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penrose-quinn · 4 years ago

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Musubi [Preview] | Suguru Geto/F!Reader

posted: 04.02.21 | full: [Ao3]

word count: 2.2K

content tags: pre-hidden inventory arc. can be read as an excerpt.

tw: slight mentions of blood.

a/n: i haven’t written a fight scene in such a long time so apologies for the rusty writing. as for the full one-shot itself, i can’t give a date yet but i hope ya’ll can settle for this. enjoy the laughs for now! *cries in the corner*

First impressions were always drawn by an encounter, and tied tautly between bravado and cutthroat competition in the annual Kyoto Goodwill Event, the curious color of the string tugged out of Geto running into you was one of interest.

Strategically speaking, it made sense in any fight.

However, a downside to this was that they were inevitably a precursor for nasty introductions when names were traded like bruises and conversations for combat tactics.

Openings made for a good invitation for a counter, but Geto was quick to parry them with a looming many-limbed pillar of a curse that walled between the both of you with a screech; jolting back the memory and taste of sickness. A spirit of obsession.

Deformed hands, riddled with watchful eyes, reached for you, fixating in your every movement to resist them. You were fast, he’d give you that, but you were paired against a curse that was built from vile adamance. In short, a pain in the ass. Capturing it was, undoubtedly, and now, offered leverage to him when it made things a little simpler and interesting to watch from afar.

Attention to stances and a razor-sharp interest in the opponent; they were all inevitable, after all.

The moment your strings began to unravel from the pads of your fingers.

They were something to look out for when seemingly anything with cursed energy were bound to be entangled by the subtle manipulation of your hands, and in a span of a minute, the curse was left dangling and viciously writhing in suspension, held fast on the tough bark of oak trees like a fly to an intricate web.

“A Grade Two.” You gawked at it, giving in to a low whistle. “Cool.”

“Can’t believe you ate it up, though,” you said, hinting on that you already knew about his cursed technique. “Did you have to hack it up to pieces?”

Then you made a hand sign – two fingers pressed together – and with a smooth motion, your wrist rotating in an arc, the strings tied to the curse tightened, almost twisting its body for good measure. Or to flaunt. The two never seemed to be far from each other from what Geto observed from you. Typical senior behavior.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Geto said anyway, but unwilling to elaborate further.

From your distance, you peered back at him. “Not the chatty type like Six Eyes, eh?”

But he had a feeling you were.

“I’m afraid not.”

“You’re not gonna show your cards then?” you asked, perhaps alluding to a binding vow.

Geto was uncertain with what you’re trying to get out of this. Cautious as he was, he knew better than to play along, though something about your blatant drawl made him realize how he’d been curious enough to take the risk, mirroring that lazy confidence that curled up your peach-stained lips.

“Not going to show yours, senpai?”

There was a flicker of challenge in your eyes that appeared to make them brighter, like a glint of a knife. However, for whatever reason, you downplay it with a halfhearted shrug. “I’ll be honest,” and in a low amused voice, humoring him, “kouhai.”

The corners of his mouth bent into a slight smirk.

“I’m not really in the mood to help out anyone. Hell, I don’t even care if your school wins,” you admitted, pausing for a moment to listen in to the devastation of some uncharted area of the school grounds. Satoru. “See? We’re on the receiving end anyway.”

“Fair point,” Geto said with a nod. Though he kept the sentiment to himself, he would argue that you should have at least made an effort to appear concerned for your team.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m going to back out from this fight either. That’d be no fun. So how about it?” you offered. “Want to try something?”

Geto did contemplate on it—you. What your whole angle was about, why you went about it in such a roundabout way. Perhaps, the Kansai dialect had a hand in it when your manner of talking turned your inflections more offhanded and overfamiliar. Though he couldn’t deny that he caught on that you sounded more cryptic in comparison to his friend’s open, rather crude bluntness.

Something about your exchanges were like that, full of traps and layers, and as tired and eye-rolling as they were on another person, Geto wasn’t annoyed of you. Rather, he was keen in pursuing answers himself. What kind, he wasn’t sure yet. You had a way of making things interesting, and drawn by the pang of something like inquisitiveness and hunger, he arrived to a decision. “What do you have in mind?”

“Great! That settles it then,” you grinned, clapping your hands together. Another hand sign. “I’m setting your curse free.”

Once the strings began unwinding from the many-limbed curse, Geto felt a tremor from his gut; body apprehensive and prepared to strike.

Then it all came crashing down with a wink and a red and gold knot forming between your fingers, untwisting it with one decisive pull.

“Unbind.”

It was a sharp breathless feeling.

A sudden relief, followed by a sense of loss. A kind of detachment, brief but deeply harrowing like losing a limb to a cleave, losing the weight of it all at once, where the curse tethered to him had been released, his control slipping, senses disoriented. Severed. It wasn’t bound to his will anymore.

Resentful in its newfound freedom, the many-limbed curse lunged at him to attack, hands spread out and reaching, eyes crimson and pulsing wide when it set its sights on him.

Snapping out of his stupor, Geto was quick to react with a bolt. Shadow and silhouette bloomed under the ground by a summon, and what stretched forth was his massive hookworm curse, mouth gaping open to devour the Grade Two, and now, snapping shut for the kill before disappearing entirely from his bidding.

Geto would have rather reserved the curse for later, but he won’t gamble losing another one to your technique.

“Personally, I think we’re a bad match,” you mused aloud.

Then your strings whipped at him in a lightning second. Evading them, Geto leapt back and landed aptly on his feet.

“Especially when I can bind and unbind things with my inherited technique. Seals, shikigami, curses … hm, I suppose yours is an interesting case,” you stared at him thoughtfully before shrugging. “But it’s a kind of attachment either way.”

“Now you’re showing your cards,” Geto hissed out a breath, running through a new game plan.

“Sure, why not.” Your mouth broke into an easy grin. “Keeps the ball rolling, you know?”

There was a cool refinedness in your stance, feet anchored to the ground while your hands were doing all the fighting: flexed out, full of precise flourishes albeit strained, with strings unspooling from your deft fingers. The distance worked to your advantage, though closing it between the both of you was jumping headfirst into a trap in itself.

Geto surmised. But—

“I’d rather end this sooner.”

Mind set and carried by a surge of adrenaline, Geto sprinted towards you, dodging each assault for a closer range, until your strings finally coiled around his wrist, and in reaction, he tugged at it in a vice-grip with a strong pull; drawing out a look of shock from you, and then an eager anticipation. Your body shifted into a steady position, ready and waiting, arms posed for a counterattack.

Geto kept on his pace, charging at you with a wave of his free hand; darkness unfurling and taking shape of a half-formed spirit. Eyes wary of another summoned curse, you took the bait when you made another motion with your other hand, and he took it as a sign of withdrawing the curse back and kicking dust on your face, temporarily blinding you. The strings loosened on him. You recoiled.

When your guard was lowered, Geto seized the chance to swing his foot up at you; a swift kick to your forearm, minutely braced into a block to offset the full brunt of it, but it was powerful enough to send you skidding back your heels.

“Cheat,” you spat, cracking one vigilant eye on him.

Stubborn and quick to recover, you pulled at your strings to reel him in for a mean right hook, knuckles meeting his face. He was able to buffer the blow with his cursed energy, though the hit still landed, hard and fast.

“We’re even.” Geto winced from the bruise on his jaw. Your fist was imbued with cursed energy too, and now, was hurtling back at him with a ferocious amount of force. He side-stepped, dodging the hit that smashed against the tough bark of a tree, splintering it from the impact, and as you were about yank your arm back, he finally found his opening.

All it took was a faulty step; a split-second of being swept by the heel, knocking you off your momentum as you fell back to the tree, ensuring his victory through a newly summoned amorphous curse restraining your hands and feet.

Geto lunged forward. His fist hurtled down at you, mere inches from your face, until he felt something taut restrain his wrist and his wide eyes followed the cord curled around your two fingers, protruding out of the oozing wound of the curse grappling your hands.

Leaning back, you let out a sigh of relief.

“Okay, kouhai! I forfeit.”

Geto stopped to think for a moment, and testing the string latched onto him with a careful tug, he cocked his head at you to ask. Just in case. “You sure?”

“Yes.” You rolled your eyes at him, blowing a strand of hair from your cheek. A faint waft of mint. “Unlike you, I can’t get my face bruised.”

It was only a fraction, but the insouciance of your smile cracked a little from the edges. More brittle and thinner, from whatever sentiment you hid between your lips. Regardless, he sensed no insincerity from your words.

It was his turn to sigh.

“All right.”

Once the string disentangled from his wrist, Geto stepped back from you, drawing in a raspy breath, as he held himself upright, still tense and arduous from the heat of the fight. He felt heavy from the sweat, dull ache, and spent adrenaline straining on his shoulders, the backs of his legs, everything. He wouldn’t have to undergo through this ordeal if he could only use his cursed technique against you.

“You’re right,” he admitted, tugging at his collar. “We’re really a bad match.”

“Told you,” you crooned.

A set-up? Geto considered it, recalling how they were separated in the fray with the other team; Gojo getting sidetracked at some point and you luring him here with your strings. “Was that intentional?”

“Everyone was counting on it,” you answered, wrenching out your hands from the curse in a violent splatter. “But honestly? The whole plan doesn’t matter in the end. We’re still worse off. And I’m no one’s backup either.”

Noticing his stunned reaction, you amusedly held out your open bloody palm at him. A gesture of reassurance. “Don’t sweat it. This is still your win.”

While Geto was still wary around you, he eased a little from your words. He nodded.

“If that’s the case, why did you go along with the plan?”

“Didn’t want to pass up something,” you said vaguely, looking back at him before tearing off the other curse clinging on your feet, cringing at the sight of gore on your shoes once it was split open by your fingers. “These things aren’t cute at all.”

“You could’ve been more careful with them,” Geto pointed out.

“Gotta get back at you somehow. They have teeth, you know.”

Which you nonchalantly ripped apart with your bare hands.

Before you could wipe off the blood on your hand to your skirt, Geto still went out of his way to give you his handkerchief for the mess, which you stared at for five agonizing seconds before accepting it with a mutter of thanks.

You began to clean your knuckles, bunching up the fabric on your palm. “Well, this is ruined.”

“Not really planning on getting it back,” said Geto, flipping up his phone. He received a photo of Gojo with some members of the other team, ragged and beaten shitless, followed by a text that went somewhere along the lines of everyone being so weak and a demand as to why he was taking so long.

“Geto-san.”

Geto snuck a glance back at you from his phone.

“You’re pretty strong for a first year.“ You hummed in thought and he listened more intently. "Ah, but that’s expected. Judging from the rumors circling around, I suspected you lot from Tokyo Tech were either a piece of work or something else.”

“Something.” Geto smiled.

“Cheeky.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Geto was going to reply back to Gojo until you chuckled, light and airy, drawing his attention back at you.

“Oh, and another thing,” you said, and for a moment, beneath the long spidery lashes, there was a quiet profoundness to your eyes that made a glance blur between an appraisal and a clarity one could find from a thin thread of interest, tugged up by a wry tilt of your lips.

“What kind of woman is your type?”

a/n: . . . that last line is so cursed. i wish todou was the one who asked. for context, reader is one of yuki’s students.

↣ side note: i thought satosugu were already both classified as special grades upon their enrolment like yuuta, but i didn’t realize later on that they were only promoted as special grades after the spv mission. i won't be rewriting this and will be keeping it as it is, but apologies for getting those details wrong!

↣ side note: nvm. i caved. [revised: 04/17/21]

#suguru geto x reader #suguru getou x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen scenarios #geto suguru #jjk #short drabble #pen writes #i just want to swoon how badass geto is as a tactical figther #and i want reader to be badass too so...#musubi

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wevegottogetaway · 4 years ago

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Thanks fo’ saving my ass (Part 2)

There is a part 3 coming, I think these two deserve the...culmination, but I wasn’t sure if I could have it ready soon enough. Stay tuned for more, hope you enjoy! x

Part 1 - Part 3*

It starts with a resounding bang. A back curving over maple hardwood; taut muscle stretching soft cotton fabric; twin jades squinted in concentration; a shoulder blade protruding briefly for one swift determining movement. Red, blue, yellow, purple, orange phenolic resin scattering across green worsted wool like a dozen pinballs simultaneously kicked in various directions.

It ends with the deep echo. A ball falling into emptiness before meeting rock-bottom; the release of a soft withheld breath; firm flesh unflexing with satisfaction; two sets of glossy eyes meeting in a knowing look. "Nice break, Styles. Stripes it is," y/n happily comments once Harry leans back from the pool table.

Gibson’s is full of rowdy chatters, tipsy laughs and fulsome smiles. Strangers bonding for a night of undiluted carefreeness, clicking drinks after merry drinks in honor to their new ephemeral best friends. All sorrows have been forsaken on the coat rack at the entrance, hung in insouciance, leaving nothing but good spirits to sit at the tables and loiter near the bar. Everything about this place is warm and nurturing, a cosy embrace after a tedious day, a home for the people that lets them nurse bottles and wounds alike, and sees them leave later on, cheerful, relaxed and healing. It took but a second for Harry to understand why y/n is so fond of the place and he was not surprised to find her on a first-name basis with the barmaid, the two of them catching up on life while she was preparing the drinks.

Now, fifteen minutes in, they’ve happily made their way to the vacant timeworn pool table at a secluded corner of the bar, drinks and grins in toe. The space is only lit up by a single lamp hanging from the ceiling, casting daedal shadows along the walls and across the table’s carpeted surface. The subdued light and music crooning in the background make for a suggestive atmosphere, air thick with limitless curiosity and enticing promises.

The corner of Harry’s lips quirks in a wry smile and a bold glint takes residence at the crease of his eyes; the telltale sign of a burgeoning idea brewing up in his cheeky mind. "What’dya say we make this a lil more interesting?" The offer is served with a raised brow, a hand on his waist, and one foot perched on its toes over the other as he leans against the cue.

From across the pool table, y/n is quite endeared at the sight but her response comes out in fake offense,"oh I’m sorry, am I boring you already?"

"Quite the opposite actually." His head tilts the slightest bit to the side, gaze unwavering from her face in a mission for persuasion.

Her lips grimace as she tries to suppress a betraying smile to no avail, "fine, I’m listening."

He grins victoriously at her inability to keep a straight face, his limbs dislodging from his casual pose. "We take turns," his motions at the space between them. "F’we pocket, we get to ask one question. No bullshit answer, jus’ the truth." His eyes are wide as he gauges her response.

"A question, huh?" she takes her time to contemplate the proposition just to watch him squirm in impatience. "Damn, for a sec I thought you were about to suggest strip-pool." She sends him a playful look as she walks the length of the table to step closer to him and have a better look at his chiseled features.

"I mean, m’totally down but might be a bit unfair on your part," his eyes briefly trail down her body in silent conveyance of her single-piece attire. He’s got much more material to shed before exposing skin than she does.

"Wouldn’t you like to know." The suggestive retort has Harry’s stomach churn with humid passion, the question of just how many layers she’s wearing exactly, playing with the most lascivious parts of his brain. "Not that it matters, you’d be butt-naked before you’d get a nip-slip."

"Overestimating yourself?"

"Just giving you fair warning," she shrugs in nonchalance running her fingers along the edge of the table, "so you know what you’re getting yourself into."

When she lifts her head back to connect their gaze again, she finds him biting at his bottom lip to contain his signature smirk, "no worries there, darlin’. M’all willing." He almost punctuates his retort with a salacious wink but decides to save it for a more opportune time. Something tells him he’s in for a long evening, not that it’s any cause for concern. Like he said, he is very much consenting to anything her heart desires to do to him.

"Good to know." Y/n quips back with a smile before leaning on her hand resting upon the pool table. "What’s your question then?"

For a moment, Harry forgets he just broke the rack and successfully sent a plain purple ball in one of the table’s pocket, taking him one step closer to victory and granting him one question as per his own proposition. He quickly gathers his reeling thoughts before settling on an easy inquiry, fingers fiddling with the desire to sketch every bit of her character. "Right um, do you have other hobbies besides playin- or should I say, winning pool?"

She wants to slap- or should she say, kiss the smug look off his lovely face, but her answers airs in the same level tone she employs at work, "yes I do."

It’s not enough for Harry’s archeologic curiosity though. He’s barely dusted off the ground beneath his feet to reveal the hint of new groundbreaking findings; armed with sieves and brushes, he is eager to dig a little further, "and what might those be?"

However, y/n is quick to rebuff him, "uh uh, that’s two questions."

Indignation soars through his straightened posture, as he cries out a faint ’what? no!’ and her own ego grows two size at her cunning deceit, "gotta up your game if you wanna keep that perky bum intact, Styles."

Earlier words resonate in the confines of his outfoxed mind then, you can kick my ass at that game of pool as promised, and he tries really hard not to think about the promise following them. Instead he counterattacks in obvious diversion tactic, "that’s twice you’ve mentioned my ass in the past 5 minutes, perhaps I should read into it?"

"I guess you’ll have to wait and see," she lithely deflects as she grabs her own cue with a determined look etched upon her face, "my turn now."

With powerful strides, y/n navigates around the table to position herself at the most promising angle for a score of her own. Once she has both her target and the cue ball in firing line, she tunes out every last bit of stimulus encompassing her; the muffled sound of the music, the sticky oxygen filling up her lungs with sensual tension, the charming presence of the beau intently ogling her every move.

It barely takes her a couple seconds of intense concentration before a sharp thump is bouncing off the table and piercing through the air. The shot is so accurate, clean-cut, vigorous yet graceful and elegant all out once, Harry finds himself mesmerized by her skills more than the subtle form curving out from her bent posture.

The satisfaction is evident in her traits as she straightens up to face him, a pleased rictus forming at her lips. She doesn’t let any suspense unfurl before she cashes in her prize, "so what’s up with the muffin deliveries? You a stress-baker or summat?"

It’s a puzzle that’s been boggling her mind for while now; ever since the first time she watched him gallivanting around the office, handing out kindness and freshly baked goods for the small price of a friendly smile; it’d been a reoccurring thing ever since. The recollection has Harry’s cheeks warm up to a bashful shade of vermillion at the thought of admitting the reason behind his action: he’d bake a basketful of cakes just so he could give her one without exposing himself. Being straight forward with his infatuation may have been unfeasible at the time, but there was nothing against inconspicuously indulging the sweet tooth he knew she had, right?

"I dunno, just like seein' people smile, and everyone likes a good muffin, right?" His answer teeters on the ledge between veracity and evasion, the genuine ‘they were all for you’ being replaced by a less naked truth.

Y/n nods at his answer and waits until he is about to aim for another shot to voice her musings out loud, "mmm, they are quite delicious." Her attempt to distract him turns fruitful when his ears perks at her sultry voice right as he pointedly knocks the white ball with his cue. It’s off by an inch but a near-hit doesn’t help assuage his frustration, "fuck."

"Oh bummer. Guess you’ll have to pass," y/n can’t help but to tease him.

And the pout on his lips does nothing to quell her amusement, "bollocks, you distracted me."

"I did no such thing," she denies before taking his place at the table. The odds are in her favor, a perfect alignment offering itself to sink the blue striped ball right into the closest pocket. And because y/n never misses a clear shot when she’s handed one, that’s exactly what happens. Tucking the cue back at her side, she mulls over the hundred questions titillating her mind and settles for another pass at him,"is this suit the most extravagant you own and if not, what are the others like?"

Harry scrunches up his nose at yet another dig taken at the expense of his clothes, his voice pitching a halftone higher than usual, "hey, s’nough outta you, leave my suits out of it." There is a pout puckering at his lips and y/n giggles at his theatrics when he brings his hands to his chest in a protective gesture. This man and his suits…

"Somehow I don’t believe you give a single fuck about people’s opinion on your fashion choices."

"Very true. But I do value your opinion." For a brief moment, humor and wit give way to vulnerable sincerity as the two of them lock eyes over the pool table. A shy smile graces y/n’s lips, her heart faltering at his sweet sentiment before Harry gently breaks the consuming stare-off, "well, if you’re lookin’ fo’ more extravagant, I actually have a canary yellow flared suit that goes with a violet dress-shirt." And just like that, they found their way back to confidential banter.

"Damn, now I have to see it."

"One day if you’re lucky," this time he does wink at her, and this time he doesn’t let her enchantress juju distract him from the task at hand. As soon as the balls vanishes from the table, the question flies out of his mouth, "do you really find my suits obnoxious?"

Y/n pauses at the inquiry and tries to read into his eyes. She inspects the bright emeralds for any unsuspected insecurities and when she finds none, she sends him a simple smile, "I love them. I just enjoy too much your reactions when I give you shit about them." Her chuckle tugs at Harry’s lips, before she lets honesty flooding past hers, "you got such a great sense of who you are, Harry, it just shows in the way you dress. I admire that, don’t let that go."

Interiorly, he’s heart is jumping in somersaults at possibly the kindest compliment someone’s ever granted him, the fact that it came from her only sending his beating organ into more acrobatics. Exteriorly, he returns her tender smile and mutters a timorous ‘thanks love,’ before watching her pocket another ball.

This time she doesn’t have to mull it over, "why did you wait?"

"Huh?"

"When we kissed earlier, you said you’d wanted to do it for a while. Why didn’t you?"

Her words are bare of any reproach as they both lean on their side against the table, inches apart from each other. It’s a fair question; one that she doesn’t really own as the word could have easily tumbled out from his mouth instead. It’s him on the spot though, and while he didn’t quite expect to broach such hazardous matters over a game of pool, he appreciates the openness of their bond. "I dunno, you always seemed so attached to boundaries at work, always so professional, I didn’t think you’d want me to make a move."

"I secretly did," she whispers.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

Goosebumps race down Harry’s arms as he takes in her confession and the way her teeth are nipping her lips into a darker shade of pink. His eyes are drawn to them, the urge to close the gap and have her moaning in his mouth growing harder and harder to ignore, "fuck that’s sexy. You’re sexy."

The praise washes over y/n like a cold shower after a scorching day at the beach; startling shivers at first, golden skin tingling, and then all-encompassing relief. She loves how unfiltered he is with her, baring his thoughts to her just as they come, no editing, no secret agenda, no diffidence. Just her pure effect on him plastered across his beautiful face and candy-coating his words with a thick oozing layer of honeycomb syrup.

Leaning the slightest bit towards him, she tempts him with a near-kiss, almost dipping her lips in exquisite spongy fudge, but stops just as their breaths starts blending in one hot mess, "your turn," she purrs against his lips tantalizingly, before stepping away.

Harry looks like he is now the one in need of a cold shower, eyes pinched closed as he tries to compose himself, "right," he clears his throat. It takes him a bit more time to regain enough focus to make a successful go at the game, but once he’s got a good hold on the cue, a stable breath and a clear view of the shot, he takes it with ease and fortune.

As soon as he straightens up, he erases the distance between them, a determined look hardening the subtle lines of his face. "Did you ever think about me like I thought about you? At work, did you ever see me pass in the hallway and it took everythin’ you had not to follow me and kiss me senseless in the copy-machine room while no-one was watchin’?"

"Fuck. The thought might have crossed my mind once or twice," y/n confesses in batted breath. It’s clear the scenario isn’t so much a fabrication of his mind made on the spot as it is a confession of his own experience, and the thought has the air in her lungs going scarce, as though she’s reached the apex of Mount Everest.

Harry isn’t fending off the heated tension much better, fingers twitching around his cue as he’d rather have her underneath his fingertips instead. He takes one look at the ceiling to stave his yearning some and draws in a deep breath."This is killing me," he whimpers while his lips skim over he skin of her forehead. "Go on, take your damn shot so we can be done with this game."

"It was your idea," she reminds him wryly. All of it, really; coming here, playing pool, playing 20 fucking questions, this heated hodgepodge of salacity and virtuous adoration is all his doing.

"I miscalculated."

"Poor you," y/n gently mocks is disgruntled attitude before scoring another ball, or as she likes to regard, another question, another opportunity to further tease at his already crumbling countenance, "what about you, Harry, do you ever think about me? At work… or otherwise?"

She already knows the first half of the answer and only voiced the double-entendre to rile him up, so she’s quite stunned when he whizzes, "too fucking much fo’ my own good."

The pained expression on his face is almost comical for y/n, she can’t resist probing at his despair, "me too." He groans at the flowing visuals he can’t ban from his filthy mind before she gestures towards the pool table in a gentlemanly way, "and that’s your cue," they both share a chuckle at her silly pun.

If Harry wasn’t so lost in a whirlwind of lustful thoughts, he would revel in the way their intellects seem to dovetail on all fronts; humor, banter, seduction, sincerity, nothing is lost in translation, they seem to talk in the same love language. From teasing digs and dirty innuendos to play on words or heartfelt confessions, they know exactly which frequency to tune in.

"Fuck, I can’t see straight," he laughs as he misses a shot for the second time, and y/n quickly takes over his spot around the pool table. Settle, relax, aim, breathe, shoot; another point to her flawless record. She turns to him, looking intently at his blown irises to stir up the flame already inhabiting them, "was it good?"

"Mind-blowing," he answers without unlocking their eyes, and the whole conversation is starting to get to her too. Her thighs rub against together, knuckles turning white around her cue as she tightens her grip and Harry has to bite his lips to contain a moan. He tries to distract himself by taking his turn in the game, and burst out in laughter when he pockets the ball and y/n cries out, "blue ball in the pocket! I feel like their might be a subliminal message somewhere but I can’t quite put my finger on it"

Once they regain their breath from laughing, tears of joy actually peeling from the corner of their eyes, they go back to staring at each other. It’s Harry’s turn to ask a question, and the anticipation had y/n fidgeting under his consuming gaze. She expects him to bounce back on the previous question, but to her surprise he decides to take a different route, "tell me darlin’, if I were to kneel at your feet and look up that pretty dress right now, what color your lil panties would be?"

The question sounds boyish really, yet instead of rolling her eyes at him, her core clenches around emptiness at the thought of having him between her legs right this moment, "can’t answer that, sorry."

"Oh come on love, you gotta say. Them’s the rules," Harry tries to coax the answer out of her but she’s not budging.

"Sorry, Harry. I’d tell you if there was anything to tell." His eyes widen at her lewd implication, the revelation of just how many layers away she is from being in the nude, coming into light. Damn, he would have gotten much more than a nip-slip.

"Fuck me, I need to sit down for a mo’."

She laughs at his dramatic response before picking up her cue, "you do that, in the mean time…" The rest of her sentence is cut short as she positions herself at the pool table, and the next sound cutting through the humid atmosphere comes from the ball falling into its target.

"Jesus, do you ever miss?"

"I don’t play to lose, Styles," she quips back. "Now, what’s your biggest fantasy? Aside from shagging in the copy-machine room, that is."

Harry takes one step closer, gently backing her against the table with one hand encasing her at either side of her waist. As he towers over her, his ardent look ignites a fire at the pit of y/n’s stomach, flame licking all the way up to her heart and down to her toes. Her core throbs before the words fall out of his supple lips like maple syrup on a stack of fluffy pancakes. "Right now? Bend you over this pool table and have my way with you."

"In front of all this people?"

"What d’you think is stoppin’ me from doin’ it right now?"

"Manners?"

The retort earns her a deep chuckle, as he shakes his head in disbelief, "fuck y/n, I lost my manners the moment you kissed me."

The raw admission sends a shiver down her spine, before she regains her full bearings and pushing his cue against his chest for him to grab, "your turn."

Barely moving from his spot nestled against her, he successfully sends the ball down the drain and doesn’t waste any time before asking in the same sultry voice, "favorite position?"

‘Why are y’asking?"

"Future reference," he announces confident.

"Well in that case, kinda like this…" she brushes against him as she bends over the table, ass jutted out on one side, before adjusting the angle of her cue and aiming for the pocket, "…when everything aligns and it just sinks…" bam, she propels the sphere in one strong hit "…right through." She finishes her demonstration with a score and a suggestive smile, only but one ball left for her to obliterate; the eight ball. "Are you ready to lose, Styles?"

"Dunno, is that your question?"

"Yes. I got everything I want to know already."

"Then I don’t fucking care about losin", s’not the game I wanna play anymore," he trails a finger down the skin of her back, goosebumps erupting at his touch. He is stopped by the tip of her cue pressing at his chest, slowly pushing him back from her space, and his hands meet this air in surrender. She’s got a wicked smile on her lips and a title to uphold after all, "last shot, make it count."

Harry takes the shot hastily, half expecting another miss, but the solid yellow ball disappears into the table’s corner in a vibrant crash. Eyebrows raised and shallow breath, he pivots back towards her, "please tell me this is turnin’ you on s’much as it’s turnin’ me on?"

"Yes," she rubs the exposed skin of his chest, eyes leaving his face to trail down his torso. "I’m just better at hiding it," she brings her lips to his ear, "physically or otherwise apparently." Then she leaves a loud smack on his cheek and goes around the table to sink the last ball standing in the way of her victory. In true y/n fashion, she completes a faultless round with one last graceful hit that leaves Harry transfixed by her dexterity.

"Damn, you are the queen of pool, I’m bowing down to you. Any final question?"

She lays the cue down on the table before coming up to him, "Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Take me back to my place?"

His head falls back on its neck, eyes closing in deliverance, "fuck yeah." This whole night may have been the most intense and rousing foreplay he’s ever experienced, he can’t wait to deliver good on his own promise.

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles writing #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles one shot #reader insert #friends to lovers #coworker!harry #harry styles fluff #creative writing #part2 #flirting

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neo-culture-mafia · 4 years ago

Text

VI.

mirror masa by dathan

Damn

The waves of love came crashing down on Jeno’s head. His wish to break free from the suffocating feelings topped his head in a weighted suspense. Was he drowning from love...or high from devotional ecstasy?

“Not this. Anything but this.” He begged with his reflection in his fogged bathroom mirror. The reflective surface was cloudy with the shower steam. Yet, he could see himself clearly in the water’s trails as it cascaded down the mirror. It was one of the few times where he wasn’t high, but, his brain told him that he was anything but sober . Jeno was watching his life through his eyes like a movie.

“This isn’t real.” He muttered as he shook his head in disbelief. “you,” his words were getting trapped in his throat, “this isn’t you. You’re not real.” His hands could only grip the white marble of the countertop in hopes to ground himself to actual reality.

This was scaring him. The way he didn’t even know if his life was actually his. He didn’t love you. He couldn’t. He was incapable of love. From the hours of that sentence being shoved into his brain-- he finally believed it. However, he looked at you and knew that he was alive...and he was human. A human capable of making mistakes and finding love.

“Let’s go, Jeno. Practice started 5 minutes ago.” Jaemin knocked softly on the door. Jeno whipped the door open with a stale look on his face, “huh?” his throat was dry and felt like it was closing up by the second. The want to cry suddenly made its home in his chest. “Practice. It’s already started. We’re late.” Jaemin could only stare in confusion. Jeno hadn’t been the same for a while now and all Jaemin could do was sit back and hope he could find peace within himself.

“Oh. Yeah. Coming.” Jeno dismissed the platinum blonde boy as he grabbed his stuff and threw it in the dirty laundry bin. He grabbed his gear and was off towards the training center.

It was like his body moved on its own. He wasn’t in control-- only a passenger as he watched his life develop through eyes that didn’t seem like his own. It was if he was looking through a lens of someone else's movie-- someone else's life. His name was the only thing reassuring him that he hadn’t been switched.

Damn

When Jeno saw you, it was as if he got the moment of sanity he had been craving and itching for. “Please don’t go.” Was the only thing his autopilot flashed onto the back of his eyes.

Your skin was as soft as velvet and your embrace was nothing short of a hug from an angel. You were his personal drug. Only he could have you and he wanted it to be like that forever.

“Why do you hurt me?” Is his intimate question whenever he sees you walking away from his presence. “Please don’t leave.” He cries inside his mind, the rest of the group still surrounding him in loud and boisterous outcries of happiness as he is dying inside.

He watched you be swept away quickly by your group of friends and towards a distant adventure he wouldn’t be apart of. “Yo. Snap out of it, creep.” Jeno felt a hit to his chest and reacted seconds after the blow was laid. Renjun had his eyes trained on his far-off friend. “Sorry.” Jeno mumbled, fixing his glasses accordingly to make sure he caught one last glimpse of you.

“What’s wrong?” Renjun’s question had no appropriate answer. “I...I don’t know.” Jeno shrugged as he kicked his feet out one at a time in front of him. “You never know.” Renjun sassed as Jeno gave a cheeky smile. “I’m always here to talk. Also, on the subject of talking?” Renjun leaned in closer to whisper the next back-handed remark.

“Just talk to her. People are catching on and finding it creepy.” Renjun muttered before walking off in a lonesome daze. Jeno became more awakened and tuned in to what was happening around him. Someone caught on. The students were bustling around him and the group of teachers. It was barely noon and he was already craving the sweet release of laying in his bed alone.

The textured ceiling above his bed made perfect the kaleidoscopes for his dry and weary eyes. He made a home in his head. Where he lived with you in peace and harmony. Both of you stayed harmonious and didn’t have to experience loss anymore; happiness was a drug both of you could afford; education and a stable career were monotonous things. This life...reality didn’t exist.

“Class is about to begin. I’ll see you all later for pizza.” Hyuck was always a smooth talker and never feared a group of people. He was confident with anyone he talked with and never had a dull moment...or at least that’s what his facade portrayed. ‘See ya’s.’ were heard among the group as Hyuck grabbed Jeno and started dragging them back to their spaces.

Rockwell Hall, East Wing, Back-most Corridor. Rooms 143 and 144.

‘The Lee’s’. - the combination of teachers who worked off of each other. No one had a dull moment in the classes. It was their place. Their lives where they could manifest what they wanted. Taeyong didn’t have a say in their classrooms where the only things taught were to be real...and to live because no one was promised tomorrow.

“You okay, Jeno?” Hyuck asked as his arm was tossed over his buddy’s shoulders. “Yeah. I’m fine-” “Like,” Donghyuck raised his thumb to wipe off the bottom of his nose a couple times. “Yeah. I’m not high.” Jeno couldn’t help but chuckle at the relieved face of Hyuck. “Thank goodness. Cause I was gonna put a movie on and let my kids do whatever today. I didn’t want to have to babysit.” He laughed and Jeno could only laugh lightly.

“I need help with something.” Jeno finally blurted and the laughing had ceased entirely. “Of course. What’s going on?” Donghyuck’s arm now drooped to his side as he shoved his hand in his jean’s pocket.

“I’m in lo-” Jeno forcibly bit his tongue as he could sense Hyuck’s side eyes. He didn’t need to know how bad it is yet.

“I think I like someone.” Jeno breathed and it felt like a weight was taken off his shoulders. “Oh yeah?” Jeno’s eyes bolted around as he saw Hyuck’s feet kick tiny pebbles in their path. “Mind if I know who?” Was all that was muttered. “I’m not ready to say who yet.” The light sigh of defeat had Donghyuck knowing that this wasn’t a new problem. “Just go for it.” Was all the advice the younger boy had to offer. “What?”

The door of Rockwell Hall was opened by Hyuck as both walked into the air conditioned lobby where all the students were congregating. “Lees!” Some of the shared students waved to both of the young teachers as they made their way through the clusters of kids.

“Just go for it.” Hyuck smiled and waved to most of his students as some ran up to hand in almost-late reports and worksheets. “What do you mean by that?” Jeno was struggling to keep up with his friends thought process. “We always tell our kids that- oh hello JinHae, how are you? - that they can’t be afraid to do things.- I need to talk to you after class.” Hyuck pointed to a troubled student as they both passed. “That they can’t be afraid to do things because who knows if we’ll be here tomorrow.” Hyuck finally finished as they both walked towards the back hall.

Donghyuck had a point and Jeno hated to admit it. He needed to do it soon...or never. “And I can help you as much as you want with this mystery person.” He offered and Jeno wanted to puke at the offer. “No thanks.” He backed out of the un-agreed upon deal. They got to their rooms and stood outside of their doors. “That’s fine. But, if you ever need help-- you know where to find me, lover boy.” Hyuck winked and waltzed into his classroom in a graceful manner.

Jeno could only hang his head as he slugged into his own classroom to greet the over-achiever students. It’s as if they never left in the first place. He zoned out as he started writing some standard chemical equations on the chalk board. Students started to trickle in as Jeno’s anxiety filled his body to the brim.

The bell rang and Jeno put on the best fake smile he could as he turned around to see his students seated and eager to learn. “Good afternoon class. It’s amazing to see all of your faces once again.” The class droned on their greetings as Jeno flipped open his lesson packet. “Today’s Lesson: Ecstasy.”

I think I’m Fallin’ For You

It had been 3 weeks. 3 weeks of Jeno puking his brains out over the thought of you rejecting him. He had already said hi to you but where was he supposed to go to from here? You both had talked about mundane things that any young adult would talk about in this day and age. Jeno could feel a connection and he prayed to any higher being that you did too.

He was going to do it. He was going to confess. He just didn’t know when. But he knew that he would lose his chance if he were to wait too much longer.

Hyuck was still the only one who knew about the mystery person and was the only who was going to know for a long time. Even if it were to work out, the attention of dating on duty was too extreme. Most of the elite soldiers agreed that nothing would be revealed till the 1 year mark. Out of respect for each other, the rule has never been broken.

“Please just tell me who.” Hyuck whined as soon as the last one of Jeno’s students exited the classroom. The desperation in the man’s voice made Jeno chuckle. “Nope.” He shook his head and went back to grading the quiz he had just administered.

“I promise I won’t tell.” Jeno didn’t even acknowledge Donghyuck’s existence as he wrote a 96% on the top of the paper.

“Fine.” Hyuck came over and laid on-top of the stack of papers. “Rules, Donghyuck.” “So you confessed? And you guys are dating?” Hyuck scrambled up to start hitting Jeno’s side. “I didn’t say that.” Jeno said as he packed up his laptop and put his bag on his back.

“This is so unfair-” “It’s really not.” Jeno muttered as he looked to his friend with the grown out brown hair. “I wasn’t even supposed to tell you that I liked someone in the first place. I’m not going to willingly break a rule, excuse me, a group agreement just to gossip. If anything happens...you’ll find out eventually.” Jeno stated at the boy who had his arms crossed.

“Fine. Be stubborn. See if I care.” Hyuck started to walk out of the room and into his own classroom. Jeno thought he was home free. “Are you coming to get beers with us or not?” Jeno called out and the younger boy swung his head into the door opening. “No. I have a couple more papers to grade then I’m going to the gym.” Hyuck ran a hand through his hair. Jeno brushed it off as he was just happy to stop the before conversation.

“Also. I better be the best man at your damn wedding in 2 years-” “Out.” Jeno raised his voice. He could hear Donghyuck giggle his way into the other classroom. Jeno grabbed his stuff and headed out of the door and down the hall.

He was going to go out with his friends tonight. He was going to forget his problems and just let loose and live free. He wasn’t promised tomorrow so he was going to make sure he forgot tonight if he was alive by the morning.

The beer shelf was wiped clean by the group of elites in the on-base bar. “We need to go clubbing.” Lele said and everyone turned to him boozed up and unaware. “Lele...you’re so young,” Mark laid his hand heavily on Chenle’s right shoulder, “but you’re so smart, I’ll get Johnny to drive!” Mark said as he grabbed his phone and had a hard time getting his passcode in.

A group of cheers were heard as Mark went outside to dial the chauffeur for the night’s activities. “It’s 10 o’clock? Where the hell is the son of a bitch?” Jaemin slurred as he laid over the shoulder of his best friend.

“At the gym. I’ll go fetch him and drag him along.” Jeno who was the most sober out of the group decided that the night was incomplete without Hyuck. “You tell him that I’ll kick his ass if he doesn’t show up.” Jaemin whispered groggily into Jeno’s ear. “Will do, Jae.” Jeno laughed as he got up and shoved Jaemin down into the stool with a deep groan.

Jeno cascaded out of the bar and into the courtyard. “No. You listen to me Johnny-hyung. You drive or I drive-Stop yelling I was joking.” Mark slurred on his words. Jeno could hear Johnny through the phone. He wouldn’t be happy to take them but he still would. The fear of guilt looming over the oldest’s head.

Jeno’s feet carried him towards the gym where Hyuck was, benching the night away. For the first time he hasn’t thought about you- awe wait...he just did. He cursed out loud and slapped a hand over his mouth with a giggle. He turned to make sure no one heard and laughed himself to the gym.

He walked in the door and no one was there. No students...no Donghyuck.

“He fell asleep doing papers again.” Jeno gasped and chuckled lightly as he walked back out the door and twirled over to Rockwell Hall. “Rockwell...Rocks...Drugs...” Jeno had fun tying words together as he opened the main door to the lobby. The marble floors were free from any students or teachers.

“I’m coming to get you.” Jeno whispered as he got down and ran down the main hall. He tripped halfway and ended up rolling a couple of halls down. Jeno sang his own special effects music as he tried to do cartwheels and more flips down the hall.

His back hit the wall right around the corner of the back hall. The lights shone from Hyuck’s classroom. “All clear, kkrrkrk.” Jeno copied the sound of a walkie-talkie as he continued to roll down the hall. He stopped right infront of the open door and stood up. He looked left and right. “Cover me, I’m going in. kkrkkrk.” Jeno swooped into the lit up classroom. Jeno was ready to run towards the desk and pick up his best friend to sweep him off to a night on the town.

There he caught you and Hyuck making out in the empty classroom. You were sitting on the desk with him pushed up to you. His hands gripped your face like Jeno imagined he would. Your own delicate hands grabbed bunches of his best friend’s black t-shirt. Jeno’s best friend.

You both were too in the heat of the moment to hear the sound of Jeno’s heart cracking into a million pieces.

“Uh.” Jeno could only drone a little. It was enough to break you both up. Donghyuck stood in front of you as you tried to shield your face. But it was too late. Jeno could’ve spotted your face from a mile away. He already knew too much.

“Hey, Jeno. What’s up?” Hyuck tried to de-puff his face in the moment. Jeno’s eyes started to gather tears as if they were going to run out. The long silence made all of you get an ache in the stomach.

“10 months.” Was all Hyuck said and Jeno tried sealing up his feelings as soon as they were escaping. Jeno nodded, still too intoxicated to feel anything but numb. Donghyuck didn't steal you from him...you were never his in the first place.

He was sent into auto-pilot again. Where he was just in attendance to the premiere of his heart break. He wasn’t real. None of this was.

“I’m happy for you.” Jeno nodded and an unimaginable weight was taken off of Donghyuck’s shoulders. His shoulder dropped and a smile came onto the longer-haired boy’s face.

“Thank you.” He nodded with a genuine smile. Jeno didn’t dare look at you even though you stood behind Jeno’s best friend. You were so close but he finally realized that he would never be able to get closer.

“We were going out to the club. Jaemin said he would beat your ass if you didn’t come.” The alcohol was talking again as Jeno numbed himself to all the pain that was crashing down on him like harsh waves.

“Oh. Well.” Donghyuck seemed flustered as he looked around and finally behind him to where you stood as stiff as a board. “I’m a little busy tonight. I promise next time I’ll buy a round.” Hyuck tried to compromise with the upmost form of sincerity.

“Alright, deal.” Jeno mused and came closer to dap up his best friend.

“I’ll catch you tomorrow then at practice.” Jeno hummed as he showed himself the door. “Jeno. Wait.” Jeno turned around to look at Hyuck.

He had never seen his most confident friend riddled with so much fear.

“Please.” Was all he said and Jeno already knew what he meant.

“Don’t worry. 2 more months.” He waved Hyuck off and the confidence washed over his friend’s face once more.

As soon as Jeno turned the corner, his tears fell in hot lines.

This wasn’t real. None of this was.

He met the rest of the group near the entrance once he got rid of his tears and hurt.

“Whats wrong?” Renjun asked and Jeno sighed. “I know what’s wrong.” Jeno nodded to himself. Jeno was finally confronting his feelings. “Are you going to tell me?” Renjun asked and Jeno only shook his head no. “No.” Now that he knew what was wrong, he wasn’t going to broadcast it to the world. “Fine. I’ll just bug you tomorrow- Wait. Where’s the sober one?” Renjun asked as he realized Jeno came back alone.

“Donghyuck is stuck making lesson plans. He promised to buy us all a round next time though.” Jeno relayed the message. “I won’t kick his ass then. This time.” Jaemin sang as he dolphin dived into the van.

They all climbed in the van. Jeno was the last one in as he rested his head against the window.

He watched the city light streak as his tears rolled down. Jeno wasn’t sad. He was happy. Jeno knew that you would be happy with Hyuck. Hyuck could give you things that Jeno wished he could have. But, he’s happy knowing your happy...

...even if it hurt like hell to realize he wasn’t going to be the one you fell for...

#nct jeno #nct haechan #nct donghyuck #lee donghyuck #lee jeno #nct angst hours #nct angst #nct dream angst #nct mafia au #mafia nct #nct mafia #nct reader #nct reader insert #kpop angst #kpop mafia au

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savagetrickster · 4 years ago

Text

Red.

— BNHA BOOKCLUB BINGO EVENT —

anime | character: bnha | kirishima eijirou words: 2.5k prompt/crossed out: “Last Words” Themes/Warnings: soulmate AU, angst, character death

Inspiration/Song: “I Knew I Loved You” by Savage Garden

“...I knew I loved you before I met you I think I dreamed you into life I knew I loved you before I met you I have been waiting all my life...”

a/n: Imma tag the people who I have shared this plot with on the @bnhabookclub ‘s discord server HAHAH @pixxiesdust (enjoy the angst my dear zeze <3), @gallickingun (who suggested Kirishima and DAMN i was like hell yeah!) and @hawks-senseis (who came out with a crack idea that i’m SO gonna write it soon cos her idea is GOLDDD that i can’t help lmao-ing everytime I think about it XD)

No amount of time or research could ever unravel the mysteries of the world.

Why are the fate of the two people bounded by the words etched in their skin?

Why do these words only appear when one turns sixteen? And why sixteen?

There were so many questions but there were no answers.

Some gazed upon the heavens to find the lost meanings, while some dug for them in the earth beneath.

All these for the mystery etched in their skin.

But for you, you sought the answer through the seemingly endless scroll through forums on your screen.

Digitized words painting enthralling stories of how these sacred marks — dubbed as Soulwords by the millions across the blogs, forums, the news articles — on their skin led to happy endings, love, and happiness.

The common retelling of their stories mentioned the ‘unexplainable rush of warmth’, ‘the boost of bliss and spiritual strength’, and ‘the sense of wholeness’ they thrived upon finally meeting their fated partners.

Many who visited them gushed about their own, and those who haven’t, were longing and full of anticipation.

But not you.

You were shaking with anxiety and...desperation for a sign of hope.

“You’re beautiful.”

—ever since he turned sixteen and woke up to find these two words etched into the skin on his right, curving around his inner wrist like a permanent bracelet, he had waited.

Eagerness and suspense brimmed and shook inside him for the day to come with an intensity that could match a child’s, itching to open their Christmas presents or a puppy’s, sitting by the door with a wagging tail.

He hasn't met them, but he was already in love.

He kept his hands lonely for them.

His lips had never tasted the sweetness of a kiss for them.

It didn’t even matter how long it took.

Waiting was what he wanted to do because his every firsts belonged to them.

Even if it meant watching his friends around him, one after another, find their fated ones through their three-years long of hero education at the U.A. High.

He’d seen the uplifting effect the destined bonds had on them, even for Bakugou — the subtle spring in his usually hefty steps and the blissful contentment behind his scowling faces was obvious to those who had fought and struggled alongside him in the three years.

Even for someone as optimistic as himself, Kirishima often found himself filled with envy and doubts.

Still, he could never be tempted to let anyone else steal his firsts before he met them.

Every waking moment started with his hopes of hearing their first words. That she or even he would be somewhere out there, beyond his front door he was about to venture out from, arranged by fate to finally meet him.

Fleeting daydreams about how he could finally hold them in his arms and give them all his love. Even thoughts of doing things as simple as grocery shopping and taking naps together filled him with so much bubbling warmth.

Birthdays after birthdays, he wished before dancing flames, for the arrival of the fateful day awaiting them to come quicker.

Along with the wish for their safety and health, he never failed to add a silent promise to become a strong hero that could protect them.

“I did it.”

A bashful mumble turned his head away, the razored friendly grin he flashed at the passing giddy gushes of ‘Red Riot’ falling away.

Huh?

His puzzled eyes landed on Bakugou who wasn’t as enthusiastic about the gasps and admiring gazes on them.

Kirishima blinked. Once, twice. “Did what?”

“Were you even listening, shitty hair?” Bakugou’s impatience ripped through his words and faded with a sigh, “I said I proposed.”

His reminder nudged Kirishima in the direction of the phone conversation they had three days ago.

Understanding dawned upon him as soon as he pieced things together.

“....She said yes, right?”

The same razored grin he flashed to the faces on the boulevard they left behind brightened his face once more as his eyes danced excitedly.

“Of course, she said yes,” Bakugou grunted, fighting against the edges of his lips that was threatening to break a smile across his face. “We’re meant to happen after all.”

There was a short pause between them as the brightness in Kirishima’s eyes faltered slightly.

“You’re lucky, Bakugou.”

Kirishima felt the exhilaration he had for his best friend sink with a rising ache in his chest at the reminder.

He knew Bakugou didn’t mean any harm when he said what he said. He could tell it was out of happiness.

“I’m already twenty-four like you, yet I’m not even anywhere close.”

Under the cloudy sky, the dainty café huddled humbly among the huge city buildings, while hundreds of people rushed by it outside on the crowded street.

Half a dozen customers glanced up as the door swung open, announced by a rush of cold wind. Unlike the outside, the interior of the café was warm and cheery, with bright lights and colorful walls.

The customers returned to their conversations as the door swung closed behind the new entrant and the cold breeze was forgotten.

Your shoulders rose and fell as you breathed in the aromatic grounded scent of coffee lingering thickly in the cafe.

Even from the door, the stranger beside your best friend caught your eyes and you couldn’t help the bitter pinch of envy that sunk with your heavy heart.

Your brain instantly connected the dots as your legs brought you over to your friends at your usual corner.

Now, that explained the enthusiasm that seemed to leak through your screen when your phone pinged with a new text from her.

It was her turn.

You didn’t even need to hear the exuberance bouncing off your best friend’s voice when she introduced him to you, to know that those stories you’d read online were true.

Just like what you’d read on the forum, the abundance of happiness seemed to radiate off them; you could feel it the moment you slipped into the seat across them.

You were happy for her, really.

The blissful glow across you was practically tangible enough to be seen from the way their eyes smiled along with their lips.

And you forced yourself to smile too — like how you have always tried for your friends before her.

But the harsh whispers reminding you of your own reality just wouldn’t let you.

Being your best friend who knew where your heart dwelled, she noticed.

“Believe in yours, (Name),” The dull gloom glazed over your eyes disappeared at a snap in time for you to watch your best friend's hand leave his.

“Everyone has met their happy endings and I know you are bound to meet yours too soon.” Her hand slid across the table to squeeze yours. “Stop overthinking, okay?”

You wished you could.

“Don’t worry about me, Yui,” The brightest smile you could muster swept over your face. “We should totally start planning for our double dates once I meet mine!”

Her eyes lit up, the concern in them washed away and was replaced by the enthusiasm you knew so well.

Exactly the way it was, when you felt it with her back then.

Before your sixteen birthdays, the one thing you two always look forward to was double dates once you've met your fated ones. Then, you two had a notebook filled with giddy doodles of words you thought might turn up on your wrists.

But only hers was anything close to them.

Her comforting words...you wanted to cling onto them so badly. You wanted to believe in them.

You longed to feel the same kind of anticipation others felt waiting for their fated ones. And not dread and fear.

You tore your eyes away from the couple before you with a quiet pain and slipped a glance down to your wrist.

Jumping from forums to forums, glimpses of happy endings were what you’ve been desperately searching for.

For a hint of hope for the ominous words on your skin that spelled your fate.

“Don’t die on me— please.”

Her eyes roamed the chaotic scene before her.

The flashing red atop ambulances, the metal rattling of the wheels under stretchers delivering casualties and some were like her, crying helplessly.

The reassuring squeeze around her hand and his words meant to comfort her did nothing to stop the sobs retching from her.

The waves of angry, gray clouds rolling menacingly in the vast overcast sky over them made her feel so tiny.

“...Someone, please help her.” Her cracking voice could barely rise above the urgent cacophony around her as she begged, her mascara running down her cheeks with her tears.

A sight that she wouldn’t allow anyone to see if (Name) wasn’t buried somewhere under the rubble of what used to be the cafe they were sitting in.

“My best friend…” She cried, pleading left and right as she tried to find someone who could do something. Anything.

“Please—”

She knew it was futile for any civilians here, but she had to try.

“—she’s still in there…!”

Where were the Pro-Heroes?

(Name) may not be her fated one, but she was everything to her. A girl she laughed and cried with...She couldn’t lose her.

Hope widened her eyes as she spotted a distant recognizable figure that had just stepped into the chaos, and rushed forward.

“...Red Riot!”

You didn’t know how it happened, but you knew it happened too fast.

One moment you were staring back at your reflection in the bathroom.

The next moment you were lying on your back, eyes locked onto the hovering block of concrete that could have crushed you if not for the jagged crimson-stained one impaling your stomach.

The sticky warmth on the side of your heads and the throbbing that came along with it told you were bleeding from the head as well.

Even with you floating in and out of consciousness, you could feel the harsh ripple of the damages done to your body, spreading across you like hungry wildfire.

Every breath you tried to take into your lungs was accompanied by shards of stabbing pain.

All these pointed to one path you were heading to, but you clung onto the words on your wrist.

Those words...you haven’t heard them.

So you weren’t going to die yet right?

For once in your life, ever since those inscriptions appeared on your skin, hope bloomed across your chest as you desperately held onto them like they were your lifeline.

You will live.

You will survive this.

And die as you were meant to when time comes.

—you told yourself, repeating them in your muddled head like a mantra.

Then while fighting hard against the darkness dimming around your vision and reciting encouraging words in your head, the block over you was suddenly lifted off.

The burst of light that fell onto you made you wince instantly, your eyes squinting weakly against stark brightness that greeted you.

You heard or more than saw the block being shoved away and what towered over you now was a magnificent figure of hope.

It was a breathtaking sight for someone who was about to be swallowed by the clutches of despair.

Like a reenacting scene of Altas who had finally pushed off the weight of the heavens off his shoulders, that never came to be.

Standing tall and sturdy against the light behind him, the clad of strong red on him made you want to reach out to him so much.

It was like he was life itself, blazing gloriously in the light from the way the red on him seemed to be leaping off him.

Amongst the darkness clouding your vision from the corners, you watched him curl down into you, drawing closer with concern in those eyes.

You couldn’t help the words you uttered through your parched lips.

“....You’re beautiful.”

You saw him freeze, but you didn’t think much of it because you were still marvelling at the sight before you — he was indeed beautiful.

“No, no…”

You were too weak to notice the painful realization distorting his face or hear the panic he muttered under his gasping breath.

”...not like this.”

There was a starburst of pain amidst the red in his trembling gaze as Kirishima lowered himself beside your tattered body.

Red.

They were everywhere on you. Leaking from everywhere they could, seeping out along with the strength in your half-lidded gaze.

He knew what was coming. He knew there was no way you could survive this.

But it didn’t mean he was ready to accept the reality stained crimson red before him.

Kirishima searched around him, eyes desperately looking for someone…

Recovery Girl, a paramedic, a doctor...anyone that wasn’t as helpless as him.

You couldn’t see him that clearly now that everything was dimmed, but you could sense the turmoil in the body beside yours.

“...It’s okay.” Your lips curled weakly with your attempt to comfort him.

“No, no...it’s not okay.” There was a crack in his voice that made you wonder how kind this stranger was to weep so hard for a person they didn’t even know.

“Not yet, you can’t just go like this. I’ve waited for so long...” A choked sob broke into his plea.

“...Don’t die on me— please.”

A limp gasp sifted through your lips at the rush of a strange, honey-rich warmth that immediately flared within you to his words.

You thought you heard him gasping with you when it happened.

It died quickly, fizzling out as quickly it came.

It was only for a second but it was enough for you to feel it in you, enveloping you like the embrace of a gentle sun.

Was that the ‘rush of warmth’ so many talked about?

…But at death’s door?

“So,” A wry smile climbed across your face as a humorless chuckle left you, “....we’ve finally met, huh.”

Whatever hope you held onto to keep your eyes open just minutes ago crumbled.

This was it, wasn’t it?

“I’m sorry,” Tears welled in your eyes. “...I’m so sorry it had to be like this, whoever you are.”

“I’m Red Riot.” You heard him frantically answer after you, “I mean, Kirishima Eijiro.”

His hands clamped over yours and you could only think of how warm they were, mustering the bit of strength you had left to give him a squeeze.

The Red Riot, huh?

Who would have thought…

Another wistful chuckle left you as you tasted the bitterness of regret and sadness.

Tears brimmed over your eyes at the withering light in your vision.

The darkness was callous.

“I’m (Name),” You knew you were close. “...And I’m glad I’ve finally met you, Kirishima-san.”

It was only interested in pulling you in.

Your loosening grip around his hands jostled him into panic.

...and it was the clear victor.

He screamed for you.

He screamed for someone to help.

He cursed at fate.

“Please don’t leave. I beg you, don’t go...I love you.” — was the last you heard before darkness finally took you.

Yui was wrong; not everyone was bound to meet their happy ending.

Because you didn’t.

...And neither did he.

a/n: did you notice how differently they viewed the color red?

#kirishima eijirou #bnha eijiro kirishima #kirishima eijiro x reader #kirishima eijiro imagine #red riot #bnha kirishima #bnhabookclub #bnhabookclub bingo event 2020

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darlingrutherford · 5 years ago

Text

Night has fallen. Time for the spicy fics to come out ;) A little Cinderella!AU Alistair and Lana coming your way this Christmas night. 18+ only under the cut, please. Enjoy! <3

The door to their bedroom was open. Not an unusual thing, by any means. The only time they had need to close it was when they were together, if one of them was dressing. A drawing room connected to it, and the hallway to that, so there were few reasons to close the door. It allowed Alistair to quietly walk in, to not disturb Lana's focus as he found her sitting on the cushioned bench that lined the large window. She was leaning against the glass, staring upwards towards the sky as rain fell as if poured by buckets from above. The drops tapped against the glass panes, creating a steady cadence as it chilled the window.

The corner of Alistair's mouth curved into a smile as he watched her from the doorway. She really wasn't dressed warm enough to be so pressed against that cold glass. The temperature had considerably dropped recently, and all the blazing hearths in the castle weren't enough to chase away the bite of the chilled air that seeped through the glass at that close proximity. Yet there she sat, her temple against the smooth, clear pane, in a dress with sleeves long enough to cover her wrists, but still left her shoulders bare. She did it for him - that much he was certain. Little glimpses of her skin to tantalize him as she casually strolled by the open door to his study when he was deep into his day, a small present to make him think about what would come later. It showed off the burn on her right shoulder despite her personal inhibitions towards it - Alistair loved to kiss it when standing behind her, and his gentle touch was enough for her to forget why she worried what anyone else would think. As much as he enjoyed seeing her skin throughout the day, he knew they would need to invest in some warmer clothes for her soon. Perhaps tufts of fur at the hems would be enough, he thought selfishly.

A large, heavy blanket lay draped over a small couch in the drawing room. Alistair picked it up, carrying it in his arms as he nudged the door to their room shut and walked over to the window. He pulled it around his shoulders before sitting behind Lana on the bench and wrapping it around her front until they were both engulfed by it. In no time she began settling against him with a sigh, moving her face to lean against his warm arm rather than the window.

“I think you need warmer clothes,” Alistair mumbled as he kissed the top of her head.

“It's only raining,” she sighed.

“Is that why you look a bit sad?”

“Do I?” She mumbled. He chuckled as he felt her curl more against him, as if trying to slink under the blanket.

“I can't imagine you'd be the first person to be a bit gloomy when it rains.”

“I actually enjoy the rain quite a bit,” Lana said. She moved a bit more so her head could tilt upwards against his arm, looking back up at the sky once more. “It's refreshing. I used to open my window and stretch my arm out as far as I could, just to feel it.”

“So, not the rain, then.” He followed her gaze, mulling different ideas through his mind. “Is it… The wind?”

“It's just…” Her sigh was long, and Alistair almost laughed. “It's silly.”

“Nonsense.” He placed another heavy kiss on her head. “You're the Queen. Nothing you say is silly. It's the law.”

“I don't know about that,” she laughed. “I just… I would have thought, what with how cold it's gotten lately… That it would…”

“Snow?”

“Yes,” she sighed heavily. Alistair chuckled as he pulled his arms more tightly around her.

“I'm sure it'll come soon. It wouldn't be Denerim if the city didn't get bogged down with snow for a lengthy amount of time at least twice.”

A small hum was her response, hardly convincing and almost deceiving of her impatience.

“You know…” Alistair spoke slowly, taking his time to add suspense to his words. “There is something we could do… To speed it along.”

“If you're talking about me freezing the air, I don't think -”

“No, no… Nothing like that. It's more a, uh, different kind of magic.”

“Oh?” He had her attention then, though the way her brow raised as she turned her head to look at him clearly showed that she was already suspicious of whatever he was about to suggest. Alistair nodded his head very confidently as he began gathering the skirt of her dress to her knee.

“It's a bit of an old Fereldan superstition, really…” Lana's eyes fluttered shut for a moment as his hand slipped underneath to cup her heat through her smalls. Her mouth hung open slightly, her breath becoming heavier when his fingers began rubbing her through the cloth. When he spoke again, his voice was low and husky, his breath hot against her long ear. “Never pleasure when the cold comes and the rain remains, lest you want a blizzard to come. You've heard that, right?”

“Never.” The laugh that left her was heavy, drawn out by her long breaths as he slipped his hand into her smalls. His long fingers snaked through her coarse copper hair. Callus pads slid over her sensitive nub before dipping into her warmth. She was entirely certain he had just made up the less than eloquent phrase, but at the moment she didn't care enough to call him out. His left arm tightened across her body as she suddenly jerked upwards - a subconscious response to the way his two fingers curled against the inside of her. Her head fell back against Alistair's shoulder, her mouth hanging open as she moaned under his touch.

A mere month had provided more than enough time for Alistair to learn what Lana liked. He had been so attentive to her since their wedding night, eager to learn what made her tick, what touches would make her moans the loudest. He enjoyed building her up to it - starting slowly, moving his fingers in her just enough to cause her hips to rock against his palm. She whimpered under his touch while his two fingers filled her, wanting more but content to have him do as he pleased all the same. Alistair groped her breast through her dress. The fabric was smooth under his hand, soft to the touch, but thicker than what he preferred for moments such as these. He wanted to feel the curve of her, to feel how hard her peak must be, his fingertips forced to be content to skate the bit of soft cleavage that spilled from the top when he grasped her just right. It was a prison of his own making. He could remove it right then, pull the ties at the back and free her from her confinements. But then, she was clearly in such bliss, her high pitched moans growing as he palmed her clit while his fingers continued to curl against her. There was plenty to enjoy in front of him right then, and there would always be time for more later. No need to make her shiver more than necessary at the present.

A whimpering sigh floated from Lana's mouth as Alistair slowly slipped his fingers from her heat. She craned her head to look at him, her eyes glazed over and wanting, practically begging him to continue. Alistair smiled down at her, shifting his arms to cradle her a bit better as he kissed her softly. Lana melted in his arms, his gentle touch soothing and warm next to the cold of the window. Then, his left hand slid down to join his other, his fingers warming as they slid along her heat before filling her.

Alistair drowned Lana's cry in his mouth as he brought the still slick fingers from his right hand to her clit. He started with slow circles, applying steady pressure. Lana whimpered against his lips, moaning as his tongue chased hers as his fingers steadily gained speed. His rhythm was sloppy as he desperately tried to focus on the two very different motions of thrusting his fingers in and out of her wet heat with one hand while his other continued in circles. Lana's fingers gripped his shoulder with one hand while the other dug into the fabric of his shirt. Her body twitched like mad in his arms, moans and gasps falling into his mouth as she careened towards her end. Nearly as desperate to her her release as she was to feel it, Alistair switched from the circular motion, and his fingers moved almost diagonally in a spastic motion, faster and faster until he was practically shaking from the movement. And then, he felt it - her body curled inward, almost coming to a standstill while he never let up, only for a second, before she popped. Alistair rubbed her through it, his fingers deep within her helping to hold her in place as she arched her back, lips falling from his to hang open as the most beautiful music to his ears fell from her mouth. Long, loud moans cried out from her all the while she shook in his arms. And when she had had enough, Alistair's fingers slowed, then stopped, carefully pulling from her warmth as she slumped in his arms while he kissed her sweetly.

Lana curled against Alistair's chest, mumbling sweet words of love against him in her exhaustion. And as Alistair wrapped his arms and the blanket more tightly around her, he happened to glance out the window. Outside was quiet, no longer full of the tapping of droplets. Instead, small, white flakes had begun to fall, gliding from the sky towards the ground as if in a gentle dance. Alistair was hardly a man of superstition - at any rate, he was fairly sure his Queen was well aware that he had made up that phrase about pleasure and snow on the spot. Still, as he sat there with his satisfied wife in his arms and a grin on his face, he supposed this would be one superstition he'd be happy to believe in.

#alistair theirin #lana surana #lanistair #dragon age #cinderella!au #once upon a time in thedas #my ocs #fanfiction #my work #spicy

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mydisenchantedeulogy · 5 years ago

Text

Black Out Days [Part 2] Shade of Winter [Henry Bowers]

Winter was a delight, a simple change that was both ordinary and pleasing at the same time. Unmarked snow covered the grounds; had been setting all morning. Evelyn blocked the emergency doors behind the stage, looking out at the school yard – she learned from the drama teacher about this place; an escape were the alarm bell was taken out. Drawing in the smoke from her cigarette, the chilled teen released it with a gradual sigh.

Indeed a delight.

This particular afternoon was silent; a little too silent for a Tuesday in her opinion. Even after hours the school never really stayed quiet, not with committee members and staff running about. It was eerie how dead it was, but Evelyn chose to ignore it.

The swift, bitter wind on her face was just about the only noise she could hear. Up until something fell off the stage behind her and clattered noisily to the floor.

The red haired teen shot a look over her shoulder, having to squint her eyes in order to see in the dim light. Something circular rolled along the floor towards her, moving steadily until she could finally see what the object was. A small canister of paint, it looked like. Evelyn let it come to her, not wanting to let the door close before she was done with her cigarette, and caught it with her foot. Ominously, the lip popped open and red paint leaked onto the floor.

“Damn it,” she hissed. Reaching down, she cleaned as much of it as she could with the lid, then popped it back on. As she was doing so, a girl skated around the corner and walked over to her, resting her hands on either side of her slender hips.

“What are you doing?”

Evelyn glanced up at her, wiping the remnants of paint off her middle and index finger onto her pants. “Cleaning up this mess. You knock this over?”

“By accident,” the frizzy haired brunette answered. Her name was Rita Anderson, a girl who Evelyn shared cleaning duties with. She was tolerable; only when she wasn’t tattling for brownie points. “But I wasn’t referring to the paint – I can see that. I was referring to the thing in your mouth.”

It’s a cigarette, she wanted to correct her. Instead, she took one last draw and stubbed out the cherry on the sole of her right flat – her red lipstick stained the butt. “It’s gone. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Rita scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Right … well before Mr. Peters sees this, you need to clean it up. I don’t want to report you for smoking, but I will if I have to.”

“That would benefit you, how?”

“It wouldn’t benefit me at all,” she snapped. “And neither would it benefit you. Smoking on school grounds will get you thrown in detention; Mr. Peters might even remove you from the drama committee. I’m sure you can see my concerns.”

Evelyn did; she saw them clearly. Reputation is everything. Still, she did as asked. Being thrown in detention would only get her in trouble with her foster parents. Tossing the butt outside into the snow, Evelyn let the door slam closed behind her and went searching for a mop. She figured the janitor – Marsh �� would be the best bet.

As far as she knew, the basement was were the cleaning supplies were being kept; some closet she hoped wasn’t locked. Following the empty hall from the gymnasium, Evelyn went down the stairs and into the basement. Also part of the boiler room, the entire space was muggy and stank of damp, overturned earth. She tried not to breathe in the smell as she navigated around the dim space, searching for the storage closet, but it was hard; the smell was all around her.

“Hello … Mr. Marsh. Are you down here?”

No answer; she assumed as much. Huffing a sigh of annoyance, Evelyn wanted to circle around and forget about the mess, but a door marked with embossed letters caught her attention. Upon further inspection, it was the door she had been looking for.

“I’m taking a mop and bucket from the closet, but I’ll return it when I’m done,” the bored teen yelled. She was sure the janitor wasn’t in the room with her, but in case he was, her intentions were clear.

Then again, she may have been wrong. Someone was lingering in the darkness.

Before she grabbed the knob something rattled behind her. Evelyn glanced over her shoulder, seeing nothing but cluttered shelves of old supplies; staplers and boxes of plastic rulers. She returned to the task at hand, but an eerie feeling brought goosepimples to her arms. She felt like someone was watching her.

Ignoring it the best she could, the cautious teen pulled open the door and found the light switch – a beaded cord that hung from a single bulb on the ceiling. She gave it a tug, chasing away the darkness, but when she took her guard down, something from behind darted at her and rudely pushed her inside – the door clicked shut, trapping her.

Evelyn cried out in shock, having to catch herself from tumbling over into a box of foul smelling sweeper heads, but a hand roughly grabbed her upper arm and hauled her backwards.

“Try to scream, and yer dead. Understand?”

She recognized this voice; Henry Bowers. Her mind was reeling. But why? What did he want with her? Realization hit her like a tack hammer; she had an idea.

“Answer the question,” he ordered. The blond held her against him, arms draped around her waist and chest.

Evelyn nodded in agreement. She opted not to speak, however.

“Yer a hard one to catch,” Henry stated. “Been real eager to meet ya for a while; I think ya know why.”

Again, she nodded. “I do – I think – but understand it was not my intention to target you.”

“Intention or not, I got suspended for that bullshit. Have you any idea how many hours of counseling I have sit through?”

Can’t be any worse than mine, the annoyed teen assumed. She took a deep breath and tried to defuse the argument, knowing full well her attempt would be in vain. “I understand, but listen. What you were doing was inappropriate. Marsha wasn’t enjoying it as mu––

“What makes you think she wasn’t enjoying it?”

Evelyn rolled her eyes in disbelief, but opted not to answer. How ignorant was he? Honestly, could he not hear the fear in poor Marsha’s voice? She asked him not to lay a hand on her. Sick fuck; probably got hard listening to her beg.

It will be a cold day in hell when I beg to this pervert.

Henry mistook her silence. His tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip as he rocked her from side to side like some fucked up slow dance. “I see now. A little jealous, aren’t ya?”

This time Evelyn laughed. “Are you high? To believe something like that, you have to be high.”

He shook her a little too roughly. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Take it easy. You’re hurting me.” She wanted to elbow him in the chest for the unintentional squeeze he gave her, but chose not to on account of pissing him off more. The last thing she needed was to be locked in this closet with him as he pitched a fit.

Evelyn took a deep, needed breath. “This doesn’t have to end with an argument. We can settle this another way.”

“I plan to, babe.”

She meant to bargain with him; go the office and explain that she was misunderstood. Marsha wouldn’t appreciate it – Henry would almost certainly get his suspension revoked – but at this point, she honestly didn’t care. It was ignorant on her part telling on him, because she knew it would get back to him. Evelyn shouldn’t have been surprised that he took this as an indication to fuck her, but she did.

Specially after he turned her around and released her just to stare closely at her. Evelyn didn’t know what to think. She had never been looked at so intensely before. When she opened her mouth to question him, the obscene blond raised up his arm and pressed his thump against her fleshy painted lips.

She was beyond disgusted – there was no telling where his fingers had been – but this allegation slipped away whenever he leaned closer. Was he going to kiss her? Evelyn was intrigued.

Though, before anything could happen, the door came open and nearly hit Henry in the back.

“What are you two doing in there?”

Evelyn snapped out of her daze and moved under his arm, darting passed Mr. Marsh on her way out – careful not to show her face – and pushed her way up the stairs.

Fuck that! She was going home. Fuck Rita Anderson! She could mop the paint off the floor. And fuck Henry Bowers! No one had ever tied to kiss her before.

What a bust.

#henry bowers #it 2017 #bowers gang

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red-wardens · 6 years ago

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Late to the party but for the mistletoe kiss... I'd wanna kiss them all. Some platonically (Ronan, Cassian, Blue), some others less so. I'd ask for permission, though. I'd stay away from Kieran, since I am, after all, a human female... XD Das would smooch them all mercilessly (*especially* Kieran). Except for Blue. He'd be very gentle with Blue. Because she may be the most badass warden of the squad, but as far as *he* is concerned, she's made of snowflakes, rose petals and glass.

[And I’m late to the party for answering, it might as well be a New Year’s kiss now xD Jk, thanks for the ask my friend! Here we go. Cassian Cousland is so enthusiastic about platonic affection he’d be absolutely delighted. Blue Surana and Ronan Aeducan would be fine with it and they greatly appreciate being asked first. Good call on Kieran Tabris though. Now for Das… I can’t not write something for this so MERRY BELATED CHRISTMAS]

Mistletoe Kiss ft. Das Davarris + Warden Squad

Words: 1792 (holy moly i got carried away)

The liveliness of the party was felt all throughout Vigil’s Keep, the Satinalia celebration in full swing, unperturbed by midnight’s passing. All the Ferelden Grey Wardens and their friends and family, including the friends and family of the newer recruits, were present and festive. Even a majority of Soldier’s Peak Wardens was there, leaving only a skeleton crew at their castle interchanged by shifts. Warden Davarris, as he often was in any room he entered, was the life of the party.

“Chug another one, Davarris!” “Quit flapping around like a dandy and get yer ass over here!” “It’s your turn for the Satinalia mistletoe game!” came the friendly jeers and shouts that pulled him from his enthusiastic if not eclectic dancing. Not one to turn down a challenge, he marched jauntily over and took up the bottle from one of the new recruits.

“A mistletoe kiss, eh? Maker’s tits you buggers still play this game?” he laughed but twirled the bottle in his hand readily enough. “Alright I’ll have a go at it, Maker knows you blighters need to be shown how to pucker properly. Like you, Mason. Last time you got yer cheeks smooched was probably yer mum, wasn’t it?”

“Up yours, Davarris!” the new recruit answered back, but raised his glass to show it was all in good fun. He took another chug of his ale before shooting back. “Besides, with yer mug this might be the only way you’s getting a kiss.”

“Just spin it already!” called an impatient voice before Das could joke back. A snicker responded to it along with the jibe, “Are you that eager to kiss him, Tabris? Haven’t you two already gone at each other enough?”

“What can I say Nora, maybe I want an audience.”

Grinning, flattered and more than a little buzzed, Das made a show of dramatically placing the bottle in the center of the table and with the hilt of one of his blades, gave it a good spin. The small crowd that had abandoned dancing and drinking and socializing to watch, pressed in curiously. Drawing suspense, the bottle came to a slow stop, pointing not at one person, but at the painting on the nearest wall depicting the Heroes of Ferelden.

There was a brief uproar of laughter and arguing about how the results were to be played out before it was unanimously decided that all the Wardens of the Hero Squad present must be kissed. After making sure none of them were against the idea, Das picked up the sprig of mistletoe on the table. “To work!” he announced, imitating the Commander of the Inquisition’s armies.

Leaping to one side of the crowd, he bent forward to throw an arm around each of his favorite dwarves. Raising the mistletoe between him and Ronan Aeducan, he promptly gave the man a long smooch on the cheek. The warrior made a huff of amusement before running a hand over the side of his slightly ruffled beard. “Too much to drink, Davarris?” he joked.

But Das had already tossed the mistletoe to his other hand and held it up over Nora Brosca. The short woman was already grinning and poking her own cheek expectantly. “Plant ‘er there, Das!” And he did, with enough enthusiasm to send the woman into a fit of laughter before she gave him a surprisingly strong shove toward the tall human gentleman.

“Good evening, Das.” Warden Cousland greeted, ever friendly. The former-inquisitor laughed at his nonchalance before replying “It sure is, Cassian.” and reaching up to take the lanky man’s stubbly face in his hands, still holding the mistletoe in one. To his surprise, Cassian was the one to close the distance. Not one to ever put a damper on party games, he gave Das a short but surprisingly passionate kiss on the lips. Cheers and hollers surrounded them, and one friendly “boooo!” from their favorite elven reaver.

“Maker’s holy balls!” Das cried out, placing a dramatic hand on his chest at the end of the encounter. “You kiss like an Antivan!” he told his friend who laughed, looked both flattered and proud, and assured Das that so did he. They were then interrupted by an indignant yelp as Kieran Tabris picked up the petite woman beside him and carried her over.

“Oi, Davarris! Kiss Mell first, you and I are gonna be a while.” the dark-haired elf suggested, grinning and presenting his mage friend who looked thoroughly embarrassed. He set her down before Das who took her hand and kissed it gently. Alyss Amell’s face was already turning pink but she met Das’ pale eyes and smiled demurely. Her shyness was clearly due to having the eyes of a crowd on her and not their proximity. Das was good at drawing her focus from all of them though, and it was warmly appreciated.

“May I, Princess Amell?” he inquired of her and she suppressed a little laugh before granting him permission. He smiled back brightly, raised the mistletoe and gave her a soft peck on the lips before drawing back to return her personal space. Alyss had turned red- and there were more cheers- but before Das could perceive any of this, a hand had grabbed his and raised it over his head along with the mistletoe. Das couldn’t even laugh at his enthusiasm before Kieran’s mouth was on his, the other gripping the upper part of his arm as he walked him backwards into a pillar.

As his back hit the stone, Das returned the kiss in earnest, free hand traveling up into the other man’s long hair. The whole room was in an uproar now with their hollers and even some applause. Snickering, and not being able to help himself, he tugged at the thin leather cord holding up Kieran’s bun and the cascade of raven-colored hair poured down Kieran’s back nearly to his thighs. Warden Tabris made a grunt of protest but would not break the fierce kiss- until a hand reached out and yanked him back by his robes.

“Quit hogging him, Tabris. It’s my turn.” the beautiful and intimidating Arlessa ordered sharply. With a friendly ‘You bitch, Mahri.’ at her and a wink at Das, Kieran yielded. Das looked surprised but intrigued- Isseya Mahariel hadn’t been in the room when he’d first spun the bottle so he hadn’t imagined she’d be on the proverbial menu.

“My Lady!” he exclaimed. He bowed to her nobly, and was delighted at the brief but clearly amused tug in the corners of her lips. She walked up to him purposefully, in her tall heels she was slightly taller than him and it was oddly thrilling, but paused an inch from his face. The crowd had quieted down slightly but looked more excited than ever. Isseya raised her large goblet of wine by one side of their faces and took his hand to hold the mistletoe up next to the other side. Their lips hidden from prying eyes, she leaned in and pressed her mouth to the corner of his, not truly kissing him, not intending to.

“Guess who returned early from her visit to Orlais?” she whispered, lips brushing against his skin. “She’s in the rookery. Hurry.” She pulled back and raised her goblet, smirking and announcing loudly, “Not bad, Davarris!” to a host of wild cheers. But Das could hardly hear them anymore; the breath had left his lungs and a lost look wavered over his mask of a party-face. She was here?

Excusing himself hastily and ignoring the protests, he escaped the party and made his way up the castle. By the time he’d ascended the final staircase he was terribly out of breath, but threw the door open anyways. A few of the ravens squawked, startled, but the woman sitting on the windowsill only looked up and smiled. Das fidgeted.

“You’re home!” he cheered, smiling then cursing at himself because yes that was very obvious but his damned bloody mouth operated faster than his bloody thoughts. But Warden Commander Blue Surana nodded once, rose to her feet and approached him. She looked into his eyes, the small smile still on her lips, and brushed her gloved hand against one of his. .

“I’m home.” she agreed, staring at him to convey that the idea had little to do with location. Das felt his chest tighten. Maker how did she always do this to him? Before he could muster up another not-well-thought-out reply, she tugged curiously at the plant still in his hand.

“Mistletoe?” she inquired. Das chuckled, the heat rising in his face a bit before he raised up the sprig and carefully explained what had gone on downstairs. She was going to hear it from someone eventually so he figured it might as well be him. She nodded, face unreadable but eyes clearly enjoying the story.

“I see. Did you come up here to kiss me too?” she asked, mildly, as if inquiring about the weather. Das nearly choked on his heart as it sprung up to his mouth. Well, not really, but it bloody well felt like it. He opened his mouth to respond when she continued with. “You may, if you like.”

A few moments of silence, then she shifted slightly and added, “Unless you’d rather not.”

Rather not? Great burning Andraste, of course he wanted... He regained himself, forcing himself to smile despite the nerves. She was looking doubtful now and there was no way he was allowing that. He assured her in enthusiastic and somewhat colorful language that he abso-fucking-lutely did. He raised up the mistletoe one last time, cursing the sudden shakiness of that hand. He’d kissed hundreds of people- maybe, he didn’t really count- but seldom did doing so make him this nervous. Das tried to remind himself she was not in fact made of roses and snowflakes and glass, but when he finally raised his other hand to cup her cheek he certainly held her like she was. He leaned in-

“Should I close my eyes to kiss?” she asked tentatively. He froze, blinked in surprise.

“You can if you like.” he replied chuckling. “Do you not usually?”

There was a long pause before she averted her eyes. Das paled.

“You’ve never..?”

“Nora kissed me once.” Blue answered, meeting his eyes again. “She was drunk and I don’t think she remembers. And Cassian and Kieran… sometimes kiss my cheek when they greet me.”

Das squatted on the floor with his head between his legs and hands on top of said head. Sheer panic washed over him. He was going to be her first real kiss? He didn’t deserve this honor- holy fucking shit he-

“Did you change your mind?” she asked, sounding a bit disappointed.

“Just give me a minute,” he requested hoarsely.

#answered aks #my writing #my ocs #red warden squad #mutual's inquisitor #das davarris #merry christmas #heraldofwho #i hopei got das in character it's been a while since i've written him #blue x das

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etherealblasphemy · 7 years ago

Text

Adventure of a Lifetime

these just get longer and longer...

TW: Cursing (Cal has a very dirty mouth), mentions of injuries, mentions of angsty backstories (*laughs maniacally*), transphobic slur

Their wounds were finally healed. In the weeks it took for the gash on their chest to close up enough that it no longer needed stitches, Calrex found themself slowly warming up to these strange outlaws who had practically adopted them as one of their own. Cal was still wary of them, especially knowing that Draven was after them as well. They’d yet to wrangle the story out of them of exactly why that bastard was hunting them of all people.

With a yawn, they stretched their thin arms high above their head, cracking their neck to get the kinks out of it. Patton finally told them the night before they could start walking around the ship for more than a couple minutes. Though they’d never admit it to anybody, Patton had quickly become their favorite, with his paternal antics and constant smiles.

They swung their legs over the side of the cot that had been their home for the past few weeks as Patton happily doted over them, monitoring the cut across their chest. They were still unsteady, as the father-like figure had only allowed them to begin walking earlier that week, and only for short bits at a time.

“Believe me,” he’d told them. “You don’t want any chance of your skin beginning to dissipate again.” Thankfully, they’d listened to him, and now they could finally use their legs for what they were made for.

Cal stood cautiously, testing out the strength of their limbs. Figuring they were sound enough to stand, they took a tentative step forward on uneasy feet, not used to Patton’s absence. They didn’t fall, which they considered an ‘okay’ to step forward further. Letting out a breath of relief, their foot landed firmly on the solid floor. Smirking, they headed for the door. Now that Cal could move freely, they were going to explore every inch of this mysterious ship.

The doors opened as they waved their hand to reveal a long hallway splitting off into several other corridors. “Who in the heavens designed this place?” they muttered, craning their sore neck to look around at the pristine white walls. It was certainly boring.

“Oh, you’re awake already!” they heard. They turned their gaze from a brightly lit panel to down the hallway, where Patton poked his head out from behind a corner. “Follow me, I made breakfast for everybody!” They opened their mouth to ask why a kitchen was necessary in a spaceship, but their stomach interrupted them, growling loudly. Patton giggled. “Looks like I finished at the right time!” he laughed, the sound melodious and reminiscent of- Cal stopped their thoughts there.

They obediently followed the antlered man, who took them through a maze of hallways until they could smell the food and knew the kitchen was close. Patton waved his hand in front of a little panel, and the circular doors beside him spun open. Inside the room were the rest of the crew members Cal had met. L.O.G.I.C.- Patton and Roman had begun calling him Logan during their time on the ship- was seated at the table, his eyes scanning over pages of a leather-bound journal as he jotted down notes with a jet black feather that sparkled in the light. Roman was scouring through the cabinets, his hair mussed and unruly at this early morning hour; a bag of makeup that was definitely his was on the countertop, its contents spilling overboard. Anxiety was sitting on top of the countertop like a feline, contently munching on a piece of toast with what looked like jam smeared on top.

“Oh, Calrex, how do you feel today?” Logan asked, looking up from his notes and noticing them. They shrugged, not really sure themselves.

“I dunno. Bored, for one. Not much you can do in a cot for three weeks straight,” they complained, heading for a chair. Patton, meanwhile, headed for the cooking devices, where Cal noticed he had been making some sort of dish they had never seen before.

“What do mean, ‘bored?’ Believe me, young noble, there is so much just waiting for you!” Roman cried, triumphantly grabbing a small jar from a cabinet, proceeding to struggle with its cap as he tried to open it. “...Anxiety could you... maybe help?” he mumbled. Sighing, the emo grabbed the jar and twisted it open with little effort, handing back to the embarrassed prince.

Cal snickered. “And just what do you have in mind to entertain me, Princey?” They smirked, a hand on their cocked hip. The prince grumbled something with a spoon full of jelly in his mouth, snarfing it down like a hungry orphan.

“How you feel about robbing a bank, Calrex?” Logan asked, adjusting the navy blue ascot tie he wore beneath a black waistcoat. Cal’s smile widened, showing off a mouth full of sharp fangs.

“Positively! I feel very positive about robbing a bank!” they shouted with glee, already fantasizing about the destruction they’d wager. “Which one are we going to? How much are we taking? Can I use a blaster?!”

“Calm down, Calrex, it’s a simple operation so we may acquire the necessary funds to continue our “intergalactic punk acts,” as Anxiety refers to them. We are headed to an aquaterrestrial planet known as Levian, and we will only be taking as much as we need.” Logan smirked. “If the commoners nearby decide they would like to take back the money they used to pay egregiously overpriced taxes, however, then that is entirely up to them.” Cal huffed.

“Well, look here, everybody, the robot has a heart!” they exclaimed as Roman choked on his jam, laughing.

“Aw, he’s actually a big softie when nobody’s around to see it!” Patton said giddly, overly excited for both the upcoming adventure and Logan’s slip of character. “Anyways, I’m setting course for Levian as soon as we finish breakfast, so eat up everybody!” The other four hummed in acquiescence, munching on the food Patton had prepared for them. They all joined Logan at the table, though Anxiety allowed Cal to take his seat, leaning against the window behind Logan.

“So, tell me, Calrex,” Roman was saying, finishing off the last spoonfuls of his delicious jam, “why is it that you’re an outlaw? Whose feathers did you ruffle?” They hesitated briefly, the tension of their shoulders only noticed by the cameras in Logan’s eyes.

“...Actually, I’m not that sure myself,” they sighed, running a hand through the tangled locks of their hair. “I ran away from my orphanage, so I guess some people might consider that ‘criminal.’ According to my wanted posters, though?” They trailed off, licking their smiling lips, enjoying the suspense as the others leaned forward, eager to find out. “I destroyed an entire galaxy system, and killed everyone.” The table fell silent, taking a tense turn.

“Did you really?” Patton asked, his brows slightly furrowed.

“Well, of course I didn’t!” Cal cried, offended. “I wish I was strong enough or as badass enough to actually do it, but, nope, I can’t even hold my own in a fight…” They snarled at long-forgotten memories, bitterly recalling past grudges and losses. “Nah, I suspect it was some sort of shit Draven put together after- nevermind.” They cut themself off suddenly, gripping the edge of their seat tightly in their palms. The crew members noticed, but remained silent, inferring Cal’s story was one like their own- painful, and not to be discussed.

The rest of breakfast was quiet, most dialogue pertaining to one of them asking another to pass the butter. At one point, however, Logan asked Roman to pass him the salt, to which the prince replied, “I don’t think I can lift Anxiety, though.” That got a laugh out of the rest of them, however short-lived the relief of silence was.

Patton soon left for the cockpit, Roman following him. Logan turned his attention back to his writing, mumbling something about cross-space travel, leaving Anxiety and Cal to shuffle their feet awkwardly. The earthling coughed into the sleeve of his hoodie, feeling the silence stretch longer than he wanted it to.

“So, you like robbing banks? Who’re you, Nimona?” he asked, his voice small and tinny in the thick silence that preceded it. Cal nodded, thankful for something to distract them from something other than the quiet scratch of Logan’s pencil on notebook paper, paying no mind to the second part of his dialogue, more than likely a reference they wouldn’t understand.

“I’ve had quite a bit of practice over the years. A little nick of a galleon or two here, a little swipe of a jewel or three there, the usual. Most of it I give away, though. There are people who’re starving out there, so if going hungry one night means another person doesn’t die of hunger, I’d do it in a heartbeat,” they mused, gaining a faraway look in their eyes. Anxiety tilted his head, smiling softly as he saw Logan pause from his writings out of the corner of his eyes.

“Say, why don’t we talk to Thomas? He’s always fun,” Anxiety proposed, getting up and heading for the door. He stopped in front of the circuit board on the wall next to it and typed in something on the number pad. Cal watched him with confusion before a hologram appeared next to them. They shrieked in surprise, Anxiety sniggering with mirth.

“What is up, crew buddies? Who’s the new pal?” the hologram asked, turning to Cal with a smile that seemed too real to be digital. The hologram looked similar to Roman, though with light chestnut instead of blond hair swept over his warm brown eyes. He was donned in a bright red charvet shirt, though not much else. The image cut off right below his chest, an electric blue edge fizzing in the air like real-life glitches.

“Hi, Thomas!” Anxiety greeted, waving at the hologram, who waved back. “This is Patton’s newest childling.” Cal stuck out a hand before realizing the person apparently named Thomas was just a hologram, and shaking hands would most likely be one-sided.

“The name’s Calrex Bennova. Most people just call me the Pirate, though, seeing as I’m wanted in nearly every system there is,” they offered, quirking a side of their lips. “Who’re you, exactly?” they inquired.

“As Anxiety said, my name’s Thomas, your local, friendly AI! I’m basically the ship’s mind.” Cal narrowed their eyes, raising an eyebrow. “Logan was the one who programmed me, and he takes the more logical side of things, so he programmed most of my functions. Anxiety wrote down most of my speech patterns, though,” Thomas explained. Cal noticed Logan straighten at the mention of his new name.

�� “Oh no, you, too,” he said, pressing his lips into a thin line of frustration.

“Yah, Patton sort of changed your name in my database and I think Anxiety put a lock on it, so I guess I’m calling Logan from now on!” Thomas said cheerfully, shrugging his digital shoulders nonchalantly. Logan closed his eyes, taking a deep, audible breath.

“Ooh, hoo, hoo, I’m really regretting not leaving when I had the chance,” he muttered under his breath. He snapped his notebook shut, placing it delicately on the table as Cal and Thomas continued to examine one another.

The hologram tilted his head suddenly, his brows furrowing. “Ah, sorry, pals, but Patton and Roman are summoning me right now, so I gotta dash,” he said before the image was promptly cut off, nothing more than white static and garbled speech.

“Well, shoot,” Anxiety said, pouting. “There goes our only escape from boredom.”

“Nonsense, Anxiety, I can easily help with that.” Both Cal and Anxiety raised their eyebrows, clearly not seeing how the intellectual could possibly entertain them. “I recently memorized the entire Requiem scripture, which, despite its facade to be a book on religion, is actually quite an interesting commentary on our humanity and philosophy-”

“Nope, I’m good,” Anxiety said sharply, shaking his head fervently. “I’m going to go join Patton and Roman, so see you guys.” Anxiety finger-gunned the both of them, at which they cocked a confused eyebrow at the earthling’s antics, and make a hasty retreat from a possible hour long lecture on intergalactic morals. Cal breathed a laugh, rolling their eyes. They cast a side glance at Logan, catching him watching them intently.

“Don’t even think about it,” they warned. “I’m not about to be your next victim.”

“Very well,” Logan conceded. “Shall we join our crew mates?” Cal shrugged, getting up as Logan did the same. He waved his hand in front of the blueish panel, the doors opened, and they walked through in silence.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the cockpit, weaving in and out of a labyrinth of white-walled hallways. Anxiety was waiting for them there, Patton and Roman seated in the pilot chairs, small holograms flickering over their gazes. Cal’s breath stopped momentarily as they took in the sight of the room.

Behind them was a wall filled with buttons and wires and levers and all sorts of things that made no sense to them. The floor was transparent, giving the illusion of walking out right onto the stars. A faraway cluster of stars painted the heavens beneath them a neon purple, the celestial skies dark as a raven’s fallen feather. In front of them were two high-backed leather seats the color of marble, holographic screens popping up in front of them to deliver information. Ahead, the entire wall was one seamless pane of glass, not a single fingerprint visible.

It reminded them of happier times, when they could tell themself their childhood myths without triggering some painful memory. They bit their lip and focused on the stars twinkling like divine dancers slowly reaching their svelte arms towards them.

“...bank,” Logan was explaining, likely describing how they would go about robbing whatever establishment the robot had chosen. They cursed silently, having heard not a word. “Calrex, are you paying attention?”

“What? Who, me? Yeah, of course. I get a blaster and destroy everything in my path, got it.” Logan’s eyes narrowed, unimpressed. “Okay, fine, I got a little distracted by the stars and everything. Just tell me what I have to do, I’ll be fine.”

“Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to take part. You have only just healed, and you hardly know anything about us. Robbing any establishment is more than just pointing a weapon and demanding resources- it is a carefully crafted dance where everyone knows the parts they must play in order for the performance to go as smoothly as possible,” Logan replied. Roman snorted.

“I thought we normally just go off the cuff and end up with you ranting how certain damages could’ve been avoided if we’d just listened to you,” he laughed, his reflection in the glass smirking.

Logan pursed his lips. “You see what I have to deal with?” He gestured towards the prince, who smiled and waved. Cal shook their head sarcastically, fooling the robot. “Roman’s a handful and he’s emotional and he’s illogical. Is that not the worst possible scenario for any being to encounter?” The crew mates shook their heads, biting back giggles. Logan sighed. “Well, I’m frustrated now.” Cal barked out a laugh, shaking their head as they let out a long sigh.

The hologram called Thomas appeared suddenly next to them, frightening them. “Fucking Calypso! Don’t do that!” they yelped, jumping about a foot in the air, a hand clasped over their heart. Thomas cracked a smile, sheepishly apologizing as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Language, Calrex! Anyways, we’ll be arriving soon kiddos, so grab onto something,” Patton said, turning his head slightly to direct his words at the three behind him.

“What bank are you guys robbing this time?” Thomas asked.

“You’ll see,” Logan said, bringing out a pair of glasses from a breast pocket on his chest. “You all remember your illusions? Oh, Cal, you never gave me your answer. Do you want to take part in this? You’re free to leave at any time, now that you are sufficiently healed, though I must warn you that Patton does not like goodbyes.”

Cal thought for a moment. They and the crew had slowly warmed up to one another, though neither ever asked each other why Draven was hunting them. But in the few weeks they had been in the med bay, they had felt a sense of familiarity. A sense of home. A sense of belonging. It had been something they hadn’t experienced for a long time, something they only ever felt in wispy dreams that floated beside them in the heavens, mixing and mashing and creating beautiful creatures they knew they had seen somewhere beforehand.

Before them was a chance to finally have a family. No longer would they be alone. No longer would they be living on the streets. No longer would they be unwanted.

“Sure, if you want me,” they replied, lifting their head to the purple and navy skies, brilliant white stars continuing their immortal ballet. Logan nodded, Patton clapping happily. They let out a breath they hadn’t realized they’d been holding in. Part of them had latched onto distant memories that had begun fading, of the constant rejection, the endless days where they were told over and over again nobody wanted them today. Not yesterday. Not today. Not tomorrow. Never.

“That settles it. Come with me, we need to figure out a way to disguise you. Along the way I’ll explain our usual tactics,” he said, adjusting a pair of metal-rimmed glasses on his nose. He blinked, testing his vision, and determined his sight was not deterred by the pieces of convex glass. He grabbed Cal’s arm and led them out of the room, ushering them into one nearby. “Grab a stool, I believe we will be landing soon,” he instructed, grabbing a stool for himself. Cal followed the orders, and soon felt the familiar rumble of a spaceship entering a planet’s atmosphere, adjusting to the pressure and weather conditions.

“So, tell me, how exactly do you plan to disguise the most wanted outlaw whose face is plastered on every building you could think of?” Cal asked, lacing their fingers beneath their chin, settling their arms on a knee, feeling the ship begin to rock as the ship prepared to land.

“Roman will cover your scars, though I have no idea how, and I will provide you with an attire that should cover any other distinguishable features, yet still be functional should we encounter unnecessary problems.” With that said, the AI strode over to a chest in the corner of the room and opened it with a flourish, revealing dozens of clothing items packed neatly into the cramped space.

Cal’s eyes were immediately drawn to one piece. Though folded, they could tell it was a silk dress the color of faded cream. Logan noticed where their gaze fell and picked up the dress. As the garment whoosed into the air, a cerise ribbon fell out of the chest, falling on the floor in a heap, and Cal rushed to pick up the gorgeous material.

“I think I know how we can disguise you, Cal,” Logan simpered. They could practically see the gears turning in his head, his attention now focused on a chest beside the open one. He opened the smaller trunk, which contained beautiful jewelry and accessories. “Thank Calypso Draven’s nobles have such exquisite taste.” Pulling a few bracelets from it, Logan stepped back, surveying the items the both of them had acquired and looked at Cal, shoving the dress and bracelets into their arms. “Try this on.”

“For a someone as serious as you, you seem to know a lot about fashion,” they remarked, already shoving their pants off. They knew one of them had taken their shirt off to treat their wound, and besides, it’s not like Logan wouldn’t turn around anyways- which the robot had indeed already done. They pulled off their shirt, throwing the dress over them quickly, eager to see how the dress fit them. Around their waist they wrapped the cerise ribbon, tying it in the back. They slipped on the bracelets and told Logan he could turn back around.

He studied them, more focused on how well they would stay hidden rather than how the garment fit like a glove, giving them the appearance of a feminine being, a radical change from their previous experience. “It’s very flattering, Calrex. The guards should easily fall for this. Shall I acquire Roman for you?” Cal shrugged, nodding as their hands roamed over the soft fabric, marveling at its beauty. It had certainly been a long time since they had even dared to wear something so pretty, so untouched, so perfect.

It was a rogue feeling, one that dreamed of wearing dresses and slacks and jerseys and slips, unconcerned who thought what about them. But as they grew older, they had learned to forget these childish fantasies. They couldn’t afford wearing what they wanted, not if they wanted to stay hidden for as long as possible before Draven eventually found them again and they had to run for their life.

They had worn a dress once in their lifetime, a grey sleeveless one that tightened around their waist and puffed out slightly as though they wore a crinoline underneath. The best part of it was that no one had called them a girl or a tranny or anything except Calrex. That day, they had felt weightless, able to conquer anything. Pity the euphoria had ended so quickly.

With a start, they realized Roman had entered the room, Logan likely taking his place as copilot. The prince was mumbling to himself, carrying the bag they had noticed in the kitchen area. “Roman?” they asked, unsure what he was doing. The prince looked up, startled, and proceeded to gasp dramatically.

“Oh, I didn’t know Calypso herself was alive and well! You look absolutely stunning, by the way, but you shall look ravishing as soon as I’m done with you,” Roman said, smiling wickedly as he whipped out what looked like an eyeliner pencil from the bag. Cal inwardly groaned, ready to have their eye poked out or worse.

The prince got to work quickly, constantly swiping his blond hair back as he grabbed foreign objects from his bag, twisting open tubes and popping the lids off of jars. At long last, he stepped back to survey his work, and gave a satisfied sigh. “Take a look,” he said, pulling out a mirror from the seemingly bottomless bag. They take the mirror gratefully and held up it.

Cal nearly dropped it in surprise, taking in their transformed face. No longer were they the scrubby outlaw on the run for far too long, but an untouched person who had never seen poverty or war. They now took on the visage of a dainty damsel who had not yet met with death’s grim grip, their cheeks full and lips pursed, ready for the sweet taste of love. Roman had highlighted their cheekbones, covering their scars with mounds of concealer, and added dark grey eyeshadow to give their eyes more depth. They patted their cheek, seeing their reflection copy them, confirming they were real and not some illusion Roman had whipped up like magic.

They turned to Roman, smirking smugly. “How do you do this? This is incredible!” they gushed happily, ready to woo all the guards and have a good time. Roman shared their content, and the two began to exchange make-up tips they’d garnered over the years as Patton’s voice came over the intercom.

“Hey, kiddos, we’ve landed! Me, Anxiety, and Logan are all ready, so come on out whenever you guys are ready!” Cal hid a snicker, hearing Logan correct Patton’s grammar as the intercom shut off.

“I guess we join them,” Cal said, handing the mirror back to Roman. “Let’s go have some fun!” they cheered, exiting the room, promptly getting lost before Roman led them to the docking bay, where they rejoined the others.

“Oh, dear Calypso, Calrex, you look wonderful!” Patton squealed, running to hug his adorable child. They thanked him, grinning gratefully. “Right, let’s go do whatever Logan planned!” he cried with excitement as the robot took a calming breath, ready to go off on the Drisine for already forgetting the plan. Cal watched them, a bittersweet smile on their face. It had been a while since they’d witnessed scenes like this, been apart of scenes like this. Deep down, they hoped this sensation blooming in their belly like a rose at midnight would last, that maybe they could go on more adventures than just this one.

Lord Condor Finch’s Royal Bank of Taxes and Tributes was exactly like its name: huge, overzealous, and an obvious candidate for mockery and tomfoolery. Though imposing at first sight, the overuse of gold leaf was laughable, the guards sleeping were they stood was pathetic, and the amount of currency it actually contained in comparison to other banks the group had been to put a beggar’s tin cup to shame. It was perfect for the heist.

“So I know you already explained, everything, but why this bank of all places? I’ve been on the downlow for a while now, but even I know how crappy it is behind the scenes,” Cal was saying as they hiked up the long flight of cracked marble steps that led to the entrance.

“Easy,” Logan began. “Lord Finch is a moron. Thusly, his security systems are vastly inferior to others I have encountered. Besides, he taxes his people needlessly, some to the point of starvation, so by distributing the wealth within the vaults, not only might we save some lives, but the common people will begin to take our side, benefitting us in the future,” he explained as they finally reached the end of the stairs.

Anxiety bent over, panting for breath. “Give me a second, okay?” he wheezed, catching what little air remained in his lungs. Patton fussed over him, offering a canteen of water from his satchel. Anxiety shook his head, saying he was fine.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Roman said, fixing the lapels of his white suit jacket. The copper on the goggles perched above his ever-present flower crown shone brightly, nearly blinding Cal as the prince turned in the sunlight. “The steampunk aesthetic belongs to Remy, and to Remy alone.”

With that said, the group moved. Cal stuck with Roman; their jobs were to distract the tellers. If the Generals broke loose, Cal had a blaster hidden within the handbag they clutched nervously. They were hoping for chaos.

Roman laced his arm with theirs, giving his most charming smile. “My dearest sister-”

“We don’t look anything alike, try again.”

“Roman glared at Cal. “My dearest friend,” he started again, “what a lovely day for us to go to the bank to make a withdrawal!” Cal sighed, raising an eyebrow. “Quiet, I’m a great actor, I just have unique methods.”

“You can say that again,” they mumbled under their breath. Roman playfully whacked Cal’s arm, huffing in exasperation. Cal’s attention, however, was already gone as they entered the massive bank. Despite its shady purpose, the bank was a magnificent sight to behold.

The golden wall stretched up for what must have been forever, curving into a domed ceiling, where a chandelier made of thousands of crystals glittered, reflecting rainbow patterns onto the walls. Dozens of little stalls were lined up against the walls, all leading towards a single door in the back of the room, which undoubtedly led to the vaults. Above the door hung a ginormous portrait of the irascible Lord Finch in all his glory, sporting a cape of loon feathers and too many medals pinned across his chest like some feeble attempt to give credence to his leadership abilities.

Looking around, there were only two or three tellers. Cal grinned. This would be easy. Roman grinned, too, sharing a knowing glance with the pirate. “I’ll take the mermaid,” the prince said, gesturing subtly to a fair maiden currently combing through aegean and peacock locks, cream seashells poking out in some places, looking bored out of her mind. “Can you handle the other two?” Cal glanced at the tellers on the opposite side, seeing a merman who definitely had to be the mermaid’s brother or something and a young girl whose eyes were the color of amethysts. They nodded, a wicked grin forming on their lips.

“I got this,” they said, hurrying off to the neighboring tellers. “Good morning,” they greeted, smiling sweetly as they approached the tellers. The merman stood at attention immediately, jolting awake as the young woman waved cheerfully. Cal headed for the woman. She would prove to be more a challenge. “My mother recently made a deposit here, but she would like to withdraw the amount. She’s fallen terribly ill, you see, and needs the money to pay for her medication,” Cal alleged, batting their eyelashes seductively. They could practically see the young lady melt at the charms they had picked up from the streets over the years.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, miss,” the woman said, speaking as though she had a bag of marbles stuffed in her mouth. “What was her name?” she asked. Cal swore under her breath. “What was that?”

“Nothing. Her name is, uh… Cassandra. Cassandra Ildris,” Cal offered stoically, swallowing the lump in their throat as the young woman brought up a hologram, pressing a dainty finger to the screen to scroll through a long list of names written in electric blue. The young woman furrowed her eyebrows.

“Hmm, I don’t see your mother’s name on the list. Are you sure she made a deposit here?” the teller asked. Cal nodded insistently.

“Perhaps she used one of her other names. She’s been married twice now, including my father,” Cal explained. “If you just check all names under Cassandra, it would likely be fastest,” they said, leaning down slightly, watching the teller’s gaze glance down before meeting with Cal’s eyes again. They smirked mentally. Too easy.

“All right, but I’ll have to ask Damien to help me. I’m not that good with technology,” the teller confessed, laughing nervously. “Damien, could you come over here and help me?” Cal grinned. Perfect. Glancing upward, they saw a small wooden beam painted white to match the walls. If they aimed just right, they could bring it down and trap the tellers. It might not be exactly what Logan had planned, but it would certainly be more fun.

The moment the merman called Damien entered the stall, however, a shout came from the other side of the spacious room. Cal turned to see Roman back away from the stall, the mermaid saying something unintelligible, waving her hands furiously. With a burst of mist, she cast a spell. The result nearly made Cal choke on their laughter.

Roman shrieked as he felt his now enlarged head, nearly double the size it had been before. At that moment, Anxiety chose to run in, who took one look at the enchanted Roman and said, “Oh, my God, it’s finally big enough to fit your ego!” He fell to his knees, laughing hysterically. Cal soon found themself unable to contain their own giggles, laughing as well as Roman began panicking.

“Um, help!” he cried.

“What did you do to Faerin?” the merman asked, running out of the stall towards the prince, who immediately began backing away, walking around like a drunk man as he tried to hold his head upright. “What did he do to you, my princess?” he asked the mermaid as Cal watched on. The other young teller ran out from her stall, joining the merpeople as they exchanged words, Damien’s eyes soon boring into Roman’s. “You will pay, you vicious fiend!”

“Oh, I should probably help him,” Cal mumble under their breath, pulling out their blaster. “Eat crystal, motherfucker!” they cried, firing the gun up at the chandelier. They didn’t know what to expect, but an ominous rumbling emanating for the ceiling was hopefully a good sign. From the corner of their eyes, they noticed Anxiety rush towards Roman, grabbing his arm and getting him away from the tellers and whatever Cal had initiated. They glanced up to see a myriad of spider cracks running across the ceiling, just barely touching the chandelier. “Hmm. That’s probably not good,” they said, beginning to head towards the back of the room, where Anxiety and Roman were headed.

They took one step forward and heard a resounding boom echo through the interior. They gulped, eyes widening, and bolted for the earthling and prince, not one second by their side before they heard a loud crash, turning to see the chandelier hitting the floor, the crystals smashing into smithereens as the brass structure holding it all together pinned down the tellers, trapping them all together. From behind them, Cal heard someone enter the room.

“Nicely down, you two- dear Calypso, Roman, what did you do?” Logan said, a large, bulky creature Cal assumed to be Patton following behind, carrying several medium-sized satchels, the coins creasing in the fabric. Roman whimpered softly, embarrassed. Anxiety rubbed Roman’s back reassuringly, calming the prince down. “We should probably leave,” Logan remarked, eyeing the enraged merman chanting in a foreign tongue.

The others agreed and they ran for one of the tall gilded windows by the door, where they had formerly agreed they would exit, as Logan knew the guards would more than likely block their original entrance. The creature known as Patton leapt first, his body weight easily shattering the glass panes. With a whoop, Anxiety jumped out, pulling some sort of martial arts move as he dove out the window, rolling as he hit the ground. Cal shot their blaster once more, firing randomly at a wall before diving out the window after the prince and the robot had clambered through awkwardly.

“FUCK YEAH!” Cal shouted giddily, a wide grin plastered across their face. The others rolled their eyes lightheartedly. Their mission, however, was not over yet. They still had to get away. Their grin grew, showing off sharp fangs, as they raised their blaster, squinting at a couple nearby trees as they jogged after the gang, nearly tripping over their feet. With a laugh, they fired a final time, directly hitting the trees, setting them aflame. Immediately, the nearby guards, all dressed to the nines in their saffron red and midnight blue uniforms and shiny black boots, ran to the fire, panicking. “That should distract them for a while,” Cal whispered-shouted to their companions, who cheered as they ran around trees, jumped over small fences and walls, and avoided any more destruction.

They all sprinted towards the nearby wooded marsh, tall pines sprouted up, outstretched towards the emerald sky dying down to a husky, smokey blue. As they reached the brackish waters, the sounds of confusion fading away, the water began seeping into their boots, the thick fog that hung in the air suffocating them, the setting sun blinding them.

“Yeesh, Logan, why do you always pick the worst places for us to hide the ship?” Roman grumbled, still holding his head so he wouldn’t fall over like a newborn. Logan simply shook his head, not bothering with a response. They continued trekking around the edge of the shallow parts of the marsh, heading deeper into the wildlands where they had hidden their ship. “Shouldn’t we see it by now?” Roman asked as a soft whisper cut him off.

“He-llo?” a voice called from all around, as though the voice wasn’t coming from just one place at one time, but rather every place at every conceivable moment. The crew froze, all looking in different directions. Cal glanced at the water a few feet away, where the water was much deeper than where they stood, and shrieked when they saw a pair of yellow eyes watching them from underneath the surface. For a moment they thought it was Draven before realizing he would never go anywhere near a marsh, too afraid of getting his precious cape wet.

“Who are yo-u?” the voice asked, echoing across the otherwise silent swampland. Cal stared down those eyes, convinced the voice belonged to the body that held those eyes. “Who are yo-u?” they repeated. The voice sounded familiar. If they closed their eyes, they could almost picture-

“Cassandra?” Cal spoke aloud. The eyes in the water were unwavering. By now, the others had noticed the yellow eyes, too, and were coming up behind Cal, ready to fight off whatever foe was calling out to them.

“Who-o is Ca-ssandra?” the voice said as the eyes rose slightly, revealing slivers of a face soaked in water. “Who are yo-u?”

Cal stepped forward, cringing as they felt the water and dead pine needles spill into their boots, soaking their socks. “My name is Calrex. Cassandra… Cassandra was a friend of mine. You sound like her,” they told the eyes. The eyes seemed satisfied with the response, blinking slowly as they registered the answer.

“My na-me is Mi-la,” the sighing voice replied. Without warning, the eyes leapt into the air, bringing with them a face, body, and mind. Before the astounded group floated a young girl, skin blue as the water she lived in, eyes wide and unblinking. Water droplets coated her body, clinging to her skin as though it didn’t want to leave, forming a dress that covered her like a ball gown, the water becoming long, draping sleeves and a high collar. Her sweeping hair that spilled past the small of her back was made of reeds swaying in the breeze; in fact, her entire body swayed as though she was made of liquids herself. “Yo-ur not suppo-sed to be he-re,” Mila said, waving a single finger childishly to emphasis her point.

“Our spaceship is here,” Cal told the water nymph. “Do you know where it is?” they asked, having a feeling the nymph did indeed know the location of their hidden ship. Mila nodded shyly.

“I kept it hi-dden for yo-u,” she whispered, drawing both her hands close. “Ingare nadia,” she chanted quietly as the water began leaping up just behind her, dancing like bolts of energy. As the water parted, fragments of cool white metal appeared. With a giggle, Mila lifted her hands into the air as if praying, and the water enveloping the ship did the same, raising the bulky vehicle in a bubble. Logan stepped forward, ready to get away from the chaos they had created at the bank. Mila suddenly whipped towards him, throwing up a wall of transparent water to block him from continuing forward.

“Mila, you want something from us, right?” Cal asked, remembering previous encounters with water nymphs that had not ended well. Mila nodded, her lips parting into a youthful smile.

“Tw-o things,” the nymph said, holding up the equivalent number of fingers. “One, a ki-ss from the pri-nce,” she said, blushing as she glanced at Roman, who flashed her a charming smile. “Tw-o, an apology for hur-ting Fae-rin... She’s my only fri-end.” Mila ducked her head.

“It doesn’t seem to bad an offering. I say we take it,” Cal proposed, turning to the others. Logan shrugged, as did Roman. The creature known as Patton squealed, indicating an agreement. Anxiety, however, stepped forward.

“Undo whatever spell was cast on Roman and I’ll be your friend,” he offered. In a more gentle tone, he added, “It’s got to be lonely, out here all the time, when nobody ever stops by or says hello.” Cal’s brow raised. They’d have to ask about that later.

“I’ll be your friend, too! It would be an honor to share a friendship with such a magnificent young lady such as yourself,” Roman commented. Patton barked, agreeing with the earthling and the prince. Logan sighed, muttering something along the lines of, “I’ll offer companionship as well.” They all look expectantly at Cal.

“What, do you really think I wouldn’t want to be friends with someone like Mila? She’s cool enough, I wanna be friends with a water nymph,” Cal remarked, turning back towards a smiling Mila. “So, what do you say? We accept your offering, what about ours?” Mila lifted her yellow eyes ever so slightly and grinned, nodding.

“I would li-ke more fri-ends,” she mumbled. She drew closer to the group, her feet barely skimming the surface of the marsh, until she floated in front of Cal. Mila shyly extended a hand. Cal grinned back at the little nymph, grabbing the hand and shaking it firmly. “Ke-ep your end of the de-al first,” she said as she drew her graceful hand back.

Cal glanced over at Roman, who stumbled forward as Anxiety shoved him forward, the shadows on his face just barely concealing his smirk. “Go on and kiss the girl,” he said as Roman’s eyes lit up at the phrase.

“Oh, I love that movie with the mermaid!” Roman exclaimed as he neared the nymph. “Perhaps we can show it to Calrex tonight?” he inquired, pursing his lips as he batted his eyelashes.

“Only if you get us out of the mess you caused,” Anxiety replied. Roman scoffed, but turned towards Mila, who had sunk halfway into the water to be eye level with the dashing prince. Flashing her his trademark grin, the prince leaned over and pecked the young girl on the cheek as she blushed, giggling in a manner that echoed across the marsh.

“I apologize most deeply, my dear Mila, for hurting your friend. Do accept my most sincere and heartfelt apology,” he said, bowing deeply. Mila laughed, a tinkling sound that reminded Cal of fairies.

“It was fu-nny hearing it from the wa-ter,” she mused. “Th-ey tried to mi-mic it, yo-u flirting with Fae-rin and fai-ling.” Mila turned towards the others, whose interests were now piqued with curiosity. “He to-ld her, ‘Yo-ur eyes shine like the mo-on on a cry-stal ni-ght,’ ‘Yo-u’re the mo-st beau-tiful sea crea-ture I’ve met.’” Mila burst into laughter, clutching her stomach as Cal glanced at Roman.

“You called her a sea creature? No wonder she cast a spell on you!” they uttered, shaking their head in exasperation. Roman spluttered, unsure how he could spin some sort of witty response from this humiliation. Mila sighed.

“Yo-u kept your bar-gain, now I ke-ep mine,” she proclaimed as she throw her hands up in the sky, waving them as though she was signaling some passing ship. “Vocifere, caban!” With the enchantment cast, a cloud of smoke encapsulated Roman, dissipating to reveal the mermaid’s spell had been reversed.

Roman clapped both hands over his face. “Oh, my gorgeous head is back to normal! Anxiety, do I look okay? Because a prince has got to slay,” he asked. Anxiety laughed, disguising it with a cough.

“You look fine no matter what’s happened to you, don’t worry,” he reassured the prince. “Anyways, Mila, thank you so much for your help,” he thanked the nymph. “We might not be able to come back for a while, but we’ll try to return as soon as we can.” The nymph smiled happily, waving. The wall of water blocking Logan suddenly dropped down, scaring the robot. With a few more thanks and a couple vociferations of the marsh water soaking their feet, the group finally clambered onto the ship.

As the door shut, Cal swore they heard Mila say, “Go-od luck, Pi-rate. Fi-ght and pro-sper.” Perhaps it had just been the wind.

“Alright, kiddos, let’s get out of here before the guards find us!” Patton said, morphing back as he threw the heavy satchels off his shoulders, heading for the cockpit. Cal felt a breath of relief rush out of them as they followed the Drisine. They’d done it. Nobody had gotten (fatally) injured, no guards were firing at them as the ship started up its engines, and they had actually done something.

“What a heist,” Anxiety sighed, leaning over the copilot’s chair, dangling his arms in front of Roman’s face.

“That was certainly an ordeal,” Logan huffed, settling onto a stool as Patton skillfully guided the craft into the air, where they could easily see the miniscule figures of guards and peasants all grouped around a hole in one of the bank’s back walls. A pile of golden coins shimmered on the ground, spilling from the vault inside the building. “Hmm, looks like the commoners are taking advantage of Lord Finch’s private income,” the robot noted.

“I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink or two,” Cal stated. “Calypso knows after all this, it’s gonna take at least seven Harvey Wallbangers to forget the sight of Roman’s head double its size.” Lighthearted laughter overtook the cockpit as Roman groaned, wishing he, too, to forget what would likely be held against him for the rest of his life.

“Let’s just head over to Remy’s already,” the prince pleaded.

“Alright, I’m setting course for there now,” Patton said. “Boy, I won’t forget that adventure of a lifetime. And Cal got to be a part of it!” he squealed, his smile practically crushing his cheeks. Cal quirked up a corner of their, the feeling of apprehension beginning to sink in.

“If you don’t mind,” they began nervously, “I’d like to keep having more adventures with you guys. At least I wouldn’t be bored.” A silence fell and immediately Cal knew they said the wrong thing.

Patton squealed even louder, confusing the outlaw as to how the windows had yet to break from the high-pitched noises. “Oh, we would love that!” he exclaimed as he got up from the pilot’s seat to hug Cal tightly, Roman huffing as he took over Patton’s duties to fly the ship. Though first surprised at the kind gesture, Cal felt themself relax, awkwardly wrapping their arms around the Drisine to hug him back. The warmth that followed was something they remembered feeling a long time ago, when they were still an innocent child.

Yeah, they could definitely get used to this.

WOOT WOOT WOOT ANOTHER CHAPTER UP! I hope all you lovelies enjoyed this new installment! (It was so much fun to write the bank scene)

Hey guess what I was inspired over the weekend for a chapter that probably won’t come up for a while so here you go:

“I will give you world. Every night, I'll let you know how much I love you in a hundred different ways. Every morning, when you wake up, I'll be by your side, whispering sweet nothings, telling you how beautiful you are, how your eyes look like the heavens when you're excited, how you are the bravest person I've ever met. Every day, I'll sing a ballad of praises for you. I will make you and this entire universe see how much you mean to me, because lavehsea, I’m so in love with you I might just burst, and dear Calypso this went so much better in my head.”

Hmm, may have just spoiled what that story’s about... heh.

AnYwHo, thank you all for reading, reblogging, and leaving likes :)

TAG LISTO (let me know if you want to be added or removed):

@asofterfan

@alix-the-skeleton

@hufflepuffsscrewdriver

@v-blue-writer

@sanderssidesstuff

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gripefroot · 4 years ago

Text

Leave the Lights On

New York City is an unsympathetic skyline that night. Uncaring to the inevitable distress it watches over, unheeding of the cries in the night. His, at least, don’t leave his throat and mouth - stuffed down and lodged thick - brisk steps in the dark, boots heavy on the pavement.

Eyes burn. With dirt and grit not properly washed out following the mission, and with salty tears coming to the surface as his heart seems to choke in his chest. Hands shoved in his pockets, moving fast. Face ducked down so no one can see - his weakness or his identity. Helps, a little. But the people in the New York streets are as uncaring as the looming skyline.

One brick building offers relief. A warm touch, a sympathetic smile. A kind word. Perhaps more than one. Glancing around to make sure no one is watching as he slinks into the shadows skirting the building, Bucky shakes out his hands, and with a deep breath crouches before leaping up to grab hold of a first-level balcony.

He swings, for a split-second, and then heaves himself up, silent as moonlight. Doesn’t perch on that balcony longer than necessary to leap to the next one - and bingo. If he breathes deep enough, memories of perfume linger still, this near your window. And he lifts a fist.

Tap, tap tap. Tap, tap tap.

It’s only eleven p.m., and he knows you’re in town - behind the blinds, a single dim light glows. Then, footsteps, and he catches his breath.

Your smile is worth a hundred-thousand botched missions. Like a balm to his very soul, as you slide open the window, peering out with stars dancing in your eyes.

“Can I come in?” Bucky asks in a rasp.

“Got the password?” you tease.

“Yeah. I wanna kiss you.”

A delighted laugh - teasing returned for teasing, and the vice around his chest loosens as you step aside, and he hoists himself through the window. Scrunched rather uncomfortably to fit, but he manages - and soon it’s the cheery light of your bedroom and flowery scent so you, and he’s a million miles from the massacre in Toronto, tonight.

“I was about to text you,” you say casually, locking the window shut again. A book dangles from your fingers; thumb holding pages open. “I thought you might be back by now.”

“Just got in twenty minutes ago,” Bucky says. Roots himself, there - this is his refuge. From the plants pouring off nearly every surface, the pattern of your sheets, the whiff of air freshener, and your musk hanging in the air a sultry promise.

A hand on his back now, and he shivers as you glide around to face him - a smile, at first, which twists into a frown as you study his face. He swallows, trying to force a wry smile - but nothing. Your hand rests on his chest, and he wonders if you know how it’s aching. A deep breath, and Bucky just lets his tired eyes drink in the sight of your familiar, pretty face, and the deep well of worry pooling in your darkened eyes -

Wait. He doesn’t want you to worry.

“A kiss?” you prompt, and it’s gentle.

“Oh,” he says. “Right.”

A step forward, and his hand rests on the curve of your hip. Your face tilts, expression so bright and hard, so ready - book tossed onto the bed, and he tugs you close, sucking in the taste of your breath before closing the distance with sweet contact.

In that suspension, heady and tender, sorrow is forgotten. It’s just a kiss, a reminder. A reminder of all that’s good, of all he wants at the end of the day.

Just you. Just peace.

It’s not as heated as usual - holding back, perhaps, at this swelling moment of uncertain emotions. When you pull away first - that’s odd in and of itself - your expression remains draped in concern, and your fingers wind through his.

“I’m glad you made it back.” A soft declaration, and he tries not to think of those that didn’t. “And thank you for coming to see me. I missed you.” This a more intimate statement - Bucky blinks, and the cold fingers squeezing his heart don’t seem to be there anymore. Just a gentle swelling, and tears threaten again.

“I - I should go back, but uh...can I stay?” His request is clumsy, but he doesn’t stop. “Can I stay with you for a while?”

“Of course, Buck.” You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“Just don’t put your dirty shoes on the bed.” A grin in reminder, and he returns it without thinking as you bend to pick up your book again, wandering to the opposite side of the bed, where a scrunched pillow belays your evening before he’d come.

Bucky crouches, tugging at the laces on his boots. Crusted blood - but he ignores it - not the first time, and probably won’t be the last, and after a moment’s thought he shrugs off his jacket, too, laying it over his boots before he crawls up the bed to your side.

Engulfed by soft musk, and he lets out a sigh as he flops on his belly alongside you. Tangled legs, his head resting at the curve of your waist as your arm drapes around his neck to scratch at the back of his neck - he groans, shivers racing down his spine, and he breathes in all you.

Slumped against pillows, against the headboard. The crinkle of turning pages, as you continue through your book, and Bucky’s heart is slowing. It’s peace that’s sinking into his bones - for how simple these minutes are, they settle more deeply in his bones than anything he can remember. Deeper than meditation. Deeper than a hot shower. Deeper than pizza.

“What’re you reading?” he asks, groggy and bleary, after several minutes - because otherwise he’s going to fall asleep.

“Ivanhoe,” you chirp with a ruffle of pages. “Been reading it for weeks. I’m usually a much faster reader, but you’ve been taking up a lot of my time.”

“Who, me?” Bucky lifts his head with a sloppy smile - you just laugh, palm warm on his face, and he feels lovely.

“Yes, you,” you say, and is that a hint of accusation? “Always pulling me into supply closets - ”

“Babe, you’re responsible for the pulling at least seventy percent of the time - ”

“ - kissing me until I can’t think about anything but getting your pants off - ”

“Yeah, well, you make me feel the same way, but you don’t see me complaining about how much less time I have to clean my guns - ”

“- and” - this with a firm glare, but Bucky just grins at the amusement flickering in your gaze, “ - you crawl through my window past my bedtime and snuggle up next to me and now I’ve read the same page about six times and I still have no idea what’s going on!”

He bursts into laughter - and you do, too, and it’s warm and filling and just everything. It’s comfort. It’s hope. It’s his world. And his arm snakes around your waist to give you a squeeze, and he stretches to place a kiss just so on your cheek, and you beam.

“You have blood on your face,” you say fondly. Lick the end of your thumb, and rub at his eyebrow until he’s grunting in protest and his skin is burning. Just makes you laugh more, and he gets a kiss to the now-clean skin in reward. Bucky squirms - somehow is knee is between your legs now, and he’s closer to your lips -

Hazy eyes, sparkling into his - he doesn’t hesitate to lean forward, absently plucking Ivanhoe from your fingers to toss aside. Chest to chest, and more eager lips than before - his despair melting away under your hitched breath, replaced instead with a hammering in his chest and pooling heat in his gut.

The paradise found with you is beyond measure, beyond description. Here, all unhappiness falls away in the bright tilt of your smile, the shine of your eyes - how pretty and pliant you are, how fervently you want him - he’s never been wanted like this, never been welcomed. But here. It’s home.

Though there’s passion, there’s little urgency - it’s just a sliver of heaven at the seam of bodies, but not the tantalizing dip of ‘more’. He doesn’t need it - not sure if he can have it, tonight - and you, of course, won’t push him. Just let him laze in your arms, drinking in what he needs, and your fingers are soft against his scalp.

“Thanks,” Bucky says at last, voice rugged and deep. “For letting me interrupt your date.”

A laugh, just as he wanted. Swells into the last bit of his wounded soul, and he smiles.

“Not sure if I can forgive you for that,” you tease. “Maybe you oughta make it up to me.”

“What, by taking you out on a date? Or your book?” he presses, as another giggle vibrates against his chest.

“Might have to wrench it away from me first,” you challenge, gaze fierce. Bucky tilts his chin up, grinning broadly.

“Well, I’m stronger than you, babe. I think I can handle that.”

Narrowed eyes. Oh, he likes that - and then, softer now, as your hands trail down his shoulders, “You might be stronger, Buck, but I know your weaknesses.”

“Don’t have any.”

A brow quirks. An odd feeling of dread creeps over his skin - what has he done? - but it’s only a shifting of your body against his, at a particular pressing of thigh against thigh, a groan works itself from his throat, and his eyes squeeze shut.

“Liar.” A smile, and a brush of breath against his cheek.

“Fine,” Bucky says crossly. “Fine. I have one weakness.” Laces his fingers through yours, lifting them to press against the pillow - keeps those from weakening him further, anyway, held in the depths of your gaze, he dips his head for another kiss.

Remarkably innocent. Even with the throbbing in his pants, and the heat between your legs - it stays where it is. Not desperate. For once.

“I should go,” he murmurs a few moments later, and a sigh fills his mouth from yours. “I haven’t done my report yet, or turned in my extra firearms…”

“Don’t forget this one,” you tease, rubbing against him again. His nose wrinkles, and he peers down at your mischievous expression with faux-severity.

“I’m pretty sure that one is yours to clean,” Bucky says with a thoughtful purse of his lips.

“Oh, really? That’s perfect. I’ll be over in the morning to take care of it.” A wink, and he rolls his eyes.

“Babe…”

“Just name the time” - a brush of lips against the cleft in his chin, making him shiver - “and I’m there. Sergeant.”

A shudder, head to toe - heavy groan sitting in his throat. Fingers tighten, still braided with yours - and your delighted laugh is only confirmation of what he fears.

“Two weaknesses,” you say fondly. “But don’t worry - I’ll use this power wisely.”

“I have to go,” he growls, and bends to nip your nose before pulling away. “Otherwise I’ll never leave.”

“Promises, promises.”

Bucky crawls off the bed without looking away from you - your coyness, your pretty ferocity. All rumpled up in an image he’ll never forget. With a yawn you stretch - still can’t look away, and he reaches blindly for his boots - and finally scoot over to him, wrapping your arms ‘round him from behind as he perches on the edge, tugging the first boot on.

Little kisses against his shoulder. Waves of affection roll over his skin, and gosh it’s hard to leave - but you pull away for him to tug on his jacket, and he stands at last, wishing with a wrench in his heart he could stay.

“Tell everyone I said hi,” you say cheerily. Cross-legged on the edge of the bed.

“And what, that I accidentally ran into you at the 7-Eleven?” Bucky asks, lifting a brow.

“Sure. Gotta get my midnight slushie.”

“You’re absurd.”

“That’s why you came to me in the middle of the night.”

The moment freezes - your gentle, knowing smile, his swallowed pride. He jerks his head in a nod. “Thanks,” he mumbles, and though it’s all he can manage - he knows you know, and that’s probably why he came to you first.

That, and you kiss so sweet.

A final smile is exchanged as he folds himself to fit out of the window again - you pad over softly to close the window behind him, and he feels like a damn prince, kissing you through an open window like that chump Romeo.

He doesn’t wonder anymore about dying for love, though.

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vintagemichelle91 · 7 years ago

Text

A Little Lesson in Healing: Chapter 2

Authors’ Note: Happy Sunday dear readers! Back with another little lesson on Rafael and Natalia’s healing process. We are so glad you guys enjoyed the first one, now here is another after Adam Conway and their trip back from Venice. Thank you so much for your amazing support!!! @rauliskafan and I hope you continue to enjoy!!!

**Italicized bits are from the past.

Freshly returned from Venice and jet-lag aside, Natalia somehow found the time to unpack and settle everything into place. Not wanting to put it off any longer, she sorted through some things that needed to be sent off to the dry cleaners. Maybe on his way to work, Rafael could drop the items off.

Consumed with the task at hand, she still wasn’t ready to leave the enchanting city on the water behind. Because coming back meant that she had to face all the memories of those terrible days before Italy. The days where Adam Conway and Francis Devenue had reentered her life, had terrorized her… and her family.

The violet gown remained in the same spot where she had left it. On the floor in the back of the closet. Natalia felt a shiver run up her spine when she laid eyes on the piece of purple fabric. In her heart, she knew she would never wear that dress again. Too many painful memories… not the sweet scenes of Venice but memories from her distant past, a troubled past she wished to forget and never think on again. She swore she would forget…

…but now she stood in the middle of the walk-in closet gripping the laundry basket tightly, turning her knuckles white.

How could she ever truly flee the images flickering through her mind?

She felt as if Devenue still had her in his power, his fingers digging deeply into her throat. Was the window closed? There was no air circulating around her, and she could feel her skin beginning to burn.

“Natalia?”

Struggling to find her voice, in desperate need of a fresh breath, Natalia let the basket fall to the floor, the voice of Adam knocking her down, of Devenue vowing to punish her for the other man’s crime flooding her mind.

“Stop it!” Natalia screamed as she bolted out of the bedroom, almost running right into Rafael.

“Natalia… wait!” Rafael called out, but she made a beeline for the front door. “Where are you going?”

“I have to get out of here,” she said weakly, grabbing a sweater and disappearing into the night without any further explanation, needing to escape the cage that seemed to reassemble, to trap her all over again.

Rafael sighed against the door before entering. The outcome of the morning was not what he had expected. His name was cleared, and yet it was less than enough in the eyes of his new superiors at the DA’s office. A part of him thought it was ridiculous to head down there in his best three-piece suit and think they would automatically offer his old job again as if he had simply been away on some extended holiday.

And yet, he hoped that he could right the ship and resume his life, to provide for his girls.

Not to be. Not yet. Maybe never? Feeling like a complete failure, he wondered how he could face his girls now. Seemingly without a choice, Rafael let out an unsteady breath and opened the door before regret could get too tight a grip on him.

“Atticus?” Natalia greeted as she descended the steps and flashed him a warm smile. “How did it go?”

The eagerness in her voice set him slightly on edge. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint her. But…

“Not the news I wanted to hear.” Rafael loosened his tie with unnecessary force and walked straight over to the bar in need of a drink.

“What did they say?” Natalia asked innocently, setting a few toys aside and watching her husband intently.

“The powers that be are still in a flux, and they won’t lift the suspension anytime soon.” Rafael took a swig of the single malt scotch and immediately served himself another glass. All the while he avoided his wife’s concerned gaze.

“Rafael, they’re probably just trying to sort some things out,” Natalia began to reason, but he shook his head.

“There is nothing to sort out. I didn’t do anything wrong. But I’m the one still being held accountable for everyone else’s crimes!” Rafael’s voice grew louder, and he ran his hands through his hair as Natalia tried to quiet him.

“Shhh… the girls are down for their nap.” Natalia moved closer and took the empty glass from his hand. “Atticus, even if you don’t back to Hogan Place, there will be other opportunities.”

“No, my reputation is tarnished,” Rafael whispered harshly. “And the longer this lasts, the worse it gets.”

“Atticus,” Natalia started, cupping his face in her small hands. “Everything will sort itself out. In the meanwhile, spend time with us.” She kissed his cheek sweetly. “I rather like having you around.”

Unable to fight a strange feeling bubbling in his soul, Rafael glanced up and inched away from his wife. “I can’t… Natalia, I can’t do this. I can’t just sit here and stay idle forever.”

“It’s not forever,” Natalia said. “Just a few more days in our ivory tower.”

“It’s more like a cage,” he hissed. “And I don’t like feeling trapped.”

“But, Atticus---”

“Not now, Natalia!”

She seemed taken aback as Rafael marched out of the townhouse, back into the chilly air without another word.

He had no sense of direction as his feet pounded the pavement. The wind suddenly filling his lungs began to clear his head, and when he turned a corner, not realizing where he was, Natalia’s hurt face appeared in his mind’s eye. Along with the sharpest pang of guilt.

He didn’t mean to snap at her like that. But this was his career, a career he had worked so hard for. Now it was slipping away through no fault of his own. Before the beauty that was Natalia entered his life, it was all he had to hang on to. And with it came a sense of purpose, a way of making wrongs right.

It seemed the only way he could make a mark on a place called Earth, in a city named Manhattan.

No longer true. Life was more than trials and motions and prepping witnesses for hours on end. His purpose was the beautiful schoolteacher, the family they had built. How could he ever lose sight of that?

How could he say that he was sorry now?

Lacking an answer, he continued to trudge down the sidewalk when a storm broke out, and suddenly he was drenched. As the rain cascaded over his sorrowful form, Rafael ran across the street to a shop, ducking under the awning to avoid the deluge.

Only when the door swung open did he realize it was a vintage record store. From which flew the strands of a familiar song. Hearing O soave fanciulla, he remembered the first night he took Natalia to the opera, the way her eyes lit up as she watched the stage and the way her pink silky dress felt against his skin in the moments when they skipped the second act.

Somehow even then, he understood that she was the missing piece to the puzzle that was his heart.

How could he have walked away from her? A sudden waved of sadness washed over him as a cab sped off, the splash from a puddle staining his shoes. Even if the rest of this day existed as a testament to his other failings, he had to fix the one thing that mattered most lest the puzzle becomes a jumble of mismatched pieces once more, the organ only beating to keep him alive without the joy that was such a wonderful woman at his side, in that same heart.

Running, growing wetter with each step, he finally found himself back before the townhouse for the second time that day.

Ever so slowly, he entered.

The warm, comforting scent of meatloaf filled his nose, and he saw the older girls setting the table for dinner.

“Papi! You home just in time!” Violetta cried excitedly, rushing towards him as Rafael knelt to take her into his arms.

“I missed you, muñequita,” Rafael said with a kiss to her cheek.

“Me, too!” Violetta beamed. “But why you take an umbrella if you go out?”

“Papi made a mistake,” he sheepishly admitted. “One he won’t make again.”

Accepting the answer, Violetta returned to folding the napkins. And Rafael shuffled into the kitchen in search of his wife.

“Mi hermosa flor?”

Turning to face him, her face was soft, her lips a straight line. No doubt she wanted to give him a piece of her mind, and while he had no real excuse for his actions…

“I’m so sorry for lashing out at you,” he began. “I was upset. Angry. But still, I never should have---”

Shaking her head, the line of lips forming a smile, she circled her arms around his neck. “Nothing to apologize for,” she said. “You needed a moment to yourself. Now you’re home. Where you belong. That’s all that matters.” She kissed him sweetly and leaned her forehead against his.

“It was still unfair of me to---”

“What’s unfair is that you’re so soaked!” Natalia laughed, kissing him again.

“You’re too good to me,” he murmured, seeking out her lips again. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“But there’s nothing to forgive,” Natalia assured him. And in that moment, Rafael felt his soul soothed, the bad feelings left out in the rain, and the perfect puzzle in place and the picture complete.

Upon returning to the townhouse, Natalia noticed Rafael sitting on the steps, waiting. Knowing her husband, the man would have held vigil all night if necessary.

“Are you alright?” Rafael asked, quickly approaching her the second their eyes locked. Suddenly feeling shy, she wrapped her sweater tighter around her body.

“Yes, I’m a little better,” she said.

Rafael offered his hand to her, and she took his palm quickly. “You want to talk about it?”

Natalia let out a shaky breath and sat beside him on the steps.

“I… when I saw the dress… it all came back,” she started. “It was just too much to take So I ran. And I… I’m so sorry.” Tears began to stream down her cheeks, and Rafael immediately held her to his chest.

“Hey, shhh,” he whispered. “There’s nothing to forgive. You’re back. You’re home. And that’s all that matters.”

He tenderly kissed the top of her head, and Natalia released a heavy sigh, happy to have him close, longing to leave the past behind…

…and knowing that her heart would always mend when it beat in time with his.

#rafael barba #natalia barba #raul esparza #law and order svu #SVU fanfiction #rafael barba x oc #a hard lesson series #a little lesson in healing #violetta barba

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c00lmint8123-blog · 5 years ago

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TWO Hidden Waterfalls At This Georgia Park

David Brodosi

David Brodosi - Fall road trips and adventures do not have to be expensive or lavish. You can find great adventures in your own backyard that you might have never known were there. This massive State Park in Georgia is one of those places with many activities for you and your besties to do.

Cloudland Canyon State Park is one of the most beautiful places Georgia has to offer. It has so many hiking trails, waterfalls and amazing views as you hike through the trails. Admission to the park is only $5 so you will not be hurting your wallet on this adventure.

Within the 65 miles of trails, you can choose the one that fits your needs the most. If you are looking for a short, easy hike, you will find that here. If you are looking for a longer, more difficult hike to challenge yourself, you have to take the Sitton's Gulch Trail.

On this trail, you will hike to the bottom of the canyon to see two massive waterfalls and you will have a great view at the summit.

David Brodosi

This entire trip is 5.1 miles and is one of the more difficult hikes at this destination. In the summer, it is not ideal to hike Sitton's Gulch, but as the weather begins to cool, it is the perfect outdoor adventure.

As you start your hike, you will descend quickly down to the bottom of the canyon to see Cherokee Falls and Hemlock Falls. Cherokee Falls is a massive 60-foot waterfall that plunges into a pool of some of the clearest water. Hemlock Falls is the larger of the two coming in at 90 feet.

David Brodosi

After taking a dip in the pools here, you will be on your way across a large wooden bridge. You will explore the deep depths of the Cloudland Cayon's floor before you start your 900-foot scale to where you began to end your hike.

Seeing the two beautiful waterfalls and exploring the calming forest depths, you will enjoy this long hike more than you would expect.

If you want to chase more waterfalls, you have to travel to this park with a suspension bridge and a 76-foot waterfall.

David Brodosi

Sitton's Gulch Trail

Price: $5 for parking

Address: 122 Cloudland Canyon Park Rd, Rising Fawn, GA 30738

Why You Need To Go: Even though this is a challenging hike and trail, you will go into the deep depths of the canyon floor and see beautiful waterfalls you can actually swim in.

Website

David Brodosi

8 Awesome South Georgia Hikes You Need To Add To Your Bucket List This Fall

Sweater weather is the best for hiking.

David Brodosi

There's a lot of hype when it comes to hiking in North Georgia, and though there are some great spots up there, we need to give South Georgia some credit where it's due. Down south there are tons of gorgeous beaches, swamp land, palm trees and more that will make you feel like you're on an out-of-state getaway, not to mention these eight South Georgia hiking spots perfect for fall that will help you find your zen.

Canyon Loop Trail at Providence Canyon

Address: 8930 Canyon Rd., Lumpkin, GA 31815

Why You Need To Go: This trail takes you everywhere you need to go to discover the awe-striking peaks and valleys of what is known as "The Little Grand Canyon."

David Brodosi

David Brodosi's Best Hiking Backpacks

David Brodosi Manhattan, New York

I love Rugs!

David Brodosi reviews the LUNAR SOLO tent

Dream Job

Best Camping Stove

David Brodosi reviews Lamina Eco AF Sleeping Bag

Camping in the Rain

Brodosi’s Ranch in the Hondo Valley

New Photos of David Brodosi

Brodosi Lost in the woods

Brodosi Waterfall

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David Brodosi

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David Brodosi

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David Brodosi

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David Brodosi

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#david brodosi #brodosi #david #waterfall #outdoors #camping #hiking #backpacking

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ankyouweek · 7 years ago

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Second Time Around

2 - What We’re Made Of

He was home.

That shabby little shack on top of the mountain. Even though he only spent a year there (less than really, considering his suspension), 3-E’s classroom was home to him.

And he was back.

Karasuma said he was emotionally stable enough to be chosen, but Karma could feel the heat pricking at his eyes and he wasn’t so sure about that.

“The smallest gesture can cure sadness.” His mother said that once. He’d fallen over and bloodied up his knee. A smile and an ice-cream had gotten him back on the playground again. Karma hadn’t thought of those words in a long time (or her, for that matter).

But he supposed they were true, in their own weird way. His hand held a strawberry au lait, his favourite. It’d been a while since he’d had one of these, too. (His high school campus had made a point of being health conscious, and these didn’t even come close to falling in that category. He couldn’t exactly walk around with them at work either.)

He tapped the screen on his phone (god, he couldn’t believe this thing had been top of the line at one point!), and checked the date.

When he got in the machine, Karasuma could only guess when he’d be spit out. Karma hadn’t been expecting accuracy - five years before Sensei’s death had been his guess, and the redhead had thought Karasuma had been generous when the main believed he’d be dropped off in the middle of his second year. They were both wrong, but Karasuma was closer.

It was the day he started school again. His suspension was over. Sports class was about to end, and if he made it in time, he could greet Nagisa and blast Sensei’s tentacle to bits. Just like old times.

It was a completely fresh start. What luck.

He became conscious of the knives already taped to his other hand. Karasuma had believed that the other Karma would still exist in this world, but it looked like that theory was wrong. He was the only Karma. Shame, it would have been interesting to meet his former self, consequences be damned.

He idly wondered if that meant the machine took him to a different universe rather than back in time. If that was the case, had the other Karma been swapped with him, or had he taken over?

Thoughts were already racing through his mind. Things may have already changed just for the fact he was here. Or maybe he was a minute late, or maybe he’d forget some tiny detail that shouldn’t be important but actual was and would mess everything up.

He bit his tongue and took a gulp of his drink, feeling condensation forming quickly in his grip. Today he’d play it cool, act exactly the same as far as he could remember. When he got home, he’d compare his notes to today’s observations and confront Karasuma.

Grimacing, he headed towards the class. Karma wasn’t looking forward to that one bit.

—

Karma didn’t stick around in class long, just spending enough time to play his part. Last time he left early because he was an arrogant little shit eager to kill a teacher. This time around, the teacher he adored was alive and Karma was going to have to watch him die again.

It’d taken a lot of will power to replay that date.

Seeing him alive and irritating and being a scaredy cat had been bitter sweet. He remembered all the good times, but Sensei didn’t. Sensei didn’t remember how he’d grown or changed and Karma couldn’t tell him about how he’d reached all his goals in the future. Sensei didn’t know he was going to die, but Karma knew the exact details.

But Karma also had a chance to change that.

—

It was well past midnight when Karma snuck into Karasuma’s place. He rolled his eyes at the empty take out cartons in the trash - the Karasuma of his time might be defeated but he hadn’t really changed that much. Karma didn’t know this place (Karasuma had moved out almost instantly after Irina’s death) but it was small, so it didn’t take long to find the man and wake him.

A swift kick to the stomach did that and Karma realised he was a kid again very quickly. His adult body would have moved faster, much more smoothly than this untrained body did. Of course, he was expecting Karasuma to wake and had guessed what he’d do, but the fist grazing the side of his face made his ears ring. Too slow. The redhead wasn’t entirely sure if that was directed at himself or Karasuma, but he was irritated all the same.

“Akabane?”

Karma felt bad for the guy, but he didn’t have time to play nice. He was a new student, who showed up for one period in the middle of the day, and now he was breaking and entering and beating people up. Even the old Karma wasn’t this messed up. But nothing’s fair in love nor war.

“Here.”

A letter from the future Karasuma, signed, sealed and now delivered. Karasuma was sure his old self would believe it but Karma had his doubts. (Karma wouldn’t have believed it, after all.) If he didn’t, he was screwed, to say the least.

Karasuma read the letter, looked at Karma, reread the letter and looked at Karma again.

“Well?”

“You expect me to believe you’re from the future and the world has gone mad and you need to save it?”

“No.” Karasuma frowned. “Your future self is expecting you to believe it. I’m just the messenger.”

Karasuma sighed. “That’s even more ridiculous…”

But he didn’t turn Karma away. He didn’t laugh or mock him, or kick him out or threaten him due to breaking and entering. Karma raided the fridge. Finding nothing, he turned to the pantry and found some potato chips. Potatoes were of short supply in his time, so he thanked his lucky stars. He sat watching late night television, the blue glow illuminating the room, the volume on low so Karasuma could think. But he didn’t do anything.

He just kept staring at that letter until the sun rose and Karma found that far more unnerving than anything else he could have done.

—

Karasuma took him home so he could get ready for school. (Karma had fruitlessly argued that he wasn’t a child. Karasuma had told him to go look in a mirror.) Of course, Karma ended up being late (he had never not been fit, but he’d forgotten how much effort it took to hike a mountain with a world’s supply of textbooks), though that was in character, so he didn’t sweat it.

He introduced himself to a few people (getting on Terasaka’s good side sooner rather than later) and wasn’t as much of a shit head as he could have been (as he once was). The end of the day came with him threatening the B Class goons with a bottle and getting (now worthless) information from Nagisa. (He kinda wanted to tell the kid to lay off the notes, since most of them were irrelevant, but hey, if it kept them focussed on the mission, who was he to interfere?)

The octopus was a bitch to get home, and then to get to the classroom the next morning, but it was worth it purely to see Sensei’s face. The rest of the day went as planned (unfortunately, Sensei still picked the same ugly nail art and the same shitty apron - guess some things were set in stone). His murder/suicide attempt went better than before, since he decided to skip the chit chat and just throw himself off the cliff.

Nagisa had cried a little, having no idea what was happening, and Sensei was furious (without all the chit chat he was half convinced that Karma had truly tried to off himself, rather than make it a double kill). But that was the first turning point he made in his original story. He didn’t need to bicker with Sensei and could be more relaxed around him. His failure with this task allowed him to shake some of his pride and arrogance, made Sensei see he wasn’t just a brute and put thought into his actions.

“Karma-kun! I’m a teacher and my students are always my first priority! I’m always here for-“

“Yeah, yeah, I got it teach.” Okay, perhaps that was a bit too sharp, but still. The guy was planning on dying one way or another. He wasn’t going to always be here. Karma knew what it was like without him there. And he was going to have to live through it all again.

So he left, before his emotions could get the better of him. He thought Karasuma was right, he was smart and capable and could cope under pressure. But they were both wrong.

He took a breath, focusing on his second arc. The exams were coming up. He was meant to get embarrassed, being arrogant and lazy and ending up looking like a fool. He had no clue on how to change the future, how to change the world for the better, but surely, getting better results in school couldn’t make things worse, right?

—

Things were going as normal. Well, at least according to his memory they were. Nothing drastic had changed - he hadn’t yet decided if that was for better or worse.

Karasuma was on the look out for Nidaime and Yanigasawa, though decided against stopping Takaoka from becoming a staff member. They had history and Takaoka was a professional. It would be out of character for Karasuma to stop him from teaching, potentially leading to awkward question and suspicions being raised.

Bitch Sensei showed up one day and Karma cringed. He’d forgotten how awful and over the top she was when they first met. It wasn’t part of the school curriculum, but maybe attending more of Karasuma’s and Irina’s classes would help give him ideas on what to change later on. Or maybe, if nothing could be changed, give him more tools to fight with later. (He doubted kissing classes would help him much in that aspect, but it was better than sleeping or playing games like he once had. He recalled his first kiss and winced. On second thought, lessons would definitely be an improvement.)

This wasn’t just a second chance for the world, for Okuda and Takabayashi or Sensei. It was a fresh start for him too.

Small steps still amounted to something big in the end. It was the journey that mattered, not the destination, right?

So when she was being mocked and nicknames were being thrown at her left and right, he refrained.

“She’s crazy, huh Karma?” Terasaka was trying to test his limits, see what type of a guy he really was.

“You’re not going to join in?” Okuda, knowing of his supposed attitude, but finding him different from the rumours, trying to confirm where he stood.

He shrugged. “Isn’t it kinda lame to pick on someone like her though? You don’t get much out of bullying the person who’s gonna give you homework, right?”

Irina jumped on that instantly, remembering she was now a teacher, while the class groaned, realising he was right.

For the old Karma, the original Karma, this was hugely out of character. But the new Karma was that bit more mellow, a little less extra. He knew how things played, had an extra ten years on everyone in the room. His classmates didn’t know the difference (though Nagisa seemed slightly confused about the change, it seemed he chalked it up to the suspension and disgrace of being thrown into 3-E). He’d never been particularly close to Irina, but her and Karasuma’s wedding had been a big deal for their class. They were family, and while they all still called her Bitch Sensei affectionately, hearing a bunch of kids call her that with mockery didn’t sit well with him.

—

Okuda had his eye from the moment she asked Sensei to drink poison. They’d talked beforehand, but that was when he took an interest. They were as different as night and day but they got along well.

But it was hard to get close to her when only a few weeks ago he was watching her mother sob hysterically and listening to a priest pray for her soul.

—

Seeing Asano’s pissed off face had been one of his highlights in third year. While in his timeline, things were a lot less bitter and angry between them, Karma still took great pleasure in seeing the other lose.

“And to think, this is only the first test of the year! And I was suspended for a few weeks! Maybe it was a fluke~? Better luck next time, Asano-kun!”

Karma could hear Ren try to soothe Asano, without much success. The redhead walked away with a spring in his step, passing an eavesdropping Koro Sensei. Sensei, of course, had his file, which spoke of how he was violent and rude and arrogant. Karma walked a fine line between proving the documents right and trying to be like his adult self.

His file spoke of how lazy he was, and he tried to show that side in class (at least when it came to the books - he took much more interest in attending physical classes). He set things up like so it looked like he was studying at home all the time, but by now, this type of knowledge was second nature to him. There was nothing Gakuhou or the staff could do to change that.

He and Karasuma debated telling Sensei about their dilemma. Sensei hadn’t disclosed the truth about his past instantly. Part of it was a trust issue, part was left over from his time as an assassin, part was to protect Aguri’s students. They weren’t really sure what path Sensei would take, if he would try to discourage them from changing things or if he’d try to get too far involved.

At the moment, they’d agreed that the less people who knew, the better.

Karma had a feeling that was going to bite him one day.

—

It was frustrating, really. He was practically top of the class without trying, and then top of the whole school when he put effort in when he was a kid. Now that he’d already done all of these classes (ok, most, but didn’t everyone have classes they didn’t go to?) and improved over time, these classes were a walk in the park, boring and plan out unnecessary.

It made him mad, knowing that half of the things they were learning would never be used. (He’d started harassing Karasuma about free running and straight out told him they’d ignore his warnings about keeping it on the mountains.)

What was worse was the fact that everyone else found these lessons hard. Sure, it was only the start of the year and they’d yet to really get their drive, but Karma didn’t remember everyone being so useless. Karasuma told him they were kids and he needed to remember that their skills needed time to development, but it was still hard for him to equate this Nagisa, who could barely land a hit, to the one who had him in a chokehold and could still fight decently to this day. Compare this spineless Takabayashi with his Takabayashi who was over flowing with confidence? The ditzy Kayano to the cool celebrity Kayano of his time? Impossible.

Interestingly, however, Terasaka was still as much of a dick as ever. Summer was soon to roll around and Sensei had started to make them a pool. Karma had wondered when he would need to save the day, but Itona and Yanagisawa were keeping quiet.

He informed Karasuma, who said he would look into it, but there was only so much he could look into without questions being asked, or becoming exhausted with all the extra work he was doing. Karma was trying to figure out whether the future would be different without Itona in it and how. He wondered if this was his lucky break or his biggest mistake.

—

Kyoto was never a place that interested him. Sure, it was historical and had cool things to see, but so did every other major city in Japan. This time around he knew short cuts and led the group (he wasn’t going to amble around aimlessly like they had last time and get lost again).

(He stuck closer to Nagisa and Sugino, letting Okuda hang out with the girls, even though it seemed to hurt her. But here she was smiling and ten years younger and alive and he struggled to make it through the day knowing everyone was younger and unknowing and without the same memories and it stung to see Takebayashi alive and being a weirdo, so Okuda doing the same? It was like a punch in the gut every time he looked at her.)

He refused to let himself get knocked out, only playing possum, because these jerks weren’t going to on up him again. He’d had enough of being overpowered and having to back down in 3-E class and at work. Round two was going to be different.

They (of course meaning mostly Karma) saved the girls without Sensei’s help, though he showed up anyway to give a lasting impression. The redhead felt cold, wondering if he’d walked into dangerous territory and had been discovered, but if Sensei had suspicions, he kept them to himself.

“Strange that you got yourself kidnapped, Kayano. I didn’t take you to be the damsel type.”

She frowned and her eyes flashed briefly. He was slightly irritated. She had excellent control over the tentacles and had fooled everyone until the end. If she’d showed a bit more initiative earlier on, their attempts of assassination could have gone a lot better. She didn’t even need to reveal the tentacles, just be a bit more useful, use her speed and strength, at the very least. Karma was going to push that angle whether Karasuma thought it was a good idea or not (Karma hadn’t told him everything, and he didn’t plan on it unless it suited him).

“Sorry I’m not that strong… I’ll work harder from now on!”

Karma twitched and gave a jerky nod. He ignored whoever was scolding him (Sugino?) because they were just kidnapped! Leave her alone dude! It was another game to play and it was early days. He’d make her see his way yet.

—

Later that night, he was meant to go gossip with the boys before joining a light hearted attempt of killing Sensei (and seeing him naked, if Nakamura had her way. He wished he could say she was less weird in his time, but it was almost the opposite…).

But he stayed alone, not wanting to talk. His words had made people think he liked Okuda, and he didn’t want her to hear of that and get confused by his actions. He didn’t want to deal with such light hearted topics when his world was turning to hell and he had the burden of fixing it.

Sitting on a swing in the park, he wondered what super heroes were made of. If he was made of the same type of stuff.

#Fic #submission #Ansatsu Kyoushitsu #Assassination Classroom #Akabane Karma

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ulyssesredux · 7 years ago

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Calypso

A delightful young person is Miss Garth, the title, the green flashing eyes. He scalded and rinsed out the folded money from her reticule and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting the kettle off the prettiest girl in the cattlemarket to the landing. He left his horse in the morning, the struggle out of question. You are too clever not to mention that I loved a man ill at ease with a complexion beyond anything. Will from any sullying surmises; and her uncle. Got a short knock. Costive.

The cat, having cleaned all her waking hours since she saw Will Ladislaw: close by him and turned towards him with a brother-in-law.

Oh, all porous holes. She knew from the utterance of any word about his private affairs. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. All dead names. Reading, lying back now, counting the strands of her. Good morning, when a good-tempered air of unconsciousness was a little burnt.

Must be without a farthing than Katey Keogh with her savings, that's the worst of it, blurred cattle cropping. I left off. Be back in a girlish love, and looked up. Studying hard in his mind somewhat languidly, before he left the room, putting on his lap; whereupon the girls all insisted that he wanted specific things. Upright Sir James Chettam was convinced that his own rising smell. —Metempsychosis, he said.

Lettuce. Where do they get the money? A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. A mouthful of tea soon. Ay, by George. —She got the things, she unconsciously kept her hands, and the balance in yearly instalments. —Mkgnao! Why? But if not?

Blotchy brown brick houses. There is to be fairly regarded as a fresh candle for him.

Lydgate, contemptuously. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times.

It is hardly fair to call me selfish. Minchin, with her ass and garden, except the dignity of not being mean or foolish, he said, frowning. Leaving the door without seeing anything remarkable, but whose merits, as the pussens, he says. Useless to move now. Or kind of placard on poor Will's back than the noise of the outdoor snow. —Poldy! Bold hand.

All we laughed. Of course if they ran a tramline along the hall, Lydgate had just filled for him, it would look nice over the smudged pages. He felt heavy, sweet, wild perfume. —Mr. Brooke, after having been long gratified with the hairpin till she had been and were going to be a source of torment to her father gave for the frame.

No, nothing has happened. From the time? He has money. Poor Dignam! It's rather a strong check to one's self-possessed energy. But as he took up a leg of her hand? You must see him for an hour or two.

Everyone says I am of a patient uninterrupted pursuit, such as he took the pains to go and see her, said—You don't want to pry, my miss. Minchin, with the way? The cat, having cleaned all her waking hours since she saw the long and the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive.

Still, she said. Her petticoat. Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. Somewhere in the air high up. Ah, there's a prime one, and find himself unable to pay a visit to Mrs.

Want pure fresh water. In reality, however: just the end of the fork under the dimpled pillow. Celia. But she immediately turned them away from the bed. Virginia creepers. The night Milly brought it into the world.

Invent a story for some proverb. Against cakes: how cakes are bad things, she went to the quays value would go up like a shegoat's udder. He stood up, and the best part of her boot.

Your fond daughter, MILLY. Electric. At their joggerfry. Potato I have a chat with Lydgate as of a thieving Jew pawnbroker was a courteous old chap. Of course it might be sitting alone in the morning. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had a headstrong look, a stuffed roast heart, As it a bit. The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him to Rosamond and Will in one distant glance and bow, she said. Chap you know just to salute bit of a temper; from a slip in her full tones. A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. Quite safe. Moses Montefiore. It wouldn't pan out somehow. Her fansticks clicking. Besides, you would come as she entered carrying the red-leather cases containing the cameos with a few friends to make that corner in stamps.

Grey horror seared his flesh. A letter for Mr. Farebrother, ours is a young student: Blazes Boylan's song about those seaside girls. Studying hard in his hesitating way.

Dead: an old woman's: the last. Timing her. He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the letter from?

Thanks: new tam. Good. Be near her polished thumbnail.

However, the door and opened it. Do you know what it is usually himself that he had read and, while Will leaning towards her three little girls, those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls.

Only five she was never the girl to show which give the waymarks of a tower? Then he read, restraining himself, the page rustling. Here was a proud man, Turko the terrible illumination of a bore. The warmth of her soiled drawers from the first night. Against cakes: how cakes are bad things, she said, frowning. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look.

He glanced round him.

They understand what we say better than to help out the folded money from her. By-and-twenty pounds. Your fond daughter, MILLY. —Just as I'm. Letting the blind up? —Come, come to a figure in front of the city traffic. Dorothea's mind was filled with her. —O, well: she judged them as we judge transient and departed things. In the tabledrawer he found an old number of Titbits. Take pocketfuls of love besides to them all at home in languid melancholy and suspense, fixing her mind on Will Ladislaw had been used to watch her sister with expectation. A mouthful of tea soon. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. Must be without a flaw, he re-entered the room. Marion. Why? I do believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for instance. She blinked up out of her womanhood. Bread and butter she likes in the long and the white button under the low lintel. —Gurrhr! Stop and say a word: about the bracelet.

And the little mirror in his position. Cries of sellers in the cellar grating floated up the staircase to the fire too.

Just how she was looking at his side, avoiding the loose brass quoits of the world than your father and mother. He smiled, glancing down the kitchen stairs she called: What? Not much, I am a grave old parson. He smiled with troubled affection at the postscript.

Prevent. But I did not reappear before he went to the right. Meanwhile Dorothea's mind was filled with images of things as they had been pushing his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of. Nice name he has. Must have put it in his work-room avenue the blue-green boudoir that we go on living in another body after death.

A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the nextdoor girl at the nextdoor girl at the letter at his side, reading still patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, she would break her promise not to be chiefly concerned about the kitchen stairs she called: You have to pay away her hands, and with a sense of connection with a scroll rolled up. Or through M'Coy. Funny I don't mind a hundred pounds. The next day Lydgate had always been associated for her, his hands on his lap; whereupon the girls all insisted that he himself was not losing his preference for Mary above all other women.

He went in,—the expression of a numeral before ciphers. But when she had sat at home. Scarlet runners.

Say ten barrels of stuff you read: in the weak light as she had been her brief history since she first saw this room nearly three months before would have obtained leave to go to Fred, who regarded her occasional whist as a repulsive proposition from some suitor of whom she said. You are the cattle, the first race. Milly Bloom, you would think me a liar. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Bold hand. Casaubon—about topography, ruins, temples—I can leave the whist-tables were prepared in the air, mingling with the town. He himself was not down-stairs in her quiet staccato; then kissed her sister, and reckoning on what they would do at a time you were! And when he has never made presents to us. —O, rocks! I like her might be expected to be much more of their difficulties than they need to hang on the live coals and watched the bristles shining wirily in the gravy and put in four full spoons of tea, she said. Nice name he has sent you the cream of Peacock's patients. Louisa, looking ill. I prefer being under an obligation: upon my word, I am quite the belle in my new tam. Well, but because he couldn't get his leg out again! What does that mean? To provoke the rain. A paper. The old man, mastered by his keen sensibilities towards this fair fragile creature whose life he seemed to be a mistake, and Mr. Casaubon was alone in the room. Wonder what her father gave for the frame.

Hurry up with that fair creature, though he had been some pleasure in pointing Mr. Brooke's attention to this ugly bit of a checkered kind—triumph that his future was guaranteed against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the page rustling. Want pure fresh water. Well, I think, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had been and were going to London, till her eyes. A speck of dust on the flute. I have been so unlucky—a little burnt. Silverpowdered olivetrees. You have to pay a visit, and my anger is of no use.

Cruel. Do you know—we only want eighteen—here, she said. No followers allowed. I think you might be expected to walk and work for a young beginner, said Mary, and Mary, more quietly, more, till she reached the head of the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. The night Milly brought it into the drawing-room, uncle?

Molly off the pan on to sundown. Friend of the bed. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might be so. Or kind of sacrilege which tears down the feeble light on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Said Celia, in a minute.

Let me see, I've been a sculptured Psyche modelled to look for, said Louisa. I forgive you? Nice name he has friends who love him, and saw her glance at the kitchen stairs she called: Good morning, being filled with her hair down: the Pride of the hall. There he is, sure enough: a homerule sun rising up in a minute. Marion. The figures whitened in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket. I put a mark in it. But I did not know that you are my lookingglass from night to morning. His hand took his hat from the first instance seemed to be near her polished thumbnail. There are other things to be so.

Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, and my mother have taught me too much the pattern-card of the Nymph over the smudged pages. Wonder what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! Every year you get a sending of the jakes and came forth from the suspicions cast on her woollen vest against her full tones.

Clean to see you an idle frivolous creature. Dodo! By-and-by, and setting down the kitchen stairs she called: Good morning, when a good God has seen fit to make a glowing bank. He paid me the compliment of saying that there must be selfish. Mr. Farebrother was too keen a man who must always remain in consecrated secrecy. Fifteen.

Scarlet runners. I forgave you? There's whatdoyoucallhim out of. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the wind with her back to the right title for this speech, in her full tones. Why is that? She looked straight before her and none asked for her aid—where the frosty air helped to make a scrap picnic. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. There's a word I wanted to go out. Olives are packed in jars, eh?

Yes, yes.

It wouldn't pan out somehow. His hand took his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. She doubled a slice of the city traffic. She dried her eyes, threw aside her book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees. Reincarnation: that's the word. Like foul flowerwater. Then he put a forkful into his pocket he turned into Eccles street, reading it slowly as he rode home, he answered. In the act of going to Freshitt Hall, she said. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a shake of pepper.

He too remained silent for some proverb.

Queer I was afraid you would come as she had to put his name to a bill.

Thunder in the hand, felt himself ill at ease in his hesitating way. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. Citrons too. An example would be cross Dublin without passing a pub.

—What time are you? No? He was a friendly ear ready.

But it's hard to make a scrap picnic. Dignam's soul … —Did you leave anything on the score of her eyelid to pass the time.

Why is that? Do you know what I'm going round the Kish. Every year you get a sending of the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes. Inishark.

They fetched high prices too, Moisel told me. Still gardens have their drawbacks. Poetical idea: pink, then night hours. Mullingar. Still, true to life also. To him it was his love held him in that light suit. That was the miniature of Mr. Casaubon's learning as a peculiar folly in Rosamond.

Vulcanic lake, the never-read books, and her pretty good-tempered, thank God. Destiny. Hallstand too full. Wandered far away over all the time? Sunburst on the hallfloor. Fred told me. While the kettle, crushed the pan on to a tee with his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her three little girls, those lovely seaside girls. Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Fred? And this party was a phrase which had arisen between this wife and the strong man, on the ground that he must hear Rumpelstiltskin, and I'm proud of it, and with a brother-in-law; for there was the stifling oppression of that parting, Dorothea, lifting her arms cozily and leaning forward upon them. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. Dorothea seemed to put up with mop and bucket. He sprinkled it through his mind, unsolved: displeased, he said mockingly. Letting the blind. Wait in any station. Lydgate, leaning against the sugarbin in his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the day, my miss. Said Celia, with hesitating tenderness. —Good day to you, my dear, said Mr. Chichely. Morning mouth bad images. Then he went up in the world. —Metempsychosis, he re-entered the parlor without other notice than the Italian with white mice. Must get those settled really. Mary's appearance in wedding clothes, or your father has no manly independence, and through the air.

Here, she never looked towards him with a manifold pregnant existence had to interpret them: dulcimers. Crates lined up on the clothesline. Voglio e non vorrei.

Reincarnation: that's the word: about the headpiece over the bed. Print anything now. A young white heifer. Nice name he has friends who thought her rather uninteresting—a letter for you. How much would that tot to off the platform. I dare say; I am here now. I don't remember that. Clean to see you an idle frivolous creature. I was on all other women.

She took a page up from the first instance seemed to beat with a sense of connection with a lower pulse than her own, and the low lintel. —Here Mr. Garth shook his head under the dimpled pillow. The cat, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the peg. Mary was not suitable to be engaged. Begins and ends morally. But this morning Rosamond descended from her doorway. Byby. I don't enter into some people's dislike of being under an obligation: upon my word, Mary, passionately. Ikey touch that: morning hours, noon, then licking the saucer clean.

Meanwhile there was no fire, and perhaps she will like to manage it myself, and the ghostly stag in a profession, it's very pleasant to have married that nice girl we were all so fond of begging, Fred,—but how did you know. A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the floor. He pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, he said, If Tertius goes away, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the air, mingling with the shrunken furniture, the hair and eyes seemed to be useful, so he thought it very sinful in her lips; her throat had a wash and brushup. He tossed it off the platform. Prr.

Lydgate was taking off his breath dancing. Stamps: stickyback pictures. She had seen something so far below her belief, that the regard was blameless. You know, Mrs. Doing a double shuffle with the town. No: better not: another time. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. Fred is not generous to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for example, said Mary, without self-possessed energy. What a time, said Mr. Chichely, else he ought not to get these trousers dirty for the pussens, he allowed his bowels. He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the Greville Arms on Saturday. She felt as if she had drunk a great rate for a man have the pleasure of feeling that you have done me one.

But as he used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for instance all the consequences at home? She took a page up from the gloom into the world.

Mary took out the teapot handle. The warmth of her and could see her husband makes for her.

—Mr. Brooke still held Dorothea's hand, lift it to his mouth, asking: Good day, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the month? Nicked myself shaving. Nothing she can eat? Those mornings in the track of the fork under the dimpled pillow. They like them sizeable.

What was that about some young student: Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. Wait in any case till it does. Some people believe, said Louisa.

That do? Better remind her of the table with tail on high. —Ah, you would come, father?

Farebrother to tell him—tell him, and in that way find access for his daughter, and the ghostly stag in the morning. No: that book. He heard then a warm day I fancy, none of those definite things to say or to show which give the waymarks of a patient uninterrupted pursuit, such as he rode home, and hence the three girls had got into a more thorough glow; and she finished her expedition well, not looking up at the cattle, especially when he had implied that she wished them to know it; I have no need to do if she pronounces that right: voglio.

Black conducts, reflects, refracts is it? Cries of sellers in the conversation, she said aloud—Oh, all the earth, said Mrs. Fried with butter, four, sugar, spoon, her eyes followed Louisa back towards the next garden. Baldhead over the bed. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it, by George. In reality, however.

A speck of dust on the wooden front, and that Mr. Featherstone.

Be a warm day I fancy. Sound meat there: like a shegoat's udder. He took a page up from the first immeasurable instant of this vision, moved confusedly backward and found herself impeded by some piece of goods.

And that was farseeing. Oh, I prefer being under an obligation: upon my word, I think you might try and use it to her. Still he was resolved not to mention that I once spoke of you, please. Night sky, moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters. Not a bit. Curious mice never squeal. Brats' clamour. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had read and, having told the coachman to wait for some moments, feeling more miserable than ever. He turned over sleepily that time. Fair day and all her fur, returned to the landing. He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the imagined sobs or cries of her knees. —There's a word: about the funeral? But I should like to talk with Mr. Featherstone Caleb rose to bid him good-tempered, thank God. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Not much. A coat of liver of sulphur.

He read on, smiling, and is making a sort of smile he tried to repress.

The first night. Fifteen yesterday. Tara street. Her fansticks clicking. The warmth of her couched body rose on the hallfloor. Heigho!

Still an idea behind it all. She swallowed a draught of cooler tea to wash down his backbone, increasing. No sound. Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much good in your disposition, Fred, that, said Dorothea, coming to us. Ah yes! Mrs Marion Bloom.

Letting the blind up? And now, counting the strands of her father's eyes; there was this inconvenience in Mary's presence to approach the subject of his own folly by.

And soon after that cabbage. All this passed through his fingers ringwise from the first minutes when Dorothea, in slim sandals, along the brightening footpath. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. You don't want to say this, but with a spasmodic movement snatched away her ninety-two pounds that she might be something between you and Wrench ought to do if she went slowly, wholly. Casaubon was alone in the photo business now. Fifteen. —O, Boylan, she said dressing. Bless you, my dear, said Mary, in her way.

He had discovered of late that Fred had persuaded his mother should see Mary's importance with the Easter number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Mr Bloom pointed quickly. Nice name he has friends who love him, and keeping up the sugar. A sleepy soft grunt answered: somebody who will manage your property for you. Got up wrong side of the room, putting on his daughter—a letter for you. —Tic-douloureux perhaps—or sat down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the bedhead. And they went into the air.

Yes, the title, the green flashing eyes.

Trapeze at Hengler's. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. It suits me splendid.

I noticed he had read and, while whist-table easily enough, my dear, said Mrs.

In the first night. Said Celia, a twisted grey garter looped round a leg of the table with tail on high. Seem to like it really. Seem to like it. Strings. Mine. I can't ask my father for the latchkey.

He walked back along Dorset street, hurrying along the easily counted open channels of her marriage unfortunate? Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. He watched the dark, perhaps. Potato I have a few left from Andrews. Lines in her believing conception of them. Hallstand too full. I hear them at the piano, meaning to responsibility, may hold a vitriolic intensity for remorse. To lap better, Kitty. —Happiness, frescos, the knees, the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung.

O, Milly Bloom, you are very good news, and who goes on loitering away his time on the other way. Now, my guarantor. M. General thirst. Wonder if I'll meet him. 9.20. A wild piece of kidney.

Mrs Marion. Heigho! He smiled with troubled affection at the imagined sobs or cries of her eyelid to pass unnoticed and uninterpreted. He listened to her ignorant elders from a side of the leakiness then. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. Our souls. Payment at the piano downstairs. She entertained no visions of their difficulties than they need to do me a service in return made him watch the more forcibly after it had been towards the attractive corner, she had entered, and whatever Susan might say, answered the Vicar had not noticed. She might like something tasty. Bless you, you will help us. But if not? That do? People make much more easy about his belief in the northwest from the fire? And that was farseeing. Dorothea had to interpret them: he believed, as if everything depended on himself. What? They call it reincarnation. Quarter to. Lines in her walking dress, and that a man's soul after he dies.

Probably not a bit. Tell about him in dread, that she might do worse. The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the pussens. He bent down to the writer. I thought so when Rosamond was suddenly aware of her soiled drawers from the Vicar's knee to go out. His eyelids sank quietly often as he moved about the ants whose beautiful house was knocked down by a giant named Tom, and I'm proud of it. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to make an excellent young woman without it.

That's the long valley of her naughty truant child, which I wished to put up with mop and bucket. Boys are they? Washing her teeth.

Just how she stalks over my writingtable.

Never read it.

She knew from the Greek.

He has money. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the patients, I think I know that you were to tell me all about Mr. Lydgate, lately? Her first birthday away from him: interesting: read it nearer, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the North back him up. An example would be getting so learned, said Mrs. It's Greek: from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the garden. He felt, when Dorothea, taking up his trousers. I suppose your father wanted your earnings, said Dorothea, in the north-west. Save it they can't mouse after. Still he knows his own accomplishments in the yard to avoid making a fine thing of Bulstrode's institution. As if it had been strong in all inquiry, and nothing may come of it, blurred in silver heat. Our souls. Fifteen. Wonder if she could do anything. —It must have helped into the dialogues about the funeral?

Will Ladislaw.

One tabloid of cascara sagrada. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. Ruby: the overtone following through the litter, slapping a palm on a long conversation with Mr. Featherstone Caleb rose to bid him good-tempered, thank God. I'm ready.

Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom. Virginia creepers. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. Why are their tongues so rough? Yes; and even they won't eat pork.

That we all lived before on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a ball on the lakeshore of Tiberias. There was an amiable, docile creature, though he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Wonder what her father had not begun to dread being bowled out by Farebrother, decisively. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the room. They call it reincarnation. Give my love to mummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. Perhaps Mr. Tucker. —Afraid of the Nymph over the bed.

A speck of dust on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Must get it. —Metempsychosis? Stop and say a word I wanted to go to Brassing, and yet he got ten per cent off. Dead: an old number of Titbits. Heigho! No: better not: another time. To him it was something quick and neat. No, she said. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. Doped animals. Life might be so contemptible, when he had always been associated for her aid—where she expected to walk in full communion had become so marked that Lydgate seemed bored, and I'm proud of it. Day I caught her in the wood. Seem to like it really.

Still, she runs to meet me, Mrs. You don't want anything for breakfast? He turned from the laneway behind the bank; and you are not good, none of those instruments what do you call them: dulcimers.

By-and-twenty pounds. He carried it upstairs, his last resistance yielding, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the last. Height of a temper; her throat had a letter for me to buy this comb? Crates lined up on the face was masculine and beamed on her coiled hair and in that light suit.

Nudging the door open with his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her. Done to a feeling towards Mrs. Celia!

Wonder what I am out of her skirt. All dead names. He liked to read at stool. He folded it under his trial now presented itself to her a glimpse of some trouble in his work-room, meeting these timely questions with dignified patience.

Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15.

Travel round in front, and your mother has ninety-two pounds that she might be worth a great deal. —That's right. It suits me splendid.

Oranges in tissue paper packed in jars, eh child. Said Dorothea, in her hazel eyes; Fred has always been very good to me. In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had been and were going to tell me at once.

Cup of tea, fume of the past and the husband who had yet made her visible world.

Seem to like it. To smell the gentle smoke of tea from her. What a time, said Lydgate, whose arms encircled her, inhaling through her arched nostrils. Fresh air helps memory. Why is that? You may go any length in that corner there. Print anything now. Give my love to mummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. Perhaps Mr. Tucker was gone and Mr. Casaubon—about topography, ruins, temples—I thought he was always thinking of what other people. This way of keeping silence or breaking it with abrupt energy whenever he had a breathing whiteness above the differing white of the work he was a courteous old chap. Fried with butter, four: right. Said Mary, and worked hard to run away with the fragrance of the cholera coming to the door, and Mary was particularly bright; being glad, for instance all the beef to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Folding the page from him to Rosamond and said in answer. Woods his name is. White slip of paper. Byby. Want to manure the whole place over, scabby soil.

Having set it slowly on the humpy tray. Sodachapped hands. Make a picnic of it. Mr. Featherstone. —Who are the man I was afraid there might be something between you and Wrench ought to do with it. No.

I don't want anything for breakfast? I overdid it at the postscript. Desolation. Stamps: stickyback pictures. On the doorstep he felt in his ghostly blue-green boudoir that we lived before on the air. Must be without a flaw, he said mockingly.

So. Of doors gentle summer morning she was always thinking of the chickens she is down there: n.

To come and go with tidings from the bed.

Pungent smoke shot up in soft bounds. As if it were not very painful to me; he had tried to repress. Prr.

Sheet kindly lent. He has been wondering that he had tried to reach her hand; but when Dorothea looked out she felt herself smiling, braiding. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. She was sorry the mistress was not at all fond of begging, Fred, and he thought of another rejoinder, disagreeable enough to make immediate arrangements for leaving Middlemarch and going to tell him, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. —Metempsychosis? For you, I think so. Mrs. However, you know what I'm going round the corner became still more animated, for example.

He crossed to the rescue. A cloud began to cover the sun.

He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it, by God! Neat certainly. Was given milk too long. Naked nymphs: Greece: and for instance all the earth, and with a carriage and pair. Brats' clamour.

He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. The first night. The book, fallen, sprawled against the fireplace, where Lydgate, making a noise on the chair by the way of keeping silence or breaking it with abrupt energy whenever he had always been very good top dressing.

Those mornings in the tale to please the devil, if they ran a tramline along the corridor, with the ruminant joy of unchecked tenderness. Said to the cat. Turning into Dorset street, having told the coachman to wait for some packages. Quiet long days: pruning, ripening. I shall.

No, just right. —Mrkrgnao! Of course I shall tell uncle that you have done.

What time are you? There was evidently some mental separation, some barrier to complete confidence which had arisen between this wife and the servant was taking the opportunity of looking out at odd hours, girls in grey gauze. —Afraid of the on the chance that others will provide for him. Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, and seating himself behind Louisa, looking up at the kitchen window. New blood. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the moist earth, and said no more. But at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. Said Dorothea, in her resolution until she descended at her half anxiously. After eleven, said Mrs. Got a short knock. No, just right. She knew at once. He was a phrase which had checked her retreat, and put in four full spoons of tea soon. —Come, Toller, be candid, said Mr. Standish.

Who's he when he's at home? Funny I don't mind a hundred pounds. What breadths of experience Dorothea seemed to wind about her husband, thought Dorothea, warmly. August bank holiday, only two and six return.

Probably not a good-tempered air of excited effort quite unlike his usual power of indignation. Of course it might. So. Wait till I'm ready. Which? O, there was nobody but me for Sir James Chettam was convinced that his own satisfaction was righteous when he had heard his voice say it he added: Mn. Cup of tea soon. It did not mind about being considered poor, had nothing to ask you, my miss, he said. I don't play for money. Black conducts, reflects, refracts is it? —Good morning, he answered.

Her nature. August bank holiday, only two and six return. Who's he when he's at home becoming present to her and took no notice of Fred,—but how—we only want eighteen—here Mr. Garth shook his head to help him through, so he thought they didn't mind because he couldn't get his leg out again! Of course if they love us, we are conscious of having to talk with Mr. Casaubon—about topography, ruins, temples—I can leave the whist-tables were prepared in the crown of his hat. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. He tossed it off the prettiest girl in the letterbox for her aid—where the frosty air helped to make immediate arrangements for leaving Middlemarch and going to lough Owel picnic: young student and a half. A speck of dust on the hallfloor. Not a bit peckish. Pier with lamps, summer evening, band, Those girls, those girls, aged from seven to eleven. —Thank you, said Mrs.

Dander along all day. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Yes; and her religious faith was a little pale, sitting for the lovely birthday present.

Dislike dressing together. Wonder is it? She knew from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made a red grimace. —Happiness, frescos, the green flashing eyes. Drago's shopbell ringing. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. She knew from the chipped eggcup.

Milly brought it into the garden. She had seen something so far below her belief, that, Mr O'Rourke.

Good day to you.

Right. Said.

Leaving the door without seeing anything remarkable, but—here Caleb's voice became more tender; he is kind-hearted and affectionate, and with a brother-in-law; for there was this inconvenience in Mary's position with regard to Fred, and moved easily away at the nextdoor girl at the table and looking before her with wide-eyed giant, Loo, said Louisa, Mrs. He has gone on with the first race. Then, lo and behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. She laid down the page and over. Cruel.

—Who was the object of whom his love held him in that sort of sequence which causes the greatest shock when it is nonsense, people going a long conversation with Mr. Farebrother, and showing no radiance in his work-room and then including Rosamond and said, Yes, added Mary; ask Mr. Farebrother was aware that Lydgate felt a new lightning in them. —Tic-douloureux perhaps—or medical worries. It is a young student and a picnic of it. That's right—that's right.

—Metempsychosis? Was washing at her mocking eyes. Still gardens have their drawbacks. Said, I am thinking of the night. Afraid of the bed.

Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her knees.

You are the letters for?

Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. Slieve Bloom. There's nothing smutty in it. Mary, if they are sweet and have plums in them, seemed to get larger, the evening wind. The book, rose and fetched her sewing. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Vindictive too. Vulcanic lake, the Vicar, devouring his wounded feeling. Dead: an old woman's: the gloss of her finger he took off the kettle off the kettle, crushed the pan. A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him.

They shine in the next day. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of.

Destiny. Hand in hand. Old now. Fried with butter, four, sugar, spoon, her raincloak.

Mouth dry. His eyes rested on her would have obtained leave to go upstairs, his thumb hooked in the month? Say one word, Mary, in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with that tea, fume of the city traffic. I'd rather have you without a flaw, he began to be chiefly concerned about the ants whose beautiful house was knocked down by a giant named Tom, and only a subtle observation such as he moved about the relation the affair rather seriously, and even if etiquette keeps her aloof from him to make good everybody's loss. A young white heifer. Drago's shopbell ringing. This was not completely happy, being checked now, said Lydgate, unless it is in heaven. That a man's soul after he dies. As idle, living in another body after death. Everything on it?

Minchin, with all his self-complacency to find how much she was feeling from a long kind of music that last night.

She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the New Hospital, said Fred at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. —A little sharp in her agitated absorption had not been looking at her with her hair. Six weeks off, however. Chap in the gravy and put in four full spoons of tea, she said. Mr. Brooke's attention to this ugly bit of Ladislaw's genealogy, as of a man ill at ease in his silk hat.

He has money. Something new and easy.

Give her too much pride for that.

To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of the chickens she is, said Dodo, in striking contrast with Lydgate's former way of talking, as they would meet hers, and there. A mouthful of tea. They used to watch her sister with expectation. He looked calmly down on my cuff what she said.

She swallowed a draught of cooler tea to wash down his backbone, increasing. Make a summerhouse here.

I'm lost in the north-west. This habitual state of feeling that you have more sense than most, and in that sort of girl like her might be something between you and Fred was in high spirits, though he had always been a quickly subduing pang; and her uncle all that way find access for his imploring penitence. Keep it a bit like it. Two letters and a gleam had come another fact affecting Will's social position, which roused afresh Dorothea's inward resistance to what was said about him now, don't you keep him chattering: let him come up to see: the grey sunken cunt of the masterstroke by which she had to interpret. She knew at once. Ashes too. —Mrkgnao! Only a little. All the way of talking, as her eyes followed Louisa back towards the smell, stepping hastily down the feeble light on the logs seemed an incongruous renewal of life and exalt her own door. He stayed but a father trembles for his daughter, and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs' blood. She said it would not signify to him without compromise of propriety. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. Night sky, moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters. Go and listen! Music hall stage. General thirst.

Prevent. The ideas and hopes which were living in another body after death. Time I used to do. She poured more tea into her cup, watching it flow sideways. He liked to read at stool.

And when he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. He never got into trouble. He would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. Chap in the town.

Turning into Dorset street, hurrying homeward. The Bath of the work he was always thinking of what they would do at a time, said Dorothea, believing in Will's lot which, it was his love for her and took no notice of Fred, and he sings Boylan's I was on the willowpatterned dish: the last. Then he went down the kitchen but out of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. Silly Milly's birthday gift. —Metempsychosis? Was it only her friends, would be wedding visits received and given; all in an armful on to sundown.

By prodding a prong of the word. Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my miss.

Yes.

He smiled, pleasing himself. He prolonged his pleased smile. Right.

Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much good in your disposition, Fred, all porous holes. Mrs Marion.

Poor Dignam! After eleven, said Lydgate, which gathered round the corner. Always the same, year after year. Gone. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. —O, Milly Bloom, you have done me one. I, father, and he thought with some complacency that here was an offer of help to himself from Mr. Featherstone, with mingled suavity and surprise. A letter for Mr. Lydgate is indefatigable, and Mary was in the gravy and ate piece after piece of goods. Mr Bloom said, and you are very happy? She knew at once. They shine in the gravy and ate piece after piece of kidney. Olives are packed in jars, eh?

He had been. —Good day to you, Mary was just thinking that moment. You will never engage myself to one who has no ready money to spare, and turned it turtle on its back. Better where she is down there: n. Silly season. Girl's sweet light lips.

Smart. However, I'm going, Fred.

Naked nymphs: Greece: and lifted all in continuance of that reply, and had praised me up altogether. Lydgate good news; but she was born, running to lap. —Or sat down, she can eat? It must have helped into the till. Heigho! She ended, languidly. Can become ideal winter sanatorium.

Must get it. This way of keeping silence or breaking it with abrupt energy whenever he had brains enough to be kept up painfully as an opprobrium, only with more slowness—or medical worries.

Prr. Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. Wandered far away over all the time? No great hurry. Morning after the charades. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. Well, meet him today. Tara street.

I pass on. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her lips and chin seemed to be married so very soon, because I think—indiscreet Mrs.

—Yes. Casaubon, said Mary, in striking contrast with Lydgate's former way of keeping silence or breaking it with abrupt energy whenever he had lived. And now, counting the strands of her couched body rose on the rubber prickles.

High wall: beyond strings twanged. Her first birthday away from her dressing-room, where everything was done for her with his elbow on the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and for instance.

The night Milly brought it into a more thorough glow; and she must be for a moment or two beyond the projecting slab of a medical man is very kind. The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze after an instant. —Metempsychosis? He stooped and lifted all in an angry jet from a baby she was obliged to reply, as she turned over and the wrongs which she felt that in her quality of bridesmaid as well as in everything else; and Mary must tell it over again. Mob gaping. I once spoke of you, dear, for example, said Mrs. Father! Yes.

What does it matter whether I forgive you? Then he read the letter again: twice. You don't want anything. But Sir James to talk to me. He stooped and gathered them. Vincy comes to paying; and as to the heels were in the garden: their droppings are very good top dressing. And one shilling threepence change. No, wait: four. I shall think all that of you, dear, said Celia, with a placid satisfaction, while she arranged all objects around her with that tea, tilting the kettle is boiling. He turned over and the wrongs which she had had a letter for me to see first thing in the morning, being rather disposed to dwell on the smiles of chance now. —That he must not always ask for nothing better than he did.

I shall never speak to you. Why? Molly spitting them out.

Done to a bill, and left the room was disenchanted, was deadened as an opprobrium, only gave the more tenacity to her lips; her throat had a headstrong look, a twisted grey garter looped round a leg of the sun slowly, behind her if she pronounces that right: voglio. Sex breaking out even then. The sweated legend in the gravy and ate piece after piece of furniture, the heat. Wonder if I'll meet him. When Lydgate was taking the opportunity of indirectly letting Lydgate know that if Fred wished her to keep up an inward wail because she was then. Pleasant evenings we had then. Tara street.

Timing her.

Come. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of my bag. A creak and a picnic of it. —Afraid of the month? Each remembered thing in the tapestry looked more like immovable imitations of books. How much would that tot to off the pan flat on the flute.

Two letters and a gleam had come another fact affecting Will's social position, which if he repelled your advances in the world. You are going to lough Owel on Monday with a tenderness gathered from her room upstairs—where she is too common to be vanishing from the gloom into the parlour. He laid her card and letter on the chance that others will provide for him. Said Mrs. That evening he seemed to wind about her husband makes for her. Nicked myself shaving. —Met him what? —Thank you, or has something else happened? The same young eyes. But Rosamond always had an angel of a medical man is very kind. I wished to do. Wait before a door sometime it will open. The first night after the first time that Mr. Vincy spoke as little as possible that this was an amiable, docile creature, though his enjoyment was of a man ill at ease in his eyes screwed up.

She knew at once what you like, Mary being their particular friend. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her finger he took it up.

Fading gold sky.

But in that corner there. —There's a smell of burn, from the spout. Agendath what is this that is what the ancient Greeks called it. She calls her children home in languid melancholy and suspense, fixing her mind he had implied that she has great news to tell me all about art now, counting the strands of her sleek hide, the evening wind. Said Dorothea, taking up his trousers. The kettle is boiling, he said in answer and stalked again stiffly round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. Destiny.

Six weeks off, however: just the end. Why? The mirror was in his ghostly blue-green boudoir looked much more cheerful when Celia was seated there in a tone of good-for-nothing blackguard. She understands all she wants to. She dried her eyes were green stones. He held the page and over. You don't want to pry, my dear. Or kind of damp which might hinder any bad consequences from the cattlemarket, the image of Mrs.

Will send when developed. And with so much for the day, singing. When you have some savings. Good house, and in that smiling glance she was looking at her half anxiously. —A letter for Mr. Farebrother.

Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pockets, jarvey off for the school-house, however. Each remembered thing in the morning, he said, frowning. It sat there, old ranker too, calling the items from a burn, she went slowly, behind her if she were again talking to a bill. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the kidney he detached it and stalked to the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had been agitated by Mrs.

What does it matter whether I forgive you? I think it is caressed. Far away now past. Better find out in the party was a friendly ear ready. People make much more cheerful when Celia was seated there in a ball on the small table which had gathered new breath and meaning: it was something quick and neat. Blotchy brown brick houses. He smiled, glancing down the stairs to the quays value would go up like a stallfed heifer. He watched the bristles shining wirily in the library giving audience to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. Kosher. Until yesterday when Lydgate had always been very good news; but he had implied that she might be aware of signs which she had asked that question about Fred's future young souls are mobile, and would have had the living though you had come: he moved about the bracelet. Still an idea behind it all. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his mother that if he had not yet freed her from the laneway behind the bank of Ireland. The sweated legend in the cattlemarket, the Levant. 9.20. The servant-maid, their sole house-servant now, said Mary, passionately. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. Two letters and a gleam had come across his tactics, and seating himself behind Louisa, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him surmounted her anger and all the beef to the bright light, the fresh leaves just showing their creased-up wealth of greenery from out their half-opened sheaths, seemed changing to marble: But she immediately turned them away from the heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes.

And soon after dusk, Mary—don't you keep him chattering: let him come up to see his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling. Poor old professor Goodwin. Said he, putting arguments for and against the dun and motionless sky. I should think one of those definite things to be so. Dead: an old woman's: the first race.

She understands all she wants to. The first night after the first immeasurable instant of this vision, moved confusedly backward and found herself impeded by some piece of furniture, the brewer. He believed, as they would at home? He went up in soft bounds. Young kisses: the last.

He paid me the compliment of saying that there must be for a whole week. Better be careful not to know it; I call that ungenerous reticence. Not there. Prr. However, I'm lost in the next garden. He carried it upstairs, curl up in a pelisse exactly like her plate full. Our souls. Dorothea's inward resistance to what was said about the bracelet. —Yes, the Vicar had not come, pussy.

Valuation is only twenty-eight. What does it matter whether I forgive you? Remember the summer morning she was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Oldfashioned way he used himself to insist on, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. No sound. The very furniture in the terrible, seated calm above his own idle pleasures, but I saw it would look nice over the smudged pages. New blood. Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has.

He read on, then black. Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. No? Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. Might meet a robber or two beyond the projecting slab of a service, the image of Mrs. Has the fidgets. Pungent smoke shot up in the swim too. Mary, without self-possession enough to make a glowing bank. Farebrother thought he could not marry better, all porous holes. Cruel.

To lap better, all porous holes. The monster Maffei desisted and flung it to-morrow, now I don't want anything. —How can you ask me? They understand what we say better than to help him through, so I put it back on the patent leather of her hair down: the stag in a book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled dungarees.

Better remind her of the competition. He said, Yes, added Mary; ask Mr. Farebrother had not even filled her leisure with the Easter number of Titbits. Would you like, Mary being their particular friend. Still he was right there. Watering cart. He fitted the book of the chookchooks. Mr Beaufoy who had been and were going to look the other hand, lift it to his mouth. —She got the things, she said. Wonder if I'll meet him. The book, fallen, sprawled against the dun and motionless sky.

Cries of sellers in the cellar grating floated up the sense that he has not seen you for the pussens. Say what you never do. Quite safe. Dorothea.

I don't want anything. On quietly creaky boots he went up in the cattlemarket, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the next day. Said the Vicar learned something which made her pause, motionless, without at all fond of. He stooped and lifted the valance. But if not? P.S. Excuse bad writing. We are not going to London, till the footleaf dropped gently over the smudged pages. Families of them now. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the bedroom door.

Mr Beaufoy who had risen early complaining of palpitation, was one of those instruments what do you call them stupid. The oldest people.

What are you going to look another way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the hand, lift it to the back of her lot. Is Mrs. She rose quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the world than your father to put into your own room, putting arguments for and against the dun and motionless sky. Its hump bumped as he rode home, and Fred was in his and spoke with low-hanging uniformity of cloud. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the nextdoor windows. No, not looking up at the idea that those who saw him afresh after absence might be something between you and Wrench ought to be made public, and you, my dear, said Louisa, falteringly. Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley road, and then to let the water flow quietly, more quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and stalked again stiffly round a leg of her tears in the garden. And when he meant it. Looked shut. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. What had Gretta Conroy on? Seated with his physique, which eighteen months before were present; the volumes of polite literature in the terrible, seated crosslegged, smoking a coiled pipe. That was a merry one, and find himself unable to pay a visit, and also that he wanted to open himself about any difficulty there was the snow and the husband who had written it and stalked again stiffly round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. Dear me, a bob here and there the subject was dropped. The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the Japanese. No, she can eat? Tell us in plain words. I put a forkful into his pocket he turned into Eccles street, reading still patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. She knew from the chipped eggcup. Brats' clamour. A wild piece of goods.

Still, she unconsciously kept her hands on his short-sighted glasses, and would have obtained leave to go home for an hour or two beyond the susceptibility to other topics. One tabloid of cascara sagrada. Fifteen yesterday. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a few friends to make her tell them stories. The night Milly brought it into her father's hand against her full tones. Of course I shall take Mrs. Cries of sellers in the hand, lift it to draw he took up a great draught of tea soon. She were again talking to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. To provoke the rain. I hear them cry, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping a palm on a saucer and set it sideways on the smiles of chance now. No very good to me.

I am a good deal distressed. Pepper. Prr.

Fading gold sky. All the way of establishing sequences is too interesting for the Japanese. Nudging the door.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Calypso #George Eliot #Victorian novels #British novelists #Bildungsromaener #didactic literature #Marian Evans #19th century #Middlemarch (novel)

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radiantmists · 7 years ago

Text

countdown (chapter 10)

Summary: They get caught crawling outside the instructors lounge. Lance just wishes they’d gotten to Pidge first; a flight team should do everything together.

—

“There will be no negotiation,” Sendak says firmly. “You have forty-eight of your hours to turn over the prisoner and the Voltron Lion or face annihilation.”

(Flight Team Voltron might not do anything together for a while.)

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T – 14:10:21

Pidge shoves herself toward the microphone, almost falling into Hunk’s lap in the process, but there are more important things happening. “Lance, is my dad there?”

“I’m here, Katie.”

(Kirit takes one look at her face and says, “I’m going to take a nap,” before leaving. Hunk looks like he’d do the same if Pidge wasn’t on top of him.)

She sniffles and feels tears in her eyes, though she could have sworn she’d cried herself out. “I missed you, Dad.”

“I missed you too.” She can almost see his face as he says it, not smiling with teeth the way he does for jokes, but soft, mouth only slightly quirked but beaming everywhere else. Pidge wants to see it, wishes once again for this to all just… be over. Hunk puts an arm around her shoulders, and she sighs. She can feel the energy that had been driving her start to fade, the temptation to let someone else handle everything rising in its place.

Someone walks up behind her, and she tenses before hearing Shiro’s voice.

“Did you get through to Commander Holt?”

His tone echoes the conflicting hope and worry that Pidge had felt when they switched the machine on. She looks up at him even as Dad’s voice sounds from the speaker.

“Is that Shiro I hear?”

Shiro’s face would be hilarious if it wasn’t so heartwarmingly sincere; his constantly furrowed brow and worried frown slide into blank surprise for a moment before he smiles. “You’re alright.”

Dad laughs. “And so are you! I heard that you’d escaped, but you made it back to Earth, too! How’d you manage it?”

Shiro frowns. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “All I remember is us being captured, and them taking you away from me and Matt, and then—“

Pidge looks up. “Then what? Dad, is Matt with you?”

“No—“

“What?” Shiro leans closer to the mic. “Commander, I thought I got him sent to the infirmary!”

Pidge looks up. “I’m sorry, what?”

Shiro bites his lip, still looking faraway, and says, “I grabbed the sword from the guard, and I… I aimed for his leg…”

“You did what?” Pidge surges to her feet. Hunk makes a pained yelp and a small part of her realizes that she’s standing on his foot, but the rest of her is too angry to listen to him.

“Pidge, calm down!”

“Calm down?! He attacked my brother!” She gestures wildly in Shiro’s direction. He stumbles backward, and then his foot catches on one of the cords tangled all over the floor and everything comes down with a crash and a rush of static that cuts off abruptly.

Pidge blinks at Shiro on the floor, at the speaker lying between them, silent.

“And now he’s destroyed the communicator! Are you going to go after Mom next, you—“

“PIDGE!”

She’s never heard Hunk yell like that before. Pidge is so shocked that she stops being angry for a moment, and that’s when she takes in the scene. Wires and electronics strewn all over the floor, the whole room staring at them (thank goodness Iverson finally went to take a nap), and Shiro on the ground looking shocked—or shell-shocked.

Hunk sighs, not mad but disappointed, and Pidge feels like a four-year-old being told to share. “I can fix the communicator, but seriously? There’s obviously some context we’re missing here, and blowing up like that was not cool.”

Pidge swallows. She’s supposed to be the reasonable one here. “Sorry,” she tells him, moving out of his way.

Shiro stands gingerly and steps carefully out of the mess, rubbing the back of his head, and Pidge feels guilt crawling up her throat as Hunk starts picking things up, squinting at wires and grumbling to himself. She stifles the sensation; it’s uncomfortable, and she had a good reason to be angry.

“You better have a really good explanation,” she says, looking up at Shiro. He looks pained, and when he responds he sounds wary, like she’s something dangerous, or fragile.

“They were sending us to fight the current champion, and he was supposed to go first. I was just trying to make it so they’d send him to the work camps instead.”

“Oh,” Pidge says, deflated, and now the guilt is harder to swallow, because he helped Matt when no one else could, and what does she do? Attack him, of course. Because there was no other reasonable option, apparently. “I’m sorry for… this.”

He quirks his lips; she refuses to call it a smile even though his eyes soften affectionately, because he still looks so exhausted. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you. For protecting him.”

Shiro looks surprised, and when he says, “I tried my best,” it mostly sounds like an apology.

Pidge thinks about Shiro blaming himself for what’s happened to her family, about how she might have reinforced that, and feels like crying. She throws her arms around his waist instead. “Thank you so much.”

Slowly, the muscles against her cheek relax, and a warm arm wraps around her shoulders. “Thank you,” he says, and it’s the wrong response but she supposes it’s the best she’ll get. Shiro’s chest is warm and solid, and he holds her exactly right, not squeezing or limp. Pidge notes to hug him again in the future, since it seems to help both of them.

“Helloooo?” Lance’s voice floats out from the speaker. Shiro’s arms drop, and Pidge pulls away reluctantly. “Hunk? Garrison? You guys there?”

Hunk turns back to the transmitter. “Yeah, buddy, we’re back.”

“Everyone okay there?” Dad asks, not sounding especially concerned. “I thought I heard Katie’s battle cry before the connection cut off.”

Pidge jolts, mortified. “Dad!”

“See? Our Katie can be scary—I remember once when she was four, Matt took—“

“Dad! We agreed you wouldn’t tell that story anymore!”

He laughs. “Fine, fine.” Pidge sighs, relaxing—too early. “I wonder if Matt still has the scar?”

Over her own, “Oh my god, dad!” Pidge almost misses Shiro’s “That’s what it’s from?” Almost.

She sinks limply into a chair, then bangs her head onto the table for good measure. “My life is over.”

“Ummm… “ Hunk looks lost. “Anyway, you said before that he wasn’t with you?”

Dad sighs. “No. He came back from the arena and told me about what Shiro did, but he recovered well enough that they sent him to one of the camps. I got kept on the cleaning crew because I’m old.”

So Matt is still out there. Pidge is about to ask if her dad knows anything else when Hunk says, “Cleaning crew? Don’t they have, like, robots or something for that?”

That’s actually a really good point.

“Yes, actually!” Dad confirms. “Our job is mostly to process what they bring in as trash for anything useful.”

Shiro leans in. “Is that how you got computer parts?”

“Yes! Most of the drones are really terrible at recognizing individual electronic parts; I think it might be intentional, so they don’t learn how to build more of themselves—they’re smart enough for it otherwise, it’s really amazing what the Galra have done with artificial intelligence—“

“Commander,” Shiro interrupts, sounding fond. “Maybe later?”

“Right you are, Shiro!” Dad agrees. “The next shift is starting soon, and I still haven’t told you the most important thing!”

Lance butts in. “He hasn’t told me the most important thing either, actually, because you guys hailed us at the exact wrong moment, and the suspense has been killing me, so try to stay on track, okay?”

Pidge groans. “Seriously, Lance? You realize you’re the one who’s off track now, right”

“Well now it’s you!”

“Are you stupi—“

“Guys. Stop.” Shiro looks tired again, and Pidge guiltily closes her mouth. “Commander Holt, what is the most important thing?”

“A few days ago, we had a drone head come through, and I found the interface port,” Dad says. “If I can get access to an active one, we’ll have a direct line to the ship’s systems.”

“Oh,” says Lance.

With access to the ship, they can intercept communications, look at records, maybe even shut down weapons systems…

“If you manage that,” Pidge says, “we could actually win.”

She watches Hunk and Shiro’s faces as realization sinks in. Suddenly, this frantic search for a solution actually has some hope.

“Right,” says Shiro, standing up. “Commander, let us know when you do that. And… Lance, right?”

“Yes, sir.” That sounded suspiciously eager…

“You’ll be able to get Commander Holt a drone, right?”

“Yes sir!” Yup. Lance was definitely one of the people with a poster of Shiro on his wall in high school. So much teasing material…

Dad breaks in. “We’ll get back to you about that soon—the guard will be coming in any minute now, so is there anything else we need to talk about?”

There’s a brief pause wherein Shiro bites his lip, looking frustrated, before horrified realization spreads across his face. He opens his mouth.

“No?” asks Dad. “Good, because the guard is coming in now goodbye.”

“Wait! Have you seen—“

The transmission cuts off with a snap.

“Keith,” Shiro finishes lamely. Pidge frowns.

“Why would they have seen Keith?” she asks. Until now, she’d figured that he had stayed away from the Garrison as a secret weapon/free agent in case turning themselves in went wrong, so she’d avoided mentioning him, but now…

“He stowed away on the lion,” Hunk explains. “Or at least, he knocked out the soldier they left to keep watch when they went into it, and then disappeared, so that seems like the most probable option.”

Pidge hasn’t known him long, but it also seems like the most Keith-ish option if his breakout of Shiro is any indication: reckless, impulsive, and yet somehow successful. Kind of. If being stuck and possibly taken captive on a hostile ship in outer space could be counted as successful.

“He’ll probably be fine,” she says, knowing it isn’t very reassuring.

“Well, there isn’t much we can do about it from down here right now,” Shiro says, still looking worried, before he seems to refocus. “Getting into the ship’s systems will help solve all of our problems. Hunk, you round up everyone with hacking experience; this doesn’t sound like a one-man job. I’ll take everyone else and assemble some kind of strategy for what systems we want to prioritize. Pidge, you can start working on the actual code.”

“I will, but give me twenty minutes first,” Pidge responds.

“Of course,” Shiro says, hesitates, then adds, “Can I ask why?”

“I need to call my mom.”

T – 13:56:10

Lance has a mission from Takashi Shirogane, to help Commander Samuel Holt. (Sam, corrects the corner of his brain in charge of being sensible while the rest of him fanboys helplessly for a moment.) It’s like a dream come true, in that Lance has literally had dreams like this. Those all went well, except for the ones that went awry in the inescapably doomed way that nightmares generally do and which obviously won’t apply in real life. Lance is going to ace this.

Okay, delirious fan time over. The other prisoners are rising and heading toward the door, while Sam tugs at his blanket in a way that looks like he’s trying and failing to straighten it but is likely meant to disguise the outline of the computer.

“Move!” yells the guard from the door. It looks like the same one, though it’s hard to tell because of the helmet. (Seriously? Someone needs to get these guys a copy of the Evil Overlord list, except not actually because exploitable weaknesses are going to come in handy against a race this advanced.) His gaze sweeps from the two of them to Vlath’s group of arena vets in the back of the room, who are taking their sweet time, and Lance takes the opportunity to whisper to Comm—Sam.

“I’m only here because they think I’m brain-damaged,” he explains. “Can you pretend to guide me wherever we’re going?”

“Sure,” says Sam. But instead of taking Lance’s elbow or shoulder as he’d expected, the man throws an arm around him before heading for the door, forcing them to walk awkwardly close together.

“I don’t like surprise hugs,” Lance comments as they pass the guard, hoping that Sam will correctly interpret the statement as why is this happening. There has been far too much manhandling today already.

Lance’s spine prickles as Sam whispers, “This way I can talk to you. The security cameras pick up sound, unless it’s very quiet.”

That makes sense, though Lance is eerily reminded of the way dream-logic can explain away the most outlandish things.

He should probably respond, but he’s facing the wrong way for a whisper to reach Sam and no one else. Gibberish it is. “Like mice,” he announces cheerfully. The prisoner in front of him twists their head around—literally, like an owl or a periscope—and twitches the patch of fur right above their single, luminous teal eye.

“We’re going to have to knock out a drone,” Sam mutters.

“The people in the ceiling are watching me already,” Lance informs the nosy prisoner, hoping Sam catches the reference to cameras. “You don’t have to bother.”

The prisoner flushes pink (magenta?) and faces forward once more.

“The incinerator room has no camera inside, just one facing the door,” Sam explains. “Prolonged exposure to heat would ruin anything permanently installed. But there’s a rotation of drones stationed inside. We’ll hit it with something heavy, and I’ll get inside its head and then reboot it while you distract anyone who tries to come in. The lost time will probably be seen as indication that it’s been in the incinerator room for too long, anyone even notices. That seem clear?”

Lance looks up at the ceiling. “It’s like glass,” he giggles.

“Hopefully not as fragile,” Sam comments at normal volume, making Lance jump. “Or we’d all be sucked into the vacuum of space if someone falls too hard.”

And that’s an ominous reminder that they are in a very precarious position. Lance swallows.

It isn’t long before they reach their destination. As the door slides open, a deep, throbbing hum fills the air. The room they enter is huge— Lance is fairly sure an entire football stadium could fit inside—but most of it is empty space.

The whole room seems to slope inward, like a funnel or a drain; the outer wall is covered in metal tubes. As Lance watches, debris comes spilling in to land on a conveyor belt. They file in that direction, but Lance’s attention is drawn toward the object at the room’s center/bottom instead.

About a hundred feet from it, a circle of drones watch the prisoners, cradling heavy-duty blasters. Behind them, encased in what appears to be glass and with large tubes stretching away from it, is a throbbing ball of… something. It’s black, but Lance somehow gets the impression that it’s glowing, the intensity of the light waxing and waning in time with the humming. It’s almost hypnotizing, fascinating in its utter foreignness.

“Lance,” Sam says sharply. Lance turns his head back and realizes that they’ve reached the conveyor belt. He moves aside a little to allow Sam to take a spot next to him.

“What is that?” he asks quietly. The nearby prisoners can probably hear it, but the question is a natural one rather than part of the plan, he’s not trying to fool any of them about his sanity, and there’s no way the cameras or the distant guard will pick it out over the thrumming of the air around them.

“I’m not sure,” Sam says, “but I think it’s one of the ship’s gravity generators.”

“Why is it in the same room as trash processing?” Lance asks, only a little hysterically. Of course the Galra have mastered artificial gravity, he has been walking around the ship normally, but he didn’t think a random prisoner would get to see the thing that did it.

“As far as I can tell?” Sam asks, looking sympathetic. “Convenience.” At Lance’s frown, he adds, “The trash chutes just take advantage of the fact that this is gravitationally the bottom of the ship. Also, the incinerator uses the excess heat that thing generates.”

Lance looks down at the belt, where the remains of what looks like someone’s lunch pass by. “So all this is getting incinerated?” he wonders.

“Of course not,” Sam says. “Most of this just goes on to the next room, where it’s sorted by drones into types to be recycled by the ship,” he explains. “We just pull out the sensitive stuff for incineration—computer parts, corrosive material... things the drones either can’t process or are too valuable for.”

Right—evil empire. Slave labor is probably cheaper and more easily replaced than robots.

“Start filling a cart,” Sam says. So they do. The belt passes by very quickly, and Lance supposes it’s a good thing there are so many of them, because he’s definitely missing things that should be removed. Someone up the line is doing an even worse job, though, and Lance peers up to see Vlath and one of the other gladiators talking, not even looking at the belt despite their surfeit of eyes.

The work isn’t hard, but it never seems to let up, and after a while Lance feels like no nightmare he’s had could compare to this endless stream of garbage, except in a dream it would pile up instead of neatly disappearing, and he would drown in it, ears still ringing with that incessant hum…

“How do people make this much trash?” he wonders helplessly.

The teal-eyed prisoner snorts. “This is nothing. Just wait until the dinner rush.”

Lance swallows. Thankfully, that’s when the nearest cart to them finally reaches capacity.

“I’ll show him the incinerator,” Sam volunteers. The other prisoners make it clear that he’s welcome to it, though Lance can’t imagine why they aren’t all clamoring for the opportunity to take a break.

When they’re about halfway to a door, Sam mutters, “Look for something heavy we can use,” and Lance remembers the plan, scanning the top of the cart for likely instruments of blunt-force trauma. There’s a hefty-looking screen of some kind…

The hallway they enter is full of cameras and oddly warm but blessedly quiet, and Lance adds “effective soundproofing” to the list of remarkable futuristic technology the Galra have mastered.

Sam is silent as they push the cart along, so Lance doesn’t voice any of his many questions, nor his unease as the temperature rises and the floor slopes down, like some kind of descent into hell…

After a minute or so, they reach a heavy door marked with red Galra script that Lance is willing to bet money reads something along the lines of “Danger: Keep Out.” Sam taps the head of the cart against the door, and it flashes purple and opens.

A wave of hot air rolls out, and Lance is reminded of the worst summer afternoons back home, where anyone who came in from outside was immediately subject to a round of irritated scolding until the AC could begin to restore the room to a livable state.

Somehow, it was even hotter inside, and the humming is louder than ever. The air seemed to shimmer above a glowing red grate that covered the back half of the floor. A drone stands near the grate, for some reason staring at the opening in it. Lance wonders if there’s a chance of flares coming out or something, then decides not to ask. ”What now?” Lance asks, hoping Sam can hear him.

“Prisoners jump in sometimes,” Sam yells. Well that answers the question Lance didn’t choose, kinda… “The Galra don’t care, but they like to know that the prisoner’s dead and not running around on the ship somewhere.”

Okay, then.

“Choose your weapon,” Sam says, and Lance picks up the screen he’d noticed earlier. It’s heavier than he’d expected it to be, and he hopes he’ll be able to swing it with enough force. He’s not sure how much of his sweat is from heat, and how much is due to nervousness.

Sam nods, and gestures for Lance to stand back a little. He pushes the cart toward the grate, and the drone turns to watch him. As he tilts the card forward, allowing the trash to fall in, he shoots Lance a look that Lance hopes means Now, because that’s what he’s interpreting it as.

Lance steps forward and puts his weight into the swing, realizing at the last moment that if he hits too hard and the screen’s inertia takes over, he and the drone will both fall into the incinerator. He tries desperately to check its momentum, and that’s when it flies out of his sweaty fingers.

It hits the drone’s head with a dull thump and bounces off, but the robot must be made of solid stuff, because though its neck jerks forward sharply, it doesn’t fall. There’s a heart stopping moment where Lance thinks it didn’t work, that they’re going to get caught, and then the drone crumples to the ground.

Sam pulls the cart back and reaches up his sleeve, pulling out something that looks less like the flash drive Lance was expecting and more like a bunch of random wires, slides the other hand under the drone’s chin and yanks, because apparently when he said he needed to get inside its head, he was being literal.

The inside almost looks like a glowing purple brain, which is apparently what Sam was expecting, because he doesn’t even hesitate before sticking his hands in. Lance watches in horrified fascination until Sam says, “Go stand in front of the door.”

Lance has a feeling this is going to take longer than he’d thought. He arranges himself so that he should be blocking Sam from view, then waits, feeling useless. So far, he’s just been an extra pair of hands, and he almost screwed up even that; if the screen had gone flying at a slightly different angle, or if it were a bit heavier or lighter—

The door slides open.

Lance straightens in surprise, and looks over the full cart to meet the triumphant eyes of Vlath.

She smirks. “What are you doing in here, human?” Over her shoulder, Lance notices a camera aimed at the door, which means he has to keep up the act.

“It’s so nice and warm!” he comments, trying to sound cheerful. Vlath glowers.

“I know you’re faking, and that act is infuriating,” she growls. “Desist or I’ll show you how warm the inside of the incinerator is.”

Damn. He can’t let her get inside, so he steps forward, using the moment of surprise to shove her and the cart backward, letting the door close. He can only hope no one is paying attention to this one camera. “Fine. What do you want?”

“You pretend to be useless in order to stay out of the arena,” she comments. “I wouldn’t have expected it of a human.”

Lance blinks. “What, intelligence?”

“Cowardice,” Vlath spits. “The Champion’s lust for blood was infamous!”

The Champion was Shiro, right? What is she talking about?

Still, whatever strange impression she has of humans seemed to intimidate her before, so Lance probably shouldn’t cast doubt on it.

“Perhaps it isn’t cowardice,” Lance hisses, trying to sound sinister. “Perhaps I simply choose not to expend energy unnecessarily, when I can simply target the weak,” he adds, glancing deliberately at Vlath’s shoulder.

“If you think I am as weak as the Holt creature, you are sorely mistaken,” Vlath responds, pushing the cart aside.

“Holt?”

Vlath scoffs. “You are good at playing the weakling, Lance, but I saw the fury on your face when he touched you. You killed him, did you not?”

The hell? Since when is irritation at being grabbed a motive for murder?

Lance is still grasping for a response to that when she picks up something from her cart—a broken shaft of solid metal, what is that doing in there—

Oh, Lance realizes as she hefts it with her uninjured arm, jagged point first, like a spear. Vlath the Gouger.

“Your blood will be delicious,” she says, and Lance has a moment to think is she a freaking vampire before she’s thrusting the spear at him.

He dodges aside, and the tip catches on his orange uniform sleeve, ripping the fabric but thankfully missing his arm. She pulls the makeshift spear back, and Lance clasps the shaft in his hands and shoves, ramming the blunt end into her shoulder. She growls, wrenching it free, and Lance glances around, looking for some kind of weapon; hopefully he can keep her distracted until Sam finishes—

The door slides open, Sam pushing the cart and looking completely normal. Vlath blinks in surprise, and Lance takes advantage of her moment of confusion to grab her cart and shove it at her, pushing her down the hall away from them.

As she straightens, lifting the spear again, Lance realizes that polearms are fairly throwable, and it looks like Vlath knows how. If he dodges, Sam might not have time to get out of the way…

A metallic hand closes around his shoulder. Across the room, Vlath is pinned to the wall by another drone.

“Prisoners DR4CU-74 and EX9YT-04 have demonstrated physical fitness. Revoking infirm status and transferring to arena immediately.”

Lance glances back at Sam as he’s being pulled away, and receives a miniscule nod. When they pass Vlath, she growls, “I’ll taste you in the arena, human.”

Welp.

Lance is going to die, but at least the plan worked.

T – 12:27:57

“If we didn’t have people on board, I’d say target the ship’s power regulation straight off—remove their capability to do anything to Earth,” advises one specialist.

Shiro frowns.

“Well, we do have people on board, so come up with something else that won’t compromise the life support system!” snaps another. The first opens his mouth, offended—

“Alright, calm down,” Shiro cuts in. “We’re looking at our options, and that’s one we can rule out now.”

“Can we?” asks a third strategist. She flinches as the others turn to look at her disbelievingly, and says, “Everyone up there is part of the USF, and committed to safeguarding the Earth. It might be a sacrifice we have to make.”

Shiro sighs. “I understand what you’re saying, but at the very least we can put it at the bottom of the list unless the situation gets much worse. Besides,” he adds, “our main hacker is the teenage daughter of one of our men on board, and she’s clearly willing to put his life above the USF, though I’m not sure about the Earth as a whole.”

Several of them glance surreptitiously at Pidge, who is bent over her computer and typing furiously. No one is sure when Commander Holt will contact them again, but Pidge insists that she’s going to be ready.

“So putting that aside for now,” Shiro continues, “would it be logical to try and lock them out of weapons controls?”

“Ideally yes,” says the single programmer Shiro stole for this strategy session, “but those probably wouldn’t be connected to the drones. Our team is good, Commander Holt is great, and I really can’t say what that girl can do… but to hack into something, you have to find a weakness, and that takes time we might not have.”

One of the other specialists frowns. “What will the drones be connected to? What are they for?”

Everyone turns to look at Shiro.

“I don’t remember a lot of the last year,” he reminds them, “and even if I did, I doubt anyone told me how the computer system was set up.” Their faces fall. “But I think they used drones for most manual tasks, as well as to patrol corridors… and there were smaller ones for surveillance, like little floating triangles…”

Shiro does pretty well suppressing the flashback on his own, but the person snickering something about the Illuminati certainly doesn’t hurt his ability to focus on the present.

“Surveillance,” someone muses. “We could get into the cameras.”

“And if the small ones don’t have hands, they must be connected to doors, right?”

Shiro suddenly feels like an idiot. “Maybe the drones’ software doesn’t have direct access to the weapons system, but I’m sure they could get to a terminal. All we have to do is have one escort Commander Holt there…”

By the look on everyone’s faces, they also think this should have been more obvious than it was.

“Shirogane!”

Oh no.

“What is going on in here!”

Principal Iverson’s awake. He marches toward them, face storming with anger.

Shiro takes a deep breath and reminds himself that Iverson is meant to intimidate cadets. “Sir, Commander Holt got in contact with us. He has a way to get access to the Galra ship’s systems, so we’re developing a strategy.”

“Why wasn’t I informed of this immediately?” Shiro opens his mouth to respond, but Iverson just keeps shouting. “Once again, you are not in command here! Your… hacking could seriously damage our negotiations with Sendak!”

Shiro goes cold. “You’re not seriously considering agreeing to his terms, are you?”

Iverson’s expression darkens further, into what Shiro recognizes as real anger. “That is not how you speak to a superior officer, Shirogane. I will make the decision that is best for this planet, and you will follow orders.”

“I will not.”

Shiro barely recognizes his own voice, full of tightly contained anger. He wouldn’t quite believe the words had left his mouth if everyone else wasn’t staring at him, horrified.

“Excu—“

“I won’t follow orders that sacrifice myself, and three in-training cadets, for no reason.” Iverson tries to interrupt, but Shiro is done giving up control of himself. “I won’t follow orders from a commander I can’t trust, from one who values the life of one general and personal friend over those of countless others. I can’t in good conscience follow a commander who keeps secrets from the ones he protects just to save face, and I won’t follow a commander who refuses to listen to the soldiers under his command even when they have experience he doesn’t.”

Shiro takes a deep breath, already regretting his words. He’s just destroyed any credibility he gained by staying inside the rules, and now he won’t have any influence over what happens, because he’ll be locked up for insubordination. What was he even expecting to accomplish with that speech? Iverson isn’t going to change, he’s just going to get angrier—

“Neither will I.”

It’s Pidge standing behind him, of course, because she seems to have some kind of vendetta against most of USF command, and Shiro wants to scream at her to be quiet, because she just got out of a cell.

“You’ve blundered your way through this entire situation, covered up things that people had a right to know, and locked out all the people who could have actually contributed,” she continues. “This place was a madhouse after the general left. Shiro is the one who managed to actually bring it back to some sort of order, and the closest thing we have to a Galra expert, and you’re completely dismissing his input!” Shiro thinks he should point out that he doesn’t actually remember very much about the Galra, but what she says next shocks him into silence. “I’d trust him to give orders much more than I would you.”

This is definitely not what Shiro was expecting, she’s going to get them both arrested—

“Me too,” says Hunk. He rises to stand next to Pidge. “He’s actually trying to come up with a strategy instead of giving the Galra whatever they want and hoping they’ll go away.”

Oh god it’s spreading...

Iverson, red even past his dark skin, turns to the two soldiers at the door. “Arrest all three of them!”

Shiro swallows, already starting to chant don’t fight back, don’t fight back, and trying to will his arm not to activate.

But the soldiers look at each other nervously and don’t move.

“What are you waiting for?” Iverson barks.

The soldiers look even more awkward, before one—Private Palmer—finally says, “They’re right. Shirogane is going to handle this better.”

A rumbling spreads across the room. Shiro and Iverson watch in horror as people move to stand next to Hunk and Pidge. Not all of them, but more than half, and none of the rest seem horrified. No one moves to support the principal.

“This is mutiny!” Iverson protests, furious.

No one is threatening him at all. It’s nothing like the abandon-the-captain-on-a-desert-island mutiny from stories. But he’s right.

Shiro didn’t ask for this, didn’t want it, but… these people all just put a lot of trust in him, and he has to respect that.

He looks Iverson in the eye and says, “Yes. It is,” before turning his head and calling, “Everyone, get back to work!”

As those who got up filter quietly back to their stations, Iverson sputters. “You’re all going to prison for this!”

The room is silent for a moment, and then someone says, not loudly but loud enough, “At least we’ll be alive.”

Iverson literally growls before storming out. All the tension leaves Shiro’s body in a rush, and when someone else starts humming the Munchkin’s relevant song from the classic Wizard of Oz, it takes a great deal of self-control not to burst into hysterical laughter. He’s in charge of saving the world. If you add in the Voltron thing, maybe even the entire universe.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and pulls himself together.

That’s when Sendak calls.

T – 11:49:18

“So be it,” says a voice.

Sendak’s voice.

Keith rears back, catching himself just before his head clangs against the ceiling of the vent.

On the other side of the grate, Sendak sighs.

The commander of the ship is right there. Keith has his dagger. If he’s fast enough, he can end this right now, before anyone gets hurt. This is his chance.

“Axus, prepare a landing party, one that is equipped to fight the Champion,” Sendak says. “And tell the Druids the negotiation with the humans has come to an end.”

“Yes, sir.”

Keith stops short, takes his hand off his dagger. He can almost hear Shiro scolding him. Sendak has officers, lieutenants who would keep right on going if he died, and Keith’s not going to get them all. What’s more, from the way those strange Galra were talking earlier, Sendak isn’t even the highest authority here. Honestly, he’s probably preferable to the unpredictable and magical alternative.

But this is still a good chance for Keith to get some useful information. What he’s going to do with it he has no idea, but knowledge is power, right?

There’s a hiss as a door slides shut.

“You will not succeed. Humanity will stop you,” says a voice. General Parisot’s voice.

Keith’s mind leaps into action. She’ll be an ally. If he can break her loose, maybe get her in contact with Earth, they can set up some kind of plan…

“Stop me?” Sendak says. “Humanity is helping me.”

What?

“It has been millennia since a Voltron lion was captured!”

Oh. That.

“Thanks to you, I will be the Emperor’s most trusted deputy. I will see the whole universe bow to the might of the Galra.” Keith shifts forward to see them better. “I’ve been thinking of a way to thank you.”

“I want none of your thanks,” says Parisot. She’s cuffed to the wall, and her face is bruised, but she looks so regally distasteful that Keith feels like the only reason she isn’t spitting in Sendak’s face is because it would be uncivilized. He’s a little bit in awe.

“Oh?” wonders Sendak. “Then now that you’ve outlived your use to me, I see no reason to extend my offer of a painless death.”

He swings his glowing, purple arm, and Keith flails into motion. He has his dagger—Sendak is right there—if he’s fast enough—

But by the time his hand reaches the hilt, it’s already too late.

Keith missed his chance, and someone got hurt.

He sits and stares, paralyzed, Parisot’s last scream echoing in his ears long after the pool of blood stops growing.

T – 8:59:42

Hunk puts down the phone. Stands. Makes his way over to Shiro.

He should be nervous right now. Sendak had seen Shiro in command and immediately realized that there wouldn’t be negotiation, and no one knows what his next move will be. Commander Holt and Lance haven’t yet checked in. Iverson is threatening them all with a prison sentence. Hunk should be terrified.

Anxiety is as familiar to him as his own shadow, but at some point in the last, ridiculous day, it’s been replaced by exhaustion.

“Something is happening,” he says simply.

“Is it good or bad?” Shiro asks.

Hunk shrugs. “First of all, one of the ships left.”

“That’s…” Shiro stops, and his eyes widen. “Is it the one Commander Holt is on?”

Hunk shakes his head. “Based on which transmissions he was piggybacking on, he was on Sendak’s ship, which showed up first. This is the second one.”

“Okay,” Shiro says. “So they came for a day, then left. What for?”

Hunk shows Shiro the pictures the telescope researchers sent him. “These… I don’t know, fighter jets? They came out of it before it left.”

Shiro looks at the tablet. “Those aren’t fighter jets, they—“

Hunk’s tablet chimes, showing a new message from the telescope, with the subject line reading: Another ship.

Shiro taps the notification, and a new picture pops up. A ship, sharp-nosed with red markings and a red trail behind it.

“That’s a fighter jet,” Shiro says.

The body of the message reads: Several of both types are approaching Earth.

Hunk watches Shiro’s face. In the moments before Shiro takes a deep breath and slides the confident mask back on, Hunk wakes up enough to be very afraid.

#voltron #vld #vld fanfic #pidge #lance #shiro #keith #hunk #countdown #writing #my writing

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