#i am aware of the amount of holes this concept has in it but *waves hands* look at them

[captain-sunshine-11]

This has probably been already said but what about Raven!Neil in an AU where he escapes with Jean. They are on the run for a little while and amidst the chaos of two Ravens missing, Kevin's hand is broken.

Nathaniel gets word that Kevin is taking sanctuary with the Foxes' very own Coach Wymack. Nathaniel, being the shit he is, concocts the plan to get Wymack to sign him and Jean to make it look like their disappearance was intentional.

Jean hates the plan. Kevin hates that he can't get away from Nathaniel. Nathaniel doesn't give a shit at long as he is away from Riko and is on a court.

[sunshine-and-raincloud]

Some thoughts about my favorite piece of fiction that I needed to put into words

Experimentation is finished and it makes me feel things. So many things, in fact, that my brain has trouble computing it. If there was a dictionary stored in my mind’s library, filled with my own definitions for every object, concept, or being I’ve encountered in my life, the entry to Experimentation would be a long string of keysmashes and random emojis.

There are words inside Beca. She's confident enough in her vocabulary to say that there are a decent amount of them, though she can't always remember which one is the right one to use and when or how. They're all there though, she has access to them.

Usually

Alas, I need to make at least some sense of it – for myself, to process the fact that the story that has been a constant for me for years is now finished. Naturally, finished does not mean gone, and I’m sure I will be re-reading this wonderful piece of fiction many, many times, but there is certain grief to be processed nonetheless.

I’ve never been one to have hyperfixations. Growing up, I never had strong favorites of anything, be it books, tv shows, songs, etc. I enjoyed things, I got excited over them, but nothing could ever capture my interest and hold it for a long time.

Startled, Beca blinks as she untangles herself from the redhead and looks around. Sure enough, there are other people besides Chloe present – Cynthia Rose, Stacie and Lilly, to be exact – and she tries to withhold her embarrassment in favour of pretending she'd know that all along. That she hadn't been blinded by Chloe.

This changed when I accidentally discovered bechloe. The Pitch Perfect franchise is not especially popular in my country and I, similarly to Beca Mitchell, am not very fond of movies, so I was not aware of the existence of the said movies until I watched a Rose&Rosie video in which they mentioned it in passing. It sounded like something I could enjoy, so I decided to check it out and the rest is history; I fell into the bechloe hole. I was 19 at that time—technically an adult, about to start uni, and there I was, developing my first (and so far only) obsession, as well as joining my first fandom. I’d read some fanfiction before that, for a few other fandoms, but I’d never shipped two characters as intensely as I do Beca and Chloe.

So naturally, as soon as I finished watching the movies (there were two, at that time), I went looking for fanfiction. I read through the completed ones first—not all of them, obviously (even back then there were...a lot of fics), but I’d say the majority of multichapters—so it took quite a while before I even considered starting any of the unfinished ones.

“Awesome.” She mutters, clicking down furiously on the mouse pad in the hopes that doing so will magically make her laptop thaw its way back from freezing glitchiness. Maybe her dad would buy her a new one if she told him she needed it for school.

“If this is some new way you have of announcing my presence to the room,” red hair and a sly smile greet her as she looks up and finds Chloe lingering at the top of the staircase, “I like it.”

I don’t know when exactly I first started reading Experimentation, but it must have been either 2017 or early 2018 at the latest. I’ve been eyeing the story for a while, as it was on the first page on ff.net (the only fic site I knew at that time—shameful, I know) when filtered by favorites, so I expected it to be good. Having finished the first chapter, I could already tell that it was not, in fact, good.

(On the off chance that anyone is actually reading my stream of consciousness, I shall explain myself before I get hate anons. See, to say that Experimentation is a good story is like saying that Aretha Franklin was a good singer. Ridiculous understatement is what it is.)

"I could carry around like a little white flag and wave it around at the appropriate time?" Chloe bursts out laughing at the image, at the way Beca has made a fist with her hand and is flicking an imaginary flag back and forth, at the stupid too-wide smile she's plastered onto her face. She laughs because she believes, without a shadow of a doubt, that Beca would do that if Chloe asked her to.

I was absolutely enchanted, hooked from the very first paragraphs. Every aspect of this fic was beyond perfect; the language, the pacing, the characterization, the romantic tension with no unnecessary drama. I’ve devoured all the chapters there were at that time, as stopping was impossible once I started. Once I got to the last one, I wondered briefly whether I should have waited until the story was finished.

I am so incredibly thankful to my past self that I did not.

Waiting for updates for months was hard, sure. But it made me appreciate every single chapter all the more. It allowed me to savor every sentence, enjoy every tender moment between the girls. And the joy I felt whenever I would get an email notifying me that Experimentation was updated? Unparalleled. I still have a folder in my mailbox created specifically to house these notifications.

“Thank you,” Chloe’s words of appreciation swing Beca’s gaze back up to her face and she finds the redhead looking at her with such a sense of solemn gratitude that it upends any potential response. Thankfully, Chloe continues. “For everything. Not just,” she gestures between them, “this but….” Chloe trails off, running the fingers of one hand through her hair as she tries to collect herself. “For joining the Bellas. For coming back even though Aubrey was awful to you. For making us important to you.”

You are important to me , Beca wants to say. The most important.

I can’t even imagine reading Experimentation for the first time in one go. A few weeks, months maybe, if one’s busy, and that’s it? That is not nearly long enough to be able to fully appreciate this masterpiece. I started reading it a few years after its first update, but still, Experimentation was with me for long years. It was there, sitting in a tab on my phone when I started university. It was there, five years later, when I graduated and then defended my MA thesis. It was there when I moved out of my parents’ house, moved to a new city, found my first job. And it was there, on the first day of 2022, when I read the last chapter.

During this last chapter I cried three times—one was at the author’s note. What an incredible journey it has been. Now that there’s only an epilogue left, I am sad that it’s over because it’s been such an important part of my life. But mostly I am just filled with love for Experimentation. Just because it is completed, doesn’t mean it is gone or forgotten. I know it will always be special to me, a source of comfort whenever I need it.

“You’re a ten,” Chloe says again and now Beca can hear the warble in her voice. Can feel it like something tangible as it reaches inside her chest and squeezes. Catches her breath in its hand and holds it. “You’re an A-plus.” It’s only when Chloe lifts her hands to wipe at the underside of her eyes that Beca realises she’s crying, sees the shimmer of tears on her fingers as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I love you so much.” Her voice catches, stumbles over a sob in the middle of her declaration, but she powers on through. Doesn’t hold back. “I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

@redlance, you absolute queen, what could I possibly say to you? You took a piece of your heart, shaped it into this beautiful story, and shared it with hundreds of strangers who now hold it in their own hearts. If there are any words appropriate for that, I do not know them. So let me simply say thank you and I love you <3

[wienerbarnes]

Witch Bitch

Pairing: Bucky x Witch!Reader

Word Count: 3,943

Warnings: witch stuff, burning at the stake 😳

A/N: this is heavily inspired by american horror story: coven bc i recently watched and ive been binging all of it lately but its not necessary to know anything about ahs lol i kinda just used their fancy magical terminology and concepts bc they were cool🤪 

MAIN MASTERLIST

The best time of the day was breakfast. It was the time when Bucky, Sam, and Sharon were most often together. Sometimes training overlapped and they missed lunch. Sometimes missions ran long or friends were in town and they missed dinner. But the morning? They were all early birds, all awake by seven. They took that shared characteristic and shared breakfast together whenever they could. Bucky usually took care of the coffee, Sam usually took care of the eggs and bacon, and Sharon usually took care of the bagels, toasting them to perfection before slathering on a layer of cream cheese.

It was a moment of peace in their day. Quiet before the noise of the gym or the conference room or the jets or the private trainings or the interviews with prospective agents or anything else they do on a daily basis. It was a time for three friends to just sit and eat and enjoy each other's company as though they are just that: three friends. Not super soldiers or captains or special agents. Just people being normal. Normal doesn’t last long, though. It never does for them.

Bucky’s on dish washing duty this morning while Sam and Sharon chat idly behind him, waiting for him to finish so they can all leave together. A soft voice interrupts them, though, making the three of them stop what they’re doing because no one has access to this floor except for the people that live here - meaning them three.

“Who’s in charge here?” You ask.

“Who the hell are you?! How did you get up here?!” Sharon asks, ignoring your question.

You were in a long, flowy black skirt, slit cut in the left side exposing your leg, and a long-sleeve black shirt, tucked beneath the waistband. Think black boots cover your feet and a black hat sits on your head to complete your look. Bucky almost doesn’t notice the folded black umbrella underneath your arm as his eyes trail down the multiple chains and necklaces around your neck, falling between your breasts.

“I’ve been trying to find someone to help me but the people in this building are not very helpful. I figured I’d find who’s in charge myself, something that you all don’t seem to want to help me with, either.” You explain.

“The only way to even enter this building is through strict appointment and background checks, and no one’s even allowed past the nineteenth floor.” Sam explains.

“Why are you entertaining this? I’m getting her out of here.” Sharon says, moving to walk towards you to take you out of the building herself.

As she nears closer and closer, you wave your hand lazily, without taking your eyes off Bucky, the only one who hasn’t said anything this whole time, and Sharon collapses on the floor soundlessly.

“Jesus!”

“What did you do!”

Both Bucky and Sam panic as they rush to Sharon’s body on the floor. They frantically run their hands over her body, looking for the point of injury that made her collapse the way she did, but they find nothing. No holes, no blood; she didn’t even make a sound.

“She’s not breathing and she doesn’t have a pulse, what the fuck did you do to her?!” Sam yells at you.

You roll your eyes, “Okay, you got me. I don’t need help finding who’s in charge, I already know it’s you. I still do need your help, though.”

You’re ignored as the two men hover over their friend, unsure of what to do or what even happened to her.

“Oh, alright, move.” You order them, stepping over Sharon’s body.

You stand before her, lifting your hands to hover over her body before closing your eyes and letting out a deep and long exhale. Bucky and Sam watch as it takes only about seven seconds for their friend to suddenly gasp for air, jumping back to life. The boys crowd her once more, checking her eyes, her pulse, everything to convince themselves that she’s actually alive like that, and if she was even dead in the first place.

Sam finally looks back up at you from the ground, as though he just remembered that you’re there, “What are you?”

You smirk in response, ready to finally get what you came here for.

…

“So, you’re a witch?” Sam asks, the four of them now occupying a private conference room for some privacy.

“A witch who killed me.” Sharon adds.

“And a witch that brought you right back.” You reply, leaning back on your chair, leg crossed over your knee, slit exposing your thigh. Bucky’s eye twitch to look at your bare skin for a second before returning to meet your eyes.

“So… what do you do?” Bucky asks.

You smile at his innocent curiosity, “All witches don’t have one universal power. Some are clairvoyant, some do voodoo, some dabble in pyrokinesis, divination, transmutation, descendum,” You glance over to Sharon, who’s still pouting at you, “Resurrection.”

“And can you do all of those?” Bucky asks.

“Almost all of them, but I’m not here to talk about me.”

“Why are you here?” Sharon asks.

“You guys hunt the Nazi’s, right?” You ask, aiming your question towards Sam, knowing he’s the Captain in charge.

“Hydra, yes.” He confirms.

“Well, your Nazi’s somehow got a hold of my magic. And they are playing with very dangerous fire,” You begin.

Bucky interrupts, “We’re all for taking down Hydra, but, don’t you think you’re a little more… powerful than us?” He asks.

“Bucky!” Sharon slaps his arm, as though she’s shocked that he would ever admit such a thing.

“I am. But I’m not that powerful, either. Not anymore, at least. A group of those Hydra invaded the coven my sisters and I were at. I was the only one that escaped.” You tell them.

“Did Hydra take them?” Sam asks.

“No, they killed them.” You respond, growing irritated as the subject grows touchier and touchier.

“Can’t you just bring them back like you did me?” Sharon inquires.

“No! I can’t. Like I said, I’m not that powerful anymore. Maybe I’d be able to bring back a house full of dead girls when it was me and twelve others but it’s just me now. I wouldn’t come all the way over here if I had other options.”

Silence grows over the group as they process what you’ve gone through. Surviving through the massacre of your fellow witches and not being powerful enough to find the people that did it on your own. You’re vulnerable.

“So what can we do?” Sam asks, ready to join forces with you.

“Help me locate the men who did this so I can handle the magic part.” You tell him.

“What magic do they have?”

“Although witches control most of the magic, sometimes it can be taken on in… physical forms. Specifically blood. The blood they retrieved was from a witch that was skilled in Vitali Vitalis.”

“The alive within the living.” Bucky translates.

“There are two worlds: the living and the dead,” You begin to explain, “Vitali Vitalis keeps the balance between these two things and it’s one of the most difficult powers for a witch to master. Oftentimes it’s used to give parts of your own life, health, and energy to someone who needs it. But it can also allow you to take life from someone and give it to yourself.”

“Like immortality?” Sam questions.

“Not quite. Any witch can be killed with a knife or bullet. This kind of magic keeps you from dying of age. I’ve only ever known one witch who mastered it.”

“What happened to her?”

“She used it for evil, like this. Took the souls of hundreds in order to allow herself to live for almost three centuries. Until she was killed, of course.” You finish, a small smile on your lips knowing that she got what she deserved.

“What, you burn her at the stake?” Sharon jokes.

“Yes, actually. We did.” You tell her matter-of-factly, becoming more and more irritated at the fact that she doesn’t seem to take this is as seriously as you are.

Bucky interrupts, sensing the rising tension between the two girls, “So when we find these guys, you’re going to burn them at the stake, too?” He asks.

“Yes,” You say, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “The consequence of using magic like this for evil is death by fire. I hope you all don’t think the rules will change on account of these men being Nazi’s?”

“Well, we just have a different way of doing things -” Sam begin to defend

“Yes, I’m aware. The countless destruction caused by you and other militaries, the millions of innocent lives lost yearly, not only in the constant war and irresponsible handling of your nuclear and alien weaponry, but by incorrect prosecution. Not to mention the billions of dollars spent on your ridiculous prison systems that don’t work when actual bad people escape and the death penalty practices in certain states. I just figured my way was easier. And cheaper.” You reply.

Silence crowds over the four of them once more as they think over all their options.

“I’m in.” Bucky speaks first.

“Me, too. Even if I don’t like you.” Sharon follows.

“Feeling’s mutual, dear.” You smile at her.

The three of them look to Sam, waiting for his commitment as well.

“Alright. Let’s get to work.”

Plans were made, theories of location were thought of, and plans to execute the mission were put into place, all of which included you. A temporary room was given to you when the information of your lack of a place to stay was brought to light. Only for the duration of this mission, is what Sam told you, but you can spot the amount of love and light in his heart from miles away.

It was later that night, and you’ve since cleansed the room, going as far as to place a protective spell on the entire floor. You’ve lost too much already, and you’re not about to risk anything.

A knock at the door sounds and the visitor you’d been expecting has finally arrived. You walk towards the door, still in your clothes from earlier but now you’ve removed your shoes, and open the door to reveal Bucky.

“I was waiting for you.” You tell him.

“How’d you know I’d come?” He asks, stepping through the door when you step aside, silently gesturing to him to enter.

“I can hear your thoughts. You've been debating whether or not to come see me for the past thirty minutes. Your mind is very loud.”

“Tell me about it.” He mumbles to himself, thinking about the countless nightmares, voices, and all the other reminders of just how loud his mind was.

“You can ask all your questions, you know. I won’t take any offence. You’re just curious.” You tell him, settling on your bed, hoping he’ll join you and stop hovering near the door.

Luckily he takes the hint and takes a seat across from you.

“I’ve never met a witch before. A real one, I mean. Like, someone born a witch. Like Salem witches -”

“I understand.” You chuckle lightly.

“You don’t seem… afraid of me. Or, hesitant, rather.” You tell him, thinking about how he’s received your presence here compared to his colleagues.

“I was wary when you killed my friend, but… you just need some help, is all. I’m sorry, by the way, I’m not sure if I said it before, but, I’m sorry for what happened to your friends.” He tells you.

He’s very polite. But you supposed that’s not abnormal considering he got his manners from the 1920’s. You like it, though. You give him an appreciative smile before giving him the okay to ask you whatever he wanted.

“So you said that witches can master multiple powers but have one specialty; is yours resurrection?”

“Yes; it was the first power I ever exhibited when I was a teenager. I was about fourteen or fifteen. My next mastered skill is descendum and then clairvoyance, where I was in my twenties, or so.” You tell him as he looks at you with pure fascination in his eyes.

“What is - what is descendum?”

You pause, “The power to descend your soul down into the afterlife - to hell. And return alive.”

His eyes widened, not even knowing that was something someone can do; not even knowing that hell existed in the first place, “So, you’ve been to hell?”

“Yes. I’ve also been able to retrieve people from hell, their soul. A variation of my power of resurrection, I suppose.” You explain, not being too fond of that power; descending to hell.

Bucky sits in silence for a few minutes, and you let him. You can hear the question lingering around in his head; what he’s thinking. But you let him build up his own courage to ask it. You know he’s only scared of the answer; the answer you know he’s not going to like.

“What is hell like?” He whispers.

“It doesn’t matter what my hell is like. Everyone has their own personal hell they experience when they die.” You tell him.

Confusion clouds his features as he registers your answer.

“Is there… Is there no heaven?”

You smirk, “It’s nice that you’ve remained religious after all this time.”

“Yes, there's heaven. But only for the purest and most innocent of souls. And rarely do people escape life without sin. Everyone has evil in them.” You tell him, knowing it’s a harsh truth that no one wants to hear.

The people Bucky’s killed, the crime he’s committed, the families he’s hurt; it all passes through his mind. Everyone has evil in them.

“What was your hell like?”

“I’m not telling you that.” You tell him quickly.

Bucky ponders what his own hell will be like, after seeing the way you’re clearly shaken up about your own. The fall from the train. The man in a lab coat sawing off the rest of his arm. The needles poking through his skin in the middle of some facility. The chair.

He doesn’t realize that he’s looked away from you until he snaps his thoughts back to the present and sees he’s looking down into his lap. He glances up to see your face, your soft features and kind eyes staring at him. He glances from your eyes to your lips and back up again before clearing his throat, not realizing how close he got to you during his time here sitting on your bed.

“You know, I, uh, I should go. Thank you for, uh, answering my questions, but we head out pretty - pretty early tomorrow, so,” He trails off, standing and patting down his shirt to smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in a nervous habit.

He makes his way towards the door and his hand touches the knob when he hears your voice, “Hey, Bucky?” He turns slightly to face you again, a hum to indicate for you to continue.

“Thank you for coming to see me. And thank you for all the kindness you’ve shown me. You’re a very good person.” You tell him sincerely.

He gives you a nod of you’re welcome before exiting.

He’s not sure if you told him that because you truly mean it, or if it’s because of the state of anxiety and existential crises you’ve put him in now that he’s going to be thinking about his personal hell, but he appreciates it, nonetheless.

He thinks you’re a pretty good person, yourself.

…

The mission goes off without a hitch. The combined skill of the Avengers’ stealth, spyware, and experience along with your magic and witchery makes for an easy capture of the men who killed your witch sisters and stole your magic.

It’s not long before the facility they were at was shut down and cleared out, arresting any officers and rescuing any prisoners or hostages, and the five men specifically responsible for the destruction of your coven are in separate custody. What’s left of the blood is returned to you, as well.

That’s where the group of you stand now, a decision to be made about the criminals you’ve captured. To be put in the maximum security prison floating in the ocean, or to be put to death by fire.

“I don’t believe in being the executioner of people.” Sam tries to convince.

You can’t help but let a laugh escape you, “Do you know who you work for?! Do you know who you are?!” You remind him.

“Those guys can’t escape the Raft.” He tries, referring to prison in the middle of the ocean you’ve heard about.

“You did.” You respond, knowing about when Steve Rogers took him out of that prison, along with other superheros.

You see Bucky and Sharon look between the two of you, torn between how these Hydra criminals should receive their fate. Staring into the hot depths of flames or rotting alone in a cell? Both seem to be too merciful, in Bucky’s opinion.

“This isn’t just running the facility or experiments, Sam. This is different. They were using dark magic to commit crimes. Maybe they should face the consequences of a dark-magic-punishment.” Sharon offers.

You don’t have time to be shocked at Sharon agreeing with you and picking your side before Bucky agrees and Sam is outnumbered. He stares at you and gives a single nod, allowing you to do this your way.

You smile, a silent thank you for giving you the closure and opportunity to serve justice to those who did you harm. “Off to Massachusetts, then.” You tell them, and Sam takes his seat in the pilot's chair, Bucky accompanying him in the front of the jet.

You take a seat, making yourself comfortable for the flight to Salem and you feel a body take the seat next to you. You glance up to see Sharon looking at you, but you notice she has something in her hand, offering it to you.

You look down to see a small plastic bag of fruit gummies. But not just any fruit gummies, you realize. Halloween themed fruit gummies. The pictures on the outside show the various options inside: witch’s hat, a broom stick, a melting pot, a vial, and a magic wand. Hilarious.

You take the gummies, though, accepting her attempt at a truce.

It’s not long before you and your temporary teammates find themselves standing before a large, empty field, multiple wooden stakes standing about fifteen feet tall scattered about with plenty of space in between.

You lead the walk to a group of them standing tall in line, so the men can be burned at the same time, as opposed to one by one. A group of large, burly agents lug the Hydra operatives along, behind you and the rest of the team.

Bucky hangs around your left, as to not be in the way of the black umbrella held in your right hand, and Sam and Sharon trail behind you. You can sense their uneasiness and tune out their worried thoughts. Everyone’s first burning is always an experience; they’ll get over it.

Bucky doesn’t seem worried, though. In fact, you can’t hear his thoughts this time around. But he still stands tall and straight, walking with confidence, so you make a safe assumption that he’s okay.

None of the men’s cuffs or shackles are removed, but thick rope is tied on top of it, around the wrist and looped around the waist, tying them to the stake. The cuffs are special grade - high tech Avengers vibranium - and they can be retrieved later once the fire burns out.

“Any last words?” You ask, more for tradition than whether or not you actually care.

They look scared, obviously not expecting their fate to look anything like this. You remember seeing Bucky tackle one of them in the facility, prying his mouth open to rip out a tooth, or what looked like a tooth, like a dog caught eating something it wasn’t supposed to. A cyanide pill.

Silence comes from them, except for one of them, “Hail Hydra!” He yells, as if that cowardly and pathetic phrase would change anything.

With a raise of your hand, seemingly with no effort, you wave it and the stakes all begin to rise up in flames. There’s nothing to spark, no twigs, no gasoline, nothing, and Bucky watches as the flames rise, growing stronger as they engulf the five men. They begin to scream, and Bucky looks over at you, as if to confirm you didn’t bring gasoline or something with you, and he sees a smile slowly grow on your lips.

They haven’t stopped screaming; they’re still alive when you turn and begin to walk back the way everyone came. Bucky follows, and eventually Sam and Sharon do, too, the other agents staying behind until the end to retrieve the cuffs and shackles that will survive the fire.

“So, now what?” Sharon asks, the air quieter as the screams have slowly stopped in the distance.

I can’t imagine what kind of paperwork follows this, “Back to the tower.” Sam responds.

“The coven’s only a short walk from here.” You say, not needing to elaborate much more. The men have been caught and brought to justice, but you still have a broken, battered, and beaten down coven to fix.

A friend of yours was meant to go by and retrieve the… bodies. Which you’re grateful for. But magic won’t help you fix the walls, the floors, mop the blood, or find other witches in need of an escape and a place to improve and master their powers. You have a lot of work to do.

As the view of the jet gets closer, you prepare to bid your goodbyes to the Avengers, your thank you’s as well. Regardless of your attitude towards them before, you couldn’t have done this without them.

A metal hand engulfs yours, pulling you back a bit as Sam and Sharon continue on.

“Do you need any help?” Bucky’s warm and gentle voice floods your ears, hand still in yours.

“You guys have been more than enough help, now, really.” You try to tell him, but he has none of it.

“You may be tough, but you can’t fix up that house by yourself,” He tells you, “I can be pretty handy, fixed up a few things back in my day.” A soft smile grows on his face.

You glance over his shoulder as Sam and Sharon wait by the entrance of the jet, “Don’t you have to go back?”

“They won’t miss me.” He tells you, not even looking back to confirm with his teammates, hand dropping to run it through his hair.

You giggle at him, before giving him a shy nod in answer to his offer to help you fix up your big house.

“I’m going to hang out here for a few days.” He yells over his shoulder.

“We figured.” Sam calls out, and Sharon throws you a wave as they board the jet, the opening close after them.

“Lead the way?” Bucky offers you, taking your hand once more, interlocking the fingers this time.

And so the two of you are off, one of your hands still clutching the umbrella, holding it above your head, and the other hand interlaced with the one of a handsome and kind super soldier. This wasn’t the way Bucky expected the last two days to transpire, but he’s glad they led to holding the hand of a very pretty witch.

[wincestisasincest]

The Green Book (Thorin’s Company x Reader, Part 3)

Hey gang! Wow, it has been a long time. I actually had the draft on my desk top for a really long time and just never got around to post it, because my life has been really crazy, but she’s back! I’ve already started the draft for the fourth chapter, so ready yourselves! Thanks so much for your patience : ). 

Summary: (Y/n) falls into Middle Earth. Shocker. Somehow, she gets recruited to join a party of dwarves on their kinda crazy mission to reclaim their home of Erebor.

Part: 1, 2, 3

Tags (let me know if you want to be added to the list!): @stuckupstucky, @dianaarelyfernandezgarza97, @alexloveskili

Words: 2188

Warnings: None I think...? I mean (y/n) is kinda a pussy in this chapter and Thorin is... himself so just be aware of that

Finally gaining my footing, I drew myself to my feet and regained my surroundings in the middle of the hazy afternoon. 

I used the reflection on the phone to observe myself. My (h/c) hair was an absolute tangled mess, with leaves, small twigs, and even a few pebbles here and there. I mussed it with my hand before lightly parting it, like I would do every morning. Of course, I still looked terrible, but something about fixing hair always makes people feel better.

I looked at my chin, where a massive bruise had planted itself, no doubt from the rather aggressive pushing and shoving from the trolls. Additionally, my legs and arms had been littered with small cuts and bruises that had just now begun to sting and make themselves noticed. Great. 

The next order of business was to find the Company. Admittedly, I was highly uncomfortable with the idea of meddling in a familiar tale. I touched on it earlier, but, reader, the tales of Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins, Gandalf the Gray, and all of their adventures in reclaiming Erebor were, in fact, very common tales from where I come from. So common that they are read aloud to children every night. However, no one actually believed them to be true, for dwarves, hobbits, and wizards, along with every race except human, do not exist in the world where I come from. 

I would expand on this further, but I imagine that whoever reading this has many of the same questions as my dwarf companions will ask later in these many tales, so do be patient. 

While we are taught as children that it is bad practice to mess around with things that are already set in stone, we are also taught that cops are good and that “because” is a valid reason for anything, so I ignored that advice. 

They may be my only chance to ever see civilization again. 

Catching up with them was very easy, as, while they are quite business oriented, they travel very slowly. They had spent a long time searching in the caves of the trolls that had been killed earlier, and even longer packing and preparing for the journey ahead. Dwarves are tough, that’s for sure, but they are also very methodical, and do not like to be interrupted when they have already begun something. 

Like a stalker (which I guess I technically was), I peaked out at their company from behind a tree, wondering when exactly my entrance should be made. They were apparently wondering something similar. 

“I say we should look for ‘er.” Fili posited.

“I second the lad.” Dwalin piped up. Oh dear, that dwarf was so intimidating up close. Even though I was noticeably taller than him, he could take me out with a single swing of his axe, no questions axed asked. 

“If she wanted our help, she would’ve come back and gotten it by now.” Nori remarked, to which Thorin sternly nodded. He was right. I did need their help, and I was back to get it. Gold digger life. (A/N I’m so sorry for removing the immersion, I would just like to apologize for all of the Gen Z shitposting in this. Feel free to tell me to knock it off.) 

Gandalf and Bilbo were there. It was a moment I recognized, when Gandalf introduced Bilbo to his now famous blade, Sting. I realized in that moment that literally any point in which I decided to emerge would be interrupting something. I quickly swallowed my pride and decided to reveal myself. 

“Uh, hi! I’m back.” I had absolutely no idea what to say. They all turned to face me, though at this point I was used to being gawked at. I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t make me feel a little bit dizzy, though. 

I waved awkwardly, supporting my red canvas backpack over my shoulder. No one was saying anything. 

Gandalf lifted his every curious head up and eagle-eyed me from across the clearing. 

“Miss (Y/n)! So you have decided to join us.” It felt supremely unnatural to have him say my name. He crossed the way to approach me, leaving a rather disconcerted hobbit in the dust. 

“Uh… yeah. I guess I have.” 

“Wonderful! However, I’m afraid that I only offer my acquaintanceship to ladies whom I know more than their name. After all, it is only fair, since I’m sure you know mine?” No one bothered to interrupt the wizard, who, if I wasn’t mistaken, was doing the same thing to me that he did when he first met Bilbo outside of his hobbit hole. 

“Ummm, yeah, you’re Gandalf the Gray. And I guess, uh,” I breathed in deeply, realizing that, whether I tell the truth or lie, I’m going to sound extremely pathetic, “I’m (f/n) (l/n), but you can just call me (f/n). Uh, I’m human, I guess, and um, I don’t really know where I am right now. I’m kinda lost, I guess.”  

“Where do you hail from?” Damnit, damnit, I had no idea how to answer this.

“Ummm… really not from here. Like, so far that you probably haven’t heard of it.” His expression deepened a little bit. He was not playing as much as he pretended to. A somewhat scary reminder of the actual investment in the protection of his friends that it was easy to forget that he had.

“Try me.” 

“(Hometown name).” I answered back, with a fair amount of fake confidence. He furrowed his brow and pondered slightly, while everyone else remained completely puzzled. Of course, they had never heard of my hometown either, but the were far less travelled then Gandalf, and simply resolved to not seem outwardly ignorant. 

“You’re right, I suppose. I never have been there,” he paused, and no one surrounding him, myself included, was exactly sure what that pause meant, “But, how does one from the mysterious land of (hometown name) get so far from it?” 

“I’m not sure. I truly have no idea how I got to this place. One day it was life like any other, and the next thing I know I had woken up about to be eaten by a troll. I swear, I don’t know.” I added that last part, because I was serious, even if it sounded like I was completely making it up as I went a long, and doing a very poor job at that. 

“No need for swearing, I believe you.” 

“Well, I do not.” Thorin Oakenshield entered the ring.

“She wasn’t talking to you, dear Thorin.” Gandalf may appear spacy at times, but his sharp wit never left his side. 

“No, that is true, though perhaps she should’ve been, considering that I am the leader of this company.” I found it strange that, though he was arguing about me, Thorin had not yet dared to look me in the eye. 

“A leader who was too afraid to approach a frightened young girl alone in the forest?” My face twisted into a bit of a displeased expression. I thought I had hidden my fright well enough, and I was practically an adult. 

“She appeared far from frightened. While you were not there to see it, she was the one who confronted the troll head on, even when he was threatening her. And that thing that she can do with her eyes! I do not believe that she is as innocent as she appears.”

“Perhaps then, dear Thorin, all the more reason to have her accompany us for some time being. Perhaps,” he turned to me briefly before returning to the conversation, “we shall discover some more hidden skills that may be of surprising use.” 

I’d never felt so painfully passive in my entire life, just watching two people argue about what was to happen to me while pretending like I wasn’t even there. Did I even want to accompany them? To this point, I just wanted to go with them to Elrond’s house and then see if there is any aid there. Of course, it helped that Elrond’s house is basically an all-expenses-paid vacation, and particularly accommodating to lost souls. 

It became frighteningly clear that whatever separate visions they had of what was to become of me in their mind, neither of them were what I wanted.

“Are ye hungry, lass?” A finger poked my side. It was Bofur, a slightly more comforting sight. Though the two continued their bickering in the background, I diverted myself from the conversation slightly to face him.  

“Um, no, I think I’m okay, I-“ my stomach growled. 

Bofur smiled understandingly. 

“Well, we got lots o’ food if y’ever change your mind.” 

“Mahal, where did you get that?!” Kili yelled from the side. It appeared that I was now up for grabs by anyone who wanted to talk to me, as Thorin and Gandalf walked off. 

“What?” 

“That!” Kili pointed a finger at my chin, which I stroked thoughtfully, realizing that he was taking note of my large, now splotchy bruise that almost appeared to be a poorly shaved five o’clock shadow. 

“Oh, this? It was from the troll, I think. It wasn’t there before.” I rubbed my chin thoughtfully again before giving him something of a lopsided smile. He appeared quite amused at the concept of large bruises. 

“Lad, it’s considered polite to introduce yerself before askin’ a lass about ‘er wounds.” Balin remarked from the side, winking at me thoughtfully.

“Ah, yeah. Apologies. I’m Kili, at your service, miss!” He playfully bowed. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I already knew all of their names, so I just passively watched as the introduction ritual took place, feigning mental notes as though it would be a struggle for me to recall them later. 

I “met” Fili next, as he always tried to one up Kili with the showmanship, then Bofur, who introduced his family, Bifur and Bombur. Dwalin and Balin respectfully bowed, which felt way more gratifying than it should. Dori, Nori, and Ori introduced themselves together, followed by Oin and Gloin. Finally, the smallest member, Bilbo, appeared to have the most practiced bow, and politely introduced himself. I nodded. 

“(F/n) (l/n) at yours.” I recalled the response to the standard greeting from the book, while doing a mock curtsey. I was still wearing jeans. 

“I have to admit, it’s been a while since we’ve seen a lass, or anyone for that matter, in these woods.” Balin chatted curiously. 

“I can only guess as to why.” The sarcasm was the first thing that I had felt natural saying in a while. 

“Perhaps the giant trolls?” Ah, yes. Sarcasm was something that the dwarves were not yet used to. I nodded at let it pass. 

The group held their breath and Gandalf and Thorin returned, a tacit agreement among them to let Thorin do the talking. He stepped forward.

“Very well, (y/n) of (hometown name). You will be permitted to travel with our Company until you may be returned to some area of safety, though I must warn you against doing anything that may inhibit our quest.” 

I nodded, silently agreeing to the terms that had been placed before me. He grunted, and returned to packing for the journey ahead. 

“You must tell me more about this (hometown name) when you get the chance, Miss (y/n).” Gandalf added. 

“I’d be glad to.” I smiled, lying through my teeth. Part of me wanted to begin planning for when I would eventually have to lie about where I came from, but the other part of me simply had no idea what to anticipate. 

I recalled my red canvas backpack, knowing that it was filled with things so far from this time that it would be disastrous if they got in the hands of any of my travelling companions, even someone as wise as Gandalf. I recalled my familiarity with their tales, knowing that, no matter how honest I was, I could not reveal to them that I knew the end. I recalled the death of Thorin, Fili, and Kili, the abuse of Bilbo, the psychological torture of Thranduil, and everything unfortunate in between. 

Perhaps I was better off dying in the forest alone. 

“Miss (y/n), you may walk with me if you like? We are both quite out of place in this company.” Bilbo cautiously approached me, his small voice easier to focus on as the rest of the Company began to leave me alone to pack for the time being.

“I would be honored, though I’m afraid I am not a terribly experienced traveler.”  

“Then we shall make fine company, Miss (y/n).” 

“Oh, you can just call me (y/n), no ‘Miss’ needed.” 

He appeared somewhat startled, and on the verge of insulted. 

“Oh, no, no, it’s just that the ‘Miss’ isn’t very common where I come from. I didn’t mean anything by it.” I hastily added, trying to fix whatever mess I had started. 

“You really do come from far, don’t you?” Now he seemed to be observing me. I nodded. 

“Yes. It’s going to be a long way back.”

***********

So we finally start the shenanigans, though I must warn you that this is only getting started. As always, feel free to shoot me ideas as to what (y/n) has, or perhaps even a pairing. I’m considering also making this one a choose-your-own-adventure in terms of pairings, but that would take a lot more work, so if y’all have a specific one let me know and I can just write that!

[ashtraythief]

Not sure if this is how you suggest a prompt for your Underneath Verse, or if you're still taking them, but thought I'd give it a shot. Jared keeps worrying that one of his rivals will go after Jensen in some way to get a him. What if they do? Love your series!

Dear nonnie, sorry for this super late reply. I started working on this a long time ago, but then life happened and well. I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever finish this. It doesn’t have any bearing on the overall story and I don’t think there’ll be anything in there that we don’t already know about these two, but it was fun to think about. This is a little snippet of what I have, but I kinda got stalled on it after the plot kept meandering into ridiculous territory and I don’t know if I can fix it. So here’s a small offering of something that happened but I’m not sure on the details.

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

The Neverending Story had been on Jensen’s to-read list for a while. He’d heard the film didn’t do it justice and he was intrigued by the concept even though it was technically a children’s book. Now that Adam fron the Turning Pages had found him a really nice, old, two-color print edition, there was no reason not to buy it. Especially because there’d be no evening entertainment this week. Jared was conducting a business deal and he was paranoid enough to keep Jensen under lockdown. 

If Jensen had known before, he would have made plans to just leave the city, but Jared hadn’t told him until the weekend. When Jensen had told him that he did not appreciate being cooped up, Jared had just shrugged and said to blame Chad.

“He’s paranoid, but he’s usually right.”

Jensen had demanded details and agreed to stay inside when Jared dropped Kurt Fuller’s name. Jensen knew about the Nato Syndicate, a drug and arms running cartel that operated anywhere in the northern hemisphere. They were dangerous and way above his pay grade and Jensen just hoped Jared would be prudent in his dealings with them. Jared might rule Chicago, but the Nato Syndicate had resources that dwarved the Chicago business five times over.

So Jensen had decided to go to the bookstore and get enough material to hole up at the house for a couple of days until this blew over. Jared would of course still be out and about—not showing fear—but he didn't want to spread his resources too thin. And since Jensen had no desire to be a pawn in an international drug or arms deal, he didn’t have a problem with it.

He was standing in front of the sci-fi shelves when he heard movement behind him too close to just appear. He spun around and raised his hands, but someone already slammed him into the bookshelf, arms around his neck and pushing up his chin. Jensen snapped for air, and then something sharp rammed into his neck.

Jensen gripped the arm around his neck to get space to breathe, stomped his foot back, hit a steel-toe boot. His vision started swimming, he didn’t have a lot of time, he reached behind him, felt a belt buckle, lower, his assailant made a sound of surprise, and Jensen grabbed whatever he could reach. Hard.

His assailant groaned and stumbled back, Jensen got a lungful of air, but his neck throbbed and everything went dark.

Jensen woke up tied to a chair, a low thrumming pain in his neck. Fuck.

An older man approached him, dark suit, slight potbelly, thin graying hair. “Mr. Campbell, you’re awake. Very good.”

Jensen coughed. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Kurt Fuller.”

So much for not becoming a pawn in an international drugs or arms deal. Well, Fuller was a businessman. If everything went according to plan, Jensen would be fine. Everyone knew that it equaled a declaration of war to harm Jensen. Unfortunately, the simple act of kidnapping would probably already send Jared into a tailspin, so Jensen needed to deescalate the situation before he died in the crossfire. Or get out of here before Jared did something stupid. But first, he needed information.

Jensen narrowed his eyes. “I thought you and Jared had a deal.”

“Oh, we do.” Fuller nodded assuringly. “Well, we did. See, one of my business partner’s plans changed so I had to adapt my plans. And I didn’t think your husband would be amenable to last-minute changes.”

Jensen pursed his lips. “Yeah, probably not.”

Fuller pointed a finger at him. “And that’s where you come in. Just a little insurance that I can go through with my business. And then I’ll return you to your husband.”

Jensen raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Fuller raised his hands. “Oh, no, I promise. I mean, everybody knows that Mr. Padalecki goes a little koo-koo where you are concerned. Very codependent, the two of you, almost irrationally so. And, really, I don’t need that kind of bad blood between us. So you are going to stay here, unharmed, and tomorrow, when my deal is over, I’m going to return you to your hubby. Good?”

Not really. Jensen didn’t think that it would make a difference to Jared if Fuller hurt him after abducting him—well, maybe the amount of pain he inflicted before he killed him—but kill him he would. Jensen didn’t say that though because he needed Fuller to think he’d get away with this so he wouldn’t hurt Jensen.

“You know, not many people would dare to kidnap me in the first place,” Jensen said casually; wanted to see if maybe Fuller was bluffing about the whole keeping him alive thing.

Fuller chuckled. “Well, they also don’t have the connections I have. I work for a very powerful organization and even your husband won’t want to make enemies of them. You see, your hubby, he has Chicago tight in his grip, oh yes, but this is just one city. Our concerns are much larger, much more global. But we recognize that your husband is a necessary business partner, so we want to play nice with you.”

Pointedly, Jensen looked at his shackled hands. “This is playing nice?”

“Ah yes, I heard you’re quite the maintenance. Well, if you promise to behave I have food and whiskey in the next room.”

“I’m more of a champagne guy,” Jensen said with a grin.

If Jared would play by their rules, he’d be fine. But Jensen already knew he wouldn’t. Jared didn’t tend to make the most rational decisions where Jensen was concerned. No, it was better if Jensen found a way out of here before Jared got the both of them killed.

“That can be arranged,” Fuller said. “Now, how about I show you the amenities and then we make a call to your husband so everything can proceed smoothly.” Fuller shot him a pointed look. “I assume I don’t have to implore on you that it is in your own best interest to convince your husband to go along with our change of plans.”

“I can’t guarantee that he won’t call you names,” Jensen said apologetically, “but I think we can come to an agreement.”

Fuller rubbed his hand. “Excellent. I do love it when a plan comes together.”

The food spread wasn’t too bad. There was bread and dip, some fancy canapés, a cheese plate, olives, and pralines. Jensen declined the whiskey, but Fuller said he’d already sent someone for the champagne. For now Jensen stuck to water. 

He counted guards and doors while he pretended to be busy with the food. There were four men with MAC-10s, plus two guys coming and going through the only other door besides the one leading to the windowless room Jensen had woken up in.

Another guy came in, bringing a laptop and a phone. Fuller was going to scramble his location for the call.

“Jensen.” Fuller gave him a smarmy smile. “May I call you Jensen?”

Jensen graciously inclined his head. 

“Wonderful. Now, Jensen, if you please…” Fuller gestured at the phone.

Slowly, Jensen walked over to him. He needed to impress upon Jared that he’d be fine if Jared behaved because if Jared started a war with Fuller, and by extension the Nato syndicate, they were all in danger.

Jensen took the phone, dialed Jared’s number. The dial tone came through the speakers from the laptop, loud in the room that had gone completely quiet.

Jared picked up after one ring. “Who is this?”

“Hey, babe,” Jensen said. “It’s me.”

“Jensen.” Jared let out a breath. “Where the hell are you?”

“I’m enjoying Mr. Fuller’s hospitality.”

“Put him on.” Jared’s voice was ice cold.

Fuller pointedly raised his eyebrows.

“Jared.” Jensen aimed for soothing. “Look, I’m fine. I’m unharmed. And I’ll stay that way if you let Fuller conduct his business.”

“That was the plan,” Jared said, voice shaking with barely contained fury. “I don’t understand why he would want additional assurance.”

Fuller motioned for the phone and Jensen handed it over.

“Mr. Padalecki.”

“Fuller, what the fuck?”

Fuller sighed. “I apologize, Mr. Padalecki, and I promise that your husband is indeed fine and will stay that way. The reason I invited him over is that I have to adjust our agreement.”

“You’re fucking kidding, right?”

“Unfortunately not. Look, this is not how I like to do business, but our supplier changed his route, so we need to adapt.”

There was a short pause, then Jared said, “Your supplier changed his route?”

“Yes,” Fuller said with a slight grimace.

“And you couldn’t just call me about that?”

“Mr. Padalecki, we both know you would have charged me an additional fee and I have reached my limit here. Now, as I said, Jensen will be fine. I am very much aware of the close relationship you have with your husband, and I have no intention of disturbing that.” He made a short pause for effect. “But I will if I have to.” Fuller waved one of his men over, took his gun. He raised the gun, approached Jensen and pressed the nozzle against Jensen’s chest. “Tell him, Jensen.”

Jensen sighed. “This is really not the best way to do this,” Jensen said.

Fuller pushed the gun harder against Jensen’s chest.

“Right.” Jensen turned towards the phone. “I am fine right now, but Fuller is pointing a gun at me.”

“That fucking—”

“Look, Jared, it’s okay. I’ve survived worse, okay? Just let him do his business and I’ll see you in a little while.”

Jarer drew in a very audible breath. “Okay. I just want you safe. You just hold on helm’s deep until the morning, and I’ll come get you.”

Jensen froze. He looked over to Fuller, who didn’t seem to have picked up on Jared throwing a fucking lord of the rings reference in there.

Helm’s Deep. Until the morning. They had watched the movies months ago, Jensen had made Jared watch the extended version with him, one Sunday, all three movies back to back from noon until into the night in Jared's giant home theater. Jared had protested, had said he actually knew the movies, and yes, they were okay, but Jensen insisted on the full experience. Jared had gone along with it, had enjoyed it even. And now this. 

Yeah, Jared was not letting this play out peacefully, he’d storm whatever place Fuller had holed up in, and free Jensen with force. Great.

[cryoculus]

Hello! I was just wondering if you were taking requests right now? If so, could you please write something for Sakusa Kiyoomi? It can be anything from fluff to nsfw. If not, feel free to ignore this ask. I love your writing!

» Word Count: 1,539 wordsCross-posted on AO3

I think it’s painfully obvious at this point that I rarely check my askbox. This oneshot has been posted for a while now on AO3, too. 

---

You're only vaguely aware of the train screeching to a stop when you cracked one eye open.

"We have arrived at Shibuya Station. Please stand clear of the doors and mind the gap between the train and the platform. Thank you."

The groan you wrenched out sounded awfully dry in your throat as you forced yourself to sit upright. Shibuya was the most crowded district in Tokyo, and you'll probably get your ass kicked out of the train if the marshals found you sprawled all over the seats. Your cheek felt cool from where it had been pressed against the cold metal, but you managed to overlook the sensation as you tried to pull yourself together.

"No more yakinikus that lasted until morning," you swore under your breath. "No more."

The train doors finally opened, and you were at awe with the influx of passengers this early in the day. It was barely five A.M but Shibuya was already bustling as usual. As each of the Tokyo commuters filed inside the car, you noticed the way their eyes would latch onto your inebriated form for one second before deciding to sit as far away from you as possible.

You scoffed. Damn, at least you weren't driving drunk.

It seemed like an eternity has passed before you heard the doors signal for a close. The car was pretty much packed now, save for the vacancy to your right. The schoolgirl sitting beside you seemed rattled enough by the stench of sake that clung to your clothes, so it wasn't a surprise that no one had bothered taking the only seat that's left.

That was until he arrived.

"What a pain," grumbled the unreasonably tall man, face scrunching up beneath his face mask.

Rather annoyed, you flipped him off without a second thought, making the elderly woman in the adjacent seat gasp. "You either sit the fuck down or shut the fuck up, buddy."

Little miss schoolgirl squeaked at your uncalled-for antagonism, and your conscience was beginning to nag at you to stop letting the damn alcohol talk. If someone even vaguely recognized you, you were going to get an earful from your coach later in the day.

Tall, snark, and handsome—wait, did you just call him handsome?—narrowed his eyes but then a flash of something you couldn't quite single out shadowed his face. Before you could ponder about it more, however, the train was beginning to pick up speed, leaving the district of Shibuya behind.

When he didn't say anything more, you found yourself being able to sink back in your seat as you closed your eyes. Who knew that cold, subway train seats could be comfortable—

"Quite embarrassing, isn't it? For a V. League Division One libero to be seen in that pitiful state?"

All of a sudden, your wide-eyed gaze snapped itself back at him—expression turning rigid with panic. Fuck. He recognized you?

Then, your stare wandered down to the black gym bag strapped across his lean shoulders. Three large claw marks were plastered across the surface, and you had to resist the urge to vomit all over the floor.

MSBY Black Jackals was printed in shiny, gold lettering, and you could almost see him smirk through that damn face mask.

The next ten-or-so minutes were spent channeling all the negative energy you had on your person and shoving it all on the man before you in a heated gaze. How dare he look so composed, gloved hand clutching the handrail so nonchalantly as if he didn't just insult you?

"We have arrived at Shinjuku Station," the voice of the woman speaking through the PA system rang in your ears. "Please stand clear of the doors and mind the gap between the—"

"Do compose yourself, (Surname)," Black Jackals guy taunted as he made his way towards the exit. "You can't always let the night life run its course until morning."

"I know that, jackass," you hissed, earning yourself even more judgmental stares from the other passengers.

Thankfully, he decided to let you have the last word, the only retaliation you saw from him being the glimmer of smugness that shined in his dark irises. Tall guy stepped off the train and disappeared in the throng of Tokyo commuters within seconds.

Once the train veered into motion once more, you scooched a little to the side to make space for the first passenger of the day who didn't give a shit sitting next to a drunk. He was busy scrolling through weird TikToks on his phone to care, and that's when you finally allowed yourself to relax.

You decided that, once you got a decent amount of sleep, you were going to hunt that damn Black Jackals guy down.

---

"You were out drinking again, weren't you?!"

Your face twisted at your captain's shrill voice grating at your ears. "Maricchi, I got here relatively on time, didn't I?"

"Relatively?" Mari echoed, tapping her foot with waning patience against the floor. "It's been thirty minutes since warm-ups began, and you had the guts to show up with a hangover? (Name), we've only got two liberos on the team, and Sakura is still on maternity leave. You can't both be out of commission!"

You waved away her fury with a nonchalant gesture. "Right, right. Could you, um, tone it down a little? Your voice is magnified by like a hundred in my head, just so you know."

"Whatever," she told you dismissively. "I bet you forgot we're having a joint training session today, too."

"A...what?"

"Yeah, idiot," jeered your captain. "Or are you too hungover to notice all the damn men with us today?"

You stared at her in confusion before letting your gaze wander across the entirety of the gymnasium. Some were talking among themselves, while others sought out the help of your teammates in doing their sit-ups.

Now, joint training sessions weren't an entirely new concept to you. Division One V. League had a knack for mixing up male and female teams in the said training sessions, so the match-up didn't really come as a surprise to you, but it just had to be that team, didn't it?

Black uniforms with golden claw marks slashed onto the fabric. The gods really were out to torment you today.

"Oi."

You hated yourself for reacting instinctively to the familiar voice. Craning your head to the side, you were met by the same, dark eyes that ridiculed you first thing in the morning. This time, though, he was devoid of the black face mask he wore during his commute, and you hated yourself even more for thinking that yup, he definitely was tall, snark, and handsome.

Sakusa Kiyoomi—that was his name.

"How long can you hold up against outside hitters?" he questioned, carding his fingers through his inky hair. "Division One liberos aren't a joke, but from the way you were half-dead in the train earlier, I figured it would be merciful to go easy on you."

You could practically feel Mari's eyes burning holes in the back of your head. However, you opted to save the explanations for later.

"Listen here, you punk," you ground out through gritted teeth. "You don't give a rat's ass about my well-being, got that? Send a thousand spikes my way and I'll dig every. Single. One."

His mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile, but there was an unspoken challenge in his eyes that you'd want nothing else but to take on. Before he could speak again, though, another party has joined the fray.

"Oomi-kun, you aren't usually one to talk unless spoken to," the Jackals' setter, Miya Atsumu sighed, slinging an arm around Sakusa—a show of familiarity that the latter didn't seem to enjoy. "What're ya doin' canoodling with the enemy, huh?"

"None of your business, Miya," Sakusa scoffed before turning back to you. "I'll take your word on that, you drunkard."

You gasped, steeling your expression. "Bring it on, asshole."

"My, my. Such competitive spirits this early in the season!" Miya hollered at your unbridled hatred for the other right off the bat. "Well, Oomi-kun and I are gonna get goin'. He still has to spike some of my tosses."

"What—"

The blond tutted Sakusa before he could get another word out, pushing him by the shoulders as he sent a wink your way. "Let's have a good game, libero-san!"

Once the odd duo left you to your own devices, you should've expected Mari to explode on you like a nuclear meltdown.

"How did you know Sakusa? And Miya, too? Just what did you get yourself into, (Name)?!"

The sigh you let out is a bit strained as your gaze riveted itself on the other side of the court. True to his word, Miya really did force Sakusa into hitting his tosses, and the sound of a volleyball landing on the floor with a clean spike was music to your ears.

The devil really had no business making him look so cool as he did so, too.

"I have no idea," was what you told your captain. "Come on, help me warm up. No way am I letting that jerk score any hits off me."

[circuscarnage]

A Prince By All Means.

Guess who was in a writing mood. Yay, it’s me. Feeling down because I hadn’t had motivation recently, but then I remembered the prince uniforms and the conversation about the prince cafe, and here we are. So if you’re feeling bored in lock down, why not read a crack fic about the prince cafe, featuring Nathaniel and Sarge by @prometheanglory ?

Sorry Vy for dragging this concept through the mud.

Words: 2438.

When Nathaniel was called to the headmasters office earlier that day, he had prepared himself to be reprimanded for the latest poison incident. Some poor Pomefiore soul had mistakenly taken a bite out of the fresh batch of candy apples, and paid a horrible price. All things considered, he had purchased a new poison and wanted to test it out, at least he knew it was worth the price. The last thing he expected was to be greeted with an frantic Crowley and a passive Sarge. As soon as he entered the room the attention was brought to him. Sarge smiled and waved as Crowley haphazardly shoved the spare papers into his desk before ushering the boy over. 

Here he told them about his idea. After the last overblotting incident, the school needed some funding for refurbishments. Of course, the headmaster couldn't reach out the the federal board for help. Even though their funding would be a great help, if they found out just how many students had fallen into overblot, the Night Raven Reputation would be ruined. Crowley had to take matters into his own hands, and what better way than a charity fundraiser? However, this particular fundraiser was somewhat unorthodox. Instead of doing something like a bake sale, or a book fare, it was a host club.

"We have students catering to different types of individuals, so there is something there for everyone." Crowley explained. "All you need to do is sit down with them, talk to them, and ensure they have an enjoyable time." He turned to look at the white haired bot first.

"Sarge, I am aware that you have gained quite the following since coming to Night Raven. I believe they are on their way to forming some sort of religion, calling themselves a church. And Nathaniel, many would welcome the chance to be hosted by royalty. It would surely be a wonderfully opportunity for students." He then explained the event in further detail, saying he would pair the two up, putting them together in a 'sweet and sour' package. Nathaniel was highly against the idea. He already had to deal with Sarge enough in their dorm, now he was expected to be a package deal with him? No way. "I will not lower myself to be lumped together with such an immoral, licentious-

"I think it's a great idea." Sarge briskly cut in, covering Nathaniel's mouth with one hand, rendering his onslaught of insults useless. "After all, plenty of students have been distressed over the incidents, I think they need something to relax their nerves." He removed his hand from the others face and rested it on his chin, as if trying to remember something. "I should know. Many have come to me seeking sanctuary. And I always provide."

Nathaniel grimaced, remembering the amount of students he had to forcibly remove from their room. Sarge would always tease him about it after, saying if he wanted to be alone with him, he could have just asked. That always earned him a swift punch to the face, as well as Nathaniel storming out of the room shortly after. He had requested several times to switch rooms, but students were unwilling to put up with either of them. He had also expressed his disgust for his roommate in written form, which he would send to his mother, but she has yet to respond.

"Fantastic!" Crowley brightly stated. He walked back over to his desk and began to scribble down some notes on paper. "The event starts at two pm, in the grand hall. You'll have to come a little early to get changed into the uniforms. You'll enter once all of the other guests have been seated. Of course, you need to know that there will also be people from outside to enjoy the events so I expect the both of you to be on your best behaviour-"

Before Crowley could finish his sentence, a hand slammed down on the table before him. Seething away whilst listening to Crowley's exposition, was a disgruntled prince who only got more agitated by the second. He glared down the headmaster with burning eyes, singeing a hole into the older mans subconscious. He had never said he would agree to take part in this event. The old crow was getting far too ahead of himself, and he had to put a stop to these assumptions. 

"Bold of you to assume I would ever partake in such a ludicrous event. You insult me, Crowley." The Headmaster was taken aback by this sudden outburst. He didn't think a simple idea would trigger such a negative reaction. Even Sarge was impressed at how forcible Nathaniel was being, especially towards the headmaster. Nathaniel however, was far from impressed. Irritation radiated off him like a burning stove. "Humour me. Give me one good reason why I should include myself in this charade?"

"I thought you might be hesitant." The way the Headmaster spoke caught both boys off guard. There was a certain edge to his voice that sounded like it was rehearsed, as if he knew one of them was going to disagree. Without further ado, a heavy stack of papers were dropped onto the desk, creating a loud thud that echoed throughout the room. "If you do this, I am willing to overlook all previous incidents involving your cooking. Since I am so kind."

The white haired boy glanced over the stacks of paper. The incidents ranged in intensity, going from minor inconveniences to lethal. It was amazing how he hadn't been kicked out of school yet. Sarge recalled all the times Nathaniel tried to poison him, remembering how outraged he was to find that Sarge was seemingly immune. After that, his attempts increased, silently hoping that a stronger dose would do the trick. However, Sarge would always eat the treat eagerly, even going as far as giving him tips on how to improve. No matter how hard he tried, Sarge was not one to be dropping dead so easily. Letting out a heavy sigh, Sarge leaned again the table and addressed his fellow classmate, hoping to press a few buttons. "You've been doing this all behind my back? And here I thought I was special." 

Nathaniel sent sarge a harsh look, which he returned with a wink. Trying to ignore the sparkling pest, Nathaniel returned to the matter at hand. Blackmail? What the hell was the old crow thinking? Using these innocent actions of poisoning against him as emotional leverage? He had to admit, that was a good tactic. This old bird was smarter than what he gave credit for. After carefully weighting his options, Nathaniel silently cursed the heavens before removing his hand, and reluctantly agreeing.

"This is stupid."

Nathaniel looked over himself one more time in the mirror, sneering at the reflection that greeted him. He was dressed head to toe in an extravagant outfit befitting of a prince. A black uniform accentuated by silver trim, an exact replica of royalty. The outfit itself wasn't what irked him. It was the premise. Being presented to a large group of people and expecting to entertain them one by one like a fool. Things like that are suited for a lowly peasant, some poor smuck that could be picked off the streets, not for someone of his calibre. To think that someone oh his bloodline had been reduced to a common entertainer. If his mother found out she would... No. She wouldn't do anything. Too enamoured with her husband to notice anything her son did. He curled a dark lock of hair around his finger. When was the last time he had it down? Without the silver crown, it felt almost wrong to stare at his reflection. Whilst Nathaniel was busy sulking in his changing room, Sarge was waiting outside, already pampered and prepared. 

Even though he did enjoy the uniform, and agreed that it would bring in some money, he couldn't help but think that a maid cafe would benefit the school more. If he suggested the idea to his companion, he would surely be dismantled. Speaking of, he had been spending an awfully long time in that room. Was he having trouble with his costume or was he just too shy? Sarge chuckled to himself. It would reflected badly on him if he did not assist a fellow student in need. He knocked gently on the door before calling out "You can't hide in there forever you know," The ever present playfulness to his voice was coated in a threatening sweet tone. "If you don't come out, I'm going to have to come in." Before Sarge has the chance to touch the door handle, it was quickly pulled away from him. 

Nathaniel grimaced as he looked his companion up and down. He worse the exact same uniform as him, the only difference being the colour. When Crowley said they were a package deal, he meant it. The thought of him being able to distance himself from Sarge once the event started quickly dissipated into thin air, leaving behind a trail of dread that would forever haunt him. He hated to admit it, but Sarge certainly did look the part. His usual princely aura was only amplified by the outfit, making him seem like something from a dream. He sparkled more than he usually did, making Nathaniel squint his eyes. "You look like you belong to Royal Sword." Nathaniel said airily as he adjusted his cuff links, trying not to pay attention to the glistening display before him. 

Sarge smiled, letting out a delighted sigh whilst placing a gloved hand over his heart. "My, Nathaniel, I didn't know you could be so kind." The dark haired boy sneered in disgust. "That wasn't a compliment." The two boys made their way towards the grand hall, where they were greeted by Crowley waiting outside. "The other hosts are already inside, your fist table is the one on the far left." With one hand firmly on the door handle, he addressed the boys one last time, giving them a fair warning. "And remember, you're setting an example for all of Night Raven. Be respectable." He cast a glance at both boys, not sure who that would apply to the most. 

In one swift motion, the doors opened, revealing a vast array of fancy furniture covered in anticipated guests. As if on cue, hundreds of heads turned in unison to greet the two princes. Hungry eyes glossed over them, taking in their presence like lives depended on it. A familiar unease started to creep up Nathaniel's spine. Being placed on a pedestal like this wasn't something he particularly enjoyed. "You get used to it." Sarge remarked, holding a steady smile on his face. Sarge had been praised and adored almost his entire life, having a few hundred eyes on him was nothing compared to what he endured. To him, this distant attention was bliss. Nathaniel wasn't completely ignorant to the attention either. At the balls his mother hosted, where she would show off her husband like the ornament he is, Nathaniel wasn't excluded from the piercing eyes of their guests. "I know." 

The first guest was already seated on a crisp white chaise lounge chair, located at the far end of the room. A small petite girl with mouse like features. Nothing particularly interesting about her, apart from the fact that she seemed to have been waiting for a while. Every now and again she would twiddle her fingers, silently counting the seconds as they went by. By the way her eyes lit up once she caught a glimpse of Sarge, she must have been one of his followers.

Luckily for Nathaniel, Sarge almost immediately took the lead, greeting the girl in a formal fashion before sitting himself down beside her. He took one of her frail hands in his, placing a gentle kiss atop her smooth skin. His voice was heavens bells to her ears as he spoke, enticing her in with honey coated promises soft as rose petals. Nathaniel cringed, taking a seat for himself. He had watched Sarge play the same routine many times, and it never failed to irk him greatly. 

He watched on as Sarge continued to charm the guest with ease. Within seconds they were completely playing into the fantasy, going along with whatever he said. It was strange to watch. Sarge continuously stringing along the unsuspecting victims with his silk smoothed words until they were nothing but a fly in his web of lies. Under his spell, trapped in her own garden of Eden.  

Nathaniel frowned. If he didn't even attempt to make an effort, Crowley wouldn't hold up his end of the bargain either. It hurt his pride to reduce his attitude down to that of a common entertainer, but for the sake of his personal record, he had to comply. Surely, this wouldn't be a hard task. He was already plenty handsome, and his status was that of something people would die for. Ideally, if he put a little effort in, girls would be swooning at his presence. The only problem was how.

What was he supposed to do, tell her she looked pretty? Well, apart from that being a flat out lie, he would hate to give her false hope. Lord forbid someone like her gains any ounce of self confidence. But he stilled needed to give her some sort of compliment. He looked over at Sarge again. The girl was now leaning into his touch, his hand gently cupped her rose-tinted cheek, whispering sweet nothings to her as if no one else was around. Disgusting. Okay, Nathaniel. Be nice. Just try to be nice.

"You look less like a dishevelled wreck today."

Nailed it.

The guest swiftly turned around, completely forgetting that there was another prince beside her. Sarge covered his mouth as he let out a small chuckle, amused by his friends antics. He had to admit, it was a vast improvement from what Nathaniel would usually say, and it was incredibly entertaining watching him try. Nathaniel started to feel dread creep up his spine once he noticed her eyes growing wider, suddenly being filled with eager anticipation. She let out a bright smile before clapping her hands together in giddy excitement. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me!"

"Don't expect it to happen again." Nathaniel quickly remarked, putting a halt to any thoughts she might have about him changing his attitude. He slumped back in his chair and crossed his arms. This was going to be a long day.

[into-crazy]

Man Under the Makeup Pt. 4

Arthur Fleck/Joker x Female Reader series

Warnings- Cursing, Arthur's condition, pure sweetness towards the end

You can find the other parts RIGHT HERE and through the “Man Under the Makeup” tag lovelies!💘

Riding through the city with Joker at this time of night felt strangely nice. Seated in the backseat, windows cracked allowing a cold breeze in. He sat by the window, you were close to him in the middle seat. Giving each other a rather respective space. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel one another's warmth.

Some blocks were relatively calm, where there weren't any of the usual riots shutting down routes. Then there were the wilder areas, accompanied by angry citizens flooding the streets. Damaging public property, and shouting demands for change. A few cops scattered, failing to gain control of the crowd. These are the patches he seems most keen of. You, on the other hand, were a little uneasy at the start. However, since Joker wasn't at all worried- you eased up on it. Paying close attention to how his eyes light up at the ravenous sights outside.

Your driver slowly cruising by, upon his boss's request. Joker blew the smoke of his cigarette out the small opening of the vehicle as you both quietly watched the commotion. His followers would recognize him, cheering and showing their support as the car goes by.

"Isn't it beautiful?" He admires gazing about the madness. A satisfied grin across his face.

"It's so.. wild.." that was all you could conjure. It was a lot to take in, with these being the type of things you'd normally avoid. Mad crowds, loud chanting. Looking at it from this perspective was definitely something different nonetheless.

Discarding the cig out the window, he turns to see your speechless expression. Having no clue what you're thinking. Do you love it? Hate it? Hate him for causing all of this?

"Is it too much for you?" His question grabs your attention.

Blinking out of your haze, you glance at him. "Huh, oh no! No, it's not. I'm just not used to all of it." Placing your hand over his in attempt to show you're indeed fine. At first he tensed upon your touch, then shifted his arm so his lay comfortably interlaced with yours.

Reaching the end of the block, it grows quiet as the recklessness fades. Joker clears his throat before speaking, "A-are you having a nice time?" He nervously asks. Hoping that you are indeed enjoying yourself just as much.

Giving him a tender squeeze, you rest your head on his shoulder. Taking notice to how stiff he's sitting. Like he's worried about messing up somehow. He must always be hard on himself, second guessing every action. You want him to relax, ease up. Even assuming that you tell him, you sense it would be better to show him. "I am. I'm having a great time with you.." you respond, softly nuzzling him. His shoulder bone digs into the side of your face. He feels kind of fragile?

"It's getting late," he acknowledges, "would you like a ride home?"

Sitting up, you consider the offer. "That depends. Can I trust that my address will stay safe?"

He shifts uneasily at your question, dreading the familiar fit making it's way up his throat. "You don't trust me?" He's able to conjure before bursting out the suppressed laughs. Hunching forward, coughing into his hands while trying to regain control of himself.

Given the impression you might have offended him, you quickly add, "No, that's not what I meant. Of course I trust you." Great, now he thinks you don't, way to go. The driver inspects through the rear view mirror, you wave away his concern. "Take your time, breathe," Placing your hand on his back, you wait for his fit to pass. Rubbing smooth circles on his back. Focusing on calming him down. Once he sits back up, you continue. "I'm aware you have the city's eyes and ears on you. I just don't want anyone to come knocking at my door. Reporters.. officers.. detectives.." you distinguish with him. "My home is my safe place, I don't need that getting out. Least not right now."

With the Joker being a wanted man, no doubt he has the law after him. They might not have caught up to him yet, but they're trying. If any information about you gets out, the police would probably try to use you to get to him.

Joker nods his head, grasping the concept which you're getting at. The last thing he would want is to bring any unwanted attention towards you and your private life. You don't deserve that. Although, that information could get out no matter how careful he'll try to be. He can't promise it. As much as he wants, he knows he can't. But he wants you to be able to trust him wholly.

There's a brief pause before he responds, "I understand. I hope to keep it between you, me and the driver.." Disappointment leers in his tone, in himself.

He sincerely means it, you believe he does. You're well aware of the risks that could- WOULD- come amidst your relations with the Joker. You just need time to prepare for it. For what's to come. Like calm before the storm. If this means getting to spend quality moments with Arthur, then you're willing to go the extra lengths to make sure it happens.

Fuck it.

Going against what others would call "better judgment," you give him your home address anyways. Resting back comfortably against the soft fabric of his suit, and the both of you don't say a word the drive there. Including the sounds of a sweet, soothing tune coming from the radio. He's content in the calm bit he's spending with you. Not wanting this night to end, instead wishing he could stay this way, close beside you forever.

Pulling up to the apartment building which you live, the driver parks by the sidewalk on the other side. Like the majority of the buildings in this part of the city- yours is large, containing many compacted apartments within. It is pretty worn down, the power would occasionally shut off. The lobby and hallways had awful smells lingering sometimes. Neighbors were noticeably rude and unpleasant. Safe to say it wasn't the most pleasant place in the world but at least it isn't a complete shit hole.

It was apparent Joker already knew this just looking over the building from the outside. After all, he's lived in one to recognize one.

As you sat, the silence remained, and it started to get a little awkward. Light from the street post barley peeking in the darkness of the enclosed space. Glancing at his face, you see he's growing more and more strained trying to figure out what to say to you. Overthinking himself, he doesn't know what- Should I say good night? Do I kiss her? No. What if she doesn't like that? I might not do it right. Will she invite me in, should I ask? No, no! It's too soon. Just play it cool. His legs start to shake a little bit as he grows anxious.

You decide to say something, reaching for your coat beside you. "Well, looks like this is my stop."

Relieved you broke the ice first- and bringing him back into reality- he breathes out, "y-yeah.."

You lightly pat his thigh in attempt to calm his nervousness. He admires your patience with him, peaking at your kind face. It seems to work as his shaking subsides.

Even as the Joker, he's still the same shy man from before. Underneath the image he's still Arthur. He can't hide that from you. And you've taken a liking to his timid nature. You since been infatuated with it the moment you met him on the sidewalk as Carnival.

It's obvious he's never been familiar with this amount of kindness, unable to process pure affection. Taking this into consideration, it's the reason why you're going about it slowly- not wanting to overwhelm him. Which raises the thought.. you holding back like this might end up driving him away. He could take it as you don't really show interest in him or his feelings. Which is not what you're trying to get at.

"I enjoyed our time together," he states, "I hope I can see you again soon. Would you like that?" The shy tone in his voice earns a sweet chuckle from you.

"Most definitely Arthur, yes! Oh, wait." You nod digging into your coat's pocket. Pulling out a small card with your phone number written down, you hand it to him. "Here is my number."

He glances at the digits then flips the card over. Revealing a signature red, kiss mark on the paper. He happens to notice it's the same glossy shade which you're wearing right now.

"You can call me anytime," you assure him.

"Oh I-I will, I'll do that." He smiles putting the card in his pocket.

Getting out of the car, he glances around. The street is dark and quiet, not a single person outside. Good. He motions for your coat, which you hand him before stepping out. He takes the liberty of helping you put it on, such a gentleman. With the door of the vehicle still open, he hums to the tune of the song playing. You thank him sweetly, then lead the way across the lonely street.

The clicking of your heeled boots echoes along the silent air. Halting at the bottom of the steps, you turn towards him. "I want to thank you for tonight," you point out, shivering from the freezing air. "I hope to hear from you soon?" Placing your cold hand into his warmer one. It came out as more of an ask rather than a statement.

"You can bet on it." He smiles running his thumb over your smooth wrist.

"401.." you whisper meeting his admirable gaze.

He wrinkles his nose slightly, "I'm sorry?"

"That's my apartment number, 401," you repeat, "I'm on the 4th level, take a left off the elevator. You're welcome to come by. You know, if you ever need anything.. to see me, talk about something, maybe a place to hide." You merrily remark earning a soft laugh from him.

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

"Well, good night Arthur," you lean in, placing a delicate peck on his white painted cheek. His makeup is rather dry now, starting to crackle along his forehead and cheeks. He's left stunned with the sudden action, but he immediately gets a bolder idea.

Releasing his hand, you turn to walk up the steps. Before you do, Arthur regains your wrist, gently tugging you back around on your heel. Placing both of his hands on each of your soft cheeks, he brings you in. Locking your lips, giving you a proper kiss.

Overcomed by his swiftness, you give in. Shutting your eyes as your arms move to hold him back. His tongue lightly brushes over your lips, asking for access. Which you grant, allowing him to slip his tongue in. Your lips had a cherry taste to them, it's hard for him to not lick off the rest of your tasty lipstick. Though it is tempting. He doesn't shove far in and greedily dominate your mouth, instead moving gradually into your mouth. You love every second of this. Absolutely adoring how he's savoring your shared moment. Very much filled with that emotion he's been holding out on. Gently exploring over each other's personal boundaries. It's pure, heavenly bliss.

After what feels like a beautiful, short eternity- he slowly pulls away. Staring deep into you, noticeably left in a blushing haze. Half lidded eyes, refocusing on him. His thumb traces by the corner of your slightly smeared lips. Wiping away the mix of his and your shades of red. "Good night, y/n." He whispers charmingly.

You struggled a bit trying to walk up the steps as gracefully as possible. The kiss had you flushing like a high school girl. You managed, however. He waits til you make it safely into the building. Offering a wave before straightening his jacket then heading back to his ride. Overlooking the area as he gets into the car. Still able to taste you on his lips. He cues the man to drive, riding off in the middle of the night.

End of part 4.

[thefatalmarksman]

Darkness of the Dawn

[[ aka, borderlands au luxu/xigbar’s tragic origin story, aka luxu/xigbar is never allowed to have a backstory without a shitton of baggage that goes with it and also i basically replaced the watcher’s role with luxu because they didn’t do more with them and because i can :))) ]]

~~~

“Luxu---I am going to tell you a secret I have never told anyone else.”

His Master’s voice abruptly cut through the white noise, breaking the reverie that had settled over the picturesque scene. For all Luxu could tell of the unaccounted-for passage of time, the two of them could have been standing there for a few minutes---to even a few hours. And for Luxu, he would have gladly stood there for days upon days for his Master to address him---just waiting for his Master’s initiation of the dialogue, admiring the placid blue lake-view sprawled out before them, dappled in a radiant ocher sunset, in never-ending contented patience.

“And you must never tell anyone else---understand?”

The graveness of his Master’s tone was most perturbing, for the wise Eridian Sage was known for his predominantly teasing, playful attitude, almost edging on manic behavior on occasion. So when he slipped into these serious phases---showed that side of him that truly marked his position as a wise scholar, a philosophical authority, and nearly-omniscient oracle that had written out the mysterious Book of Prophecies---that was the cue to hush, and listen.

And as such, upon this turn of attitude, Luxu’s response wavered slightly in tone, “Y---Yes,” then, more convincing once he’d gotten proper control of his throat, “of course, Master. You can trust me entirely.”

Thus, his Master began his slow pacing, all along the steep cliff side overlooking the expanse of crystalline water, and Luxu---ever-compliant---followed along as he spoke:

“It is time you knew the truth. Things are going to be... changing, Luxu. Very soon. Sooner than is probably pleasant,” and his meandering was slow, hands clasped behind his back, a movement back-and-forth so close the edge it made Luxu anxious. “And as my most trusted Apprentice, you will be a key figure in ensuring that everything---everything, everything---goes exactly as it must.”

Luxu had already been unnerved by his Master’s pacing, but at this revelation, could feel his gut clench anew, like he had swallowed a large stone---nervousness overtaking him in a fresh wave. Such an intense proclamation of responsibility---and Luxu, barely out of his youngling phase, still so uncertain of the universe around him, having primarily lived vicariously through texts his Master provided him and meager interactions with what little of the population that chose to speak to him, instead of absorbing any extensive real-world experience.

When his Master paused, Luxu took this as his turn to interject, drawing closer, until he was within arms’ distance---and yet, at this moment, feeling so much further away, “So... what is going to happen, and---what must I do?”

His Master suddenly stopped his movements, facing towards the lake, disappearing far into the horizon, towards the distant mist that glowed burning orange in otherworldly vibrancy---as though the water had been set aflame as the sun appeared to sink deeper into it. Luxu only wished that he could see his Master’s expression---beyond the hood that covered his head, beyond the mask that covered his face. Never before had he seen what lay underneath, and now, more than ever, he wished for just a glimpse---perhaps just a single glance at his visage would dispel the yearning for respite from this terrible conversation.

“...Luxu,” the name from his Master weighted with foreboding, “...soon enough, this place, this planet---this, what we have made our first home, in the hopes of expanding our progeny---will one day have a second name. Future generations of future species will concoct a translation, one name that they will misinterpret as another in their language, its true meaning lost to them:

“Nekrotafeyo.”

As the word came out of his Master’s mouth, Luxu felt an increasing trepidation, and---despite his hesitation---asked, “And it... means?”

“...Graveyard.”

Luxu grew silent, then his Master clinched in place his awful point, “Yes---all of this---everything we know, that lay out before us, everything that we’ve built---will come to its end, left as nothing but a wasteland filled with crumbling ruins.”

Turning his back away from the scenery upon which he had been staring so fondly---the resplendent, enthralling brilliant dusk, smoldering into a purplish hue, as though denying the comfort of the sight in light of this news, in order to linger on the impending tragedy---Luxu raised his gaze upwards, towards the towers that reached into the sky, extending proud and tall like the arms of his Master’s followers at a sermon in the throes of holy reverence. To think---soon, as his Master had described so vaguely---these monuments---testaments to their proud civilization, their masterful craft in establishing their dominance over the universe, the loudest statement possible of ‘we exist!’---would soon be nothing more than... tombstones.

“However... this is where you come in, Luxu.”

He had been silent in his approach, and Luxu felt the long-fingered hand of his Master land on his shoulder---a gesture meant to be of comfort, and yet the Apprentice could only feel it minimally, its warmth at the very edge of his mental awareness.

“Luxu---you will survive. You will live on.”

At these words, Luxu knew he should feel some semblance of relief---that he would avoid such a catastrophic fate that the remainder of the Eridians were doomed to suffer---and yet, he was just cognizant enough, just keen enough, to know that there was a price to this fact. That, as he felt his slight shoulders shrug in discomfort---his Master’s touch suddenly becoming far more intrusive as all of this sunk in---there was more harrowing information to come.

“...Just me? Even you... even you will be gone?”

A soft response, the barest flicker of sympathy, “Every single Eridian, yes---even me.”

Another ensuing silence, and Luxu could feel the weight of everything---everything, everything---toppling down on him. A black hole inside, sucking out every light of hopefulness he had ever felt. Every single moment, culminating to this very one---so very bleak, so very wretched.

“But,” his Master went on, and finally the unintentionally cruel presence of his hand was lifted, “the good news is that, one day, you will see my return. I will come for you---at least, after some time has passed.”

With a palpable disquiet, “...How long?”

There came a breath from behind the mask, and Luxu watched the movement of his Master’s form---wanted to picture behind the porcelain veil some sort of commiseration, some condolence as the time mounted between the question and the answer.

Pleading for the truth now, “How long?”

“Just---” and, suddenly, his Master’s voice upturned in mood, “well, just think of this as a vacation! An extended one, filled with lots of adventure! Lots of sight-seeing!”

Usually, such an abrupt, jovial switch in his Master’s tone was a signal for relief---that all worries should melt and be replaced with utmost optimism---but in this case, it only worsened the sinking feeling. The dread. The fear. The heartache, even. Perhaps it was selfish, but the main source of his pain now---even more acute than the concept of the death of the entire planet---was that he would be separated from his Master. He had never known a life without him---and now, in a matter of several minutes of conversation, all of his preconceived notions of safety and protection had been entirely stripped away from him.

“...So, what do I do now?”

A brief, yet brutal pause, then, “You will have to be...” another pause, to search for the right term, “...rebuilt, in order to endure what is to come. You will need the physical means to carry on through the ensuing generations, because as it is, your body is too frail to stand the test of time that is before you,” and again, that hand on his shoulder, increasing that throbbing emptiness in Luxu’s chest.

“I promise you, the pain will not last long.”

~~~

His Master had been wrong about the pain.

Very wrong.

~~~

“You know of the Sirens, correct?”

The voice of his Master was distant now---an echo, at this juncture. Mental movement between points in time often felt like a dream---an absence of thought, and suddenly, he was somewhere else. Right now, it appeared he was in some sort of stony, high-ceilinged chamber, illuminated by a series of red lights, and appeared to still be under some sort of construction. He could not conceive its purpose---nor was the notion at the forefront of his mind. 

“I know thus far you have not gotten the chance to meet any of them---the one living here included---but believe me, you are going to meet many more of them on your journey. Though we have surveyed that only a set amount can exist at a single time---” then, a tilt of his Master’s head, “---there... will be exceptions to this. As you know, there always are to the norm,” then a broad gesture towards Luxu. “Somewhat like you!”

Luxu did not respond to the joke at his expense, whether or not it was meant to console him. Instead, his ruminations swam through him like agitated anglers---how long had he been like this---hurting like this? The rending agony still remained from the procedure---still fresh, still sharp---within his newly-constructed joints, down into his heftily-reinforced bones, and through his now-heightened, sensitive nerve-endings.

And how long must he suffer the harsh stares when traversing within public spaces? Younglings told to avert their eyes, gazes filled with ever-tensing apprehension as he passed them by---and, at times, bordering on complete disdain at his... unseemly appearance. A disgraceful mishmashed monstrosity of two different entities---Guardian and Eridian---deigned to be neither by their standards. 

Even before this, as an Apprentice to his Master, he had not properly belonged---and now, the stigma had only increased, this time in contempt.

He was a freak.

And when Luxu said nothing, his Master continued, “Well, any-way. Your main job is going to be keeping an eye---” this word especially emphasized, Luxu noted, “---on the various goings-on of the universe---and we will get to that bit soon enough, most assuredly---but another thing you are going to have to do is watch these particular individuals. And even when you think you should interfere, do not. If you do, it could create paradoxes of untold consequences.

“The only time you may ever act is when you know you can act---and you shall know what that means soon enough. But otherwise, everything must unfold as foretold---that is, first and foremost, your Role.”

Still, Luxu’s mouth did not move---made not a single sound---and still his Master went on, “Thankfully, the way your body has been---altered, it will not only extend your lifespan significantly, but it will be what protects you from any supernatural powers the Sirens have. And believe me, you are going to be quite thankful for that. Because trust me, you are going to be in for some... close encounters.”

At long last, Luxu replied, “...Okay.”

“Just...” his Master’s slow approach, a hand on his shoulder---the renewed return of Luxu’s despair, “be ready for the next phase. You will be meeting your first Siren soon enough---and I must prepare you for it. After that... unfortunately, you will have to go alone from here on out.”

~~~

His Master had been correct.

He was prepared. And he was alone.

Above what would be known as the now-completed Pyre of Stars---at least, what his Master told him it would be known as some time in the future, yet again unspecified---he watched the Siren called “Nyriad” with the new Gazing Eye he had been given, replacing what had once been his own right eye. He clutched within the talons of one deformed hand the ultra-weapon that he referred to as “No Name,”---and at his side, hanging from his other claw, the Black Box, heavy with its unbreakable locks and containing a Secret to which only he and his Master were privy.

These were to be considered, he supposed rather bitterly, parting gifts from his Master---and the application of Eye the last testament to the fact that what pain he thought was the maximum of what he could endure... was not.

As he stood witness to the disappearance of what could have once been considered his entire species, his position at the pinnacle of the temple’s arch leading out towards a field of diminishing starlight---captivated by Fate until it appeared every single one of the Eridians had been rendered into nothing but their bloody essence to feed the Eldritch being that was then sealed away---she saw him. 

And yet, as he returned her stare---gazed into such stunningly blue eyes---he found himself... feeling nothing. Where once there was empathy, there was apathy---where once was a concern to be loved and to belong, there was complete and utter detachment. Cruelly forced upon him---perhaps, he had pondered, for the better.

Therefore, as she surveyed him surveying her, he did nothing.

For from now until the end of the unknown, he had accepted that this would be his all-consuming Role, at the behest of his absent Master---the Fate to which he would have to adhere himself:

Waiting.

Watching.

Dawn was approaching, and in the wake of the genocide, he turned his back on the first Siren he had ever met, and, dragging the Black Box behind him with No Name in tow, tread heavily on towards the rising sun---and to wherever else his feet were destined to take him.

[royalrastafariannaynays]

Laundry Pods, Ch 10/?

The fishy guy ended up giving you a list. He knows what eggs are, despite yours being strangely hard shelled, and he wants more of them. He also says to bring a few handfuls of seaweed, the gross tangly green kind, some clean sand from a tide pool, a thin knife, and... that was it.

You end up throwing a first aid kit into a couple waterproof ziplocs for the hell of it. And a bottle of clean, fresh water. To drink, in case you get stuck wherever the fuck this dude is hiding.

No one is downstairs to give you weird looks, thank fuck. When you venture beyond the first floor, no one is upstairs, either. Did they all go out?

Wait, Jake’s bedroom door is closed. Ah. Dirk is there to observe you, then. Or he’s uh... occupied. With what, you don’t even want to know. At most innocent, he’s sitting and pining over him in silence. The lack of crying noise is telling, however, and you’re really hoping he’s just sleeping.  

Blech.

The sand is spicy hot on your toes when you skid down off the last porch step again after inching the back door closed. Your satchel of random shit is heavy on your shoulder, and you make sure to be a bit careful. Don’t wanna break any eggs. 

Down at the beach, you feel the prod and welcome it fully into your mind. It retracts a tad from its next poke, and seems to sit respectfully just outside your surface thoughts. A series of locations and notions leads you to place the bag of stuff right on the end of the dock. You sit with it, eyeing the steep slope of the beach for a moment while you face the mental silence. 

“Uhm.” you feel. It’s not really the word so much as something like hesitation and stalling. You get the same feeling as a regular ‘um’ so you’ll just stick with that. 

“What?” you say out loud, still struggling in the translations and stuff. His language is so particular. Maybe like. Is it anything like hieroglyphics? Nah, can’t be. 

With some struggle on his part, FG (fish guy) admits that he can’t come out of wherever he is to retrieve the items. It takes him about five minutes of edging uncomfortably around his original statement, and then points out that with how he’s hurt, like. He can’t move to fish, so coming out to get the stuff is just short of impossible. 

“How am I supposed to get it to you, then?” you ask, frown tilting your brow. You drop your legs into the water, noting that with the level of the tide, it’s not that far from the top of the dock. 

“I think you’ll have to bring it to me,” FG says, with no small amount of fear and regret in his voice. So he’s scared of you, but he knows you have brittle bones and soft skin, and he could easily rip you apart for breakfast. 

There’s a deeper underlying fear there, too. It’s one that every sentient being sees. Maybe every being whose existence isn’t based on that fear. Death. He doesn’t want to die. Does he honestly think he’s going to die? 

“In case you didn’t notice, humans can’t breathe underwater,” you snark at him. 

The feeling you get next is long-suffering. 

“I’m aware, two-legs,” it tells you. “But fortunately I can breathe in both surface and ocean. So I am in a...” 

He hesitates. Either he’s not sure how to place it, or he doesn’t want to tell you. 

It seems to be a combination of both. 

He sends an image of the inside of a small cave, lit strangely blue. It’s bright, but damp and bare. 

“Please do not reveal this to other humans,” he... begs you. 

Oh God. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, not wanting to get into something too serious or dark. “I won’t. Show me how to get in there.” 

He probes a little further into your mind, laying down tiles of thought and mortar of intent and instruction. Images of the rock pile near the dock, and then a tunnel. Oh wow. There was a tunnel in there? That has to go down beneath the beach. Holy shit. 

Without delay, after trying your best to throw an affirmative his way, you drop the bag gently into the water. When you get in yourself, you dive, away from the bag. Its strings are harder to manipulate underwater, and you have to leave your shades on the dock, but when you get going, you feel like a regular fuckin merdude. 

Or somethin’. 

So anyways, FG is silent except for a few pointers on direction. Literal pointers. 

It’s hard holding your breath that long, and at one point you feel a little like you’re going to panic, but you give it one last shove through the two-foot-diameter, dark, rock passage. Surfacing feels like heaven, and you brace yourself on the edge of the water, gasping hoarsely. Okay, you need more breathing training. That’s going to be HELLA annoying to go back through. But at least you can just push off the bottom to get back to the dock. 

Once you’ve got some air back, though, you notice that the subterranean air pocket is a lot dimmer than FG showed you. It’s still lit enough to see, and still that same, strange blue. 

Something like a small and bubbling murmur touches your ears, and you look up. 

There he is. 

Fishy man sitting there, one arm held protectively over his middle. The other is bracing him up against the wall, claws digging harshly into the cave floor. There are a few scratches there already, leading away from the pool you’re still pruning in. 

“Hey,” you say. And he makes this bewildered face, ear-fins fanning out. His pupils are large in his eyes, which seem this weird purple-brown in the blue lighting. They don’t glow. 

But his entire body does. 

As you lift the satchel out of the water, you look him over from tail to hair. And man, he’s got a lot of hair. It’s just as wiry and scratchy-looking as it was behind the thin veil of bubbles. Other than that, and the single dorsal fin you see splayed out against the wall, same as his fanned ears, you can’t focus on anything but the glowing. 

Almost like they’re coming from beneath his skin, Fish Guy is covered in spots of brilliant luminescence. The spots range from teal to pink. Several ring his neck up and down like a necklace, or a collar, and the same trail up the sides of his face and back to his ears. Each tip of the earfins is spotted with little fragments of light. 

Those ones are red. But a majority of them are blue. Soft, blue, like glow-sticks if they were just given a little more ‘umph’. Constellations of little spots dot his torso in what’s probably interesting configurations if viewed from afar, and then all the way down his. 

Holy shit. 

His tail is like. It’s covered entirely by those same iridescent scales, like the one on your bedside table. The scales are also on his face, and neck, and everywhere that fins recede into his skin, like the backs of his arms and the webs of his fingers. 

No nipples, which is. 

Weird. 

Kyle XY shit with the lack of bellybutton, too. 

“Stop staring,” he says, and when you’re this close, it’s punctuated by a sharp snarl. It rolls from the back of his throat, and forward into his lungs, and even out the gill slits that dot the side of his torso. They seem plastered to him, just lines, right now. Maybe this is the...

“I said, stop!” he repeats. The prod turns to a knife for half a second, and you have to let go of the bag to hold the side of your head. 

The bag turns over, sliding a little open. The eggs tumble out, along with the chunk of seaweed. 

The seaweed which is immediately shoved into his mouth, and he begins to chew aggressively. It’s seconds before he’s done masticating it, and spits it out of his mouth, to press it to the hole on his tail that you hadn’t noticed until now. It’s kind of sitting there like a ripped sail, maybe eight inches of it. 

God, gross. Gross, yuck, augh.

“Will it grow back?” you ask him. He stares at you for a long moment. 

“Of course it’s going to grow back, coral-for-brains.”

“Alright, geez,” you say, and after a breath or two more, you heave yourself up out of the water. There’s enough room in here for the two of you to sit a good distance away from each other. So you set about unpacking shit. His stuff, including the eggs, none of which miraculously broken. 

And then your stuff, which is. The first aid kit. 

“You said your other wound re-opened, right?” you ask. FG pauses, egg shell crunching in his mouth and fingers poised to pick up another. 

“That’s none of your business, you can leave now.”

You huff out a soft noise of disbelief. “I brought something to help patch you up.”

“I am not a doll,” he says, hissing again. The hiss spatters you with tiny flakes of eggshell. 

“Okay,” you say, swiping some of it off your nose and mouth. “But I can help keep the thing closed so infection is less likely.” 

“I’m still mildly impressed you humans have made it this far,” he sneers at you. “How am I to know that your medicine isn’t just as deadly as your pollution? Or as useless as your lack of sharpteeth, which are perfect for meat.” 

“Uhm,” you say, like a real diplomat. That concept caught you off guard. You attempt to think it back at him, with a question attached. 

“You know, sharpteeth,” FG says. Like it’s obvious. 

“I just have regular teeth, man,” you say, waving your hands. 

FG frowns at that. He goes silent for another long moment, and contemplates while you just get radio static in every sense. And then he beckons you over. 

And, like only an idiot can do, you lean toward him and crawl a few feet. He’s so close he smells like heat and ocean. But not in the bad way, he smells... it’s odd. 

“What?” you ask, glaring at him to avoid just staring at his body again. That prick in the forehead was weird and nasty. “I just have regular tee-hhreaaugh-”

FG has his two first digits in your mouth. They hold it open, and his sharp claws are so close to vital parts of your face that you’re filled with a split second of fear so intense you’re surprised you don’t wet yourself. 

He pushes his hand forward, dragging sharply but not too sharply across your tongue, and the top of your two rows of what you think are pretty good fuckin’ teeth. The fingers are warm in your mouth, and they taste like brine and sand and something weirdly... oily that you can’t define, but doesn’t taste unpleasant. You can’t move, for fear of getting gored through the face or your gums cutting up. He’s caught you like a fish on a fucking hook, and he’s just leaning in to inspect your perfectly normal teeth. 

When he leans back, your face is so incredibly warm that you pull back as soon as his hands are clear of anything soft and fragile. “What the fuck!” 

“Turns out you don’t have sharpteeth, human. Very... odd.”

FG stares openly at you, then, dragging his eyes down your chest. His eyebrows go up with every new incredibly squishy feature you possess. 

“I guess two-legs are... weak.” 

You make what you hope is more of a noise of protest than a squeak. 

“We’re not that weak,” you splutter, and he imitates your complaint obnoxiously even as he shoves another egg into his mouth, biting down with... oh boy. His are uh. 

Sharp. 

Once that egg is gone, he faces you. FG slowly opens his mouth, pulling back his lips gruesomely to reveal a set of proper chompers. And now you know what he meant. All of his teeth are sharp, and you get the feeling they get more deadly with age. 

Blue, and also dotted with small glowing lines, a tongue darts out to run over his teeth in a way that really should not terrify you as much as it does. He sucks on the top row of shining ivory, making a smacking noise that makes you think less about kissing and more about how loudly your bones would crunch in his mouth. 

You edge toward the pool. 

Something like a hoarse coughing comes from FG’s throat, and he holds his stomach as he winces in pain. That was... a laugh. 

“I can’t believe I feared you, mere moments ago,” he tells you. And swallows another egg, this one whole. Ugh. Oh god. 

"I used to have longer canines, but I bit my brother with them and they got shaved off to dull when I was at the dentist,” you mumble, rubbing your shoulder as it twinges. 

FG’s tail relaxes once he’s done with the hilarity at your expense. And you see the wound, which weeps just so lightly with blood. It’s thinner than yours in color, almost like it’s diluted. 

“You can use your human medicine, or try,” he tells you, with a wave of his hand. “Why would you shave off a tooth? Are you insane?” 

“Humans have their own weapons, asshole,” you tell him, creeping over with the kit. There’s a suture set in here somewhere. You’ve given stitches to yourself plenty of times.

Despite him giving you permission and access, FG still growls defensively when you reach to dab at it with gauze. 

It starts with him snarling ferociously in pain at the first stitch, and then with him making soft and pathetic whimpering noises as you finish, while he sucks the insides pathetically from the remainder of the eggs. His stance is more relaxed by the end, though, fins laying down on his body, and glow just barely dimmer than before. 

He must have been really hungry. 

Looking at his half-closed eyes and perpetual grimace, one fang sticking up over his upper lip, you realize something important. 

You’re gonna need to learn how to catch fish. 

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[rhiannonbassett]

Frisson: Atmospheric Feelings and Langauge

February 13, 2016

Language is a strange and magical thing. We often take it for granted as it is an essential part of our lives but what, exactly, are we trying to do with it? What are we trying to say? We are trying to turn our thoughts and feelings into words. We are trying to capture something inside of us and regurgitate it into letters to make someone else understand what we mean. We really want them to know what we mean and what we feel. This is why we get frustrated when we cannot find the right words. But how, and who, are we to truly describe a feeling? I don’t know if we can. But that doesn’t mean we should stop trying. That is why I am here. Writing this to you, oh ambiguous reader, to try and explain a feeling.

I couldn’t find a single word for this feeling so I made a collection of them. It is a fusion of awe, hope, possibility, wonder and inspiration. It is one of my favourite feelings. It has a sense of scale to it. It’s vast and spacious and fathomless. This feeling, for me, is often inexplicably connected to space. That is the right word for it. Space. It is open and airy and expansive. It is a word with many meanings which revolve around thematically similar concepts. Space is all around us. Space can be positive or negative. Space can emphasize or diminish matter. There is the space between one object or person to another. This space can seem empty but the absence of visibility doesn’t necessarily mean it is empty.

Space is infinite. There is no edge to it and it is expanding faster than ever before. Dark Matter and Energy are a thing. They account for most of the matter and energy in the universe but we know next to nothing about them. Space is so big that we can’t even began to comprehend its size. It is so big that it is scientifically probable that the universe repeats itself which would mean that parallel worlds and other versions of ourselves exist. Space-time is incredibly complex and equally as beautiful. We know very little about phenomena like black holes, wormholes and other dimensions. In fact we know very little in the grand scheme of things and that scares people. We’re incredibly curious beings, humans,  and we want to know things. We want the answers to every question. However, like a magicians tricks, maybe we don’t really want to know. Space, after all, appears to blur the line between science and magic.

Anyway, I digress, space is a trigger for this epic feeling. I am aware that epic is a word that we tend to overuse in our daily lives so I do not use it lightly here. This feeling is truly epic. It makes you feel like you can traverse mountains and understand universes and rule worlds. I get this feeling when watching or listening to incredible movies or music. They’re normally full of visual splendor and emotional value and, yes, this includes space movies like Gravity or Interstellar. This feeling often happens at the climatic points of the music or film. It is a brief yet moving and ethereal experience. Things feel like they move in slow motion, like you are stepping out of reality, before you are released from the spell and things speed up again.

I wrote a short story about space where I tried to capture this feeling. It is about this woman who is lost in space and running out of oxygen. She is alone, so very alone, in the great expanse of space and is pondering her existence. It’s so very still and silent and breathtaking. It has melancholic rhythm to it. It feels like you are experiencing someones last and personally revealing moments. There is a short animated film called Voices of a Distant Star by Makoto Shinkai which also gives me this feeling. It’s about, spoiler alert, these two lovers who are separated by time and distance. The girl, Mikako, is contracted into the intergalactic army and is sent off into space leaving the boy, Noboru, behind on Earth. They exchange texts via phone but the time it takes to receive these texts expands as the distance between them does. Days have gone by for Mikako but many years have gone by for Noboru. It comes to an emotional climax where Noboru receives a text nearly 8 years after Mikako sent it and thereafter died. This feeling is vividly palpable.

I recently found out about a word called Frisson and it is the closest word I can find to describe this feeling. Say the word out loud. Frisson. It sounds like a shiver or a whisper which is almost exactly what it means. The word looks slightly similar to the word Friction but they couldn’t be more different. The ‘ct’ sound in Friction is bitter compared to the smooth ‘ss’ sound in Frisson. Friction is like bumping into a wall whereas Frisson is like flowing down a river. Frisson is comforting like ‘hush’ but fleeting like ‘fly.’ It is also similar to the word Fission which means the “the splitting of an atomic nucleus resulting in the release of large amounts of energy” which is strangely similar.

Frisson is defined as an overwhelming emotional response that presents like a shiver with goosebumps and, maybe, tears. It may feel like waves flushing up your back and neck into your face. It is almost like the physiological response to the feeling of awe. It is like an electrical charge. Some people associate it with the butterflies you feel when crushing upon someone but I feel like that takes it away from you. Giving or, even, associating it to someone else diminishes the intimacy of the feeling. It’s private experience. It’s something so close that you inhale it and let it touch your skin.

If we cannot find a word in our own language, English in this case, we look to another or we make them up. Find and create your own dictionary of words to describe how you feel and what you mean. The word is, after all, but a letter away from world.

[hereisplendorr]

Here's something I wrote over 8 years ago. I was reminded of it today. I don't like the vestiges of racist, drug war language it contains; I was on the way out of having been raised very conservatively, and this piece is part of the questioning I did as I worked out how wrongly I'd been informed about so many things. There are also stylistic things I regret, but here it is anyway.

Hornets' Nest

This hornets’ nest. Family vacationing near the top of a mountain, a stilt-mounted house surveying a dirt road and a small creek, billed as “overlooking a waterfall” which is, as usual, generous. Here’s my dad, not long out of bed, pajama pants that might be comical if I’d looked more closely; next time I will look, and tell you. Dad is peering out of the window above the sink, where the eaves of the screened-in porch are mere feet away, it’s a corner, you could reach out and grab the little hornet-spit-formed baseball nest. Is that right? About the hornets using their saliva to glop together paper or wood fibers or whatever? Do hornets have saliva? We’ll have to wiki what’s sticky later.

There is a small hole pointed almost directly at our window, at my dad, and hornets are moving rapidly in and out, but it’s so dark inside, so abruptly interior and secretive that, on the cusp, only half of a hornet can be seen at a time. Unknown amounts of stinger made more obvious because there is shadow where there should be visible threat.

Actually: that’s always true.

I join my dad, and he’s sipping coffee. Contemplating the eradication of a species while he waits for the early-morning mindfog to clear. I’m holding a book that I’m rereading after four years, after that first time when it mangled my view of freedom and tried to unleash me before my socially-appointed time. I also have a pen, which I have used to make just a few marks to the sides of important lines, only remembering that marking is okay when I’m two-thirds of the way through.

Yesterday I decided I wouldn’t drink any more coffee. I usually only drink coffee when I’m with my family or with friends - I am a social coffee drinker. It is one of the few things I do only when in the company of others. However: in a few hours I will fill my new mug with coffee, conflicted and exuberant because, what does it matter? This is vacation and I have finished this book and gotten into the shower because I thought I would start crying and all emotions must be optimized, maximized, extrapolated to their fullest potential. If I’m grinning, why not throw my arms out to my sides, mimicking the spread shape everywhere? If my face is going to have this thin trickle of water, why not the entire body, enveloped and steaming, endangered and streaming? If struck with despondency, if depressed, why not also be compressed, squished down to the lowest point, waving paper-thin as I pass a cockroach under a door-frame thoroughfare, watching its antennae drop astonished?

Bordering, I will not cry. So the shower will be repurposed, become a more obvious cleansing, rinsing some of that old detritus. Cinnamon soap will hang under the faucet. When I steal a small daub of my brother’s eucalyptus/mint shampoo, I will be two flavors of gum and thrilled.

But all of that is a few hours away. On this page, we’re still inspecting the hornets. My dad says, “You see that?”

“Ikes! Yellow jackets!” I say.

He pauses, doesn’t believe that his son doesn’t know the difference. “Actually, I think they’re hornets.”

“Yes. Right. Hornets. I thought--”

“They do look a little like yellow jackets.” Maybe he can be swayed. “But that’s what a hornets’ nest looks like.” He will not be swayed. I sway instead.

“Yeah, well; I wasn’t sure at first.” But to me, hornets are mythological - a hornet’s nest looks like my neighbor Brandon when I was seven, he and two other kids from our street jabbing a stick into a bush in front of Brandon’s house. A hornets’ nest looks like I’m standing at the edge of my yard, yelling that they probably shouldn’t do that, knowing what would happen because I’ve seen Winnie the Pooh and I understand the word “swarm” vaguely but viscerally. A nest looks like nothing until the stick hits the right angle, or the hornets finish counting to ten in warning, and then it’s like the cloud of hornets has always been there, maybe we just weren’t focusing our eyes -- there is no transition between no-cloud and cloud, between scold and swarm, between poke and panic and a Hornets’ Nest looks like I’m fleeing for my house, for the safe door, and I look over my shoulder and see this single hornet breaking from the pack, approaching me at unbelievable speed, flying straight into my lens like a television cartoon. I can see its wings right before I reflexively close my eyes and it stings me, just below the juicy marble of my left eye. The doctor tells me a centimeter higher and it might have stabbed my eye out.

I’ve never seen a hornets’ nest since then, as far as I know, though I am still equipped with both eyes. I have told the near-blindness story many times, never with any concept of what a hornets’ nest looks like… actually not even sure how to tell a hornet from a yellow jacket!

And then, here it is. This hornets’ nest. Until now I’ve always thought about it like “hornet’s nest,” as though the hornet were the entire colony, or maybe just that one hornet’s nest, the one that stung me. But we’re looking at these hornets flitting in and out, and I realize it’s got to be “hornets’ nest.” The plural is visible, shiver-shocking, and in transit. Industrious little things.

Why does their jerking, flickering movement speak of malevolence and hatred? When police say, “No sudden movements,” when they’re getting ready to pin the perp to the pavement, are they thinking about hornets and how you can’t trust them to be in the same place for any longer than a second? And: Are the police aware that they have become the swarm?

“How many do you think there are in there? Forty?” I guess high, to push the threat into absurdity, so that when my dad says, “No, not that many,” I can laugh and be relieved.

“Yeah, maybe,” he actually says. “That sounds about right.” I do not laugh, and I am not relieved. Now I know that he, too, is overestimating, maybe hoping for me to deny it, except he knows about hornets and I know nothing.

“Man. That’s a lot of hornets.”

“I wish I had some hornet spray,” my dad says. He gets wistful like this sometimes. “We’ve got ant and roach spray, but if I had hornet spray I could just open this window and shoot it straight into that hole and then shut the window really fast.”

“You wouldn’t have time,” I say. “You’d have to lean way out to get the spray to reach, and they’d be on you before you even pull the trigger.”

“No, hornet spray is a… it’s a stream, it shoots like twenty feet.”

“Oh, I was thinking of the other, you know, ant-type.” Of course! Of course, hornet spray has range! If I’d been in charge of inventing hornet spray, I would have botched the first batch by being too attached to the established method of bug murder. But then: why wasn’t spider death-spray also a long-range spray? Why this gentle mist? A weaponized stream would have come in handy when I was systematically eradicating the spiders outside my new house, having to jump to get the ones - again, under the eaves, like the hornets exploiting our shelter - that were too high up, almost always getting the cloud back on me, missing the spiders and becoming sticky with poison.

“No, it’s a stream. I wish we had some hornet spray.”

We watch the hornets moving in and out for a few more minutes.

“Was that a big one?” my dad asks, piqued.

“Where? No, I don’t know,” I say.

“You know there’s a big momma in there somewhere.”

A big momma hornet. Somewhere brooding.

“What’s the structure? Is it comb, or condos, or what?” I like imagining the hornets with time-share condos. Somehow it makes them even more desirable as targets for violence.

“No, they… there are compartments, for babies, and then they build more compartments onto the outside, for more babies.” My dad might know what he’s talking about. It sort of sounds like the time he told me about the poor black people in his town who became very wealthy when some drug came into vogue - maybe cocaine. They got the jump on the market. He said that, in order to store up the money, they rapidly and haphazardly expanded their tiny shacks, adding on a few rooms at a time, or a tennis court, or in one case building an entire mansion off of the back of a lean-to such that the front door was still through the old one-room shanty, but then you’d cross through the back door (how did my dad know this? probably he bought drugs from them but did he actually go to their homes or was he assuming based on the exterior?) and into opulence like none of us can possibly imagine.

Drug money mansions. Hornets’ nests.

Common threads:

Contained danger. Safe until prodded. Best if ignored.

Other commonalities:

Piecemeal; Pocketing; Pests; Persistence; Xenophobia.

“Huh,” I say. I lose interest in the in-and-out traffic jam, of thinking that everything lately has been turning up cyclical, pendulous, and that I embrace the notion as fervently as I am opposed to its purportedly universal nature. There is stability in it, an averaging out, which I need… but there is a resistance to progress that makes me want to spit, sometimes I do spit about it, because I think spitting goes so well with spiting and that I ought to, as I mentioned, outwardly manifest my emotions whenever possible. No more bottling, ever. Certainly not bottling of spit. Eugh.

Then I’m on the couch, reading a bit more, and my mom comes into the room. Dad lets her know that there are hornets, that we have no spray (except ant/roach), and that we also forgot to purchase Off! at the grocery store yesterday. She says we’ll get some, or something, and then Dad begins monologuing about his desire to destroy these hornets, his responsibility to his family and to the future. He doesn’t want us to get stung, nor does he want the next renters to be stung, either. And if they aren’t dealt with now, the nest will only get bigger, more virulent, more dangerous. He becomes discouraged, though, as he does so often recently, without cause, and begins saying, “Or, well, maybe we should just leave them alone. They probably won’t sting us, and then those next people can deal with it. Maybe they should deal with it. Why should we?”

I have to interrupt. “Nothing should be left for anyone else to do. Ever. We should always take action, always pre-empt. You want to destroy those hornets: we will destroy the hornets.”

My dad shrugs, makes a “you’re probably right” face. Mom is a little overwhelmed by the vehemence of the statement, as she tends to be. I speak clearly, decisively, sometimes dogmatically, and she is not the only one who is put off by this. It’s something I’ll spend the rest of my life wrestling with.

“We will kill these hornets because they may harm us, and then the people who stay here two months from now will not even know the hornets were there. They will not know us, nor will they know the favor we have done them. But when they are drifting off after an unmolested day outside, just before they lose consciousness, they will know our faces and they will know love.”

“Hey, I like it,” my dad says.

“And at that exact moment, we will remember the hornets, and hope that someone appreciates it, and we won’t know that it’s because they actually are appreciating it, but we will feel that love, also, and all of our lives will be better for it.”

There is a pause as we take this possibility in, and then I say, to diffuse, “And at the same moment, the relatives of those hornets will fill with rage at our scent, and the animosity between our species will grow.”

“And,” my dad laughs, “when the world-ending war between man and hornet comes to a head, we’ll know we were instrumental in bringing it about.”

“This is the impact of our lives!”

Laughing, my dad says, “Well, we took that about as far as it could go, I guess.”

**

Does the joke diminish fervent truth? Or is it just that degree of comfort needed to survive grave purpose?

**

Tomorrow, we will discover two other nests; it is an infestation. We will get the spray. Two cans. Dad will say he doesn’t delight in their sudden end. They will die as soon as the stream touches them. The range is impressive. The nests will sop up the chemical; they will darken and drip. The whole family will watch through the window. The lead-up will be like Christmas. An hour later, Dad will be wandering the house, saying he isn’t sure it was the right thing to do. We will comfort and reassure him, because we always have.