be, it seems to whisper, curling around her bones with the comfort that she hasn’t felt since she woke up the morning her life ended. Don’t let this go to waste.

“Hello,” says the woman. “I’m Martha Jones, I’m the new doctor here at Torchwood. What do you need?”

Pete goes through a heavily redacted version of the story as Rose stares at her in shock. She met this woman, not a week ago, both of them running for their lives in what she assumed was a dystopian world that only bore a passing resemblance to Earth.

It’s incredibly unlikely that Canterbury - Martha - was on any kind of alien planet. She was on Earth, most likely. That was Earth. And Rose never listened to any of her stories at all, really - she was too busy trying to keep the both of them alive - but she knows that she was always talking about some man who changed her life, showed her how enormous the universe could be.

Either Martha had been travelling with the Doctor or some other sort of alien. And the Doctor’s the only one who really does what he does, except the blonde woman. And Martha never mentioned any blonde women.

She has to resist the urge to groan out loud. She was right there, with someone very likely to be her replacement, or maybe one of those people who came before her, and she had a link to the Doctor. Right there.

She comes back to reality - her awful, disappointing reality - as Martha begins to check her temperature and ask her questions about her current physical state, still chatting with Pete. She’s midway through a question about the new tech that’s supposed to be on the way when Rose interrupts, still feeling like she’s dreaming.

“What made you join Torchwood?” she asks, wincing internally, but she has to know. If this Martha’s met an alien that wasn’t the Doctor before, chances are that the other Martha was on another planet without any help from the Doctor. And that means she didn’t completely botch her mission when her goal was at her fingertips. “Have you met an alien before?”

Martha laughs self-consciously, threading a strand of hair that’s come loose from her braid behind her ear. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. I mean, I’m curious about them and all, but really it’s because my cousin works here, and I’d just come out of medical school with a shiny new doctorate and no one to practice on, and she said that Torchwood might be looking for a doctor who’d be willing to work the night shift. And here I am!”

“Oh, what’s your cousin’s name?” asks Rose, her mind still whirring. It was him, then. No doubt about it.

“Adeola, but I think everyone here calls her Addy,” says Martha absently, shining a light in her eyes. “Open wide.”

Rose obeys, and refuses to meet Pete’s eyes. The odds of her meeting parallel Martha, just after meeting not-parallel Martha, are so small that her brain refuses to even think about the numbers.

This can’t be a coincidence, she thinks, and hears the echo of the Doctor’s voice in her ears. “Is it any surprise that she meddles and takes us places where she thinks we’ll be useful?”

I guess not, she thinks in response. But Martha could have fended for herself, even in that hell of an Earth. She was perfectly competent. She didn’t need me.

A message to lead myself here swirls out of the depths of her brain next. But I needed her. That seems more apt, somehow, and it sticks in her mind for the next hour or so that she spends sitting on the examination table, Pete standing in the corner and Martha taking various measurements.

“So, I’ve got something, and you’ve probably figured it out, Rose,” says Martha, jotting down some final notes on her clipboard. Rose startles out of her thoughts, her voice not quite working enough to say anything yet.

“What’s the diagnosis?” asks Pete after a minute of silence, and Martha shrugs.

“You’re perfectly healthy, as far as I can tell. You’re not showing any signs of distress or outer changes. It just seems like your base rates for, well, for just about everything have changed.”

“What does that mean?” asks Rose, her heart in her throat.

“We won’t know until we get the genetic testing back - that’s something you asked for, right?” She waits for their twin nods to the affirmative before continuing. She’s very young and a little unsure, Rose notices, very unlike the competent and confident Canterbury that she’d met in the other universe. Travelling with him changes people, she thinks, and looks at her hands. Sometimes literally.

“But what I would guess is that you’re not... you’re not quite human anymore.”

Pete sucks in a breath, but true to Martha’s prediction, Rose isn’t very surprised.

“Um- now would be when I recommend a treatment plan, but I don’t think there’s anything we can do about this,” says Martha, “unless you all are hiding some kind of genetic recoding device?”

That phrase sends a shot of deja-vu through Rose, even though she’s never heard of anything like that. Maybe the other Martha dealt with some kind of device that was similar, and- and whatever this is recognizes that. “No, no, we don’t have anything like that,” she says, and slides off of the table unsteadily. “Thank you very much, Dr. Jones.”

“Oh, well- of course,” says Martha. “Keep an eye on your body and all, okay? Tell me if anything major changes.”

Rose is sure she must say something in response, but she’s not aware of doing so. She walks out the door in a daze, making it a few steps before she sinks down to the ground.

Everything is numb, and the one functioning corner of her brain is pretty sure she’s in shock.

I’m not human anymore, she thinks, and then, is this what the TARDIS wanted?

She remembers a long-ago conversation that they had together, the night they met Sarah Jane. “I don't age. I regenerate. But humans decay. You wither and you die. Imagine watching that happen to someone who you-” Then the fatal hesitation.

“You can spend the rest of your life with me, but I can't spend the rest of mine with you.”

Rose is willing to bet that she’s still physically twenty years old. In fact, probably the exact same age as she was when she woke up on the TARDIS floor with a splitting headache and a regenerating Time Lord on her hands.

God, this is the most ironic thing that’s ever happened to her, isn’t it?

An eternity of life, a completely new species, and no one who could possibly understand it except the one man who she can’t seem to find.

“Bollocks,” she says out loud, and somehow, that makes things a bit better.

Rose meets Mickey when she’s four years old.

Well, really, it’s her mum, and it’s Mickey’s gran who meets her. Louisa’s worried about Jackie, all alone in her apartment with no one to help her take care of her little girl, and she offers child care whenever the other woman needs it.

Jackie’s touched, but she politely refuses. She doesn’t need any help, she’s managing just fine on her own.

She lasts three weeks before bringing a wailing Rose to Louisa Smith’s doorstep, exhausted and almost in tears. Lou takes one look at her and ushers her inside.

It kept happening sort of like that, until Jackie realizes that it would probably be healthier for her if she asked for help before she was at the end of her rope, and then eventually gets to the point where she’s able to take Mickey for the evening.

It works out well: both children get a playmate, both women get a break once in a while, and they all eventually come together into a family.

Rose doesn’t remember her life without Mickey. She never really wanted to date him, just felt like she should (which should not be the basis for a relationship, she knows that now) but she still loves him deeply.

And he never stops worrying about her.

“What do you mean, Rose isn’t human?” asks Mickey, as Rose is double-checking the data on the dimension canon before her next jump. It’s been about eighteen hours since she and Pete left Martha’s small clinic downstairs, and she’s now approaching thirty six hours of no sleep. And she feels fine, not drowsy or sleepy or anything.

How did it take her this long to realize something was up, again?

She tells Mickey about the lack of sleep, and how infrequently she’s been eating, and how once she landed on the Titanic and felt like there were bugs under her skin that stayed there until she finally left. How as soon as the thought of changing something entered her mind, it got so bad that she had to lie down for a full hour. Time senses, she realizes now, and pushes the thought aside.

He’s shocked - of course he is - but they have a job to do, and after a minute he’s able to push it aside, which she’s grateful for.

“Stay safe,” he says, as she fades away.

She fades in on a planet and ducks as soon as she’s solid, almost out of instinct. A second later, a bullet comes whizzing straight over her head.

That was weird, she thinks.

She keeps jumping.

The next planet, she says, “Everybody just calm down!” before her vision has cleared, and once it does she sees that she’s just stopped a murder from happening.

She keeps jumping.

One day, she feels the fraying of two strands somewhere where she thinks Earth is. They feel like Tosh and Owen - but different (parallel). She reaches out, safely tying them back into the tapestry without interfering past that.

She keeps jumping.

She feels some instinct telling her to walk faster, and a vehicle whizzes by, right where she was just standing. She gets a strong feeling that she should go into an alley, and finds a child who’s in the process of escaping their kidnappers. She meets a woman whose string in the tapestry of she’s-not-sure-what seems to burn brighter than anyone else’s, and when she carefully sets the cannon to fifty cycles in the future it turns out that she was the best leader that the planet had ever had.

She shakes her head and tries to keeps jumping. The most important thing is to find the Doctor, not to waste time on helping people.

(“If there's one thing I'm certain of, when people need help, I never refuse,” whispers her brain, and instead of leaving, she stays and makes sure the smuggling ring is shut down. “Good job,” says the voice in her brain, and it sounds familiar somehow.)

It’s small things which train her. At some point, she starts turning up in places where things aren’t right, and she can tell that they should be different. She changes the settings on the cannon, feeling like she’s living in a dream, sends herself back ten years, and fixes the part of history that’s broken.

Every time she asks a question, whispering it in the depths of her mind, she gets an answer, or she gets the mental equivalent of a pat on the head and a go find out for yourself. Which she proceeds to do.

She leads. She grabs peoples’ hands and tells them to run. She helps out where she’s needed and pisses off when she’s not.

One day, she wakes up and realizes that she’s the Doctor.

That day, she’s out of bed and in Torchwood before she really becomes aware of what she’s doing. Her fingers still on the dial where she’s been inputting coordinates into the cannon.

She’s never inputted coordinates by hand before. They’ve always been randomly generated by a computer system that makes sure wherever she lands has solid ground and oxygen. It’s tremendously unsafe - and stupid - to set them herself.

She finishes setting them and straps herself in. No one’s here today - it’s the middle of the night, why is she here - but she feels like she has to do this.

Rose hits the button, and fades out. When she lands, the pain in her head is so excruciating that she has to bend over for a second, terrified. The fear - and the sadness, god, what went wrong here? - grip her so strongly that she can’t move for a second. When it fades, she’s left with the strongest instinct she’s ever had, to start running and never stop.

Her instincts haven’t led her wrong once, since this whole weirdness started. She takes off, jogging and then running and then sprinting, feeling like there’s something behind her but also that she’s going to miss something vital if she doesn’t get there on time-

But all there is is police tape, and an ambulance, and a ginger woman staring at the scene in front of her. Rose slows to a stop. Everything inside of her is screaming that this woman is important, that she’s the only one who can- who can fix something? She’s not sure what.

“What happened? What did they find?”

“I don't know. Bloke called the Doctor or something,” says the woman. Rose feels the planet - the Earth, because that’s where she is - drop out from beneath her.

“Where is he?” she asks, desperately, hoping to god this isn’t what it looks like. The woman shakes her head, her eyes looking sad.

“They took him away. He’s dead.” Rose brings a hand to her face. The woman searches her eyes, curious. “I’m sorry. Did you know him? I mean, they didn’t say his name.”

“I came so far,” she whispers, the words falling out before she can stop them. And isn’t that an understatement. She worked for years, developing the canon and getting a lock on the right parallel, and she’s been jumping for almost seventeen months now. Far is a gross oversimplification of what she’s done to get here today, and it isn’t fair.

“It could be anyone.”

Rose stops for a second - her grief almost pausing, her thoughts clicking into place and the sadness leaving her at once - to look at the other woman. “What’s your name?” she asks, curious, grasping at straws. This woman, the only one who witnessed them take him away, she must be important. She wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t important. She wouldn’t- he couldn’t-

“Donna,” she says. Donna Noble, whispers the voice in her head that she’s sure is the TARDIS at this point. The most important woman in all of creation. She travelled with him, but not here. Not now.

What does that mean? sends Rose, desperately. What am I supposed to do if he’s dead? Now that he’s dead? What’s left?

“And you?” asks Donna Noble, former or maybe future companion of the Doctor.

“Oh, I was- I was just passing by,” says Rose. “This is- this is wrong. This is so wrong.”

She falls into silence for a second, before shaking herself back to where she is. “Sorry, what was it you said? Donna, right?” She can barely see her timeline now, but it’s the dullest, darkest yellow she’s ever seen.

If she focuses just right, on a point just behind Donna, she can see one that’s bright gold, twisting and turning on itself the way a time traveller’s should.

“Why do you keep looking at my back?” asks Donna, interrupting her focus. Rose frowns. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” says Donna. “Why does everyone keep doing that?”

What am I doing here? asks Rose, and for once she receives no answers.

They’re back on Earth, so that Rose can see Mickey and Jackie can slap the Doctor again.

(Rose is kidding when she says that.

Mostly.)

But they’ve only been travelling together for a couple of months, and he did take her away for a year, so Rose sort of understands why her mother is so cautious about him.

But anyways. He’s parked the TARDIS in the usual spot in the courtyard, and they get out, Rose laughing like an idiot and him smiling indulgently at her.

She’s still not sure if he sees her as just a stupid human or not, but she’s getting a good feeling about him, and them. Of course he’s the sweetest person she’s ever met, and smoking hot all the same, but-

He stops smiling, abruptly, and reaches out an arm, pushing her behind him and against the TARDIS.

“Doctor? What’s going on?”

“A bit of hush, Rose,” he says, quietly, pulling out his sonic and scanning their surroundings. “There’s someone here that doesn’t belong on Earth.”

“What? What’dyou-”

She’s interrupted by the beeping of the sonic, pointing at the dark corner where she met that weird bloke, last New Year’s. She hasn’t forgotten the encounter because it-

No. That’s not right. That was only a dream, it never really happened.

Or did it? Her memories seem to be shifting.

The sonic continues beeping, jolting her out of her thoughts. The Doctor listens to the results - he gets them telepathically, he’s always said - and then abruptly puts his hand down, sighing softer than she’s heard before.

“That you, then?”

The person in the shadows says, “Yeah,” in a voice so soft that Rose can barely hear it. It sounds very familiar, though, and if she just strains-

“You’re not with me,” says the Doctor, his voice flat.

“No,” agrees the person.

“Why are you here, then?” he asks, and there’s some fire in his eyes again. “What do you want?”

“I just wanted to see you. See, there’s-” they hesitate. “-there’s something going on with the stars, and a woman named Donna Noble. Remember that name. She’s important.”

“I will,” he promises. It’s almost like he’s forgotten her, and he’s talking with this woman with more warmth in his voice than she’s ever heard-

Or not. Actually, now that she’s listening to him, it sounds a lot like how he sounds when he’s talking to her.

“I should- I should get going before I change anything,” says the person, and Rose barely avoids stifling a gasp. That’s her voice. Hers. How did she not recognize it before?

“Stay safe,” he says, and then clears his throat. “And really, don’t mess anything up. Don’t you know how dangerous it is to trespass on your own timeline?”

“Yes,” says Rose from the- from the future. Her voice sounds watery. “Hug Mum for me, alright, Rose?”

“Yeah- yeah, of course,” says Rose, and then there’s a- a movement, of some kind, and then there’s no one in the shadows any more.

“How did that- how is that possible?” she asks, and the Doctor shakes his head. “I don’t want to think about it. Let’s go inside, eh?”

“Sure,” says Rose, but she can’t put it out of her mind.

Until, of course, the Game Station, at which point it is quite forcibly put out of her mind.

And that’s the end of that.

Rose fixes the Donna situation, with the thing on her back. Of course she does. She’s got all the tools to be the Doctor (including a TARDIS and a UNIT, this time) and plenty of experience. And Donna isn’t half bad herself. She’s clever, and compassionate, and completely without an idea of her own worth.

Rose thinks she’s wonderful. She knows why the Doctor travels with her, now.

Solving the situation, though - the nightmare one where the Doctor is dead - seems easy, now, though, once she’s done with it. Because now she’s stuck on Earth, not wanting to risk another cannon jump, and she’s dead in the water because neither Mickey nor anyone else know where she is. She’d jumped here in the middle of the night, after all, and she hasn’t left since she first met Donna, on that street just after they’d taken his body away.

And that’s when she hears it. That’s when they all hear it. “Exterminate” is broadcasted across the Earth, so that every human can hear it, and that’s when she knows this is it - this is when she’ll find him - because it always comes down to Daleks, doesn’t it?

Always.

But Rose isn’t just Rose anymore, a valiant child in a blue fuzzy sweater who tried to bluff Torchwood and failed. This Rose can reach out her hand and nudge someone’s timeline askew, just as easily as she can go back in time and put it back in place. She’s saved planets and galaxies and woken up from a dream, one day in Donna’s wrong parallel timeline, that helped her realize exactly what she’d done to Jack Harkness.

I’m sorry, Jack, she thinks, for the fifth time since, and then: could you help me, Jack?

He won’t remember the Donna timeline, but that’s alright - he’d accepted her there and he would accept her now, especially with Daleks roaming the streets.

She looks down at the cannon and squeezes her eyes shut. What are Jack’s coordinates? she asks.

No answer.

She opens her eyes and glares at the cannon, as if the spirit of the TARDIS inside of her can see her glare. Where is Jack?

No answer except the feeling of a slightly patronizing pat on the head and the vague impression of you should be more patient.

She looks up and glances around the abandoned street that she’s on. There’s nothing here, nothing and no one. Rose briefly considers bashing her head against the nearest hard surface, because it seems to not be working properly. She’s wasting time being here when she could-

There. She gets a feeling that she’s never felt before but she recognizes, in her heart. The TARDIS. Oh, how I’ve missed you, darling.

(The giant gun that Pete had R&D build for her is in the corner of the cannon room, back in parallel Torchwood, and she’s absurdly happy that she’d managed to convince him that she was capable enough to stay alive without excessive amounts of firepower.)

She begins to hear the sound as a wind starts to sweep the street. The sound of hope, the sound of home comes echoing all around her, and it’s all been worth it.

(Mickey is probably still asleep, her mother feeding Tony, neither of them with any clue of where she is. They’re not apart of this, and there’s no chance that they can be captured or hurt.)

The sound stops, and the TARDIS sits in front of her in all of her glory.

(Almost absent-mindedly, Rose reaches out around her, feeling the ugly black string of a dalek that leads to this street in a couple of seconds, the only dalek fated to score a hit on the Doctor this entire night.)

Slowly, the door opens, and Donna steps out, looking around and somehow missing Rose, standing slightly to the side of her field of vision.

(Rose reaches out to the strand of fate that binds the dalek to this universe, this time, to existence, and snaps it in half.)

As Donna notices her, the TARDIS door opens and time seems to slow down.

(Or is she really, actually, properly slowing it down? Can she even do that?)

Rose watches as the Doctor steps out, his hair completely sticking up, and her hands ache to run through it.

(Hello, says her mind to the mind that is oh-so-familiar. Missed you.)

He looks up sharply, and sees her, a grin slowly unfurling on his face like the most beautiful banner she’s ever seen.

(Hello, he sends in reply. I missed you too.)

And then they’re both running, suddenly, and it seems poetic that they started running and they’ve come so far but they’re still running.

She’s not sure of the moment when they collide, just that they do, and she feels the thud-thud-thud of two hearts and fists her hands in the material of his brown suit.

They pull back for a second, just so that they can look each other in the eyes. “Hello,” she says, at the same time that he says, “I love you.”

She stares at him for a second, shocked beyond belief, before the meaning of his words hit her and she pulls him closer, pulls him close enough to press her lips to his.

And the universe sings.

#ficandchips #doctorroseprompts #dwfic #ten x rose #rose tyler #sb and l writes #fic: i'll take your part when darkness comes #here's hoping people enjoy this because i'm very proud of this story

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karmaticinstitution · 6 years ago

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Sleep to Rise Again

BakuDeku Positivity Week 2018 || Rise

WC: 2242 | Chapters : 1/2

Bakudeku sleeping habits over the years.

Bakugou at age five rioted at the prospect of naps, at having a bedtime, at being forced to rest. He was a force of nature, nearly impossible to put to bed. There was too much thrill to being awake, too much excitement for him to stuff it down in favor of something as pathetic as rest. Sleep was for the weak. Heroes didn’t have time for sleep.

Or that’s how it seemed when Bakugou was five years old.

“Katsuki. It’s. Time. For. Bed.” Mitsuki scolded through gritted teeth, trying to drag her runt of a son away from the latest battle in Musutafu being covered on the news. It was far too late for him to be sat on the floor, eyes glued to the television screen to absorb every detail and commit it to memory.

“Deku’s going to know all about it without me then,” he yells back with far more aggression than the average five year old should be able to contain in such a small body.

“You have school tomorrow,” she fires back, still trying to pull him away from the spot he’s still trying to keep himself into, keeping his center of gravity low and clinging to whatever he can.

“Exactly! How can we talk about it tomorrow if I don’t know what happens!” Resistance is nearly futile with Katsuki as she finally lets go, unceremoniously dropping him back onto the floor.

“Izuku probably hasn’t seen it either. He’s probably already in bed, unlike you, brat.” she tries to reason with him. If his best friend can’t be used as motivation, she doesn’t know what will work at this point. It’s the same battle every single day.

She huffs, dissatisfied with this losing battle, “You can finish this one and then bed. Don’t complain about being tired tomorrow.”

He hardly even acknowledges her, riveted on the screen once more as he sees explosions in the background, fascinated by the heroes on display. Stifling a yawn, he tries to form a miniature explosion to match the ones on the screen, amazed with his new quirk development.

“How many times do I have to tell you: no quirks in the house, Katsuki.” Mitsuki opens one eye from where she sits waiting on the couch behind him, falling asleep. He barely pays her any mind, not unusually, until he himself dozes off on the carpet, television still playing recaps of the fight from earlier that day.

She tuts as she picks him up easily now that he’s dead to the world, unable to stay awake any longer, and tucks him into bed. Sleep is when he defies every opinion anyone forms of Bakugou in the daytime: quiet, sweet, and peaceful. She smiles knowing this is definitely not going to be the case.

And it definitely isn’t when he wakes up ready to wreak havoc on the world, stomping through their apartment and crankily yelling first thing in the morning while he brushes his teeth. At least she gets a few hours where her son isn’t a complete brat.

When Bakugou is fifteen, he loves to sleep. He adores it, worships the bed he sleeps on and is grateful for any second of slumber he can get.

Days at Yuuei are exhausting with the way he puts his all into powering his quirk, competing with his classmates, trying to be better on his way to becoming the number one hero of his generation.

He just got his hero costume, exact to its measurements, composed exactly as he’d requested with what are effectively grenades on his hands. It’s about a week in and he’s still adjusting, as most of his peers are, except for those who’re already near perfection (Todoroki) or aren’t impacted by their costume (Jirou). He heads to the locker rooms, grimy and drenched in sweat. It soaks through his tank top, leaving it to cling to his form.

Unlocking the door to his unit, he eyes himself in the mirror, seeing the darkening bags beneath his eyes. Kirishima’s shoulders drop at his own form, “Man, that could have gone so much better.”

He doesn’t even bother looking to know Kaminari is also upset by their loss as a team, but also woozy after short-circuiting, left drooling and running on automatic until he can recharge with some food, a battery, and a nap.

“Oh, man. Do you think they can get this fixed before next time,” Midoriya bemoans from his seat on the bench. Bakugou remembers the wreck of his costume, he’s most of the reason it’s torn off his body and Midoriya is half naked with only the bare minimum hanging off his core.

Bakugou slides off his grenades, locking them up for safekeeping, watching Todoroki come up behind Midoriya. He slides a hand over his bare back, “I don’t think this can be fixed at all.”

Iida chimes in, “Have you considered a different material entirely? Perhaps something that…,” a glance at the ruins of the green fabric, “doesn’t end up gone after every battle.”

Midoriya sighs, face rubbing the grime on his face. Bakugou spares a moment as he tugs off his arm sleeves, glazing over Midoriya’s figure, noting the freckles spackling his shoulders, the scars branding his body, the definition of his muscle.

He slams his locker door shut to snap himself out of his reverie, “I’m going to bed. None of you fucks bother me tonight.”

His friends are all too quick to nod, knowing how seriously Bakugou takes his sleep. The last time someone tried to interrupt, calling Bakugou down for a game in the lounge, Kirishima got a fist to the face and barely managed to harden his skin in time. Nobody is willing to make the same mistake twice.

At age sixteen, he values his sleep, but he resents it, the way it leaves him more tired than when he went to bed, the way it lets his mind wander and reinvent his capture, grasping at any rest free of nightmares.

“Bakugou Katsuki, more villainous than a hero,” Dabi taunts him from the nearest bar stool.

He fights it, thrashing against his seat, hands restrained and mouth enclosed in a metal barrier. He’s treated like a feral animal, chained up and quieted against his every will. It’s just a dream and he can tell by the way his hands clip through the cuffs like a video game glitch. It doesn’t stop the echoing in his head, sounding all too real.

“If you try anything, you’ll just blow up your own hands. And then you’re what?”

“Unloved?” Twice chimes in from his lean against the opposite wall. “No, no. Pathetic,” he changes his mind.

Himiko bends towards him, finger to her chin and licks her lips, “A bloody,” he can hear her salivating in surround sound, “bloody,” she squeals, “ mess .”

He can feel tears pricking his eyes. It’s true , his mind doesn’t ease him any.

“He’s an asshole. Nothing more than a success of his quirk. What, when he doesn’t have it?”

Shigaraki doesn’t move, but directs some of his hands towards Bakugou, hovering the loose limbs over his wrists. He taps his dried fingers on the skin, leaving Bakugou’s skin crawling with an itch nobody could scratch. He thrashes under the touch to no avail.

“Maybe we can find out if he doesn’t want to join us. I could just...,” He presses four fingers into his skin at once. His muscles are tense, taught under the tension in his veins and the skin goes white from the pressure of Shigaraki’s touch, digging into the tissue.

He can see the last finger approaching his skin, almost in slow motion and he screams. The metal wrapped around his face digs into his cheeks and springs tears to his eyes. His face red in anger, in frustration at this weakness. Why isn’t Deku here yet? Is his last thought as he continues to scream, muffled under the muzzle until he’s not there anymore.

And he’s thrashing against his sheets, sweating and panting. His screams die out, only a hollow noise coming through his open mouth as his eyes take in his surroundings. When he finally regains his breath, he’s sprawled out, sheets pushed off to the side. He shudders, chest heaving as he looks at the time, a bright white 3:06 displayed on his phone.

He groans, wishing for some undisturbed sleep for once, but it doesn’t seem to be coming any time soon.

At eighteen, Bakugou misses the bare minimum of sleep he used to get because it’s even less now. Being a hero is everything expected, but it’s also more the way he leaves early in the morning and trudges in, barely willing to cook and eat dinner, before sleeping in the middle of the night. Even then, he’s on call and frequently at that.

He slides into his apartment, sparse with belongings and minimalistic in design. It has a few photos hung on the walls and they shake when he slams the door shut behind him in exhaustion. He sees a few in the corner of his eye as he walks to his room. He doesn’t need to look to know exactly what they look like.

Midoriya and him playing with an All Might action figure in their youth. His parents and him after his eighth birthday. It was just them, not that he’d had many friends at the time which was entirely his fault. He’s acknowledged that after some time. It’s a large time gap between that photo and the next— a series of him and Midoriya. His eighteenth birthday party, more of a get-together with the people he finally considers something of friends. Midoriya’s eighteenth birthday party, much more populated, with an entire crowd of attendees, but all of the photos from that night have Midoriya’s eyes glued to Bakugou. The pair of them hanging over each other after graduation, celebratory thrill embedded in their expressions.

He trudges into his bedroom, shucking off extra layers of clothes to get more comfortable. He wraps himself in the fluffy blankets layered on his bed and plugging his phone in on the bedside table. He gets comfortable, still unused to the new apartment, settling into the mattress. The second his breathing evens out and his joints are relieved of the tension from the day he hears his phone chime.

He groans, reaching over to slam his hand across the screen and put an end to the buzzing.

“Meeting at 7, Ground Zero. No need for costumes,” his boss curtly informs.

He counts it a win that he doesn’t have to get ready in the morning, grunting in response and cutting off the call. He sighs, rolling over to try and fall asleep for the second time.

When Bakugou is twenty years old, he gets as much sleep as he can, taking in mornings he gets off, finally being acknowledged with some benefits as a hero and getting less of the shitty shift times. At twenty years old, Bakugou is also as deep in the throes of love as he can get. He’s also in love with an absolute fool who, for whatever reason, is also head over heels for him.

Bakugou used to think mornings were warm and glowy like a hallmark film or like when he’d have breakfast in the Midoriya household on Sunday mornings after a sleepover when he was little. He also used to think mornings were meant for getting up and tackling the day with vigor.

At twenty years old, he finds out that mornings, before the sun rises, are blue and grey, bleary and bright. He also finds out that as much as he loves to sleep and hates to cut it short, he much prefers to see Midoriya curled up on his side of their bed in their apartment.

He gets to see Midoriya, soft and comfortable, always touching Bakugou in some way. In the summer heat, it’s sometimes just a finger wrapped around his own. Too hot to be touching and too much sweat ready to pour between them both even with as little as they wear and as few blankets as possible. In the winter, they’re tangled together, in any way they can. Legs entwined, pressing every inch of skin together.

Sometimes Midoriya is already wrapped in his arms, snuggled against his chest and Bakugou will wake up, squeezing him closer, relishing in this time he gets for himself, for just the two of them together. Sometimes he traces patterns against his soft skin, dragging them across worn scars and counting the freckles that form constellations on his body. But that’s nothing compared to the way the way Midoriya fills his world, making galaxies look small, his eyes brighter than the sun, and making him believe in soulmates.

Other times, he gets a limb, outstretched towards him, but keeping space between them. And from there he stays put, watching the rise and fall of Midoriya’s chest as he continues to sleep. The mornings after a rough day at work, Bakugou is greeted with a trail of drool on Midoriya’s lips accompanied by a small snore. These days, he can’t help but snort and wonder how he got so lucky, even when Midoriya will try to kiss him with his stale, drooly breath.

At twenty, Bakugou still worships sleep, but he’s so in love and mornings with Midoriya quickly outweigh an extra few minutes of sleep.

#bakudeku positivity week #bkdkpositivity #bakudeku #katsudeku #izukatsu #bkdk #bakugou #kacchan #midoriya #deku #day 4 #bnha #fic

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madandmisquoted · 7 years ago

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Ch. 3 Perdition

Yet again, the Supreme Leader sat alone in a wrecked throne room. Twice in as many days he has laid waste to the trappings of his office. His grief mixed in with his anger and the betrayal he felt from the one person he had trusted to care, regardless of the edged words he threw at her. Even in those moments that were consumed by his rage, he could feel her understanding and calming energy. All of it was a lie. It was all a game to get into his head, to show her what the First Order would do next. That had to be her motivation. There was not a chance that she felt about him the way he felt about her. She had called him a monster, had told him that he was a murderous snake. She had been correct in her assessment and there was no way she could feel anything for him. It had to be a lie.

He paced as he thought about what he had seen for the millionth time. It had been running on repeat in his mind, in painful clarity and slow motion. The easy affection, the warm smile, how happy she appeared with the pilots arm draped around her. How he was allowed to hold her, kiss her temple, the bashful way she cast her eyes down and looked up at him through those long lashes, smiling a smile he had seen on her only during conversations that Kylo had shared with her. If he was honest, it wasn’t mere jealousy. It was heartbreak and it was fresh on the heels of his mother’s death. He was overwhelmed with loss just as he had been when his uncle attempted to kill him in his sleep. Those long days that followed were the darkest he could remember until now. He had truly lost her. There was no hope. He was truly without the light.

Rey had excused herself from the mess hall early, sighting a headache. She gave Poe an affectionate hug and peck on the cheek, all for show, and headed to her room still wearing his jacket. She hurried down the hall and slid into her room, pressing herself against the door as tight as she could. One of the benefits of being the only Jedi was that she got her own room with an adjacent training/meditation room. It even had a ‘fresher. She looked at the ‘fresher door to her right and thought about turning the water on as hot as it would go and curling up in a ball and crying. If they heard her screams of frustration they would assume she was training.

“What have I done?” she asked herself out loud. She felt like a hole had been ripped in her and nothing would fill it. Were those her feelings or Ben’s? They were probably both. She would like to say she couldn’t imagine how he feels but she can. She feels it too. She feels it in the marrow. Exasperated by all this she sighed loudly to herself. She had to find a way to reach Ben. She didn’t know how other than the Force. She didn’t know if it would allow her to reach him but she had to try. She had to find a way to tell him that this wasn’t what he thought. That she would never betray him. She stopped short realizing the truth as it sank like a lead weight in her stomach.

“…. I already have.” She whispered to herself.

She crumpled to the ground, tears finally flowing from her freely. She cried herself into the headache that she pretended to have earlier. At least she wasn’t a liar. She suddenly remembered that she was a liar just on a much larger scale. A scale that could cost her everything she cared about. If the Resistance found out that this was all fake, no one would ever trust her again. If she didn’t tell Ben the truth he would come after them with everything he had. If she did tell him the truth she risked the entire Resistance. She cried harder and the Force flowed through her whirling things around the room. Her lamp smashed into the wall, the mattress on her bed flipped up as the bed began to lift. Her agony made the lights flicker and the walls tremble. She needed to control herself but she was lost in her torment. She was so lost that she didn’t notice a lone figure appear in the doorway to the training room, watching her.

Ben had been staring out of the window in his quarters, into the infinite abyss and then he was staring at Rey crumpled and weeping on the floor, so overwrought with emotion that everything in the room was swirling and crashing. He could feel her rage, conflict, and grief. He just didn’t understand why. He wanted to go to her and pick her up and comfort her but he also wanted to scream at her and tell her that she deserved this pain for whatever reason she had it. So he did nothing. He stood and observed. He watched her until she noticed him. When she finally felt him she snapped her head up, staring at him with an intensity that matched his own. Everything in the room dropped to the ground. He saw all the raw emotion in her swirling through her hazel eyes. She rose up to her full height and Ben braced himself for a fight as she headed towards him. He did not expect her to launch herself at him. She caught him off guard and as he stumbled backwards he cursed himself for not seeing further betrayal in her eyes. As they fell backwards he expected her to strike. Every instinct told him to ready himself for this fight. They landed on the mats in the training room and he already had his forearm across her chest just under her throat but her weight, slight as it may be, was on top of him and moving with such momentum that even from this position it would be hard won to push her off. The Force was useless during these sessions and left him without the defense he would normally use. She was straddling him now with her hands on either side of his head as she pushed herself up. He was confused and searching her eyes knowing that would tell him where the blow would come from. Instead she lowered herself, their noses brushing slightly as he felt her hot breath mingling with his.

“Ben…” she breathed. Then she met his lips with hers. Ben’s brain short circuited. He could not fathom what was happening. His body didn’t need his mind to work, however. It responded to her stronger than he ever had in any dream. There had been many, many dreams. His arms were around her instantly, pulling her closer to him while he returned her kiss like he was on fire and she was the ocean. He flipped them and she was on her back, his weight pressing down on her. She should have fought but instead she wrapped her arms tighter around him. Suddenly, his brain reconnected to his body. He tore away from her, looking down at her with anger and confusion, searching her.

“Rey, what the fuck is this?” he snarled at her. “ I just watched you with that son of a bitch Dameron. You cannot keep jerking my soul around like this. I’m bonded to you and you to me. This is something more than either of us realizes and the Force did this to us. Not Snoke. If it had been him then it would have stopped with his death. I curse this every single fucking day. More so today. How can you be so fucking fickle about this??” he raged at her. His jaw muscles flexing as he ground his teeth, fighting back another rant and the urge to kiss her again at the same time.

She smiled up at him. “That was my first kiss, Ben. It was all I could think about when I saw you. I wanted it to be you. I can’t tell you anything more than that. I wish I could explain but we’re going to have to accept that there are things we cannot share right now.” Her eyes darkened at the thought. “You made that choice as much as I did but you have to know that you’re never going to be alone. We are never going to be alone and this will always be here.” She kissed him again, softly this time, and faded from underneath him. He looked up to find he was again in his quarters, staring out the window into the abyss. He could still feel her mouth on his. He touched where her lips had been. The sudden rage and frustration that spilled from him as he struck the durasteel floor caused it to dent as the Force flowed through him. He stood roaring and ignited his saber and destroyed his com station. He straightened himself and killed his lightsaber. He took a deep breath. He had a mystery to unravel and at the center of it was his deceitful little Jedi. He realized now that she couldn’t lie to him so she had to be omitting something vast. Just what it was, he was unsure of. It was time to be the Supreme Leader and dig into the galaxy with every resource the First Order had. His little scavenger was up to something and he was going to find out what, no matter how many planets he needed to raze to the ground in the process. His emotions now subdued, his analytic mind was racing through the possibilities. He stormed to the bridge. Hux was at his post. “General! I want you to scan for all messages sent on the public subsystems of Resistance friendly planets. I want all of our ground networks running, spies, bounty hunters, ground troops. I have a lead on some Resistance intelligence and this is paramount to tracking the lead.”

Hux side eyed Ren. “Exactly what will be looking for, Supreme Leader?”

Ren slowly turned his head to the ginger irritant, boring his eyes into him. He considered a moment before he responded. The rest of the bridge crew shivered and several swore over drinks much later that they could hear the vicious smile in the Dark Lords voice. “Propaganda, General. We’re looking for propaganda.”

#reylo fanfic #kylo x rey #ben solo #sw #kylo ren #rey

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avaruussade · 7 years ago

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Winners

otayuri | T-rated

inspired by this post by @otabekskitten ! i didn’t exactly follow the original setting, though - this is video games turn steamy, basically.

Established relationship; Fluff; Nothing too explicit

Word count: 2k

“You are a filthy cheater,” Yuri announces with a pout when Otabek’s character on the screen is declared as the winner - again.

“I’m not sure can you even cheat in a game like this,” Otabek laughs and puts his controller down on the floor between them. Yuri crosses his arms, still holding his own controller.

“Of course you can, how else would someone like you keep winning?”

“I think you’re just a sore loser,” Otabek smirks and Yuri gives him an exaggeratedly offended look.

“Fine, okay. I get it, Altin,” he says sourly, and then puts his controller down with an offended sigh. Otabek tries his best at keeping his face straight in front of Yuri’s extremely bad acting. “What do you want?”

It’s already Yuri’s second week in Almaty. It’s summer, and therefore officially off season, but for both of them summer has never meant getting a break: they need to prepare themselves for the upcoming season, and both of them are scheduled to perform in different ice shows throughout the summer. It’s a miracle Yuri managed to fly to Kazakhstan to spend four full weeks with Otabek; training at least four times a week had been Yakov’s only condition, which is why the two of them spend most of their time in Otabek’s home rink. Neither of them complain, though - after they started dating they have barely gotten a single night just for each other.

It didn’t take them long to find an activity to do together on days they didn’t work their asses off on ice: playing video games. They are both competitive by nature, but because Otabek simply has more experience in his own games and consoles, he had started losing on purpose.

After catching Otabek in the act and giving him a lecture, Yuri had came up with a rule to keep his boyfriend motivated: whoever loses has to do whatever the winner tells them to.

Up till now Otabek has gotten Yuri to wear his oversized Team Kazakhstan shirt (Yuri had called him “a dirty, old pervert” for it, but had changed into the shirt without further complaints), play one round while cuddling on the couch, and make breakfast for them.

Otabek scrunches his eyebrows, trying to come up with what kind of prize he wants this time. Yuri idly plays with the hem of Otabek’s shirt he’s wearing, almost anxiously waiting for his boyfriend to say something.

“I want a kiss,” Otabek finally decides.

“A kiss?”

“Yeah,” he says and looks how a delicate blush makes it way on Yuri’s face. It’s not that they haven’t kissed before, but the sudden request seemingly caught Yuri by surprise. Otabek closes his eyes and points at his lips, making obnoxious smacking sounds. “I’m waiting.”

Yuri lets out an annoyed huff that makes Otabek laugh, but he gathers his composure when Yuri tells him to shut up. He hears how Yuri gets closer and then there’s a quick kiss, barely a peck, placed on his lips. Otabek opens his eyes and sees Yuri is already setting the game for next round, the blush on his cheeks deeper than earlier.

“You call that a kiss?” Otabek asks playfully, slightly pouting. Yuri rolls his eyes and shrugs, his attention on the TV screen.

“You’re just trying to distract me, which, if you don’t mind me pointing out, doesn’t really meet the criteria of a good sportsmanship. You should know that much, considering you’re a competing athlete. Also, you only said ‘kiss’, so maybe be more specific with your next request. Because I am taking this seriously, and-”

Yuri doesn’t get a chance to finish his rambling before Otabek leans closer to him and captures his lips into another kiss. Despite his arguments Yuri answers to the kiss immediately, humming happily when Otabek’s hands slide into his hair. Otabek runs his tongue along Yuri’s bottom lip, catching it between his teeth and pulling gently.

Their tongues meet, sliding slowly and wetly against each other. Yuri’s fingertips find their way past the hem of Otabek’s shirt, his touch soft and innocent on the older boy’s lower back. Otabek smiles into the kiss and settles his hands behind Yuri’s neck, the slight tilt of the blond’s head giving Otabek a better access into his mouth.

That’s when Yuri pulls back, his cheeks and lips red. They’re both panting from the kiss, Otabek’s thumb caressing the side of Yuri’s face. Their eyes meet and there’s a dangerous glint in the green of Yuri’s own.

“Ready for next round?” he asks and manages to slip away from Otabek’s hold. He kicks Otabek’s controller to him and gives him a smirk. “I’m gonna win this one.”

“You wish.”

Otabek still can’t believe Yuri is there in his home for weeks. Waking up next to the blond feels like a dream every morning, and kissing him is like a paradise on Earth. Their kiss earlier almost made his brain short circuit, and maybe that’s why he keeps making stupid, beginner’s mistakes during the next round of their game.

And Yuri wins. It’s not his first win per se, but it’s his first win of the day, and he celebrates accordingly.

“Ha! Told you,” Yuri says, grinning victoriously. Otabek lets himself sulk a little, despite having multiple wins under his belt.

“Yes, yes, you’re the best,” he sighs, placing his controller on the floor. “What can I do for you?”

Yuri voices out his wish without batting an eye. “Take off your shirt.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Yuri says, raising his brows as if he was challenging Otabek to argue against his words. Otabek rolls his eyes but can’t hold back a little smile: this is part of Yuri’s game, which is very different from the one they’re currently playing.

“Who’s the dirty pervert now?” Otabek jokes but pulls his shirt over his head. He tosses it behind himself and grabs his controller, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. He can feel Yuri’s eyes on his naked upper body and the piercing look is almost too hard to ignore - but just almost. “Next round?”

“Y-yeah,” Yuri stammers, and when Otabek takes a quick look of him, he notices how the blush has made its way back on Yuri’s face. He grins, and prepares the game for another round.

Otabek has to actually fight for the win in the next round of the game. Yuri plays with a newly found vigor that catches Otabek off guard at first, but within seconds he’s back in the game. They don’t even talk during the round, too focused on their respective characters on the TV screen.

Otabek cheers out loud when he wins by half a second. Yuri looks like he has to physically restrain himself from throwing the controller out of the window.

“And the crowd goes wild when Altin wins again! Although, no one is surprised,” Otabek runs his mouth and laughs when Yuri gives his arm a gentle punch.

“Fuck you, it wasn’t even a second,” Yuri defends himself, and Otabek shrugs.

“Maybe, but I still won. And you know what that means,” he says with an overly-sweet smile.

“I hate myself for coming up with that stupid rule,” Yuri says, but sets his controller on the floor. “What do you want this time?”

“A kiss. A proper kiss,” Otabek says without a second thought. Yuri looks like he tries really hard not to roll his eyes at his boyfriend’s words.

“Roger, sir,” he says, sounding uninterested even though Otabek can clearly see the glitter of anticipation in his eyes. Yuri makes his way to Otabek and in one swift motion straddles his thighs. Both of Yuri’s hands settle behind Otabek’s neck and pull him into a kiss that’s from the very beginning faster and more intense than the last one.

Yuri said he takes the game seriously, and he shows his enthusiasm for it in the dare Otabek gave him. He explores Otabek’s mouth with his tongue while his fingertips brush against the older boy’s bare shoulders and upper chest. Yuri swallows every small sigh Otabek moans between them and slides a hand into the dark hair, pressing their bodies closer to each other. Otabek puts his hands on Yuri’s hips, his thumb caressing a protruding hip bone through the shirt that’s way too big for the blond.

Yuri rolls his body against Otabek’s, rocking his hips to send a clear message, and breaks the kiss when Otabek’s hold of his hips tightens.

“Next round?” Yuri asks, slightly out of breath.

“You must be kidding me,” Otabek says, dumbfounded when Yuri pries himself away from his hold and takes his controller. The blond gives him a questioning frown even though he’s sporting a telltale blush that Otabek knows is spread on his own face as well.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You won, I gave you what you wanted,” Yuri reasons, the controller’s buttons going tap tap tap under his fingers as he prepares them a new round of the game. Otabek has to take a couple of deep breaths to stop himself from forcing the controller out of Yuri’s grasp and ravage the other boy then and there on the living room floor.

“Fine. Fine,” Otabek spits out. They’re playing Yuri’s little game, and he is not going down without a fight. Except he isn’t fighting hard enough to win the next round. Otabek tells himself that Yuri won only because he’s still way too distracted by their earlier kisses, how nice the blond’s body felt on top of him and how the lingering touches on his skin were enough to turn his mind off so well he couldn’t concentrate on the game anymore.

Yuri’s winning time isn’t actually that great, and Otabek assumes it’s because his thoughts are wandering as well.

“Well,” Otabek says, drawing out the vowel. “You won.”

“I did,” Yuri says, putting the controller down and turning to look at Otabek. His eyes are dark in the best way imaginable, and there’s a pleasant twitch in the bottom of Otabek’s stomach. “Take me to the bedroom. Now.” Otabek takes Yuri by his shoulder and pulls him into a kiss. It’s messy, more teeth and tongue than lips, Yuri’s eager hands travelling up and down on Otabek’s shirtless back. His fingers get tangled in Otabek’s dark hair and he tugs gently, just the way he knows Otabek likes it. That’s enough for Otabek to push Yuri down on the floor and climb properly on top of him, pressing his hot mouth on the pale neck.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“I said - ah - bedroom, though, didn’t I? Not the fucking floor,” Yuri grits through his teeth, trying not to sound desperate. His hands are full of Otabek’s hair, and he moans when the older boy sucks the side of his neck.

“I guess you did, yeah,” Otabek admits, placing a haste kiss on the corner of Yuri’s mouth and slipping a hand under the huge shirt he’s wearing.

“And I won. So you have to listen to me,” Yuri argues, even though his voice is strained. Otabek’s knee has found its way between the blond’s legs, and he’s helplessly jerking his hips to create more friction.

“Magic word, kitten,” Otabek whispers while nibbling at Yuri’s earlobe. The moan he lets out at the words is so delicious Otabek almost loses his self-control.

“Please, please- fuck, Beka, please,” Yuri rambles, to which Otabek gives an appreciating hum. He stands up and helps Yuri on his feet as well, just to pull him close and give him another kiss. Yuri wraps his legs around Otabek’s waist when he’s lifted up, chuckling lightly when the older boy whines about his height.

“So… bedroom, huh?” Otabek double-checks, already carrying his boyfriend out of the living room. Yuri takes his face between his hands and kisses him, slow and sweet.

“Please,” he mumbles one more time against Otabek’s lips, kicking the bedroom door shut behind them.

#fanfiction #otayuri

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epacer · 5 years ago

Text

Story You May Have Missed

Crawford High football team coach jacked up

Go smash face

Late August: On this muggy morning, the air hangs thick under a gray, un-comforting sky. In a small hollow among small hills m East San Diego, several-score teenage boys and a few men gather at Colts Field, home to Crawford High School’s football team, for two-a-days, practice sessions held every weekday morning and afternoon in the last few weeks before school starts.

A handful of spectators, including some boys too young to be in high school and two teenage girls with babies in strollers, dot the rickety bleachers on the field’s south side and observe the practice as quietly as if they were watching lawn bowling. Their passive demeanor belies the barely contained mayhem erupting a few yards away.

"RUN! RUN! I NEED SOME HELP! LET'S HUSTLE, GENTLEMEN!" Echoing off the banks of ice plant, across the field into the bleachers, comes the screechy, house-on-fire voice of one of the men. "MAN TO MAN! PICK ONE MAN AND STAY WITH HIM!" The field is loosely divvied up, each sector occupied by a different squad — varsity in red jerseys and junior varsity in blue — each running a different set of drills. The loudest exhortations come from the area where players are being run through intrasquad scrimmages — rehearsals of offensive and defensive plays. The offensive squad tries various pass patterns and running plays, and the defense tries to read them and react.

The piercing voice belongs to the defensive coordinator for the junior varsity. He screams at his players almost nonstop, not angrily, but just because everything on the field is at a level where adrenalin counts more than words. His own intensity would no doubt consume his lean frame if it weren't allowed to escape in this way. "HEY. WAY TO WRESTLE IM TO THE GROUND OVER THERE! HEY. WAY TO HOLD ON. MAN!" The players are learning the particulars of the game, to be sure, but they are also being initiated into a rock-hard world where muscle and animal urgency mean the difference between prevailing and submitting, between elation and despair. "HARD HARD! HARDHARD HARDHARDHARDHARD, COME ON. GO!"

"GO BALLS OUT! COME ON. GET ANGRY!"

The offense tries a run. The ball earner slips a tackle and picks up speed on his way down the side of the field. Short, powerfully built, he swivels his hips as he easily shifts his weight to change course and elude more pursuers. Finally one defender draws a bead on him. The bodies fly at each other in the open field and meet with a trebly, plastic thwaack that echoes through the neighborhood. A herd suddenly thunders up; other bodies soar into the heap; pads helmets arms cleats, a rapid succession of muffled thwaacks, a crowd of unhhs, grass and dirt spraying over the pile, a momentary stillness and quiet, during which the sounds from other squads can be heard.

"NICE TACKLE!" The coach exchanges a few hand slaps as the bodies untangle.

"WAY TO GO, DEFENSE! GOOD JOB, D! HELLUVA JOB ... DEFENSE. YOU GUYS ARE DOIN' A HECK OF A JOB OUT HERE! GETTIN' BURNED A LITTLE BIT, BUT YOU'RE PLAYIN' SOME BALL!"

But the offense is playin' some ball too. A pass: The receiver streaks down the sideline The ball is underthrown. The receiver holds up, leaps a little into the air. The defender dives to knock the ball away. The receiver snatches it, spins, and prances the few steps into the end zone. He slows and turns around and jogs back. His smile visible the length of the field, he says simply, "Touch... down." They are the words of a victorious man. but they are uttered in the gentle, high-pitched voice of a boy.

On a run up the middle, one ball carrier is about to break free, when from the mass of thwaackmg bodies rises a pair of hands. They reach for him from behind, grasp him by the neck, and snap him backwards to the ground. He does not get up at once. He does rise after a few minutes, while the tackier is made to do 20 push-ups as penance.

The scrimmages wind down. All players now race through punishing drills designed to forge their bodies and reprogram then: reflexes. Several groups are made to run repeated 40-yard sprints, nearly halfway up V the field, full-out, to a specified yard line, then wheel and sprint back. If any one of them gives less than his all or stops short of (or overruns) the line, it doesn't count. The first sprints are run with spirit; the players shoot by. By the fourth or fifth circuit, there is little air in those lungs and the coaches must provide the motivation.

"SOMEBODY'S NOT RUNNING! YOU'RE GONNA COST THIS GROUP 20 SPRINTS!"

A little more effort on the next sprint. By the tenth time around, there is no more horsepower to be gotten out of their straining muscles. "THAT ONE DIDN'T COUNT!" A player lets out. "Shit."

The head coach alerts an assistant. "COACH. IF ONE GUY DOESN'T GO A MILLION MILES AN HOUR. IT DOESN'T COUNT." (Coaches address each other as "Coach,” the mutual recognition of a priestly order, as one senator might call another "Senator.”) The assistant replies quietly, as if receiving a sacrament — "Got it." The sprinters grunt, and cry out, and stagger, and sprint some more.

Finally, the practice ends. As the coaches offer a few last pointers and reminders — which may or may not be heard — the players collapse on the grass and strip their helmets, jersey, cleats, shoulder pads. Their faces are sweaty. Their uniforms are bruised with grass stains and caked with mud. Their breathing is heavy — almost desperate. Eventually, one by one. they find their feet and begin to file across the street to the gym, where they will dress and head home for lunch They will do it all over in a few hours and again tomorrow morning.

"To tell you the truth, I’d sell my soul to be able to go through it again. I still miss playing." Dan Armstrong is not kidding. He loves football, and it is an informed love. Now 36. Armstrong played fullback and linebacker at Kearny High School, Mesa Junior College, and San Diego State and has coached high school teams in San Diego and in Akron, Ohio, for a total of 11 years. He has coached at Crawford for the past 7 years, as head coach since last year He leans his chair back in the coaches' office, just off the locker room in the Crawford gym. In his tank top and gym shorts, he looks the part of a lifelong jock. His broad shoulders and powerful legs, though softening a little, clearly belong to someone who has spent many years in rigorous training. He carries himself with an easy, confident gait, sits relaxed, alert, and is content now to wax philosophical about this head-banging game. This is a man in his element.

What is it about this game that engages him so deeply? He smiles, his warmth and openness contrasting sharply with the roughneck tone of his sport. "Probably the controlled violence. It's a physical game, and there’s a lot of hard contact, hard hitting. But there's also a lot of strategy involved. It's very stimulating to sit down and scout somebody and break down film" — Armstrong and his colleagues spend every Sunday reviewing game films of upcoming opponents — "and try to find a weakness and exploit it." And then there is the aesthetics of pure athleticism "You can see some kid go down the field'and jump above everybody and catch a ball, and it’s like watching Baryshnikov When we're out there, and we see stuff like that." he adds, laughing, "we say, 'Great coaching.' "

For Armstrong, there are three indelible things football gives its devotees. "First of all. you establish lifelong friendships that you never forget. My high school football buddies are still my best friends. When you go through what these kids go through and what we went through, day after day with these guys, it's like going through the service together. And you form bonds that'll never be broken. Second of all. you learn the team concept and how to work together with a group of guys for one common goal. And thirdly, you learn that you get out of life what you put into it. If you absolutely refuse to lose, that only leaves one option. you have to win. But if you do lose, and you don't learn something from it, then you've lost twice."

Because it is played in a fever of teeth-grinding ferocity from start to finish, football can be seen as a fundamentally more emotional — Armstrong calls it "inspirational" — game than most. It both requires and produces a mindset that can only be called Fired Up. The player succeeds to the extent that he is aroused beyond himself, beyond his normal state of consciousness. "That's what they always say about guys who ‘play over their heads,' " Armstrong agrees. "That's because they get so pumped up. And that's what we try and do. We believe that if we are more inspired and more fired up, we're gonna win more ball games."

The largest part of the coach’s job is generating that arousal in his charges. In Armstrong's case, it often means providing motivation where none exists in a player's life; some Crawford students, he says, come from single-parent homes and are often unsupervised or otherwise left with little to deflect the temptation to hang out with local gangs. And for some of these same students, Armstrong says, football represents the only genuine chance to escape a life full of dead ends, the only potential ticket to a college education and a prayer of earning a decent living, in or out of sports.

In 1986, UCSD student Lorimel Arabe studied Crawford football players and their counterparts at University High School and found the predominantly white and more affluent University team less intent on football as a long-term career or short-term means of getting an education than was the Crawford team. So while Armstrong and his fellow coaches may have to spend a good part of their time cajoling players to keep up their grades or attendance, once the players are on the field and getting positive reinforcement for their efforts, they take to it with an abandon suggesting they have found a productive outlet for the violent urges experienced daily on the streets of the inner city.

Armstrong doesn’t shrink from this; in fact, it fits nicely into his program — he wants his players to go all-out. Asked whether this doesn't encourage injuries, he answers that the opposite is true: "When you get hurt is when you don't go all-out. You get someone going half-speed and someone going full-speed, and someone gets hurt." Beyond that, the team has, and wants to maintain, a reputation for being a "pretty physical football team." Eavesdropping offensive line coach Roger Engle nods approvingly. "We feel like we gotta out-hit a team to beat 'em."

Crawford's streetwise players take to this approach, continues Armstrong. "When you get a tough kid like that, it's easy to preach that mentality to 'im and get that pride developed that says, 'Hey, I'm gonna knock someone’s head off. and I’m gonna physically intimidate people.' I tell these guys something they can relate to. I say. ‘It's a goddang war with rules. It's a street fight with rules.’ " As the summer practices began, the coaches were frankly disappointed that the workouts weren't physical enough, but by this afternoon, "there were some big-league collisions and guys likin' it. We always kid 'em, we tell 'em, ‘If you're not half-dinged with snot runnin’ down your nose, you're not hitting anybody.' They like that, and they joke around; they'll get up and do this” — he wipes his nose on an imaginary sleeve with an exaggerated motion — "and see if there’s any snot running out of their noses. They're a good group of kids."

What they get for throwing themselves so wholeheartedly into the fray — for managing to. as Armstrong exhorts them to before every game, "go out and fly around and knock some butt out there" — is the evanescent joy of winning, of having prevailed, of being recognized by the tribe as an alpha male. Armstrong has been at both extremes, both as player and coach. "Winning is the greatest feeling in the world And so consequently, when you lose that one on the last second ... I mean, I’ve gotten sick to my stomach after a loss." But oh, those wins. The thrill never pales. "Probably the closest feeling you can get to it is when you have a kid. You actually think to yourself, 'It doesn't get any better than this. I'm as happy as I can be.' "

Late September: The Colts are preparing for their third game. They will play the Sweetwater High Red Devils at Sweetwater, having lost the opener to Patrick Henry High, 14-12, and won the second game, against Madison. 5-0 (a score more likely in a baseball game; "We pitched a six-hitter," jokes Armstrong).

In the cramped team room, under a sign that says "Dedication," eleven players are in various stages of dress. They don most of their uniforms here but carry the shoulder pads and jerseys with them on the bus to the site of the game and finish dressing minutes before taking the field. So a dozen or so shoulder pad sets, wearing their respective jerseys, now sit on the cement floor, like headless behemoths buried up to their chests, the jersey numbers half-visible. A player takes some aspirin, perhaps in anticipation of the pounding he will shortly receive.

The coaches enter for a few words before boarding the bus. Jeff Olivero, the defensive coordinator, speaks first. "All week long I been hearin' about ‘They got 11 guys comin' back,' " he begins, referring to Sweetwater's many returning seniors. Crawford's young team could be intimidated by this. "So what? They also got a quarterback who averages 232 yards a game — but he ain't gonna if we put pressure on him." He goes over a few defensive configurations and specific assignments and urges the team to “fly around and have fun out there."

Coach Armstrong has the last word. His voice starts out loud and gets even louder. "We been slidin' on offense," he admonishes the silent team. "There’ve been times when it seemed the best we could do was tie 0-0. But I'll tell you what. I know that no team in the county can go around us." The Colts' strength this year has been defense, and he wants them to maintain their stinginess with opponents while revving up their offense. Sweetwater has lost its first two games; tonight’s game is a perfect opportunity, he says, for Crawford to assert itself and all aspects of its game. And he doesn't want to have to tell the team twice. "We're not gonna have a half-time talk about smash-face football. We're gonna come out, we’re gonna stomp the shit out of 'em from the opening whistle. This is their back yard, and it's a pivotal game for us. Awright, let's go down and have a good game and knock the snot out of 'em. Any questions?"

"NO, COACH!"

Above the concrete bleacher stands on the home-team side of Sweetwater's stadium is a modest press box. Mounted above the press box is an aging .wooden sign. It depicts an endless chain of autos riding into infinity. Flanking the cars are the legends "National City Mile of Cars... is RED DEVIL COUNTRY." Added below, for good measure, is another legend, offering the simple, hyperactive ejaculation, "RED DEVILS!"

The Devils and Colts each take half the field for pregame calisthenics. Stretching. Jumping jacks Pivots. Players call and respond across the field, everyone gradually turning up his own and his teammates’ internal amps. Eventually, a few taunts cross the invisible border between the two teams. The Red Devils look big and sound mean, their voices low and gruff compared to the Colts'. "Num-buh 56, you a cry-baby!" shouts someone from Sweetwater. Before anyone from Crawford can reply. Armstrong forbids it: "Let those pads do the talking."

Calisthenics finished, the team runs through drills The defensive line's chore is to drop flat, bounce up, and wiggle forward. Their coach is Dave Grissom, and his voice is right on top of them. "GET THROUGH GET THROUGH GET THROUGH! COME ON, HIT 'IM! HIT 'IM! I LOVE THIS PART!"

The offense runs a pass play. Vernon Shaver, Crawford's talented, heavily recruited wide receiver, glides along in a graceful stride, easily adjusting his gait to catch a ball thrown over his shoulder.

The Colts gather in the end zone just before the coin toss. Already, they are breathing heavily and wiping then brows on their jersey tails. Armstrong reviews the toss choices with the captains who will attend the coin toss, then has a few last admonitions for his Colts. "Remember these guys — we scrimmaged them last year — they’re cheap-shot artists. I don't wanna see you guys fightin' these guys. I will not tolerate it, it’s not joart of our program." The players nod compliantly. Fight? Us? Armstrong continues. "Were in their back yard. What does a dog do in your back yard?"

"SHIT!" yell the players. "Yeah.” a few voices add. "that's what we're gonna do, we're gonna shit in their back yard!"

"When a team comes out and does jumping jacks in my face," says Armstrong, "that pisses me off!"

"YEAH!"

"Awright. We’re gonna come out from the opemng gun and smash then face. If we hit 'em hard from the first drive, you just watch them hang their heads."

"YEAH!"

From here the playing field looks so wide, so long, and — worse — so flat, with nowhere to hide.

Crawford kicks off, and Sweetwater begins its first drive from its own 30-yard line. Two quick runs take the Red Devils to midfield. Then the earth opens under the Colts as a Sweetwater running back breaks free and romps into the end zone. Barely a minute has elapsed. The Crawford team and coaches are thunderstruck.

Redemption: The play is called back as Sweetwater is penalized for holding. The reprieve enlivens the entire Crawford sideline. Olivero screams, "PLAY THE FOOTBALL!” Grissom merely yells, "Loosen up! Loosen up!”

Sweetwater's offense stalls, gaining little. They punt and Crawford begins a long, grinding drive from its own 10-yard line. More than a dozen plays later — most of them head-down, ram-the-wall runs — Crawford is deep inside Sweetwater's territory. Colt running back Peter Ervin takes the ball at the 30 and is barely brought down by the last Sweetwater defender at the 7. He slams his fist into the ground. He gets up to try it again. This time he's tackled behind the line of scrimmage, and a Sweetwater player soars onto the pile after the whistle has blown, driving his helmet between Ervin’s shoulder blades. Ervin lies breathless.

The officials whistle the penalty, and flags fly, but Armstrong races to the pile-up and begins berating the officials. The umpire will have none of it. "You come out here and take care of your injured man," he tells Armstrong, "but don't bad-mouth the officials or I'm gonna tag you. That’s half the distance to the goal on them, but five yards on you.”

If Armstrong is called for unsportsmanlike conduct, it will cost his team more, at this position on the field, than Sweetwater's late-hit violation. But clearly the penalties are not the issue. Armstrong has prohibited his players from retaliating against cheap shots, but he must back that up by defending them himself And he, no less than his players, must assert his claim to the entire expanse of contested territory — physical and psychological .

Crawford now has the ball a yard and a half from the end zone. A running play nets nothing. Armstrong calls time out, sprints onto the field, and joins the huddle. When play resumes, Ervin roars over the line for a touchdown. The sparse Crawford crowd, studded with parents and teachers in blue Colts jackets, erupts A successful point-after kick makes it 7-0. The air is thick with adrenalin.

The rest of the first half proceeds sloppily and uneventfully Sweetwater nearly returns a kick for a touchdown. Its beefy fullback at first seems unstoppable, but the offense can't get any momentum going Shaver fumbles a punt, and Sweetwater recovers but cannot capitalize. Crawford recovers a fumble only to throw an interception. This is not precision football. But the air is thick with adrenalin.

Halftime. Both teams leave the field through a single gate On their way to the gym, a few opposing players exchange curses. The Crawford coaches hustle their team away.

What do coaches tell their teams at half-time? About what you'd expect As the players sprawl on the floor and benches for some rest, Armstrong hammers at them, "We gotta go out there and put together the same kinda drive we scored on! We gotta go up 14-0! We can't let them think they’re back in the game.

"We're not fooling anybody lining up," he continues, his voice softening for a moment. "Get your butts up! We gotta get off the ball! Come on, guys." his voice rising, "we said we gotta get better from week to week! On kickoff teams" — getting sterner — "we don't have 11 guys wanna fly downfield. We've got 4 or 5 guys flyin’, and 4 or 5 guys sayin', ‘I hope those guys in front of me make the tackle.' Lemme tell ya. that happens again, we're gonna make wholesale replacements!”

Olivero chimes in, "DO WE WANNA PLAY HARD-NOSE FOOTBALL?"

"YEAH!"

The players have a few minutes to relax. Most use it to keep hyping up themselves and each other. "Know what?" lineman-linebacker Jorge Brathwaite asks of no one in particular. “They (Sweetwater) told me the game ain't over yet — and it ain't over! We ain't scored yet! We gotta get fired up!"

"YEAH!"

Before they leave the locker room, Armstrong has one last admonition. "Awright, let's show some maturity out there — let’s ice somebody!"

"YEAH!"

The Colts do just what Armstrong wants. They score to open the second half, covering nearly 70 yards in a drive capped by a long pass to Shaver. Ervin bulls across again, from close in, for the touchdown. 14-0. Sweetwater fumbles on its next possession, and Crawford recovers; a few plays later and another obstinant run by Ervin and it's 21-0. The Crawford side of the field is happily riotous.

But the game’s physical toll is becoming evident. Legs are cramping up. Guys are "flyin' around" out there, but some are making crash landings. On one running play. Colt tailback Richie McClees is tackled at the sideline and spun backwards off his feet, his head slamming to the ground as he slides on his back. Mike Hwozdek, a short, quiet guy built like a brick wall, is looking for another helmet; his is broken.

Crawford pours it on. Sweetwater grows desperate and attempts a long sideline pass. Colt cornerback James Hester reads it perfectly, keeps himself between the ball and the intended receiver, then flings himself through the air and comes down with the interception. right in front of his jubilant teammates. He walks to the bench to catch his breath. "I saw it was overthrown, and he didn’t," he gasps.

Meanwhile Crawford is driving. Quarterback Chris Townsend scrambles and hits tight end Allah Hillie, one of Crawford’s few big players, with a pass Hillie turns into a long gain. In the space of three plays. Crawford has two touchdowns called back for penalties. The first time. Brathwaite is called for illegal motion. In the exultant atmosphere, it barely matters. "Jorge is trying to keep it even," Armstrong jokes. They settle for a field goal. 24-0.

The coaches are not interested in letting up.

"GET TO THE QUARTERBACK!" they yell at their defense. "YA GOTTA BE READY TO GO! SUCK IT UP!" It works: Crawford sacks the Sweetwater quarterback on three successive plays for losses totaling 30 yards. The Colts dominate the field. The game ends without further scoring.

The coaches are the last to board the bus. The team is ready to tear the roof off. Armstrong quiets them long enough to say, “On behalf of the coaching staff. I'd just like to thank you guys for one helluva effort." The players roar in self-congratulation. On the way back to Crawford, they hoot out the windows, slap each other, joke and holler and sing. Brathwaite stands in the aisle and swings a pom-pom he has gotten from somewhere. "Jorge is kind of our spiritual leader," says Armstrong. "Reverend Jorge?" he is asked. "Yeah — the Rev," he laughs, finally starting to fully enjoy himself. He turns and quiets the team once more. "Hey, Jorge, you got a new nickname: Reverend Jorge — The Rev!" Deafening cheers.

As the bus turns down the street leading into the parking lot behind the Crawford gym, a single player prompts his confederates with "One! Two! You know what to do!" With that, they burst into the school’s alma mater, the credo of all Crawford Colts, the undying pledge of fealty to all that is Crawfordian:

All hail. Crawford High School

Crimson, white and blue

Loyalty and honor

We will pledge to you — FOREVER!

Our banners always waving

Crowned with victory

All hail. Crawford High School

We will be true to thee

These guys sing it as if their lives depended on it.

Before the team files off the bus, Armstrong wants just one more moment with his players. "I just wanna say, go home, get some rest, enjoy your weekend, stay outta trouble, and Monday we go back to work."

"YEAH!"

Late October. Crawford has won its next three games, two by scores of 29-0 and 36-0. They have won five straight. Their defense has remained strong, and the offense has improved — in the parlance of the game, "gotten untracked.'" They now prepare for their homecoming game against St. Augustine High, to be played at Patrick Henry High.

The Crawford campus is clean and tidy and received a fresh coat of paint a couple of years ago, so its institutional plainness is mitigated somewhat by an undeniable cheeriness. Sandwich boards in pathways and courtyards and the senior quad are emblazoned with inspirational mottoes: Your Thoughts Today Become Your Tomorrow. Organize for Success. I Am a Success. I Deserve the Best.

Whether because of or in spite of these signs and other official entreaties, the student body files into the gym for the lunchtime pep rally. Much of the student body, anyway. Twenty years ago, Crawford had more than 3000 students, all but a handful from middle-class white families. Today, the school serves roughly 1500 students, about one-third of whom are Indochinese. There are about as many-black and almost as many white students, and a few Hispanic, South Pacific, and other minorities. Blacks and whites remain keen on football, but the Indochinese students evince little interest in the sport.

Still, the rally is well attended. But the program comes off as perfunctory. (Maybe the ritual is wearing thin.) Conducted essentially by cheerleaders and emceed by one whose words were not made more lucid by the PA. system, the rally is a short course in why and how to root for the home team. First, the assembly sings the alma mater, the words to which are painted on a large wooden sign high on the east wall. Many of the girls form a kind of V-for-victory salute with their right hands and slowly wave then: arms back and forth while singing. (This may help propagate the supernatural mystery of homecoming, for it too has no apparent meaning.) Next come a succession of cheerleader chants, formations, exercises, incantations. A cheerleader displays a handkerchief, or sock, urging all to wave same during the game. "Our goal is for everyone to have ’em so we can wave 'em and really impress whoever we're playing."

Finally, the rally climaxes with the introduction of the homecoming court — the underclass representatives and the senior couples who are candidates for homecoming queen and king. These students are preceded by two faculty couples, who take the floor arm-in-arm to raucous hoots and cheers, the mock sexuality of their momentary companionship apparently too much for the easily aroused audience. The couples all enter through a makeshift portal, festooned with sequins and the legend "Crawford Colts." The seniors rotate to different parts of the floor so all can get a good look at them. Of the four eligible couples, three of the boys are on the football team. The only one who isn't seems to have his own booster club. From high in the bleachers comes a strident cheer as several girls unfurl a banner saying simply "Jeremy/King." The 500 or more students in attendance take all this seriously, dutifully filling out ballots and depositing them in sanctioned receptacles on their way out. Within a couple of minutes the gym is empty, the student body presumably pepped to the max.

In the team room, before boarding the bus. Armstrong is revving everyone's engine. "They’re popping off," he says about St. Augustine, "but if ten guys hit 'em on the first play, they’ll stop popping off. They won’t set the pace, we will. It’s our homecoming."

"YEAH!"

In the locker room at Henry, the players finish suiting up. The mood is quiet but nonchalant. A trio of Colts eyes with scorn the posted school records for Henry’s baseball teams. "Most home runs — 7?" A smirk. "We killed all those records."

Allah Hillie is fussing with a helmet. "Had to get a new one." he deadpans. Did his get cracked? "Naw, I do the hitting." The team is loose.

In the end zone before the coin toss. Armstrong inverts the alien-canine metaphor. "We re in our own back yard. Nobody shits in our back yard!"

"THAT'S RIGHT!"

"Awright guys, let's go out there and represent your school real well and have some fun. Let's do it all on the field, fellas." And they trot off toward another shutout.

Only this time the Colts are too loose Within the first few minutes, it becomes clear that Crawford's game is in disarray. The players seem listless, on the field and on the sideline. St. Augustine’s game consists almost entirely of sending an ox-like running back (with the lawyerly name of Hunter Buckner) up the middle or around the end with the ball firmly in his grasp. Crawford is unable to contain him. It takes until the start of the second quarter for the Saints to score — their band plays "When the Saints Go Marching In" — and the wonder is why they haven't scored several times by then. Crawford is making mistakes big and small. A long pass down the sideline, intended for Vernon Shaver, is overthrown, one of many errant passes that night by Chris Townsend. Shaver and the defender collide, but nothing comes of it. When the offense comes off the field, Olivero educates him: "You gotta hit the ground, Vernon! You tnp and it's interference; you keep runnin’, the officials don't see nothin'!"

Midway through the second quarter, Armstrong is yelling at Olivero. No one seems to know why, and everyone is unnerved — unnerved at the sight of it. at the shellacking being administered to them, at the prospect of being whupped at Our Homecoming. The five straight wins and four shutouts are a vapor, a phantom. The only thing that seems real is the sight of Buckner’s meaty calves plodding through the Crawford defensive line, slowly but inexorably.

At halftime the score is still only 7-0, but looming larger is the question of what the coach can do to rally his team in the face of impending disaster. Anderson throws the score in their faces. "You guys are real good at makin' a show of how fired up you are," Armstrong begins, "and goin' out and playin' like dogshit. We should be genin' beat 21-0!

"We got a guy more concerned about his tuxedo and homecoming than he is about playin’ football! Mission Bay beat this team 29-6! It's gona get down and dirty, son!" He admonishes particular players, picks apart elements of the game plan that are not being executed, again threatens wholesale replacements in the lineup if improvement isn't quickly shown. Last, he puts the team on notice to cede bragging rights to the Saints, who. he says, have earned them for the moment. "We're gonna go out there and keep our mouths shut and take our medicine like men, and then, at the end of the game, we'll see."

But the view will not improve. Crawford seems unable to do anything right. St. Augustine's slower but bigger lineup has them stymied. Midway through the fourth quarter, the Saints take over on Crawford’s 35-yard line and throw a touchdown pass on the first play. The St. Augustine fans are the ones waving hankies. On the Crawford sideline, players offer up plaintive cries to their cohorts. "Get the ball, defense!" "Hey! Pump it up out here!" But there is no pumping up, and hope drains from the Crawford throng as the last minutes tick off the scoreboard. Several late Colt injuries show how lopsided the game is, despite the meager 14-0 final score. Vernon Shaver is tackled in midair on an incomplete pass play and is a long time getting up; when he finally does rise, he leaves the field slowly, clutching his shoulder. Peter Ervin limps off the field with a painful ankle, removes his shoe and sock, and sits grimacing on the bench. Chris Townsend, who has taken a terrible pounding tonight and braved a series of injuries throughout the season, sustains a concussion, his third to date, in the waning moments His doctor will later refuse to permit him to play again this year. Mercifully, time finally expires.

The mood on the bus... imagine a charter carrying souls to hell. A fight breaks out between two teammates, flares, and dies. The parking lot is jammed; the team may be trapped here in its misery forever. Weeks go by. Crowds mill about and stare at the traffic. Coaches eventually board. Armstrong gravely apologizes for his poor coaching, then blasts anyone who wants to blame a teammate. "We all got beat." he says, and that's that. Quiet prevails.

Halfway home, the mood still somber, Armstrong gets up and addresses the team again. "Hey, there's something I wanna say, and I want you to hear it from me. I did something tonight that was totally inexcusable, and I want to apologize in front of all of you to Coach Olivero for it. I don't want you guys blamin' anybody else, and I shouldn't either. I was just outcoached out there, and I had no right to take it out on Coach Olivero. So Coach, I'm sorry, and it won't happen again." Olivero gives him a brotherly jab. Hey. Coach. I'd already forgotten about it.

The street leading up to the gym is blocked off due to the homecoming dance, and the driver is instructed to park in the alley out by the baseball field. Heading down the alley, someone offers a morbid "One. Two. You. Know. What. Tb. Do." And the team responds with a dirgelike rendition of the alma mater. If their earlier version was jubilant and the students' version at the pep rally was merely rote, this one is positively funereal.

Armstrong is first off the bus, and the team follows him silently the 100 yards or so up to the gym Turning a corner and ascending a few steps right at the gym, the coach and the first few following behind him pass an apparently inconsequential scuffle involving three or four high-school-age boys. A growing crowd is milling in the parking lot just beyond. As more coaches and players pass by, the scuffle suddenly dissolves — or rather, all but one of the boys suddenly vanish. The last fellow is on his back and staggers to his feet. He emits a moan that may be an attempt at speech. His eyes look toward the unaware players passing by but settle on none of them. He cannot stand steadily. There is blood.

As Armstrong reaches the door, a few school staff members appear — a vice principal, other coaches, the head of campus security — agitated, alert. Someone says there was gang-related violence at the game... some arrests ... a stabbing... this scuffle a few feet away seems also to be gang-related ... apparently only the fellow staggering is a Crawford student, his attackers gang members...

The players are hustled into the gym, although several want to get into it. The combination of a humiliating loss and an ugly skirmish (victimizing, it is suggested, a friend of some players), right in their own back yard, is more than some can bear. But the adults are commanding, and the entire team is soon safely inside the gym.

The injured boy is carried into the coaches’ office. The police are called. A coach who has been at Crawford some 30 years allows as how "I was popped one, but I'm okay."

The vice principal is bleeding on the cheek, blood dripping in a neat line down to his jaw, but he protests that he is okay. He will later take eight stitches in his cheek. The boy is lying on a desk. His broken nose is bleeding into his throat, making his breathing difficult. Someone is tending to him, calming him. He wants to get up and leave, but a friend who has come by urges him to "lounge, man. lounge."

A dozen, two dozen people are streaming in and out of the office. A few girls, who might have been hustled inside for then: protection, sit in the men's locker room, slightly embarrassed. Outside in the parking lot and in the street beyond. 100 or more young people hang around waiting — some for the dance, some for more dangerous fun. The police arrive. A white girl and a black girl embrace just outside the coaches' office and are consumed in tears.

The vice principal and the security chief confer; the chief adamantly declares the dance canceled. They will need more police to make the decision stick. More patrol cars arrive, and an ambulance. Slowly, the parking lot empties as a crowd of seniors, some dressed casually, others more elegantly, begins to realize they will not have their homecoming dance. The band hired for the dance must now reload the equipment they had just finished unloading. The police secure the area and gradually disperse the crowd without further incident.

Mid-November. The Colts have rebounded from their loss to St. Augustine with twin 28-0 wins, against San Diego High and Christian High. They finish their regular season with an 8-2 record, 4-1 in their league, the City Central League. Tied with archrival Lincoln for best record in the league, they have captured the title on the strength of having beaten Lincoln in their October 14 game. Crawford thus enters the countywide playoffs seeded fourth out of 16 teams in the 2A division (comprising schools with medium-sized enrollments). Their first-round opponent in the single-elimination tournament is Ramona High. Whether from the clear mountain air or the fresh apples, the Ramona players have a staggering size advantage over Crawford: The offensive line averages six feet four and 240 pounds to the Crawford defensive line’s five feet eight and 140 or so pounds "But I'll tell you what." asserts Armstrong, "these street kids, they're not intimidated by a big person in a football uniform. That's not the scariest thing they've seen. They're not afraid to go smash face into that." Once again the Colts promise to fly around and have fun out there. How much and whose butt gets knocked where ... that will depend on who is more fired up.

Compounding the task for the Colts is a curious psychodrama. Vernon Shaver has inspired doubt in him among his teammates and, in the process, come close to frittering away a golden chance at a first-class education and a career in the pros. The week following the loss to St. Augustine, Shaver abruptly quit the team under mysterious circumstances. A few days later, he came to Armstrong asking to be reinstated. It's not up to me, the coach told him; it’s up to the team. If they vote you in, you're in, if not, you're out. The team voted to take him back, on one condition: that he do 400 yards of belly-busters each day of practice. This grueling regimen calls for the victim to sprint 100 yards one way and then back, with the added feature that at any moment, at the sound of a coach’s whistle he must immediately flop to his belly, push himself back up quickly, and continue his all-out sprint Shaver did his daily belly-busters without complaint and went on to score a 56-yard touchdown in the last regular game After another absence from practice, this one excused, Shaver has shown dedication at daily workouts and appears committed to his team and his future.

Sometimes motivation is a slippery thing. Armstrong calls Shaver the most talented athlete he has ever coached. But anyone in the game can tell you that talent alone does not produce greatness. Shaver has the kind of athletic ability that could lead Crawford to a championship, if he finds the desire. If he waltzes away from his team, no major college in the country will have him. But that, as they say, is what makes a ball game. For every tale of unmaximized potential, Armstrong will tell you of a tough kid, this close to ruination, who found not just a meal ticket but salvation in football — like the Crawford graduate who now starts for San Jose State and who recently visited him to say, "If it weren't for you, I'd be dead by now.”

Finally, one sees it’s not just the love of sport, the delight m seeing a body hurtle through space and not only accomplish but repeat the impossible, that keeps Dan Armstrong motivated. Through endless sweaty practices. Through budget cutbacks. Despite working without a full-time teaching contract. In the face of crowd violence, which has again forced officials to reschedule games to afternoons, and gang warfare erupting mere inches from his office door. Dan Armstrong keeps at it and hopes to spend his life at it because, in a culture all but stripped of a sound means of ritually initiating boys into manhood, of welcoming them into the tribe, of endowing them with the powers and responsibilities of being a man, he has found a way. Not the best way nor the only way, but one way to turn aimless youths from self-destruction. He does it because it is a good way to bleed off excess testosterone at less risk to bystanders than, say, a war. He does it because "it gives me a chance to compete when my eligibility's gone," but more than that, he does it for the same reason his students and colleagues and everyone who's ever thrown or caught a ball or gotten up from a blinding tackle half-dinged, with snot running out his nose does it: because of the longing to be brave and strong and true: because he's a man. *Reposted article from the SD Reader by Phil Catalfo of November 22, 1989

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sweetlifetownsville · 6 years ago

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Caught Out!! Townsville Enterprise Doctors Political Survey Results

With three quarters of a million dollars of ratepayers money each year, this should be the trigger for a complete overhaul of this secretive, biased organisation run with staggering on-going incompetence. Theyre certainly nowhere near clever enough to successfully lie. This is a clearly partisan and lets face it, totally dumb attempt to manipulate voter intention with outright lies, and cannot be ignored even in the highly unlikely case it was a mistake. Also, Labor lass Jenny Hill believes big private business should get all the government assistance and public money they can, and although she unsuccessfully championed this for Adani, our mayor now has her public begging bowl out in Canberra for another set of n billionaires. Why The Magpie supports Israel Filou in his row with those pompous, over-stepping rugger buggers. And the legal loophole that means you can drive on illegal drugs and not be fined or detected But First Bentley will be back next week, having, as old Sir Wally Scott would put it, home(ward) his footsteps he hath turnd, from wandering on some a foreign strand. (Dear Mystified of Mysterton, it means hes back from travelling overseas sigh). So until then, for those who like a little visual titillation, heres a small selection of the state of play on the enormously enjoyable Brexit contortions.

There is a certain schadenfreude is all this fall from arrogance that prompted that famous Times headline Heavy Fog In Channel. Continent Cut Off. The Times, October 22, 1957 but this is regarded as a bit of triumphal chortle by the Times at pre-war Nazi propaganda which first invented the headline to criticise Britain in the 1930s. While Were Overseas, Lets Duck Across That Channel

It affects us all, atheists like The Pie included. But, unusually, The Pie upset a few folks in comment during the week when he posted this comment:

OK let The Magpie be the first to call it and condemn him as a negative conspiracy theorist if you will you wont be the first. But the first sign is there. The Parisian authorities have been very quick one would say with indecent and panicked haste ,. to declare that the Notre Dame fire was definitely accidental BUT THEY SAY THEY DONT KNOW WHAT CAUSED IT!!! An oddity to say the least, we know the Frogs are a rum lot, but that conclusion is mysterious. Heres a conspiracy theory for you authorities DO KNOW what caused it arson of one sort of another, and the roster of restoration workers in the building prior to the blaze will be looked at in detail. The authorities fear which some justification that if they announced it was arson immediately, with public grief, anger and dismay running so dangerously high in a population renowned for its volatility, there would be bloody chaos, especially by right wing groups who would automatically blame the countrys somewhat militant Muslim minority. And such almost certain mayhem could not be contained within the borders of France so perhaps when the cause is made public, it will either be a Watergate-style exercise, or authorities will hope if they have to announce it was in fact arson, some of the heat will have been dialled down, unlikely as that may be. Good luck, world. The Pie maintains this is a reasonable theory, reinforced subsequently by the vague official statement in the past 36 hours that the heart-breaking blaze was probably started by an electrical short circuit which may be correct, but such short circuits can be arranged (known in certain circles as a Jewish stocktake.) But humour inevitably found more than one joker making light of the tragedy we do that from a distance dont we? when a commenter posted : No one knows who started the fire, but Quasimodo has a hunch Boom-tish. Back To The Home Front, And The Dudley Do Nothings Finally Have Done Something but not only is it the wrong thing, but could be actionable . TEL ran this full page ad in the Bulletin today (Saturday), an ad which was paid for by ratepayers who involuntarily give this pointless outfit $750,000 and subsidised rent every year.

The odour of rodent was instantly overwhelming.

KAP Candidate for Herbert Nanette Radeck Particularly to the Katter Party and its candidate for Herbert, school teacher Nanette Radeck. She was quick out of the blocks soon after the paper hit the streets, to call out TEL for rigging the graph. Ms Radeck posted this immediate response on Facebook (the Paul Bunyan she mentions is the KAP candidate for Dawson.).

The most telling question posed there by Ms Radeck is motive. What on earth is a crowd like TEL doing underhand stuff like this, or will they have to admit to incompetence, which will surprise no one. Another question raised is can we actually trust the other Partys replies as posted in this ad, or have they been fluffed up to suit whatever secret agenda the TEL board, CEO Patty OCallaghan and Mayor Mullet have cooked up. TEL using ratepayers money to influence those same ratepayers how to vote while at the same time enriching the Bulletin is a closed circuit power loop at least thats what they think. What neither TEL or the Bulletin seem to realize is that no matter what the readers politics, this inept, stumblebum attempt at playing political grown-ups has further shattered credibility and support within the community for both TEL and the Bulletin. But hey, but dont worry, now that Ms Radeck has outed TEL for either their sloppy and/or deceitful actions, you may rest assured Our Jenna is on the job she has guaranteed that during this election campaign, nothing will get by her or her tough-questioning investigative journalists she said so in the paper, remember?

Or is this pic sent in by an amused Magpie reader the literal truth? Fit only for the bottom of cockies cages?

Jenny Hills Business Brainwave

No doubt inspired by the successful hordes of beggars she encountered while in India visiting her pal Gotem Adani, our Mayor Mullet has had yet another light bulb moment or should that be begging bowl moment. While in on the sub-continent, Mayor Mullet had the opportunity to take a stroll through the surrounding city streets. And it proved to be an inspirational moment. Desperate for people to believe that the unicorn battery factory will become a reality, the mayor regularly farts a rainbow update of twaddle spouted by a the Magnis company desperate to keep its wobbly share price up. Magnis and its consortium partners are considering eight yes, EIGHT Australian sites for a battery manufacturing operation. Geez, hope they dont try to play one city off against another, a sort of bidding war. Cripes! awww, no, they wouldnt dare. Desperate to breathe new life into this severely ailing unicorn, Mayor Mullet has resorted to a favourite Labor tactic; in the belief that she can scare up even more concessions of public money during an election campaign, she has dusted off the Townsville begging bowl, and is seeking commitments of $50million from both major parties for unspecified infrastructure to benefit the councils billionaire private sector partners. It was best spelt out by old blog chum Memory Man during the week in comments.

So, the cats out of the bag. The Townsville battery factory needs more taxpayer funding to work. It got $3.5m to do a feasibility study from the State; it got some form of land gift from the Council; and now, the Mayor wants the federal government to chip in tens of millions for infrastructure. What this tells us is that the business case is looking pretty shaky, because if it wasnt why would the mayor be calling for a taxpayer handout?Sure, its her general style take public money and give it to a handful or private investors or billionaires but surely she cant be that gullible. Or is it just desperation? The Pies guess desperately gullible or gullibly desperate Speaking Of Dopey Matters, Heres An Interesting Snippet From Sophisticates Corner in the Astonisher

Well, thats nothing next to our southern neighbours in NSW. Presumably this applies to Queensland too. If Thats Given You The Munchies, This Will Be Of Interest Youll know who to curse when you pay for booze and tucker at the new stadium.

The Folau Flapdoodle Dizzy Izzy is just that, an intellectually childish twit BUT a twit with rights. And Australian Rugby has clearly over-stepped the mark with their plan to sack Folau over ONE SINGLE WORD he used in a tweet professing his religious beliefs which he has a right under Religious Freedom laws to do. This is what he tweeted.

So he certainly wasnt singling out gays and in fact, The Pie felt a little put-upon himself, as he, over 70 years, fitted seven of the criteria, if you include shoplifting Freddo Frogs from J.C.Pennys in Tamworth when aged 8 got caught never again and idolised Debby Reynolds in Tammy when aged 11. But the PC drunks and fornicators at Rugby Australia decided to do some very selective virtue signalling, and have now given a eminently ignorable tweet a thousand times the exposure it wouldve otherwise attracted. The New Zealand female Goth who is somehow Aussie Rugbys boss insists it was against Folaus contract to make any anti-gay statement publicly. Well, just for starters, whether RA has the legal power to impose such a rule in a contract is challengeable when it clashes with a right to religious freedom. Lawyers are already packing hampers for another legal picnic. And if the only way to maintain team morale is to gag players and staff from expressing privately held views in privately operated public forums, then the games morally rooted off the field, matching their on-field chaos. And in all the huffing and puffing, there havent been too many, if any, voices in the gay community with anything much to say frankly, they couldnt care less, this sort of bible bashing is no doubt well beneath them. Columnist Miranda Devine is not someone with whom the Pie usually agrees, but she was eloquent in expressing her and The Pies take on this stupidity on the Today Show. Israel Folau is a sad throwback to the missionary-inspired simplistic superstitious barbarism peddled to the less aware in the basic Pacific cultures, and he is your everyday bible bashing parrot with a fairytale-fried brain whose opinion should be discounted if ever encountered. But nevertheless, The Magpie fully supports him in this matter, rather than support some self-righteous Colonel Blimps who would not allow The Magpie to express that aforesaid opinion if they had their way. And a final note to the developmentally delayed who are back there still pondering Izzys naughty list: no, my dears, idolator is not someone on the dole. Health Check-Up

Indeed, something gotta give with Queensland Health soon. And Townsville Hospital wont be exempt. Last weeks correspondent, patient Richard Bingley is out of hospital but the battle with some health services goes on. This is his update of a couple of days ago. Hi. Ive been discharged on Wednesday. The system failures continued. On discharge I was advised I was having 8 heart related medications added to what I was already on. Very important you dont miss the top two as they support the stents put in your heart and stop them from clotting and failing. The medical team advised the hospitals pharmacy spoke to my current pharmacist and provided new prescriptions and they would be ready Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday afternoon my chemist had still heard nothing. I attended dialysis Thursday then the TTH pharmacy to be informed sorry Richard we werent told you had been discharged so we havent contacted your pharmacy yet. It was sorted by 4 pm and I had to do a double up on the dosage because I missed one. Another thing identified is appointments. There are office staff tripping over each other with bugger all to do up there. I have permanent appointments Tuesday Thursday and Saturday 06.45 am to 11.15 am at the dialysis clinic. Yet when the office staff schedule an appointment with another specialist they make that appointment during dialysis time. The you beaut computer booking system cant tell the staff I am already booked in for an appointment therefore doubling up. Specialist clinics dont have computer access to recent tests. Apparently they take up to 30 days to be uploaded onto the system. In my case that lead to three ECG heart scans over a 10 day period all showed irregularities in my heart that required immediate action, none were acted on or uploaded into the system for two specialist appointments I attended in that time. The question of why the test was given three times and someone else being delayed while tests are repeated. How many emergencies could have been prevented if the checks and balances were in place. My mother is drafting a full detailed letter of the shortcomings of the system up until my heart attack. She will send it on to Ross Bates and Deb Freckleton. Along with the Member of Mundingburra (again) and to the health minister (again) and complaints system at the hospital (again) Hopefully something may get accomplished this time. Im supposed to be starting some form of cardiac rehabilitation treatments as soon as possible. In Qld health that must means 10 years at this stage. Just wont hold my breath. Pedants Corner From comments during the week. The Magpie Good news for finger weary word pedants, fed up with going back through text to change ize to ise, all the while muttering through gritted teeth something about bloody American cultural imperialism. It turns out that ise is the newcomer, for reasons not totally clear, and no less than Prince Charles uses ize because it is orginal English.

As The Guardian reports, Even the word bible Oxford Dictionary says either one is OK. Least Surprising Headline Of The Week The chickens are on final approach, undercarriage down, ready for landing back on the roost.,

In fact, staying abreast of all the happenings in America this week has kept The Magpie busier that an AFL turnstile ticket-taker. And for the first time in his experience, an unfortunate moment: never before has a President publicly and purposely used the word bullshit, but President Agent Orange (Caution: defoliates constitutions) used it several times in a number of tweets when he discovered his Mueller troubles are far from over. The fun is just beginning but the American toonist s continue to have a field day. A subtle one from The New Yorker kicks off this weeks gallery.

And Finally, For Book Lovers In these trying times for our beloved city, The Pie thinks he has found some revealing reading matter, which may clarify things for you he spied these while browsing through Booktopia. There is this handsome tome on the antecedents of our current council

which has led to this academic follow-up summation

which was then naturally followed by

But there is one book we will never get a peek into it is Jenny Hills private get even diary, The Book of Revenge.

Thats our lot for now, (full edit in the morning), hope you enjoy the rest of Easter break, and trust you find some fodder in here to inspire you to jump into comments, they run 24/7. And as always, you can help the blog to stay aloft with a donation, the how to button is below sincere thanks to those whove helped out so far, it has been of great assistance. http://www.townsvillemagpie.com.au/caught-out-townsville-enterprise-doctors-political-survey-results/

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