#just eighties colors everywhere

[demaparbat-hp]

Hiya!! 👋🏼😄 How's it going? Your fashion taste for Zuko in a Modern AU seems to be artsy, or maybe "formal" is the word. That shirt he wore when he gave Sokka romantic song advice looked Versace🧐. Anyway, I was wondering how you came up with it, he always struck me more as the type that didn´t care much about fashion, so I'm curious about other´s opinions and heacanons about it. And do you have any other fashion headcanons for the rest of the GAang? Also, their music tastes. How did you come up with them? Especially Katara's! 😍

Hello! As it happens, I have a lot of Thoughts and Feelings™ about this, so I'm leaving these over here, and the rest of my ramblings down below the cut!

Let us begin with the Gaang, shall we?

SUKI always struck me as that Pretty Girl from the Gym. She is so incredibly fit it isn't even funny. She could kick anyone's ass, and we'd all thank her. She has this casual gym style that somehow always looks glorious on her, as it should! Comfy yet fashionable clothes for a nice workout or a day in town.

Her music tastes are basically any and all power songs from the eighties and nineties. (Eye of the Tiger, anyone?) She also enjoys metal via Toph, and bands like BSB, NSYNC, or Boyz II Men with Katara. My girl has a very eclectic Playlist and we all love her for it.

SOKKA is That Guy™. Loose T-shirts and shorts everywhere he goes, no matter the weather. He's stupidly into fashion but it doesn't show! At all! And everyone teases him about it. His closet is about 90% Cactus Juice merchandise, hence the "it's the quenchiest!" shirt.

His fashion and music tastes are pretty much the same. He loves poetry but isn't really into lyrics. He'll misinterpret just about anything you place in front of him. His Playlist is mostly vibes and tiktok songs he kind of enjoys. He isn't really into music...at least not as much as his sister.

AANG owns exactly one hoodie, one pair of shorts, and one beanie (THE beanie). Oh, and the crocs—don't forget the crocs. Somehow, he's always wearing the exact same outfit. Every. Single. Day. Ancient Gaang lore suggests that the day Aang goes out without his beanie, it's the end of the world.

His Playlist is the poppiest, most bizarre thing ever. Every single song is Happy by Pharrell Williams levels of happy. Yet sometimes, among the bouncy dance-to songs, you'll find the strangest of things... (He does know what Good Day by Twenty One Pilots is about. That's the reason he likes it so much, actually. And it's so weird.)

KATARA is all about sundresses and loose pants. The epitome of comfortable loveliness. Light fabrics in blue shades, careful embroidery, delicate shoes, and little to no accessories—hers is a simple, yet quite adorable, style. She just needs to add more colors to her usual palette...

She is, first and foremost, a Florence + The Machine girl. It's the Dark Goddess of the Sea vibes, to be honest. Florence Welch is her idol and yes, she will fight you about lyrics interpretation, and win. It may not seem like it, but her music tastes are also very varied.

She draws a little from each member of the Gaang, so you'll hear her humming along to Gorillaz (where did you even find out about them, Aang?), The Weeknd (I...don't think this song means what you think it means, Sokka...), and Hozier (Zuko why did you dedicate Talk to me, Zuko WHAT DID YOU MEAN BY THAT).

TOPH...ah, lovely girl. I'll summarise everything about Toph’s fashion sense in two words: comfort and rebellion. Stuffy dresses forced on her by billionaire parents? No thank you! Give her tank tops with loose shirts and short pants. Bandaids shared with Aang, bracelets from Katara, and even piercings she got in tandem with Sokka. Shoes? What even is that?

Something I love about this fandom is our collective agreement that Toph is into the dirtiest, heaviest, most ear-splitting and soul-crushing death metal of all times. Her Playlist is full of the most obscure names to ever exist, and she can and will blast through your walls with the sheer volume of her speaker.

Zuko. ZUKO.

Even in a modern AU my boy must suffer. That being said, I envision Tales from the Couch as—well, exactly what it is: an ATLA modern AU. While there is not a war to fight, and a lot of plot lines are discarded or expanded upon, much about the core story remains the same.

This is my way of saying that Zuko still goes trough his redemption arc, and it reflects on his fashion choices.

The way you described it works perfectly because of one single reason: in this AU, Zuko is an artist. He had to suppress his love for writing and drawing because of his background and the expectations Ozai had for him (taking over the family company), and a very large part of his redemption arc directly affects his relationship with art.

In the Couch equivalent of S1, Zuko has fallen out of Ozai's graces, and is desperate to protect his place in the company and the Kasai household. He's pretending to be someone he isn't and trying to live up to his Father's image of a perfect heir while still being somewhat cut-off financially, and it shows.

He's all about imposing long coats and a semi-formal style, imitating what he knows Azula and Father would respect. He's striking and sharp and dark. But no matter how he dresses or carries himself (that air of cold superiority and arrogance)—it won't help him when he needs it the most.

In S2, Zuko has hit his lowest point. He's officially disinherited and tossed away by his father, and would be out in the streets if it wasn't for Uncle Iroh. He goes from sharp, high-tailored outfits to old second-hand clothes that hang loosely on his frame. He starts smoking and cuts his hair off, forgoing the undercut for the first time in years.

But then...Father accepts him back. When Zuko returns home, it's with respect to his name and a very high position in his father's company. He's finally the perfect Kasai heir, dressed in overly expensive suits and finery, even at home... But Father forbids him from wearing Lu Ten's earring, and Zuko can no longer recognize himself without the familiar glint of gold dancing on his peripheral vision.

When Zuko leaves the Kasai name behind him and goes back to living with Uncle Iroh...he's finally at peace with who he is, and what he wants in this life. The sharp edges aren't gone (they'll always be a part of him, after all), but now they're dulled by looser clothes and softer hairstyles.

He's an artist, and for once in his life, he is determined to pursue his own ambitions. Zuko's outfits may not be designer-made anymore, but he takes what he has and makes himself look like he wants to look, like the person he wants to be.

He doesn't read fashion magazines or keeps up to the latest trends like Azula does. He's just...Zuko. And his newfound confidence makes everything he wears look like it belongs on him.

As for music...well, Ursa raised a literature boy.

He loves lyric-heavy music and natural voices, be they soothing or powerful. Dissecting song meanings and possible interpretations with Katara is one of his favorite parts of the day. They're both very passionate and strong-minded individuals, so it stands to reason that their debates can get quite...heated.

Zuko's Playlist is both incredibly eclectic and somehow very...him. There's a common thread that binds together every song and artist he likes, and he's hilariously unaware of this. To take a look into his Playlist is a higher honor reserved only for those closest to him.

In the wide spectrum of things, it is no wonder that Zuko is, first and foremost, a Hozier man. But though Andrew is his God in all aspects of this life, there's someone else that has had a huge impact on him...

Two someones, actually.

Zuko refuses to tell anyone how he got into Twenty One Pilots, but it's kind of a moot point when the beginning of his obsession is nothing compared to everything that came after. They have just about the right amount of everything that makes Zuko...well, Zuko. The poetic lyrics, the soothing or raging music, the heavy, intensely resonant themes...

Up there, in the second artwork, I placed an album cover behind each period of Zuko's life. The election of these records is intentional, as I feel like their general themes work incredibly well with Zuko's arc and growth.

Blurryface in S1. For the demons within us. For giving a name to our fears and shame.

Trench in S2. For escaping the confined walls of a depression city, and fighting to understand the depths of the map of your mind.

Scaled and Icy in the first half of S3. For returning to places you had left behind. For convincing yourself and everyone around you that you're fine, that you're perfect, even though everything is crumbling inside...

Clancy in S3. For recognizing that you can backslide, that you can have fears and shame and pain—but you're shaping yourself with each step you take. For knowing that seeking help from others is okay. Nobody learns to walk on their own.

(And, in the end, you'll always be better than the person you were yesterday. If only because you're still here. You're still alive. You're still yourself.)

.

Overall, I rambled a bit too much, don't you think?

If you made it all the way down here—thank you so much for reaching out and being interested in this crazy AU! I hope you enjoy these ideas and tell me some of your own ❤️

[sugurugetoshairbrush]

gosh i’m so loving ur stoner suguru stuff…u are so good i love ur work !!!!

tysm!! appreciate you for reading <3—think I’m obsessed with him [prev] [nxt]

tl;dr bong rips with stoner!suguru getou (gone wrong)

it’s not long before suguru invites you back to his place. first, he messages to check if now’s a good time. then, he’s calling to ask if you’re free next weekend. he mentions there’s going to be a block party on his street—an unofficial hempfest of sorts. according to him, the turnout is always huge, and this year, he’s supplying bud for the event.

“we’re setting up a mobile cannabis bar,” he explains, nonchalantly. 

“flashy, easy to distribute from.”

apparently, the event is where gojo’s new strain, bleu dragon’s breath, will debut. “we’re not working the event,” suguru adds bluntly. “we’ve done more than enough in production; they can push the product themselves.”

you laugh at his tone. “what are you, some notorious drug lord?”

he brushes it off with a chuckle and says he’ll pick you up from work friday to avoid the traffic jam that’s sure to hit later.

“and,” he adds with a mischievous lilt, “we’ll pregame with gojo. he just got a new bong—we’ve gotta break it in.”

naturally, you’re down.

by midweek, you realize how big this block party really is when you see flyers plastered around campus. they’re everywhere—on bulletin boards, lampposts, your timeline—featuring bold graphics and a list of attendees: caterers, vendors, and a handful of local influencers.

the day of, suguru pulls up outside your job in his sleek black car, turning a few heads as you approach. your older coworkers eye the tinted windows, whispering amongst themselves.

he greets you with a warm smile as you settle into the passenger seat. “how was work, pretty girl?”

he’s wearing a black nike tech set—your favorite color on him, not that there’s much competition since it’s about eighty percent of his wardrobe. his hair is half-up, the loose bun framing his face just right.

you tell him about the ridiculous filing error that ate up your entire shift. as you talk, he takes your hand, brushing light kisses across your knuckles.

he gets a call from shoko a few minutes later, muttering an apology before answering. it sounds like some last-minute adjustments for the event.

by the time you reach his street, it’s buzzing with activity—tents going up, booths being set, a dj assembling his gear. suguru parks on a side street, and you walk the rest of the way to his building. inside, the energy is palpable, music blasting from the first floor.

upstairs, you hear the shower running and gojo belting out some song at full volume. suguru rolls his eyes. “obnoxious as always,” he mutters, leading you to his room.

you’ve packed a change of clothes in your work bag. setting it down, you hear a loud beep from the kitchen.

“that’s the sushi bake,” suguru says. “gojo’s idea. guy’s a munchies connoisseur.” he heads off to grab it from the oven while you change into an olive-green two-piece skirt set. after refreshing your curls and makeup, you find suguru divvying up the sushi.

“damn,” he whistles as you approach. he feeds you a piece, his gaze lingering. “tastes good, but not half as good as you look right now.”

his hands slide to your waist as he presses a soft kiss to your pulse point.

you hear another whistle, this time, from behind you. “that’s all you, suguru?”

you turn to find gojo, freshly showered, white hair damp and sticking to his forehead. he’s wearing light gray cargos, white adidas, and an azure zip-up that matches his eyes.

“if not,” he grins, “I can easily take over.”

suguru shoves his shoulder. “satoru, please—don’t push it.”

gojo giggles, pulling you into a quick side hug. “what can I say? It’s to be expected when you’re with a baddie. I’d know—I’m a baddie myself.”

you laugh. “I know that’s right.”

suguru groans, “I’m going to change.”

while he’s gone, gojo fills you in on the event lineup and gushes about his new bong, which sits on the coffee table. it’s sleek, with royal blue detailing, almost like a microscope. he tells you that the cannabis bar is going to be managed by shoko tonight, they hired toji, from the first floor, and his buddy as servers. he says they’re always in need of work, as gojo bluntly put it, “they’ll do anything for a dollar.”

when suguru returns in a black compression shirt and windbreaker pants, your brain stalls. the shirt clings to his muscles, accentuating the ridges of his abdomen and the curve of his biceps. he’s leisurely brushing his hair out with a paddle brush, framing his face, and you resist the urge to drop his drawls. 

he grabs the bong and grins. “ready?”

the three of you pile onto the couch, gojo calling dibs for the first hit. he sprinkles the weed into the bowl before packing it down and lighting it. wrapping his lips around the tube, he inhales deeply. smoke billows, rising steadily as the water bubbles. when he exhales, his face twists in pain, and he erupts into a coughing fit.

suguru slaps his back. “it’s okay to cough, man.”

once gojo recovers, suguru takes a hit, inhaling sharply and blowing smoke out through his nose. he smirks. “just not built like me, satoru.”

gojo glares but says nothing. you take the bong next, asking gojo to light it. following suguru’s instructions, you inhale, the smoke harsh on your throat. you manage half a hit before passing it back, coughing softly.

“pulls smooth,” suguru says, finishing your rip with ease.

the session continues until you and gojo are slouched, thoroughly toasted. only suguru’s still going strong. you poke gojo’s side. 

“you feeling it?”

he cracks an eye open, pupils hazy. “… yeah, you?”

you blink at him, grinning stupefied. you both dissolve into giggles, drawing a look from suguru. 

“what’s so funny,” he runs his hand through his hair twisting at the ends, “giggling like a couple of schoolgirls.”

“you wish,” gojo wheezes. “your secret fantasy.”

suguru stretches, “it scares me that you keep adding yourself into the equation,” he stands and walks to the window, peering out. “we should head out soon.”

now that he mentions it, you hear the rhythmic thump of music playing outside, the muffled shout of the dj over the mic. 

suguru taps the window, “I lent them my speakers, the sound output capacity is insane.”

you rise to your feet, reaching down to swat gojo’s shoulder. he glances between the two of you, his eyes heavy and bloodshot. “kaay~ ‘m ready,” he drawls.

as you shuffle out, suguru checks his phone.

“shoko says the bar’s a hit. everything’s running smoothly.”

“as it should be,” you murmur, slightly delayed, trailing him out the door.

outside, the street is teeming with life. cars are jammed along both sides, a few haphazardly parked on sidewalks or half-on, half-off lawns. people are everywhere—some lounging on car hoods, others weaving through the crowd. you catch sight of a few familiar faces from uni as you pass. the dj setup dominates the scene, blasting music loud enough to vibrate through your chest. the largest crowd is gathered around a black tent housing caterers busy with trays of food.

suguru steers the three of you toward the cannabis bar, nodding at familiar faces on the way. the bar is sleek, its emerald-green counter illuminated by a glowing marijuana leaf at its center.

behind the counter stands toji and another man, both in black muscle tees under matching green aprons. a long-haired brunette, presumably shoko, sorts through mylar bags behind them.

toji spots suguru and waves broadly. “my boy! appreciate you hooking me up with this gig. you really came through.”

his voice is louder than your nerves can handle in your current state, so you linger behind suguru, offering a small wave instead. shoko picks up a mylar bag—sapphire blue, sparkly, with a dragon head spitting fire in the corner—and starts discussing marketing strategies with toji’s partner. you’re about to zone out entirely when your phone vibrates in your hand.

gojo satoru has added you to a group chat

bongbros  gojo satoru: what’s fr goign on rn XD

gojo’s timing is impeccable, and you have to stifle a laugh.

you: idk i fee l like im stuck you: can’t stop staring loll

gojo satoru: tryna figure out y toji & shui r working in wife beaters wtfff

you snort.

you: nah cuz y it look like yall hired former inmates from a reentry program

sugu: lmfaoao sugu: toji genuinely has no shame he woulda done it shirtless

gojo satoru: slut

sugu: guys fr though say something your starting to look weird af

you glance up to find suguru glaring at you and gojo while shoko patiently explains the menu to an inquiring couple.

gojo clears his throat, “looking good, toji. how’s little megumi?”

of all the things he could’ve said, that was the wrong one. suguru crosses his arms, and toji’s jaw tightens.

“actually, the boy’s doing good. his mom’s bringing him today. wanted to show him I can be a good father figure or whatever.”

“dad!”

as if summoned, a child barrels into toji’s side. he’s small, with spiky black hair and wide, curious eyes. his tiny fists clutch toji’s waist.

“didn’t think you’d be here,” the boy says. “mom said you were lying.”

toji groans, ruffling the boy’s hair. “don’t listen to her when she says shi–uh, stuff like that, kid.” 

he fist-bumps megumi before ushering him off. “go run around, sport. saw some other kids out here somewhere.”

megumi spins on his heel and dashes off, shouting a cheerful, “see ya!” over his shoulder.

a dark-haired woman, her shoulder-length hair as wiry as megumi’s, approaches, hands on her hips. “now where did that boy run off to? don’t tell me you lost him already.”

you deadpan at suguru, who’s busy typing on his phone.

bongbros sugu: this is about to blow my high. how do we leave

gojo peeks at the screen and quickly improvises. “guys, nanami just texted me. he’s down the street. let’s go.”

without hesitation, you, suguru, and gojo slip away unnoticed, leaving toji and his ex mid-argument.

“good save, satoru,” suguru mutters, his hand settling on your waist as he guides you through the sea of people. you poke gojo in the back playfully.

“came up with that lie pretty quick.”

gojo chuckles. “no, I’m actually a terrible liar. he really did text me—he’s over there.” he points down the street.

suguru drums his fingers lightly on your side. “you go ahead. we’re grabbing drinks from the tent.”

gojo flashes two thumbs up and spins on his heel. “text me~!”

the turnout is massive. everywhere you look, people are holding emerald-green cups from the cannabis bar–thc infused drinks. the atmosphere is charged—friends chatting, couples dirty-dancing near the dj booth, laughter blending into the music.

in the catering tent, the servers are polished, dressed in slacks and tucked-in shirts. suguru orders a beer, and you ask for a frozen wine, craving something fancy. the drink is fruity and refreshing, a cold burst of relief in the humid air. you let out a content sigh.

“cotton mouth?” suguru teases, popping the cap off his beer.

“you don’t even know. feels like I haven’t had anything to drink in years.”

he chuckles, taking a long sip, his throat bobbing as he swallows. the sight draws your gaze for a moment longer than you’d like to admit.

suguru smirks and leans closer, his hand sliding down your back to give your ass a playful squeeze. “can’t have that now, can we?”

he kisses you, the malty scent of beer mingling with his warmth. your free hand moves to his arm, fingers tracing the firm muscle beneath his sleeve. the two of you sway gently to the music, the air thick with liquor, sweat, and smoked barbecue.

another kiss lands on your temple, tender and lingering, before your phones buzz simultaneously.

bongbros gojo satoru: guys guys guys guys gojo satoru: sports cars doing donuts gojo satoru: nanami’s got the lambo gojo satoru: djfojfjdsd

sugu: stop blowing our shit up

gojo satoru: D:

sugu: on our way

by now, the sun is setting, casting a warm orange glow over the scene, but somehow the energy has only intensified. hollers echo down the street, engines revving as the smell of burning rubber fills the air. suguru had mentioned nanami before—a childhood friend from their hometown. he’s a salaryman, and from what you’ve heard from gojo can be pretty uptight, but is insanely wealthy.

you spot gojo’s hand waving high above the crowd, his ridiculous height a beacon. as you approach, you see a yellow corvette drifting at the fork in the road, tires screeching, while onlookers cheer wildly.

gojo is leaning into the open driver’s window of a sleek green lamborghini. the man in the driver’s seat is handsome, with slicked-back sandy-blonde hair, sharp cheekbones, and a jawline that could cut glass. you blink, wondering if everyone in suguru’s circle is preternaturally attractive. there’s got to be something in their water.

“ah, there you are.” suguru’s voice snaps you back to reality as he introduces you to nanami, who greets you with a polite nod and a brief, “pleasure to meet you. heard lots.”

gojo is grinning like a kid, egging nanami on. “c’mon, rev it! assert your dominance, nanamin~”

before you can roll your eyes, you feel a tug on your shirt. confused, you glance down and find little megumi, his lips stained blue from a popsicle that’s dripping steadily onto the pavement.

“hello, miss.” his voice is timid, and his big eyes flit nervously to the side. “um my dad told me to tell you that you look really pretty tonight. he said you should talk to him later.”

you blink, stifling a laugh as his cheeks flush pink.

“and that’s it. I only said yes so I could get this popsicle.”

he’s so earnest it’s hard to be mad at toji’s sleazy attempt to use his own kid as a wingman. you pat megumi’s head gently.

“thanks for telling me. you can let him know suguru will talk to him. now go enjoy that popsicle!”

the boy beams and darts off, leaving a trail of blue drips in his wake. when you turn back, suguru and gojo have joined nanami in the lambo, chatting casually. deciding to tread carefully, you pull out your phone to message gojo privately.

you: soooo toji’s kid just told me his dad thinks I look pretty. how mad will that make suguru?

gojo’s eyes widen as he reads the message.

gojo satoru: :0 come again?? gojo satoru: using his son is crazy work gojo satoru: but just tell him. he’ll prob just be annoyed

gojo is wrong. suguru isn’t just annoyed—he’s pissed.

when you relay the story to the group chat, suguru immediately gets out of the car, his jaw tight. 

“I’m sorry, he did what?”

in hindsight, telling a cross-faded suguru wasn’t your best move. you try to downplay it. “it’s fine, just tell him off later. no big deal.”

suguru rolls his neck, drawing in a deep breath. gojo scrambles out of the car. “whoa, whoa, what’s going on?”

suguru hands gojo his beer and flashes you a deceptively calm smile. “I think I’ll talk to him now. he’s got some nerve.”

you and gojo exchange panicked looks before rushing to follow him as he storms through the crowd.

“toji!”

toji looks up from where he’s crouched by the bar, snuffing out a cigarette. he grins sheepishly, straightening up.

“hey, neph. c’mon, ’s all love. jusst jokes.” his words slur, he must’ve got into something despite working the event.

suguru doesn’t stop, an unreadable look on his face. 

“stand up.”

toji chuckles nervously but rises to his feet. “no hard feelings?”

suguru tilts his head. “where’s your son?”

“two streets down with the neighbor ki—”

THWACK.

suguru’s fist connects with toji’s cheek in a brutal arc. gojo curses, spilling beer on your top as he stumbles forward.

“shit, shit, shit!”

toji staggers back, clutching his face, but suguru doesn’t advance. he exhales slowly, his voice low and sharp. “you’re fired.”

toji scoffs, but before he can retort, megumi’s mother shouts from across the yard, “now, toji, I know your sorry-ass didn’t just lose another job—”

gojo grabs you by the wrist, steering you and suguru away before the scene escalates further.

his grip is firm, unfaltering, as he weaves through the crowd until you all regroup behind a tricked-out silver nissan. suguru leans against the car, running a hand through his hair.

“sorry, guys,” he starts, his tone low and tense. “I shouldn’t have done that. he’s been disrespecting me all week.”

you shoot him a sympathetic look. “I don’t care about the punch—it is what it is.”

gojo snickers, folding his arms. “honestly? someone had to do it.”

“but,” you continue, your voice soft, “what about the bar? you don’t want this mess tied back to it.”

suguru sighs, nodding. “you’re right. I should go back, smooth things over. shoko already texted me the numbers—we’re good to pack it up early.”

gojo glances down at you and his eyes widen in realization. “shit, I didn’t mean to spill beer all over you. I can take you back to the apartment so you can clean up.”

you look down, grimacing at the sticky fabric clinging to your chest. “yeah, it’s starting to get gross.”

gojo extends his hand out, palm down. “sounds good. okay, bongbros—on three!”

suguru visibly cringes, briefly cupping your cheek in his hand before heading back toward the bar.

gojo pouts dramatically. “rude.”

the apartment building is eerily quiet, with most tenants likely still outside. now that you’re away from the thumping music and roaring crowd, you realize your ears are ringing.

on the elevator ride up, you and gojo start debriefing the night’s events, laughing at how surreal it all felt.

“I still can’t believe it,” gojo says, shaking his head. “he just—boom! punched the shit out of him.”

you’re giggling when you trudge inside. gojo flicks on the lights and immediately flops face-down on the couch.

“jus let y’rself into sugu’s room f’clothes,” he mumbles into the cushion.

in suguru’s bedroom, you peel off your soaked top, smoothing out your skirt—which, miraculously, stayed dry. you grab some wipes from his dresser to clean the sticky residue off your chest and arms before rifling through his closet.

you settle on one of his white button-up shirts, the fabric loose and soft as it drapes over your frame, the hem brushing the top of your skirt.

gojo calls out from the other room. “hey, I’m gonna run back downstairs—sugu says toji and megumi’s mom are in a drunken spat. gonna check on the kid.”

“go ahead,” you reply, sprawling across suguru’s bed. his scent surrounds you, and in the quiet privacy of his room, your body finally relaxes.

the dizziness from being crossfaded creeps up on you, making you feel hot and languid. catching your reflection in the mirror, you notice how disheveled you look—hair tousled, the button-up hanging loosely off your shoulders, revealing a hint of your lacy black bra. your skirt has ridden up just enough to tease the matching panties beneath.

your phone buzzes.

sugu: you okay? sugu: sorry again. sugu: if you want to leave, I understand.

you: sugu I’m not mad

sugu: were you able to change?

you smirk. lifting your phone, you lean forward slightly, letting the shirt hang off your chest just enough to entice. angling your phone, you snap a couple photos.

you: 2 attachments sent

you watch the text bubble appear, then vanish, then reappear.

sugu: fuck. sugu: you look so fucking good. sugu: my pretty girl.

you: you like?

sugu: so much. sugu: I’m almost done. want me to join you?

you: that’s not all I want…

you record a voice memo, your tone low and sultry. “I want you to come up here and undress me, sugu—I need you.”

you hit send, watching as he saves the audio. for a few agonizing moments, nothing happens.

then a notification pops up—not from suguru, but from the group chat.

bongbros gojo satoru: OMFG gojo satoru: LMAOOAOAOAO gojo satoru: SUGURU’S PHONE JUST CONXECTED TO THE SPEAKER

your stomach drops.

gojo satoru: sounded sexy btw gojo satoru: sugu please don’t punch me 4 that^

you: the whole message played???

gojo satoru: nah, just the first 2 secs

you: omg

gojo satoru: LMAO sugu just had the dj start scrubbing a track so it seemed like part of the set gojo satoru: his face is so red

sugu: almost just had a fuckign heart attack sugu: my phone auto connected to bluetooth

you: I’m sorry suguu :( you: <3

sugu: <3

gojo satoru: <3

sugu: satoru

gojo satoru: :P gojo satoru: guys megumi is gonna stay over tn his parents are having drunk make up sex in the backseat of toji’s honda gojo satoru: I was keeping him distracted with games on my phone were coming up now

sugu: me too i feel fried

by the time gojo returns with megumi, you’re completely drained. you help him set up blankets and pillows on the couch while megumi disappears into gojo’s room with his phone.

gojo flops onto the couch dramatically. “I just… can’t.”

smiling weakly, you drape a blanket over him before returning to suguru’s bed. shedding your skirt, you collapse onto the comforter, exhaustion pulling you into a haze.

suguru slips in quietly sometime later, flopping on top of you.

you wheeze, tapping his arm. “can’t. breathe.”

he rolls to the side, cradling your face with his hands. his dark eyes soften as he presses gentle kisses to your nose, forehead, and cheek.

“you stayed,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with relief.

“of course,” you whisper, smiling.

suguru pulls you into his arms, his chest flush against your back as his lips brush against your neck. his warm, steady presence lulls you into that foggy space between wakefulness and sleep—until his lips press slow, deliberate kisses along your neck, and you let out a shaky moan.

his fingers twitch against your waist, his breath hot and heavy in your ear. “that’s what I like to hear,” he murmurs.

his hand moves with a desperate sort of hunger, tracing the curve of your breast before slipping beneath the lace of your bra. when his finger grazes the metal of your piercing, the mix of cool and heat sends a jolt through you, drawing out a whimper you can’t contain.

“so sensitive.”

his tongue drags a wet stripe up the side of your neck, and his foot hooks around your ankle, guiding you to straddle him. his palms slide down your thighs, spreading them as he pulls you flush against him.

“you drove me crazy tonight,” he breathes into your ear, voice laced with want. “your voice message… so needy.”

you nod, squirming as his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging playfully.

“say it,” he demands softly.

your bottom lip slips free from your teeth, likely raw from all your biting. “need you so badly, sugu.”

the desperation in your tone has him groaning low in his throat. “I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs, his breath fanning against your skin. “but you gotta be quiet for me.”

his fingers find your clothed clit, moving in maddeningly slow circles. your breath stutters as you nod weakly in agreement. his pace quickens, and his tongue flicks teasingly at the shell of your ear, making you momentarily forget how to breathe.

“baby, you’re soaked,” he whispers, his voice tinged with amusement. “these panties are drenched.”

he slides his fingers along the fabric, slick from your arousal, and you squeak when he skims over your clit. his hands spread your thighs wider, one steadying you while the other pulls your panties to the side.

“be a good girl and stay quiet,” he instructs, pressing two fingers inside you with deliberate slowness.

they’re thick, filling you to the point of blissful ache, and the sensation draws breathy, shallow moans from your lips.

“shhh.”

his fingers curl inside you, seeking the spot that has your thighs trembling. he sets a steady pace, each motion purposeful. between his hot breath, the mounting pressure in your core, and the obscene sounds of your wetness, you’re overwhelmed.

your release builds fast, slick gushing around his fingers. you whisper his name, fighting to stay quiet, even as he speeds up. his free hand finds your clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles.

“feels good?” he asks, the rasp in his voice nearly enough to undo you.

you manage a stuttered, “s-sugu, feels so good—ah, ’m close.”

“already?” he teases, his smirk audible. “gonna come for me? come all over my fingers?”

his words are your undoing. your stomach tightens, and you gasp out, “sugu, gonna—”

before you can finish, he withdraws his fingers, leaving you teetering on the edge. a strangled moan escapes, muffled when he clamps his hand over your mouth.

“shhh, baby.”

your tongue darts out to lick at his palm, and he groans low in his chest. his fingers flick over your clit, and you shudder as he pushes them into your mouth.

“suck.”

you obey, wrapping your lips around his fingers, the taste of yourself flooding your senses. he continues working you, fingers stroking deep inside, drawing out your climax. your walls flutter around him, your muffled cries vibrating against his fingers as you ride out the waves.

when you finally catch your breath, your body feels languid, boneless. he withdraws his fingers with a wet pop, leaving a string of saliva between them and your lips.

“you did so well for me,” he coos, pressing soft kisses along the side of your neck. his hands smooth over your skin, tucking your panties back into place as he cradles you against him.

the buzz of satisfaction hums in your veins, and his words blur into the haze of post-orgasm bliss. as he rests you on your side, his touch soothing, sleep pulls you under. the last thing you think is his name, whispered like a prayer.

[@tojisth3rdwife consider this my formal apology for bum!toji]

[lovelytsunoda]

sweet sounds of heaven | logan sargeant

summary: for two rival bookstore employees vying for promotion, a freak snowstorm trapping them inside the small bookstore may just show them that instead of screwing each other over, maybe they should just be . . . screwing.

pairing: college!logan sargeant x college!female reader

warnings: 18+ for smut, rivals to lovers, sex in a book store, freak weather event or act of god? im a sucker for stories about adorable nerdy girls getting (lovingly) railed by equally sexy nerdy guys. there may or may not be inappropriate use of a wool scarf (read it and find out!)

the cozy store was calm and empty, snow falling rapidly outside. the radio was humming the old bing crosby version of 'white christmas' and the fire in the reading room was pleasantly roaring. she watched the last few customers leave , closing and locking the front door behind them. after flipping the sign from open to closed, she set off towards the break room, knocking on the locked door.

"logan, you better not be vaping in there! not only is it a fire hazard, it will piss mrs. christodolou off to no end. you should be out here helping me clean up after story time."

inside the break room, logan rolled his eyes, exhaling a cloud of passionfruit vape smoke. "gimme a second, hot stuff. someone left their mug full of caked on hot cocoa in the sink."

he'd gotten the mug clean ten minutes ago, and now it was sitting on the drying rack. truthfully, logan just wanted to watch her squirm.

"fine, sargeant. don't help. see if i care."

the pair had been at each other's throats since they'd started working for helen christodolou. the elderly greek woman ran a thriving independant bookstore, which she had started back in the eighties as a horror bookshop and pulp fiction retailer. over the years, it had morphed and changed, becoming the cosy little discount bookseller that y/n knew and loved.

logan had come later, likely because he knew someone who knew someone and really needed a job. he was a slacker, and spent mroe time vaping in the break room than he did helping. but alas, they were the only two full-time employees, and with a promotion on the horizon in the new year, she felt the need to prove that she was better than some blonde trust fund boy who was probably only employed here to keep him out of trouble.

brenda lee was playing now, and y/n was tempted to shout 'bah humbug' and turn the whole thing off. there was only so much christmas music she could take before she needed to listen to something of substance again.

after gathering the broken, dull and smeared crayola crayons off the small craft table that had been set up for children to decorate ornaments, cards and coloring pages at, she unceremoniously threw them into the clear plastic storage tote they came from, and went behind the desk to the desktop that controlled the music. she signed in to her spotify account, navigating over to her winter playlist rather than the compilation currently playing from youtube.

the calming classic rock took over the speakers, but did little to ease her irritation as she continued to clear up the table. the snow was falling harder outside, and she hoped she'd be able to hit the road and be most of the way home before it got any worse.

she heard the break room door open and close, creaking on it's old hinges as logan exited the room, his appearance announced by the lynx deodorant that seemed to follow him everywhere.

you would think that a boy with as much money as he had would make and effort to smell better.

"of course you show up now, when all the work is mostly done."

logan rolled his eyes, grabbing some forgotten books from the shelving cart and putting himself to work at refiling them. "it's not a big deal, y/n. everybody knows helen is giving you the job. its like i'm not even here."

"maybe if you did something other than suck on your fucking flavoured air all day and contributed to the day to day operations of this place, you'd have a shot at that job as well." she scowled up at him, closing cheap coloring books and stacking them on top of the storage tote.

"hey, i suck other things too! things that would make you feel fucking euphoric, if you catch my drift." logan winked from behind a chest-height bookcase housing sci-fi releases.

"i don't want to hear how good you are at giving head, logan. its been a long fucking day, and i just want to go home. so if you could please help me out here, it would be much appreciated."

all the fight was out of her voice now, and logan felt bad. this was no longer the banter that he looked forward to every morning, and the smile he enjoyed seeing was no longer mapped out on her face. instead she looked weathered and sleepy, like a day of working retail and listening to christmas carols had sucked all of the energy out of her.

logan stayed quiet, but y/n noticed the marked effort he made at helping her get the store in closing order, especially when it came to shutting down the point of sale system (which unfortunately cut out the music right in the middle of an inxs song that logan didn't want to admit he was enjoying).

"i'm sorry for being so hard on you." y/n sighed, pulling on her scarf. her tote bag was half packed, resting on the counter behind her. "i'm always in a sour mood once it starts getting darker earlier. something about the end of the year coming up this quickly is making me rethink every choice i've ever made." she tried to smile at logan, let him know she was fine, but her smile didn't quite meet her eyes.

after all, she would just be going home to an empty apartment, with a small and sad looking christmas tree that she bought at a charity store sitting on her side table.

"don't worry about it. i was being a dick for no reason. you didn't deserve it." logan said gently, patting her on the shoulder. "go home and get some rest, i can lock up here."

"thank you." she fished in her bag for the keys to her kia, excitedly walking towards the door. at this rate, she'd be home with enough time to make a small pot of pasta and watch a few episodes of santa clarita diet before she went to bed and slept through her alarm this morning.

except for the fact that she could hear the wind rattling the windowpanes. she couldn't even see out of the side door to where the employee parking lot was, her kia rio a dark cloud behind the wall of snow. she paused, hand on the doorknob as she looked outside. the wind rustled up a forgotten newspaper on the sidewalk, plastering it against the window in the door.

"i just got a message from kyle," logan shouted from behind her. "they've sent out a weather alert, and people have been advised not to leave their homes. i hate to break it to you, but you're better off staying here with me tonight."

"fuck." she cursed, throwing her tote bag at a display of christmas romance books, each looking like it stepped out of the hallmark studio head offices.

from his place behind the counter, logan winced. "i'm really sorry. but i don't think you should be driving right now."

"no, you're probably right about that." she said it calmly, but the more she sat there, the more she seethed with rage. "you know what, if you had gotten off your ass and actually helped me sooner, i could have been home right now!"

"don't get mad at me, please. i had a fight with my dad this morning and i really don't have the energy to fight with another person i love today."

she paused, some of the tightness leaving her chest. another person logan loved? did he really mean her? "i'm sorry." she said softly. "i didn't know."

"he was mad at me because i took my name out of contention for the promotion." logan announced, coming to sit in the doorway with her. his back was against the wall across from her, their feet almost touching.

"why did you do that?"

"because i don't deserve it." logan shrugged, broad shiulders shifting under his cable knit sweater. "i'm just here to prove to my parents that i'm responsible, and i can't even really do that right. you deserve that promotion more than i do. i talked to helen this morning. its yours as long as you still want it."

she smiled at him, nudging his foot with her own. "so there is a heart under there."

"its always been here, y/n. just for you. but you've ignored it, or you've mistaken it for arrogance." he sighed, messing with his collar. "but i guess i deserved it."

she laughed, head tilted back. logan loved that sound, and he swore that he would do anything to hear that sound again. "yeah, you did. but you're really pretty, and it wasn't bothering me half as much as i let on. a little bit of rivals to lovers never hurt anybody, right?"

"we could have been lovers a lot sooner if i'd been honest with you sooner. i really like you, y/n. i think you're fantastic. i love seeing your face light up when you're running activities with the kids, or watching the cute little faces you make when you're reading on break. and don't get me started on your reading glasses," logan gushed, a blush rising on his neck. "which i have had some very impure thoughts about-"

"logan? stop talking."

she leaned across the tile floor, pressing her lips against his as she basically crawled into logan's lap. he pulled her closer as she deepened the kiss, biting gently on his bottom lip.

"what if i told you i fantasized about this?" logan blushed. "hooking up with a sexy librarian after hours." he bit his lip, tugging it between his teeth before i could blurt out that eventually, that librarian had morphed to have y/n's face.

"and what if i told you that i had a fantasy about being fucked by a sexy, blond, muscular librarian?"

"then i would say that we're at an impasse. we can't both be the sexy librarian."

"you don't even read. it's no contest." she giggled, kissing him again, shifting so that she was straddling his lap instead of sitting side-saddle over his cock. "but i can't do this if i'm not absolutely certain that you can see a future with me. that you're not just trying to get in my pants."

logan's face softened, one of his warm, soft hands coming up to cup her face. she looked scared, and a little vulnerable. he wasn't sure if it was the nightmarish weather outside that was doing it, or if it was the shifting of their professional relationship.

"y/n. i have loved you since the first month we started working here. i was just too chickenshit to tell you. and if you won't listen to me tell you how incredible you are, and how much you make my world go around, then please, i am begging you, let me show you."

she sucked in a deep breath, chest rising and falling underneath her tight knit sweater. logan was looking at her with a tender face, a soft expression.

one that somehow reassured her that he was all in. that he didn't think she was weird, or beneath him like so many jocks tended to think. and maybe he wasn't too far out of her league after all. it still felt almost too good to be true. boys like logan sargeant never looked at girls like her.

but with the way he was looking at her now, she deserved to treat herself. to stop playing it safe for once.

her hands found the lapels of her trench coat, gently sliding it off her shoulders. the silence was deafening as it fell to the floor. she reached for her scarf, but logan's gentle hands over hers put a stop to it. carefully wrapping the ends of the scarf around his large hands, logan used the wool to pull her closer, placing a few kisses on her jaw before moving to her lips, relishing in the way her body responded to him.

he tucked his hands under her stockinged thighs, gently rising to his feet. she buried her head in his neck, gently nipping at the skin on his neck.

"easy does it, pretty girl. we're just getting started." logan breathed with a gentle laugh, voice husky. she was clinging to him like a koala, and he used that opportunity to move one of his hands from her thigh to her ass, giving it a gentle slap. her breath caught, and from where her crotch was pressed against his, logan could feel her getting wet. testing a theory, logan smacked her ass again, grinning as her hips bucked forward and against him.

"someone likes that, huh?" he whispered in her ear, sucking on her earlobe before kissing the skin behind her ear, and placing her down on the wingback chair by the electric fireplace.

he sunk to the floor, his knees against the scratchy rug in the reading corner, tugging his tommy hilfiger shirt over his head. he tugged at her scarf, letting it fall to the floor. hestiantly, she rested her legs on his shoulders, slowly undoing the zipper on her sweater, exposing the seafoam green cups of the lace bra she was wearing.

"i didn't expect to get laid today." she blushed, averting her eyes.

logan reached up to caress her face, using her chin to guide her eyes back to him. "look at me, princess. you're beautiful. just as you are." he pressed closer, lips brushing against her stomach twice before he placed an open-mouthed kiss right above her navel. "the other day, when you were explaining how the micheal connelly literary unvierse is all connected, it turned me on so much, pretty girl. i just wanted to bend you over the checkout desk and show you just how insane you make me."

he continued to kiss up her stomach, loving the way she squirmed and arched into him.

"on a scale of one to ten, how attached are you to these tights?"

"like a four, they've already got a run in the crotch, wh-"

she didn't get a chance to finish her sentence before the sound of tearing nylon made her eyes fly open. she stared down at logan in shock. the blond between her legs looked at her with a sheepish grin as he attempted to pull her torn pantyhose off her legs. "i've always wanted to do that. i'll buy you a nicer pair."

"they'll get stuck on my boots, jackass."

"no they won't." logan insisted, reaching for the zipper on the side of her winter boot, before pulling the whole thing off and dropping it on the floor next to him. "see?" he grinned, kissing her ankle. "not an issue."

the blond kissed up her leg, slowly stripping off what remained of her tights as he went. his lips were warm against her cool flesh, and as his head dipped under her skirt, he could feel the warmth radiating from her warm, hot center.

he gently nuzzled his nose against the wet spot forming on her cotton panties, relishing in the sweet, gentle moan she let out.

"logan." she breathed.

"i know, darlin'. i know."

he slipped one finger under the seat of her panties, pushing them aside before his tongue darted out to get a taste. he audibly groaned as he got that first taste of her slick, cock standing to attention. he dove back in, kitten licking at her slit as he pushed her legs wider.

"oh my god, logan." she whined, hips rutting against his face, coating the bottom half of his features in arousal.

his nose nudged against her clit, sending her nerve endings into overdrive. she writhed against the chair, both hands above her to grip the backrest. logan's tongue darted inside of her opening, and he flicked up and down a few times before quickly withdrawing.

"you taste so fucking good, pretty girl. i could come right here, right now, without even touching myself. just from eating you out."

she looked down at logan, who's eyes were closed in bliss as he continued to grip her thighs, head buried between them. he was so close, yet still felt too far away.

because what was the point of it all if not to find a way to be as close as physically possible to another person?

not really sure what she was thinking, she hooked the middle of her scarf around the back of logan's head, and still gripping either end, she used it to pull his head closer against her sweet pussy, moaning heartily as his tongue dove into her center again.

"jesus christ! yes, right there, yes!" she arched her back off the chair, feeling her hard nipples press against the lace of her bra. sweat was forming on her skin, and her chest was heaving.

"that's it, sweet girl." logan's voice was muffled. "keep making those pretty little noises for me, love."

her knuckles were starting to ache from how tightly she was clutching the scarf, the muscles in her arms sizing from the effort of continuously pulling him closer with the woolen fabric.

he raised his head, meeting her eyes and winking at her before ducking under her plaid skirt again to suck at her puffy clit. he slipped his pointer finger inside her opening, finger-fucking her as he pleasured her bundle of nerves. she was falling apart above him, crying out his name as tears of pleasure pricked the corners of her eyes.

"logan, i think i'm gonna-"

"do it, baby. make a mess for me, love."

she came with a cry, a few stray tears creating a bit of moisture around her eyes, slick spilling out over logan's fingers, hand and wrist. her own hands went slack, the scarf falling out of her grip as she fell back against the chair. she could still feel logan's lips on her, leaving gentle kisses along her thigh, his fingers running up and down her calves to help bring her down to earth.

"logan?" she hummed, looking down at him while she carded her fingers through his silken hair.

"yes, my love?"

"i want you to fuck me now."

logan slowly got to his feet, discarding the scarf and scooping her out of the chair in bridal style. he kissed her again, softer this time, and she could taste herself on his tongue. it was a sweet taste, something that had her moaning so sweetly into her lover's mouth.

he sat her down on the edge of one of the display tables, and she watched as he shoved an entire table's worth of christmas romances to the tiled floor. giggling at logan's enthusiasm, she stripped out of her sweater before reaching for the half-zip on his. getting the hint, logan took of his cable knit, revealing a sculpted chest that was still half hidden behind a white wife-beater tank top that was tucked into his jeans, his cock straining against his crotch.

she pulled him into her arms, hooking her legs and arms around him as he began to softly kiss and nibble at her neck. she hummed in contentment, resting her head against his shoulder. she couldn't deny the throbbing between her legs. she was raring to go again, but wanted to enjoy the quiet intimacy before she allowed him to bend her over the table and make her see stars.

his lips were soft against her skin, his hands large and comforting.

"you ready, baby? we don't have to do more if you don't want to." his voice was gravelly and soft, his breath heavy against the shell of her ear. he pulled back, searching her eyes for any signs of hesitation.

"i'm ready, logan. you don't need to worry about me."

she slipped off the edge of the table, gently turning around. she sighed into logan's arms, his warm hands ghosting over her stomach, his lips along her shoulders.

and then she slowly bent over the table, hoping she appeared seductive as she curved her spine, brushing her clothed core against logan's bulge, her plaid skirt riding up enough that he would be able to peek at her panties.

all that could be heard was the roar of the wind outside and the reverence in logan's voice as he ran his fingers along her naked back, deftly unclipping her bra. her trailed open-mouthed kisses down her back, and she felt her heart swell with love and threaten to burst out of her chest at how gently he was handling her.

"you're so fucking beautiful. now that i've gotten a taste, darling, i'm very reluctant to let another man do the same, even though i know i have no say in the matter."

he gently slipped her panties down her legs, watching them pool around her feet on the floor. his large hands undid the top button and zipper on his jeans, and she couldn't resist a look behind her to watch his dick spring to attention.

"jesus, mary mother of god." she mumbled under her breath, only vaguely conscious of what her aunt would refer to as sacrilege.

logan beamed down at her. "like what you see, pretty girl?"

"of course i do. now put it in me, please."

chuckling, logan pushed her skirt up with one hand, guiding her body back towards the table with the other. "your wish is my command."

logan slipped inside slowly, inch by aching inch as her opening widened to welcome him home. he bit his lip, head thrown back and eyes sewn shut in pleasure. she felt like heaven around him, and he had to count to ten to make sure he didn't come prematurely.

"you good, baby?"

"perfect." she purred underneath him, bucking her hips back. "take me, librarian."

"technically not a librarian. just a humble bookseller." he laughed, drawing out and thrusting his cock back in again. "but its not like that matters when i'm making you feel this good, does it?"

he loved watching the way she moved as he hammered his rock-hard cock inside of her sweet hole. the way her spine rippled under her skin, beautiful and strong. hearing the way she breathed and gasped and whined his name, small hand reaching to grasp his behind her back, fingers interlaced as he pounded her against the table.

"you feel so fucking good, baby. you're taking my fucking cock so well." he praised, vaguely aware of the table legs creaking as it jutted forward with each thrust. "so good for me."

"fuck, logan. i feel so full." she attempted a weak laugh, too overcome with how he was making her feel. "so good." the hand that wasn't squeezing the life out of logan's lurched forward to find purchase on the underside of the table as a particularly hard thrust pitched her forward. "jesus, right there! yes, yes!"

"that's it, baby. don't be afraid to tell me exactly what you want. let me make every dirty thought in your mind come true. anything you've ever read in one of those smutty little books of yours, just tell me, i'm your guy. i'll fuck you on the rolling ladder, eat your pretty fucking pussy between stacks of books. anything you want me to."

"logan, i'm coming-"

"that's it, baby. you can do it. give me another one. good girl, that's it." logan stuttered, feeling his own release draw closer, triggered by the feeling of her come all over his bare cock. "christ!" he blurted, pulling out as quick as he could, watching his release spill all over her plush ass, even seeping below the hem of her skirt. "motherfucker." he furiously pumped his cock, trying to squeeze out the last few stubborn drops before slumping against her body, reconnecting his hand with hers.

"i'll clean that up." he mumbled. "sorry about the mess."

"don't worry about it. i have a good shower at home." she giggled lazily, spent and content. she felt the table rock beneath her, and turned to face logan. "log-"

she didn't get a chance to finish her sentence before she felt the table give out underneath her. she spat out a curse as she hit the ground, feeling all of the wind get knocked form her lungs (along with her bra off her chest).

"shit, are you okay?" logan laughed, trying to do up his jeans as he sat up. "give me your hand, let me help."

"can i put my bra on first?"

"i mean, i wouldn't mind if you didn't, but it is kinda cold in here. let me grab your sweater."

getting to her feet and on slightly shaky legs, she managed to laugh at him. "what a gentleman."

logan shrugged, draping the sweater over her bare shoulders. "it's the least i can do after i tore your nylons to shreds and came on your ass. you really should let me clean that up. i don't want to stain your skirt."

she cut him off with a soft kiss, her underwear stuck somewhere underneath the fallen table. "logan, stop talking. what are we going to do about the table?"

"run away and blame the weather?"

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

So i was jus yk thinking and i jus thought what if we had red hair like shanks.. like not related at all it could be dyed or natural don't matter, but how would he react to seeing someone he doesnt know with the same hair color as him?

(Idk i feel like he would a lil happy n shi🤭)

Shanks headcanons?!?!

SHANKS HEADCANONS ✨️weeeeeee✨️

Also Shanks was at least like eighty percent of the reason that thirteen year old me dyed my hair red for the first time and it remains my prefered hair color to this day.

Silly and fluffy and SFW

Shanks (OPLA or anime) X Reader

Ugh his smile fucking kills me 🥹🫠❤️💀

Shanks grabbing Benn Beckmann's shoulder and pointing excitedly at you in a tavern in some port town or other, "Beck—look, look—"

*not even batting an eye* *just rubbing his temples and gritting his teeth* *tone of voice as if speaking to a small child* "Yes, Captain, other people have red hair."

*big stupid grin* "I know, isn’t it beautiful?"

*exhausted sigh* *literally so tired someone give this man a vacation*

Literally so happy, he revels in the little things and lives in the moment.

Let's face it, his whole shtick is hair color, it's in his nickname, it's in the name of his crew, he one hundred percent believes in redhead supremacy.

Basically turns into a giddy teenager about fellow redheads. Same-hat vibes, or that spiderman meme.

Any shade of red, from orange-ginger to deep red to burgundy, it's all just beautiful, and he will go out of his way to either befriend or flirt with any redhead within shouting distance.

Honestly does not care if it's dyed or not, actually kind of an honor if it is dyed because it means you're a redhead by your own free will and he just thinks that's so neat.

But if he's drunk enough that his brain-to-mouth filter is gone, then he's definitely going to ask you if the carpet matches the drapes. He fully expects to get punched for it (whether by you or Beck is as yet unknown), but he can't help it, he's just curious.

If you respond to his flirting in kind, he's going to want to keep you. Not kidnap you or anything obviously, but he's very persuasive and there's a fair chance it's going to work and you're going to be the newest redhead among the Red Hair Pirates.

Your new nickname is Little Red, this is non-negotiable.

He will constantly be playing with your hair, running his fingers through it, cuddling up to you and just burying his face in it, reveling in how bright and fiery it looks when the sunlight catches it.

If you do dye your hair, then Shanks is going to offer to help; but he has no idea what he's doing, it's going to be a huge mess, hair dye literally everywhere, and there's a good chance it's ultimately partly (mostly) an excuse to end up in the shower with you.

[respectthepetty]

Addicted Heroin (Th) Cut Scenes and Colors - Episode 5

I'm reporting on the missing scenes from YouTube's version of Addicted Heroin [episode: one, two, three, four], so here I am with episode five!

First cut scene:

After Blue Boy Hero realizes that he tied Green Guy Pop up with color-coded green rope for nothing because Pop was planning to apologize to him before he kidnapped him and forced a kiss on him, Hero goes to Pop's house to eat dinner and stay the night; however, as usual, they argue.

Pop divides the food up but gives his father more and Hero the least. Hero gets upsets and says Pop can't divide properly, and Pop tells him he divided right (implying Hero was meant to get less). Hero tells PopPY he is being childish. Pop is upset that Hero is calling him Poppy, so Hero responds that since they are brothers now and Hero is the oldest brother, it's fine.

But that's lies! They bring out their IDs and learn Pop is older by two days, so even though Hero is taller (which is something he points out), Pop is the Phi in this house! So as the older brother, he kicks Hero out of the room, and sleeps on Hero's side of their color-coded beds.

Second cut scene:

I'm going off vibes here, but the next day after kicking Hero out of the room, Pop seems to be thinking about the kidnap kiss at school when Hero walks up. Hero notices and asks Pop to look at his face for . . . something on it(?), but it really is just to get Pop to look at his lips.

Pop gets upsets and leaves.

Third cut scene:

Hero doesn't just buy Pop a make-up New Year's gift; he buys the entire family gifts. Grandma gets a neck massager, the dad gets Nike shoes, auntie gets a gift, and the future little brother gets a painting/drawing set. Everyone resists, but eventually gives in, yet Poppy is still displeased, so the green color-coded ruler comes in handy.

Fourth cut scene:

After the teacher announces the students have to work as pairs for the next assignment, Pink Person Only immediately approaches Pop stating they will be partners, which upsets Hero, and Hero and Pop start to argue. Both keep suggesting Yellow Yal Tiger as the other's partner and both keep rejecting him WHILE HE SITS RIGHT THERE! Finally, Pop says HE will be Tiger's partner, and Hero and Only can be partners.

The two girls who like Hero and Only immediately step up to offer themselves as volunteers for a partnership, but the boys quickly reject them because this is a BL and they understand the queer agenda.

Pop is worried they might not have a good idea but learns that Tiger is more than prepared for their assignment as Tiger shows him all the research he has already done on his product for nose strips that ~help people with runny noses~

Hero and Only lurk from a small distance trying to figure out how to remedy this unsatisfactory situation. Hero discloses that he is designing a robot, to which Only questions why he needs Pop then when he already has a plan in mind. Hero does what he does best and threatens Only to go partner up with Tiger or he will squash him like a disposable cup.

So my color-coded OTP sails the shipping seas another day.

Because it's clear that Tiger designed the product with needs-eighty-million-tisssues-to-get-through-the-day Only.

Fifth cut scene:

After the incident in the classroom between Only and Tiger when Only became super defensive out of nowhere then invited Tiger over to his house all in one breath (even though we know Only was actually trying to hide a picture he drew of Tiger), he threatens to haunt his "kitty cat" until he accepts the invite like the girl in Shudder who sits on people's shoulders.

Tiger leaves, but while washing his hands, Tiger's color-coded phones alerts him that Only is sending a text to hound him some more about coming over. Tiger ignores it, and BAM!

He sees Only sitting on his shoulders in the mirror being super creepy. Then, BAM!

He sees Only everywhere stalking him and haunting him around campus.

However, it's clear from Only's reaction after being questioned by Hero and Pop while getting his PINK MILK that not all of this is in Tiger's mind.

Sixth cut scene:

These scenes were in the edited version, but the colors were coloring, and I love that Pop was really going to be a BL boy who lets his love interest soak in the rain without any effs to give.

But the next day, while they are talking about the auntie and the dad flirting, the scene is longer and explains the auntie's situation. Her ex cheated on her and picked the other woman over her. She wanted their kid, so she kept him, yet the ex continues to come around asking for money and others things but never helps out.

Pop mentions how kind and motherly she has been to him, so Hero asks if she was married to someone else, would the ex finally get the hint that she has moved on and quit brothering her.

Hence why our Green Guy tells his dad to step up and be the guy the auntie needs in her life after the ex tries to rob his own son!

So it does make sense that Pop is still sad his dad is married even though it was his idea only because he just wanted to help out the auntie.

The boys end the episode in red, so I'm unsure if we are entering into the danger zone, the passion era, or both.

But either way, MY SHIP IS SAILING!

[kryptid-writes]

Chapter 1 - Dream a Little Dream of Me

Y/N has nightmares of a winged man haunting her dreams. When her dreams become reality, her world changes completely.

(1.3k)

The sound of wings rustling, knife slashing, and faded screams echo all around. The stink of metallic blood and rotting corpses burning my nose. I’m choking on the thick air, and it feels like my chest is caving in as my breathing gets shallower by the second. There's blood everywhere. My eyes widen as my gaze falls on the mangled corpses upon the forest floor, each one twisted and bent in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Rays of moonlight pours through the trees, dancing across their mangled remains like some twisted classical painting.

I sink to the damp forest floor. There’s no escape.

In the blink of an eye, a large ominous figure towers over my shaking form. His short dirty blonde hair and strong hands are covered in fresh blood splatter and pieces of sliced flesh. His striking eyes glow a dark red, reflecting the color of blood painting every surface. But what I truly could not take my eyes off of is his large white wings that block out the view of everything around it. His intimidating wingspan wraps around us like a dark feathery blanket, reminiscent of a night sky with no stars.

        “I promise I will never let anyone hurt you, never let anyone come between us,” he says in a surprisingly soft voice. He flashes me a smile that’s intended to be comforting, but it comes out sick and twisted. He pulls me close and wraps his muscular arms around me, a low buzzing feeling humming between the two of us.

I can hear his heart beating in his chest, slow and steady, far too calm for a man that just slaughtered a dozen people with ease.

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

        I bolt up out of bed, nearly falling off completely, but I catch myself at the last second. A cold sweat clings to my skin and the worn-out sheets, my breath coming in heavy and ragged. It’s not the first time I’ve dreamed of the winged man, in fact it seems to be the only consistent thing in my hectic life as of lately, but waking from the dreams never seems to get easier, always a struggle to shake the sinking feeling.

It takes a few moments to remember where I am, the crappy motel room I rented for the night, not so different from the countless other run-down motels I’ve stayed in across the Midwest, all with the same stingy smell.

Obnoxious yellow floral wallpaper lines the wall, caked with dirt and God knows what else that’s been accumulating for years. Ceilings spotted with black mold and blotchy water stains. An outdated box television plays the local infomercial about some miracle cleaning product, but it all sounds muffled and far away. The digital alarm clock on the bed stand reads 2:00 AM flashing in big red bulky numbers.

        Just a dream, I remind myself with a relieved sigh. I swing my feet out of bed, throwing on some jeans and my signature leather jacket, scuffed and torn in various places. I need some air. Just need to get out of here.

I recall the rundown bar I drove by just down the street. It’s a good way to kill some time. Plus, I could really use a drink right now. The bitter taste of alcohol is the only relief I get from these nightmares that torment me at night and haunt me during the day.

The cold air bites at my skin, but it’s surprisingly pleasant, grounding me back into reality and away from the painful dreams. It's the twelfth dream I’ve had this month and they only seem to be getting more intense, more real. They always end with the same winged figure. The same demonic, yet charming smile. No matter what I do, I just can’t seem to shake that haunting face.

        Entering the bar, it’s nearly empty with a few patrons here and there. Most of them are older men wearing bulky leather jackets, a bit rough around the edges, perhaps a local biker gang. Some of them playing pool, others chatting about their glory days over a bottle of beer. The sound of the jukebox in the corner playing the best of eighties rock drowns out their conversations. It's apparent there’s not much of a buzz going on, unlike most bars at this hour.

The voices and music around me fades to background noise, it feels as if the rest of the world has disappeared, that I'm the only one left on this miserable planet.

I slide into a worn bar stool that’s certainly seen better days, taking off my worn leather jacket and placing it on the sticky wooden bar. I sigh and halfheartedly raise my hand to get the bartender's attention.

“What can I get you, hun?” A nice older lady asks, shining a glass behind the bar.

“Just a whiskey please. Jack Daniels if you got it,” I give her a weak smile, trying to blink the tiredness out of my eyes.

She nods and pours me a generous amount of light amber whiskey in a fancy glass, sliding it over to me.

I take a swig, the warm liquid slides down my throat with a pleasant burn, already giving me a sense of calm. These days, whiskey has been my best friend and I’m okay with that. People just disappoint you.

“Make it two.” A large figure takes the seat next to me.

My body stiffens. I recognize that voice from somewhere. I slowly turn to face him and see him staring back at me with those intense red eyes and intimidating wings that I’ve come to know all too well. My stomach drops. It's the man from my dreams. I freeze, my body going into fight or flight mode. In a matter of seconds, I decided to take my chances running. I leave my drink and jacket behind, making a beeline to the door, slamming it closed behind me, giving me any sort of advantage to get away.

He doesn’t follow, but that doesn’t stop me. I run and run and run until I physically can't anymore.

The streetlamps and apartment buildings around me turn into a blur and my head starts to feel dizzy. The world spins around me, clouding my vision. The cold air feels like it's burning my lungs as I struggle to gather oxygen. My legs feel like jello, ready to give out any second. I’ve lost track of how long I've been running, maybe minutes? Maybe hours? Everything in me is begging myself to keep running but I physically can’t force myself go on any further.

I tuck myself into an alley, leaning against the ragged brick wall that painfully digs into my back, yet it barely registers in my brain. My heart feels like it’s pounding out of my chest. I close my eyes and try to catch my breath.

God, please let this be another bad dream.

“I was going to pay for your drink, and you just ditch me like that? Rude.” The man scoffs.

My eyes shoot open to see the man from my dreams less than a foot away, arms crossed, looking nonchalant as ever. My blood turns cold.

How is that possible? He couldn't possibly have run that fast!

A knot twists in my stomach. Deep down I know. This man is not human, and he certainly does not have good intentions.

“L-leave me alone!” I try to sound brave, but my words come out a sloppy stutter. I hold my arm out in front of me, as if that will deter him in any way. Stupid. This intimidation tactic is clearly not working.

“Oh, don't be so dramatic Y/N.” He rolls his eyes, then presses a gentle finger to my forehead.

The world goes black.

Series Masterlist

Full Masterlist

[obsidiancreates]

Power Crystal vs Power Turtle

"So this is your lab!" Donald looks around the small dimly-lit room. "Not many... power outlets?"

Donnie walks over to a pile of scraps and various parts in a box. "What? Yours is just as dim."

"Ha! It is not."

"Yes, it is, you just have neon lights everywhere."

"Yes, that light up the space."

"No, that make it look cool. But the light they provide is barely more than a phone screen, anything more than a foot away from them is completely unlit!"

"You sound like Raphie. 'Oh, Don, your eyes, you'll ruin them!' As though my Donnie-Tech contacts don't account for that."

"Well, we're a lot more used to dimness, I guess."

"... Deep inhale... I'm going to be a good person and not capitalize on that setup. What are you looking for?"

"The reason I asked you to come over to our dimension- AHA!" Donnie stands upright and turns around dramatically, holding out a pink-tinted and metal-capped cylinder. He's suddenly surrounded by rotating white-and-purple lines like fan blades as he proudly presents the item.

"... I have no idea what that is."

There's a disappointed "whap" sound, and the background behind Donnie disappears as he sags and scowls. "You could at least pretend, to be interested."

"Sorry, sorry. Ahem. OHMIGOSSSSHHHH! A PINK TUBE!!!" Donald clasps his hand together and stands on one foot, practically leaning over backwards in his exaggerated pose.

"Alright, alright!" Donnie walks over to a small metal table with a truly old computer monitor on it. "Just come over here. This, is an alien power crystal."

Now Donald's eyes do truly sparkle, and he dashes right up to the table. "What kind of alien?!"

"Our uh, squishy guys."

Donald loses his excitement. He slowly inches away from the crystal.

"It's harmless now," Donnie promises. "The Kraang haven't been seen- well, ours haven't-"

"Yours? But I thought-"

"There's one in a dimension perpetually stuck in the late Eighties we met recently, but he's an idiot and busy having marital issues with their version of Shredder."

"... Marital issues?"

"I wish that was the weirdest thing about that dimension... anyway, the point is there's no Kraang to track this, and no tech in this room that I haven't personally verified is safe. You know, relatively speaking."

"Ah, relative safety, my favorite kind. But why did you need me to come here for this?"

"I want to compare the energy this crystal outputs to the energy of your ninpo."

"... Is it because it's a similar color?"

"Wh- NO! ... Alright, maybe. BUT, that's not the only reason! I use a lot of Kraang tech in my inventions here in this dimension, and I've gotten prett-y familiar with most forms of terrestrial, foreign, or otherworldly energy through uh... various means."

Donald tries not to look at the electrical burn scars all over his counterpart's body. "So you're looking for some kind of commonality between them all?"

"Mmm, not exactly. I just want to note how they work in comparison with each other. Combining these various technologies can lead to incredible advancements, and that can lead to a lot less butt-kicking when new enemies show up."

"Well, this all sounds reasonable enough to me, let me just make a quick construct and-"

"Actually." Donnie pulls up a schematic on his monitor. "I was thinking more along the lines of this."

Donald leans in and squints. "You want me to... power things. Like a living battery."

"Well, I wouldn't have used those exact words."

"You realize using people as living batteries is usually a villain move!"

"It's not like I'm kidnapping you or want you to push your limits! I just want to see how the Shellraizer runs on this crystal versus your ninpo, and them maybe try out one or two other things a few, uh, dozen times-"

"I don't even think my ninpo works this way."

"What? Of course it does, I've seen you use it on practically all your tech! And I've seen videos of when you used your techbo!"

"Ha-ha! Ah, that wasn't ninpo. That was pure genius!"

"No it wasn't! I studied the properties of average electricity and other fuels and energies in your dimension, and there is clearly a mystical element to your tech!"

"I don't think there is."

"Donald, it's all purple. Even the fire. OBVIOUSLY IT'S MYSTIC!"

"Of course it's purple, all of my creations are! It's called branding!"

"It is purple... BECAUSE YOUR NINPO IS!"

"WHY DID THIS TURN INTO A SHOUTING MATCH!"

"OF COURSE IT DID, HAVE YOU MET ME?!?! YOUR NINPO IS PARTIALLY POWERING OVER HALF YOUR TECH!!!"

"PROVE IT!"

"FINE!" Donnie grabs the artifact off of his belt and reopens the portal. "Wait right here and don't touch anything!" He steps through.

Donald huffs, and begins snooping.

Lots of junk, lots of rusted items mixed in with unreasonably shiny chrome parts, lots of old schematics lying around. He picks up one that shows a stout android design, clearly modeled after the mutant turtles it would be surrounded by. It's a carefully preserved blueprint, and it makes Donald's heart ache.

Metalhead. Donnie has mentioned the incident, only briefly. A robotic son, lost in a fight. Just like his sweet Shelldon.

"Someday you'll both be rebuilt and can meet," he informs the blueprints. He carefully puts the blueprint away and looks around some more.

Some backpack-type devices with cable functions, clearly made for a mission of some sort based on the various implements to keep sound to a minimum, and one for each brother. There's some blueprints for various vehicles as well, a few various sensors, a box of incredibly small helmets labeled 'Spy Roach Gear' that Donald quickly puts away-

"AHHHHHH!" Donald jumps back as he looks up from the box and into a pair of disembodied eyes!

The eyes don't blink, flinch, or move at all. Donald takes in the whole... scene.

It's a large tube not unlike the one the crystal is in, but this one is filled with organs. Suspended in a frozen goo of some kind is an entire nervous system, alongside digestive and cardiovascular and... everything. A pair of lips hang suspended like the rest of the parts, attached by some kind of thin organic tube.

Donald makes a break for the portal.

Donnie steps out at the same time.

SLAM!

"OW! What the shell-!" Donnie gets up, a 2-D red vein popping up by his forehead. "What was that for?!"

"You have a pile of organs staring at you in your lab!" Donald holds his bo in a defensive position, ready to fight his way out.

"What?! You- ... oh." Donnie's eyes trail over to the tube. "No, that's not what he is."

"He?"

"He's a friend. or... I think of him as one. I don't know if he'd agree anymore." Donnie picks up the small device he'd brought over from Donald's lab.

"I've been told I struggle to grasp some societal nuances but-"

"He mutated, he lost his mind, he got frozen, and it's my fault, okay? And I'm working on figuring out how to unthaw him without hurting him or letting him loose so I can give him the retromutagen. But we're not working on that today, so drop it." Donnie holds up the device. "I'm proving to you right now that this is powered by your ninpo."

"Go ahead and try, but-"

"There." Donnie smirks as he hooks up the device to his ancient computer and types quickly on the equally ancient keyboard. "Right here, the readings match up."

"What? No. I made this when I was fourteen, it's impossible." Donald leans in to look, and his jaw drops.

"You were using your ninpo without even realizing it then. Which means... we can mix it with other technology! Think of everything we can create by combining all of this!"

Donald continues gaping. "I used my ninpo first?"

"Well, I don't really have a way to determi-"

"I WAS USING IT FIRST!" Donald cackles, picking Donnie up and jumping happily as Donnie screams. "HA! I NEED TO GO RUB THIS IN NARDO'S FACE IMMEDIATELY!"

"PUT ME DOWN FIRST- WHAAAAA!" Donnie screams as Donald uses his battleshell to absolutely blast off through the portal!

[proper-goodnight]

The Million (Tangerine x Reader)

Fandom: Bullet Train (2022)

Pairings: Tangerine x Reader

Type: Snippet/Concept

Words: 3.9K

Summary:

Of all the corrupt dickheads who crowded The Million, the last that you’d expected to see was a posh klepto, having thought that you’d seen the extent of Big Man’s contacts. He looked vexed, uncomfortable–attractive, but definitely too young to look as though he’d crawled straight from the eighties, cursing and making obscene gestures on his way out. 

Company like that couldn’t go unchecked. So, you checked. Call it your civic duty.

The Million (Tangerine x Reader) The cold was always the worst part for you when it came to living in the city–besides the rain. With its seedy underbelly and dark corners, you’d operated under the idea that you were going to escape; again leave another life behind as nothing but a fading reflection in a rearview mirror, hardly worth the memory as well as the goodbye. 

At one point, you’d had it all planned out, scribbled sloppily onto several paper napkins that had dismissed the idea into the wash just as quickly as you’d dismissed them yourself, but you promised that as soon as you got the money, no one would know you, no one would depend on you, and no one would be out to get you–you’d abandon your apartment and the club, full of scum-bags and mobsters but nothing that you’d never been able to handle before, and you would leave. 

First problem: Bartending didn’t bring in much cash.

Second problem: It was boring. Really fucking boring.

Every swing of the door brought a frigid cold and reignited the thick smell of sweat and alcohol, different colored strobe lights flashing in your eyes everywhere you looked, zipping through the dark like streaks of lightning to accompany the pounding thunder of a bass and its tempting rhythms. It rumbled through your body for hours afterwards.

You’d gotten really good at reading lips though, not having to lean too close to drunk assholes a good trade to all the other shit that you had to put up with in your book. 

‘The Million’ had housed all of the politicians and big family names of the city that took turns rotating on a schedule of speeches promising change and betterment for exact corners of the city like this one. All you’d noticed were some corners being scraped clean of graffiti, only for a new tag to accompany it by the weekend. It wasn’t the type of cleaning up that you’d imagined, but you hadn’t started out optimistic, either. 

Regardless, it’d become a part of you. Much like everything else.

“Fucking asshole,” the soft curse of an exhale under someone’s breath had you turning your head, one of the younger bartenders perched back against the wall, nursing her hand. You’d almost missed it, had she not been standing right behind you–the catcalls of the patrons and the symphony of pure noise drowned out in favor of the girl; the kid, barely of age and her first job if you remembered correctly. “Prick,” she hissed. 

“What’s going on, honey? What happened?” 

At your question, the girl’s shoulder’s drooped, her eyes veering away, suddenly guilty–you’d seen that look on other new girls throughout the last couple years, and unfortunately that look meant that they wouldn’t be keeping their jobs for very long. The grim satisfaction underneath never devolved into regret either way. The headstrong ones never lasted, albeit because of their patron’s lack of strength with handling it. 

Wealthy men with too much time on their hands were happy to share time with a pretty girl, as long as she was happy to share in return–common courtesy and respect be damned.

Until she finally had enough and bit. You had never been at that point—not yet—but you considered yourself to be more tolerant. 

“Who did you hit?” You pressed. 

The girl flexed her fingers, bending each one with a subtle wince. None looked broken, although you couldn’t say the same for the prick’s face considering the amount of bruising already kissing the ridges of her knuckles. “It doesn’t matter.”

You begged to differ, and was half tempted to make up with whoever you had to if it would help to spare the poor girl her job–you had a few favors that you could cash in on should you ever need to, but you wondered how far that influence extended. The other half was tempted to take care of it yourself. “Why not?”

“That guy already took care of it. He had the bastard kissing the wall in two seconds.”

You blinked. “Guy?”

“That guy,” she tilted her head up, just barely catching your eye from underneath her lashes, as though there was reason to suddenly be bashful about the idea of a white knight wandering the grimy, sweat and beer gummed floor. Whoever it was wouldn’t have been the first to intervene, but they may have been the first to not immediately get knocked back on their ass. “The one over there–” she swung her head toward the back that housed the lounge tables. As vague as the description was in a sea of men of similar descriptions. 

You squinted, but no one stood out among the crowd.

You started to ask that she point him out specifically, but one of the other girls–Izzy, who had been there longer than you had–rounded the bar with a tray of empty glasses. She sported a wicked little grin, humming contentedly at the perception of idle gossip. As soon as the tray was set down, she stretched languidly across the bar before settling with her arms crossed, smirking. “Tall, handsome and a gentleman?” She chuckled. “Yes, please. I haven’t had one of those in a long time.”

“They save those for The Kingsman Lounge upstate,” you intercepted, turning back to the younger girl, suddenly feeling a prick of guilt that you hadn’t remembered her name. “Keep that little crush to yourself, okay? He wouldn’t be the first guy to play the hero with ulterior motives.”

“He could save your job, though. Just FYI. I think they’re friends of Big Man. Him and another Posh guy–they practically rolled out the red carpet when they showed up. I guess they’re here doing a job for him.” Izzy explained. 

“A job?” The younger girl echoed. “What kind of job?”

Izzy fluttered her eyelashes, brows furrowed into something almost sympathetic. “Oh honey, you know not to ask that. Big Man’s business is his. He keeps to his, and we keep to ours. You’ll stay safer that way.”

“He doesn’t seem like the type,” she furrowed her brows.

“He isn’t.” You interjected. “The company he keeps is, and sweetie you can do anything with enough cash.”

“Spoken like a true sophisticate.” Izzy praised, then gave the young girl a droll stare. “Best you avoid him anyway though, doll. Tall, and handsome seems like a sweetie. His friend with the hair-trigger temper? Not so much.” 

As soon as the words escaped her mouth, her very vague description lit to life as though provoked, ignited with a fury that spread through the stench of gluttony and arousal; a building of temptations and a lighter for an addiction that only gave those wanting more and more:

“There are two words to describe this, and do you know what it is?” 

“Easy. Snack cake.”

“No. Nutter Butter. A fucking bloody Nutter Butter. I just…” a huff of frustration, then: “It’s like a compulsion. I see it and I take it. A Nutter Butter though, probably named after some arseholes knob. I don’t understand it.”

“You need help, Mate. Serious.”

They sat the two men down in a roped off area on the balcony, any potential company waved off before being able to get that close. Hair-Trigger Temper had tipped his head back against the wall, savoring every bit of bitter poison of cigarette smoke, curling into his lungs and exhaling through his nose. The cigarette proved company enough compared to any girls that tried their hand at an approach.

“How much do we want to bet that he’s going to be sneaking shot glasses under his coat before the night’s over?” Izzy snorted.

“I’ll raise you twenty.” The other girl mused aloud. 

You didn’t comment, not having the twenty dollars to lose. Of all the corrupt dickheads who crowded The Million, the last that you’d expected to see was a posh klepto, having thought that you’d seen the extent of Big Man’s contacts. He looked vexed, uncomfortable–attractive, but definitely too young to look as though he’d crawled straight from the eighties, cursing and making obscene gestures on his way out. 

Company like that couldn’t go unchecked. So, you checked. Call it your civic duty.

“Where are you going–” Izzy couldn’t finish, the odd determination in your eyes as you were leaving the bar assuring that she would watch your spot until you got back. Along the way, you retrieved a couple shot glasses and some tequila, not preferential, but your trail didn’t offer many options. 

You started off trying to stick to the fringe where there were at least small spaces to infiltrate. You lacked the physical presence to part the crowd, but you knew the layout like a second home, even when you were unable to see over heads and weaving bodies moving to a thunderous rhythm. Your own body reacted to it naturally, a little sway in your hips as you bobbed along. 

Navigating through the club got easier with time, the flush of bodies dragging you closer to the center as you tried not to step on people’s feet or be stepped on in return. Someone pinched your ass at one point, but it had become too familiar a gesture; you hardly bat an eye. 

The crowd pressed in on all sides was hardly an obstacle. Every move was instinctual. 

“Havin’ a good time, boys?”

Hair-Trigger Temper was less than enthused to see you, glancing at his partner, as though you might be something that he needed saved from too. You brandished a smile, undeniably charming but a facade to those who knew how to read it. So far during your time in The Million, no one had. These two were not the proven exception. 

“Not now, Love. I look like I need company?” Hair-Trigger Temper said around another drag of the cigarette, barely sparing a glance out of his peripherals.

“I could,” the partner replied, which earned him a glare, the other man’s eye visibly twitching. “You’re hardly a comfort most days, Mate.” He reasoned.

“And you have a very shootable face, but I don’t fuckin’ shoot it, now do I?”

The partner ignored his remark, waving you into the booth beside himself despite the other’s clear disinterest in welcoming you. “Don’t worry about my brother there. He never has a good time.”

Hair-Trigger Temper hoisted his empty glass in a less-than-enthused salute. “I am having a bloody good fucking time. Or I can at least act like I am.”

“If this–” you gestured between the two, “–is your idea of acting, then clearly the drama teacher at that fancy posh school of yours really failed you.”

The other man didn’t have time to remark, having leaned forward in his seat, before his partner cut in. “You pretty good at assumin’ about people, then?” 

“You get pretty good at it in a place like this,” you answered with a shrug.

His next question came with a sudden enthusiasm. “Do you know Thomas the Tank Engine?”

Clearly this was a topic that was brought up frequently, considering Hair-Trigger Temper’s aggravated exclamation of oh here we fucking go and the other pulling a sticker book from the pockets of his coat. He opened it up, many missing, the outline still visible in the backing paper. A subtle shake of your head answered his question, and he began pointing out the various colored locomotives. 

“Take Tangerine here, right? He’s a Gordon–this blue one–” he pointed. “–and Gordon is the strongest. He doesn’t always listen to others. He’s typically the first choice for pulling special engines, but I can also argue that he’s a Thomas because he’s very cheeky, and can be impatient–”

“What’s that now, Lemon?” Tangerine raised his eyebrows. 

“You–” Lemon hummed, addressing you. “I think you might be a Boco.”

“Boco?”

“He’s a diesel engine. Reasonable. Level-headed. That’s what I’m getting from you.” He peeled one of the stickers from the book and handed it to you. You took it, looking over the weird, and somewhat creepy green engine. You weren’t sure what to make of that. Accurate, you guessed.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you decided without too much contemplation. “I’m–I’m sorry–” You furrowed your brows, waving between the two. “Did you say that your names were Lemon and Tangerine?”

“It’s really sophisticated,” Lemon said.

“It’s hardly important.” Tangerine said at the same time. 

“It sounds like your names should be reversed,” the corners of your lips twitched. “If we’re going by personality archetypes.” 

Lemon grinned, jabbing his thumb at you. “I like her.”

Tangerine rolled his eyes, waving at you dismissively. “That’s great, Lemon. You know what Thomas would say? He’d say we’re on a job and to have the lass bugger off so we can get shit done and fuck off.”

“He wouldn’t say that. Thomas isn’t an asshole–”

“You’re also the most obvious at showing you’re on a job,” that caught Tangerine and Lemon’s attention both, albeit Tangerine was leaning toward you, Lemon announcing that he had to use the loo before he was sliding out of the booth. You paid him no mind, your eyes focused solely on Tangerine. If looks could kill, you’d be dead a million times over, but that hardly deterred you. “I’ve worked here for a long time, and I can tell when a man in here isn’t supposed to be.”

He scoffed, straightening the flaps of his jacket as he shifted in the booth. You propped your chin on your hand, your elbow perched on the table. “You going to sell me out to the cops?”

“I could probably find a few if I look behind me.” You tilted your head. “They’re not as obvious as you are, but still not impossible to pick out.”

“You offering me advice?”

“I don’t know what advice I could give you.” You shrugged. “Aren’t you supposed to be the expert?”

He narrowed his eyes, but something about the exchange had piqued his interest. “You got a name, Love?”

You scoffed at the mediocrity of the question. Names were hardly important in The Million compared to the faces, and down here, you didn’t think that a single girl went by their actual name. It was like having a completely different life between two doors, and each part was as much a stranger as the other. “You don’t care about that, Sweetie. Trust me.”

“Try me.”

“I’ll tell you what,” you slid the bottle of tequila that you’d brought between you. “If you want to know so badly,” You tapped against the glass with your nail. “Let’s play a game.”

“You’re serious–”

“Assume something about me. If you’re right, I'll take a drink. If you’re not, then you take a drink.” Simple. “It usually ends when one or the other is too plastered to keep going.” 

Tangerine worked a tick in his jaw, and you thought that you saw his eye twitch. “You allowed to do that on the job?”

“My job is to entertain. There’s not exactly a list of parameters.” 

At first, it looked as if he’d refuse, glancing from you, to the bottle, then back at you. Another flickering glance toward the bathroom, but something told you that Lemon wasn’t there. You raised your eyebrow, waving your shot glass. 

He sighed, but ultimately, he humored you. “You work at The Million.”

“Ah-ah. Ladies first.” You interjected, folding your arms on the table, holding his glare with an assuming stare of your own. You hummed thoughtfully, but went with the easiest first. “Your real name isn’t Tangerine.”

Tangerine scoffed. “That’s bloody fuckin’ obvious, innit?” Sharp eyes darted down as you pushed the shot glass toward him, and he rolled his eyes before knocking it back, cigarette still clasped in his other hand, beginning to burn down to the filter. The fingers clasping the cigarette rubbed at a spot between his eyebrows. “You’re from around here.”

“Now who’s being obvious,” you said but took a drink. You were a good sport after all and could handle the heat being thrown back at you. Men were cocky for a myriad of reasons, but the most common ones that walked through the door were insecure, wanted to be noticed, or were all talk, no action. You hadn’t yet deciphered what exactly Tangerine was, but something told you that he was in a different category all on his own. “Upstate wasn’t fun. I was born and raised here and homesickness brought me back. What do you want me to say?”

Tangerine hummed as if what he was looking for wasn’t answered. You wouldn’t make it easy for him, not that it mattered. It was your turn.

“Lemon isn’t really your brother.”

“Adopted.”

Damn. You took a drink. 

Tangerine cleared his throat, the mix of tequila and tobacco a sour combination in a confined space that reeked of sweat and heat. “You’re expecting a tip for this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Men at that club don’t just tip because they appreciate the girls, sweetheart. They tip where they can show off. We learn not to expect anything, and a fifty–”

“Bit of a cheapskate–.”

“—is already a lot more than the girls usually get from one guy on a good day.”

“So what’s this–” he waved across the table between the two of you. “Little game gonna cost me?” 

“That depends on the guy and my mood most days,” you leaned back in the booth, the shot glass clasped precariously in your thumb and index finger, teetering back and forth. “In your case…” You clicked your tongue. “Two-hundred.”

He gaped. “That’s bloody outrageous!”

“It’s the economy, baby.” You smirked with a hint of teasing. “I gotta be upfront with you, if you can’t pay you’re gonna have to find yourself another girl. Unless this is some elaborate ruse just to get a girl to do an honest night’s work. You trying to rehabilitate me?” 

“Right…” Another roll of his eyes. “I have a little more dignity than the pricks down here who have to pay for someone’s time.”

“So you have women jumping to do it for free pretty often?”

“You’re just taking the piss now aren’t you?” He said, but moved on at your shrug, the game hardly holding his interest, but it kept him talking if nothing else. He sighed. “You've always been in this line of work.”

“Super wrong. You’d better take two shots for that.”

“What?” He began to argue, but you slapped your shot glass onto the table beside his, waving it over. 

“Absolutely not. Drink.” You leaned back, refusing to take the shot glass back until he did in fact obey the order. “I’ve worked a little bit everywhere, and it did not include working in places like this.”

His brows furrowed. “You act like it wasn’t your first choice.”

“It was the easiest choice.” You clarified. “The girls in here don’t work here because they want to unless they’re really crazy. They’re usually–”

“Hiding.” He guessed.

You nodded. “I’m hardly any different from them if you hadn’t noticed, but nothing I feel obligated to share with you and that’ll cost you an extra hundred. Easy.” You waved it off dismissively. 

“I’m starting to see a pattern with you,” he confided, bobbing his head. He snuffed out the cigarette in the ashtray, which you figured was as close to his full attention as you would get. “You hold personal information over these ripe prick’s heads so that they’ll pay you whatever you want to get it, right? Must have some good fucking secrets.”

“I told you that it depends on the customer. Maybe it’s just you.” Another shrug, crossing your legs underneath the table. The brunt of your shoulders pressed against the booth’s seat. “Maybe I make it that way so people don’t ask.” 

“I asked your name. How are you going to tell me if this game is about assuming shit?” 

“Maybe it’s just you.” You repeated. “You’re doing a job for Big Man.” 

He took a drink, and you only bobbed your head in confirmation. “Lookin’ for a specific bloke for him. Someone is apparently snitching on his side business.” 

“He could’ve asked any of his girls to do that. Would’ve been a lot cheaper, I’m sure.” 

“He was looking for a professional to handle it.”

“You?” You scoffed, raising your eyebrows incredulously. “No one sees and hears more in here than we do Sweetheart, trust me. We just don’t get paid enough to say anything about it.” You turned your head, then jerked it toward a particular booth seat where a group of men were playing cards, women housed in each lap laughing in a way that you knew was fake at something that you were equally sure wasn’t funny. “Gray suit is a land developer, he and his wife live out of state but they’re renting in town and he is here to swindle a few million out of a local charity bank under the idea that he’s donating land to build extra housing.” 

You cocked your head to the next. “Mobster, but like all the others, afraid of the Black Death. Hardly anything more than the street corner he hangs out on.” Then the next. “Deputy Sheriff. Let’s a few deals slide for about forty percent of the profits unless he’s raised it since last week.” And then: “I’m pretty sure that guy is running for cabinet. Anything that you don’t hear or see in here, you can find out from a quick Google search or on someone’s Facebook page.” 

Tangerine almost looked impressed, but you hardly needed that affirmation from him. 

“And that’s on a Thursday. You come out on a Saturday and you might catch a glimpse of the Mayor.” 

“If he’s snitching on his side business, he’d be a right idiot to come in here wouldn’t he?”

“It’s the best place to find out about Big Man’s business if you are interested. It’s why he invited you and your brother here, I’ll bet.” You gathered the shot glasses in your hand, then the bottle. “But that’s hardly any of my business.”

“Where you goin’ now?”

“It looks like my time is up and I’m out two hundred.” You sighed, although you didn't find yourself completely disappointed. “Unless you’re saying that you actually enjoy my company?”

Tangerine scoffed, digging around in the pockets of his suit pants until he brandished a few crumpled bills–hundreds–onto the table in between you. 

You raised an eyebrow. “You paying for more of my time?”

“Paying for the time that I did take.” He corrected. “I’m not always a right arsehole.” 

You picked up the crumpled bills gingerly between your fingers, counted them out. There were three one hundred dollar bills there, an incentive, you figured. “You want to know what I’m hiding from?” You guessed.

“I want to know your name,” he corrected. He was rising as well, and you noticeably barely came up to his chest. There was a certain proximity between you, but the little distance never became so apparent until you actually stood up. You looked up at him, suddenly wading through a different kind of beast, shifting its shape and swallowing you up. 

You scoffed some kind of incredulous laugh. Three hundred dollars for an introduction seemed like a scam that even you felt bad about taking advantage of, even with all the dickheads that crowded The Million.

You didn’t see this guy as a dickhead. Not entirely. Not yet. 

But you knew how to hold up your end of a deal.

You shoved the bills into your pocket.

Then you introduced yourself.

[sarifel-corrisafid-ilxhel]

Terrible Animorphs Movie Ideas

The Animorphs 'fight' Hork-Bajir by just knocking them over and then the blades on the Hork-Bajir mean they get stuck to the floor.

Almost nobody dies in the movie. The only blood is from mostly from dramatic superficial cuts, and no gore. Tobias doesn't go for the eyes, he just drops bricks on people's heads.

Morphing is super duper quick and barely follows any of its own rules from the books. Everybody just wears their normal street clothes.

The Taxxons are funny, round, yellow, and we only see them a few times. They always run away when there's a fight.

Visser Three is the obligatory twist villain, which is weird because you'd think he was the villain anyways, but no it turns out Alloran was never a Controller, Esplin is just his Yeerk Empire codename, but even that's not the twist because the real twist is he's about to attempt another genocide as soon as he finds the Time Matrix and can erase the Yeerk homeworld from ever existing. He has been chasing the stupid white ball of destiny like Ahab with a whale and using the Yeerks to row his boat. He is insane. Unhinged. He has a scar over one eye and a beard. Later he dies by falling off a ledge, but we never actually see him hit the ground.

Tom actually dies near the end. At the funeral, Jake's internal monologue and murderous glare at Chapman suggest he wants to erase the Yeerks from existence just like Alloran wanted to. This is played off as good and heroic, like he has found his reason to fight, even though he didn't not have a reason previously.

The pacing is all off. There are multiple school dances mentioned. Has the movie covered three days or five months? They never make it clear.

Tobias does get trapped as a bird early on, but is surprisingly chill and non-angsty about it. He mostly helps Marco crack jokes. He ends up being less of a character and more of a team mascot, filling the usual Funny Talking Animal role. There is an ET reference where Jake bicycles off a hill with Tobias sitting in the basket on the front of his bicycle for some reason.

The merch is terrible and gets Jake's hair color wrong frequently. Does he have black hair? Blond hair? Brown hair? Is Ginger Jake real and can he hurt you? We don't know.

Rachel's outfits are a mishmash of "Punk Rock Barbie" and "The Eighties".

Marco gets zero merchandise. Tobias merch is everywhere, which is odd since the movie was mostly from Jake's persepctive. Cassie's merch all features an outfit she never wore in the movie.

The ending tries to set up a Visser One sequel hook, but does such a terrible job of explaining who or what or why anyone should care that it just leaves audiences confused.

They never show us an Andalite. Elfangor is only mentioned in the voiceover at the beginning, which is set over a scene of Jake bicycling to school in rainy weather. Ax isn't anywhere in the movie.

[baejax-the-great]

I've been tagged by @ziskandra, @salesmain @redmapleleavesonwhitesnow @cataliinaa @queenoftherandomword for a bunch of different "get to know you" memes and I read them all but for some reason froze on being able to respond, so now I've mashed a bunch of them together to make a new monster one (okay I also deleted questions I didn't feel like answering).

Share your wallpaper:

This is the wallpaper on my desktop, a bethistair piece I won in a give away from @pauvre-lola 💕

The last song you listened to: '39 by Queen

Currently Reading: The War that Killed Achilles by Caroline Alexander and Assassin's Apprentice by Robin Hobb

Last Movie: Everything Everywhere All at Once with @johaerys-writes

Craving: Black sesame balls =( it's been eighty years...

What are you wearing right now: My last functional hoodie that is nonetheless completely falling apart

How tall are you: 5'9 and a bit. The bit is important. The bit lets me round up to 5'10 and not feel so sad about my height. My dad calls me shrimpy =(

Piercings: My ears, but it turns out I'm allergic to most metals

Tattoos: Nope

Glasses? Contacts?: Glasses with red frames, though my eyesight isn't all that bad.

Last drink: I am currently drinking an iced coffee

Last show: Uhhh... I've been watching Abbot Elementary while working out

Last thing you ate: Cinnamon granola

Favourite colour: Listen, all colors have their place. I just feel old enough to admit that I don't really have a favorite. I like jewel tones. I like colorful things. Blue, green, and purple make me happy, but so does yellow. You know? Like life is better with colors and I'm tired of pretending I care about one wavelength of light above all others.

Current obsession: Honestly I could do with a good obsession. My biggest time sink right now is probably Persona 5.

Unrelated Obsession: I suppose some might say my houseplants might qualify as an obsession. Having me on snapchat means getting daily updates on them.

Any pets:

Do you have a crush on anyone: My heart is an empty, black abyss

Favourite fictional character: Okay if picking a favorite color was a bit much for me, you really think I'm gonna pick out of all the fictional people I know which one is my *favorite*?? You must be kidding yourself.  But you know what, since I'm playing Persona 5 right now, I just think everyone should be a little nicer to Ryuji.

The last place you traveled: I suppose that would be Madison, Wisconsin. But if we are talking about an actual vacation situation, I went to Hawaii in 2019. I am currently trying to convince myself to travel to Europe this autumn and that it won't be a waste because I'll have a migraine the entire time. I am losing this battle. I have had a migraine since the first week of February. (I did have a migraine in Hawaii while floating in the ocean and looking at a rainbow. Not sure I can recommend the experience, but it was kind of... yeah.)

Okay tagging forward (but feel free to ignore this, as I did for like... months): @juliafied @alibonbonn @gladiolus---amicitia @johaerys-writes @nerdierholler @vimlos @swaps55 @sugar-peanut-cat @sugarspunquill

[aita-alternia]

one time my kismesis got mistaken for jade and they almost shoved him into the caverns until he did a blood color test right there :/

was messy he used a knife and everything :0

olive sprayed everywhere, they still almost took him because his blood was just on the verge but he was officially registered as olive so they couldn’t :\

it was really awkward and I was like eighty percent sure we were gonna get culled :(

dunno how my life keeps circling back to jade stuff :|

to be fair the cloister thing was on me and it’s the last time I do a favour like that :I

the jade I ‘escorted’ out of the cloister is doing well by the way :)

they’re absolutely still cloistered don’t worry (no they aren’t but I’m playing a little game called lying haha) ;)

GOG D^MN??? YE^H NO Y^LL ^RE LUCKY ^S FUCK HIS ^SS DIDNT GET CULLED LOLLL

[bylertruther]

This might be an odd complaint but I really don’t like how people act like Byler endgame would just excuse every other shitty thing that’s been done to everyone but conveniently attractive presumably straight white men in this show writing-wise. I’d be more than happy to have Byler be endgame and I expect it, but the amount of racism that’s been brushed off is ridiculous in and outside of the show. The weird St*ncy moments this season, the fact that she doesn’t get a storyline related to her trauma. Even season three was incredibly white of them. Joyce not getting hardly any scenes with Jonathan and Will these recent seasons. All of it and more—it won’t suddenly go away and make everyone on that writing team geniuses. And this isn’t to sound ungrateful or anything, but it really is disappointing sometimes. They exceed tremendously at some points such as the Upside Down lore but as for other aspects…

i don't think it's an odd complaint. it makes me think of those people who, when reccing something, will just say "you'd like it, it has gay people" as if that's a statement of substance.

there will always be people of the "i can excuse racism and misogyny, but i draw the line at queerbaiting 😤" variety, and while it is important to be critical of the media you engage with, i... have come to accept that some people just don't care lol. even when it comes to the gay shit a lot of people still don't care to engage with it in a deeper, more meaningful way, and instead prefer to just make their own shit up that's more superficial and doesn't even align with the themes of the show or the characters themselves. literally just look at the popularly held fanon here and how people treat anyone that disagrees with it lol.

it's upsetting, especially when you're part of the groups that these writing decisions affect, but that's just the way the cookie crumbles sometimes. this show is written and helmed primarily by white people, the fandom consists of many people who are nostalgic for the bigotry of the eighties, as well as people who don't particularly care to interact with the deeper themes it contains, and that will chide you for speaking about the actual text of the show. obviously not everyone is like that, but there's a reason why it can be so miserable to engage with st content literally everywhere.

we're inevitably going to see people call them the best writers ever (assuming all goes well lmao), as if they haven't made a million missteps with how they treat their characters of color and their female characters. and if things don't go well, then that's probably when they'll bring up those two issues as a sort of "well, what did we expect when x and y happened" even though they literally never talked about it or cared about it until the writers did something that suddenly affected them personally.

[umlewis]

China 2007 - Post-quali press conference

Interviewer: "Lewis, you looked like you enjoyed that one?" Lewis: "I always enjoy getting pole position. Even just qualifying, generally. If you don't get pole it's still quite intense and quite a rush. It's not an easy thing knowing that you only have one opportunity on the tires and it's the difference between pole position and fifth or something. But the team did a very good job. We changed our strategy a bit, getting me out earlier, which gave us a bit more leverage time-wise and I'm very pleased." Interviewer: "What was the strategy behind using just the one set of soft tires?" Lewis: "I wasn't sure which was best. Normally the soft is best, but I was struggling to manage the tire and make it last for a single lap, so in Q1 I used the hard tire and in Q2 the soft, and I was still unsure which one was better. So in Q3 we went into the first run with the hard tire and then I said, let's just go for it, and I went for the soft tire and risked it. Also the Ferraris have been on the softer tire, which seemed to work, so I just had to do it." Interviewer: "We're expecting bad weather tomorrow. How much did that color your strategy for qualifying and even the set-up?" Lewis: "Well, there's a seventy to eighty percent chance of rain tomorrow, but the weather looked pretty good, although the wind was picking up, and you never know what's going to happen here. It rained here last year, but we couldn't go into qualifying saying, let's set the car up for the wet. We just had to do the best job we could. Everyone will be in the same boat tomorrow if it does rain, so, strategy-wise, we stuck to what we were going to do anyway. We've covered the ground and I think we are in a good position." Interviewer: "And from a championship point of view? Obviously pole position couldn't be better." Lewis: "Absolutely. It's the place I needed to be and obviously this weekend I came here on Friday, I was quite happy with my first lap yesterday, being my first time here. I only walked the majority of the track in the dark. But I managed to do quite a good time at the beginning and to improve on that was not easy, and I think the more experienced guys had a slight advantage. It's not an easy circuit, so I've just been chipping away at it and chipping away, and after P3 I still didn't have the exact pace I wanted, and straight out in qualifying I managed to find the majority of it... [sound problem] Is there a DJ in the house?" Interviewer: "Because in fact up until now, you've been fourth most of the time in the sessions, so have there been set-up problems?" Lewis: "Well, as you know, you go into qualifying with one set-up and you can't change it. The only thing you can do is opt for a little bit more or less front wing. I've been really happy with my balance. The car was right, I just needed to adapt my driving in certain areas and there's so little time to do that. You attack one lap and you plan to do something and you might overshoot the corner or whatever, so bit by bit I was trying to improve my driving style and out there. There was a better time I was looking for, and for that lap I think the car was pretty sweet and it was a very smooth lap and the rhythm was really good."

(Mathias Brunner – Motorsport Aktuell) Lewis, you've pointed out how much the wind has picked up since yesterday. How much did that affect driving? LH: For me, not that much. Obviously we have a tail-wind going into turn one and so just a little bit more understeer than perhaps this morning or yesterday but everywhere else it seems to help through turn seven and turn eight, so it doesn't really hurt or make the lap any harder.

And is there a cross-wind on the straight? LH: I've not noticed a cross-wind.

(Jia Chen – King Sports) Question to Lewis. You have already won two chaotic races in Canada and Japan, so do you hope it will rain tomorrow? LH: No, not really. I think it would be good to have a dry race. We've experienced wet conditions in the last race and it's tricky for everyone and it's just – I wouldn't say easier – but it's just different, so it's a cool race when you're… perhaps a little bit closer when it's dry and you don't get all the spray and it's not so difficult to follow each other and so I'm not bothered. Either way we've got a good car in the dry and wet and as you can see from last weekend, the car's very good in the wet, so if it rains, I will be just as happy as if it's dry.

(Heikki Kulta – Turun Sanomat) Lewis, do you hope that the storm comes and the race will be cancelled? LH: No. Do you know what? I'm really surprised that you've asked me a question because all season you've not asked me one question. Whenever you get the microphone I know the question's going to Kimi. No, I think no, I just want to race. I'm going into tomorrow not thinking hey, this is the championship. There are still two races left and that's the way you've got to look at it. I will try to do the best job I can tomorrow, finish in the points and then we'll see what happens afterwards but I want to race. I hate all this preparation and then the race is stopped or you finish on the first lap. I love to have a real battle and a challenge.

(Livio Oricchio – O Estado de Sao Paulo) Question to all drivers. After everything that's happened in the last few days, is it clear now what the rules are, how to behave behind the safety car? LH: I don't think it's ever been that clear. I think it's clearer but I think we understand a little bit better but I put my hand up after yesterday and perhaps I didn't do the best job under the safety car in the wet but it was my first experience in the wet conditions behind the safety car. It was tricky for everyone, visibility was the biggest problem but I think we have a better idea or at least, if I was leading again in those conditions under a safety car, I would do the best job I can to do a better job. I don't know about these guys…

(Paolo Ianieri – La Gazzetta dello Sport) Lewis, to win the race tomorrow would be the perfect way to win the championship. Are you going to try to win the race or are you going to play it more conservatively considering that you can also work on your advantage? LH: I'm going to try to win the race. When I play golf, and I'm in the bushes, I don't play safe, I go for the trees and it's a similar thing tomorrow. I'm not going to go out and let people past. I'm going to try to win the race but obviously be sensible and the important thing is to finish the race, to do the best job I can.

Lewis, I want to know, do you think you can replace Alonso, the former champion and will create your own times? LH: I don't know. I haven't really thought about it but it's been a phenomenal season and I really don't know what to say. I came into the season just hoping to do a good job and it's just been a mind-blowing season for me and I think for my whole team and for everyone in the Formula One paddock with everything that's gone on. It will be great to win the World Championship. If not, there's always another… I'm only 22, so I've got a long long time here hopefully.

(Paolo Ianieri – La Gazzetta dello Sport) Was there any moment yesterday evening when you were talking to the stewards that you feared that you might get a penalty? LH: Well I'm the type of person that as soon as I heard that they wanted to see me, I always think the worst, that's just like my dad. He thinks of the worst things that can happen and thinks that that is going to happen to you and they were going to call me up and I just immediately accepted the fact that I would almost probably get a penalty here and for what, I don't know. Obviously when I went in I told them my views and they listened to the other drivers and they came out. For me, it was obviously the best decision. I think it was right and so I was quite happy and I was quite relieved last night. I was able to get rid of that heavy bag that was on my shoulders and there's already a huge weight on my shoulders from leading the World Championship but this and all these extra bits, it wasn't really needed.

[coffieolore]

Chapter Four

The End of Everything

The gate squeaks as Ama shoulders it. She saunters onto the open compound, a bag of water sachets drooping from each hand.

Music thumps from inside the house ahead, shadows in the windows twisting and swaying to the beat. And on the porch, a handful of Ama’s classmates drink and talk in pairs or small groups. Some of them still have their graduation gowns on.

Ama shed hers hours ago for the red dress underneath, right after the ceremony was over. Gone are the heels as well. The left one snapped off during her errand, and in her frustration, she had kicked them off to proceed barefoot. Whatever, they were cheap things anyway. Her friends had been begging her to let them replace them for years.

As Ama arrives at the porch, a classmate offers to help her with the bags.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she says, climbing up the front steps. Another classmate helps by opening the door.

Ama winces as the lights and sound hit her. It was dark outside, and she is not delighted by the sudden invasion of flashing colors. She can feel the bass of blaring Afrobeats music in her bones. Weaving between writhing guests and gyrating couples, she makes her way to the kitchen, where Joey is waiting for her.

Joey sighs with relief when he sees the bags. “You’re everything, you know that? Whoa, be careful!”

Ama is lifting the bags onto the counter, and one of them bursts when it lands too heavily on the linoleum. Water sachets tumble out and slide all over the counter top. Thankfully, none of them break.

“Sorry,” Ama says.

“You and your gorilla strength.”

“I thought we agreed to call it Herculean. Gorilla? Don’t make me smack you.”

“With those hands? I fear for my life. Seriously though,” he says with a grin, “thank you. I really need to keep these idiots hydrated. There’s beer everywhere, and I don’t even know where it’s coming from. Last thing I need is an army of blind-drunk graduates tearing my house apart.”

“Don’t mention it,” says Ama. “Thanks again for being so cool about Chi. There really is no one to watch her at home. I’d have had to skip this if you hadn’t let me bring her with me.”

He grins, running a hand through his kinky twists. “You don’t have to explain yourself. Chichi is my little sister too as far as I’m concerned. This party is just as much hers as it is ours.”

“Someone should tell that to them,” Ama says, nodding at the couple just outside the kitchen door. She and Joey watch for an awkward moment as their distinguished colleague twerks with spirited vigor all over her dance partner’s groin.

“Yeah,” Ama says, “bringing Chi was not a great idea, was it?”

Joey laughs. “On second thought.”

“Where is Chi anyway?”

There is a flash of mild panic in Joey’s eyes. “Um, Edem was watching her. Wait, here she is.”

It isn’t Chichi, but Edem who is walking through the door, emptying a beer bottle.

“Where’s Ama’s sister?” he asks before Ama can.

Edem burps. “Upstairs. She was getting sleepy so I put her in your bedroom.”

Ama frowns. “It is getting pretty late. I should find her before some horny couple tries to use the room for you know…hanky-panky. She’s already living through one trauma, she doesn’t need another.”

“Hanky-panky?” Joey looks like he might die of amusement. “What’re you, eighty?”

“You know what I mean, shut up.”

“Wait, I’ll come with you.”

Joey follows Ama back into the crowd. As they climb the stairs, he says, “You know I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.” The music is so loud here, he’s practically barking straight down her ear.

“Oh? What?”

They reach the upper floor, where the volume is a few notches below auditory torture, before he continues, “So we’ve been friends since primary school, right?”

“Class Four,” Ama says.

He nods. “Right. And we know each other pretty well. I mean, I like you, you like me.”

“Wow, you’ve really nailed the fundamentals of friendship, eh? You should start a podcast,” she teases.

He ignores the jab, suddenly looking nervous. “I’m saying we really like each other, and I’ve always admired you. I mean, to me you’ve always been all kinds of amazing, you know?”

Ama stops walking, as it dawns on her where this is going. She feels immediately self-conscious. “Joey—” she mumbles.

“No, please let me finish.” His laugh is awkward, as though he can already sense the situation going down in flames. “If I’m going to embarrass myself, I might as well do it right. I-I really like you Ama. Like, like you like you.”

Ama can’t look him in the eye as she lets him finish.

“I was wondering if sometime later this week, we could catch a movie. But not as just friends,” he says. “As…more.”

Ama struggles to lift her eyes off the floor, and by the time she does, he can’t look at her either. The sliver of hope with which he started this conversation has already faded. She killed it with unspoken words alone, and now, she attempts a few spoken ones. “Joey, I’m sorry—”

“No, I’m sorry. This was stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“No, no, it’s not you. It’s just, I’m sort of seeing someone right now.”

This takes Joey by surprise. “What? Someone else? Who? Wait, how? How long?”

“You don’t know him. It’s been a little over a year.”

Joey is incredulous. “How could I possibly not know him? Ama, we go to the same school, and I spend almost every waking hour with you. Where did you meet him?”

Ama sighs. “I can’t really say. It’s complicated.”

“I’ll bet it is.”

“Hey!”

“If you’re going to reject me, the least you can do is be honest with me, leave me with some dignity. But lying about some mystery guy? That’s insulting.”

“I’m not lying,” Ama snaps, annoyed now. “But you obviously have. How long have you felt this way? All this time I thought things were fine between us—”

“They were, they are!”

“But you’ve been harboring all these mushy feelings for me, and now I’m supposed to—”

“Mushy feelings? Oh, that’s really mature,” Joey says as Ama talks over him.

“—stop my world for you because now you have feelings?” Ama finishes, tears welling up in her eyes. “That’s not fair!”

Her last words are loud, and a girl walking by keeps her head down and tries to get away from them as quickly as she can. Joey looks away, and so does Ama.

“I…” Joey finally utters. “I should go down and check the water situation.” His anger has already melted away, as it is inclined to do, leaving behind a quiet sort of sadness that breaks Ama’s heart, in spite of her own ire.

Still, her tone is edged in ice when she answers, “You do that.”

She doesn’t look in his direction till a few seconds later, and by then she is standing alone. Their angry words bounce around in her head, only hurting so much more because she told him the truth.

Joey is more than just her best friend. He is the One, in a sense. The one with whom she shares her favorite jokes. The one she talks to when she’s had a hard day. The one around whom she plans most of her weekends. To top it off, Joey is one of the kindest people in her life. She knows in her heart that, were it not for Selasi—and the indisputable fact that she is in love with him—she might have considered Joey’s confession. That Joey thinks she would lie to him just to get out of giving ‘them’ a chance?

Ama stews in her wretched feelings for a moment longer, before storming down the corridor to Joey’s bedroom.

“Chi? You asleep?” she calls as she steps in. She freezes in the doorway.

There was movement in the darkness when she opened the door: a flitting of something small and slight, from the bed where Chichi is sleeping to the pocket of darkness in the farthest left corner of the room, just beyond the window. It looked like a cat. But that was no cat; the sunsum is all wrong.

Ama steps into the room, and gently closes the door behind her.

“I would step out if I were you,” Ama says, in the severest tone she can muster. “It may be the difference between whether or not you leave this place with your limbs attached.”

A moment passes. And then, the figure steps into the light from the window. She is a silhouette against the meager light, but Ama recognizes the lissome frame in its high-waisted, flower patterned kaba, and the dark hair tightly bound into twin buns, small and round like bofrot.

“Hemmaa?” Ama says.

Hemmaa is a member of Mama Wu’s inner circle of beyifo; the five exceptional warrior witches who accompany her on dangerous assignments like hired bodyguards. After Selasi, she seems to be Mama Wu’s favorite; or she gets the most attention anyway. Ama met her a handful of times during her training.

“Hello Ama,” Hemmaa says.

“Hi,” says Amma. “Long time.”

“Yes, it has.”

Ama waits.

“Oh yes,” Hemmaa says, as if only just remembering why she is here. “I was sent to ask you about something.”

“Oh? Mama Wu sent you?”

Hemmaa’s head bobs yes.

“I’ve been hoping to see her in person,” Ama says. “She still owes me, you know?”

“Owes you?”

“A cure?” Ama says.

Hemmaa is silent.

“For Chichi’s illness?” Ama pushes.

“Ah yes,” Hemmaa says, snapping her fingers. “That’s actually what I’m here to talk to you about.”

“Is that right?” Ama says.

“Yes, yes. I was sent to tell you the cure is on its way. She’s almost done. She eh, she can’t wait.”

“Wow. Thank you for telling me that. I appreciate it.”

Ama can’t see Hemmaa’s smile, but she can hear it forced in her next words: “Of course.”

Ama nods. “Good.”

Hemmaa nods back. “Awesome.”

Silence.

“So,” Hemmaa says, throwing a cavalier glance in Chichi’s direction. “I guess I’ll just head out then.”

“Alright. Thanks for stopping by.”

Hemmaa turns to slip back into the shadows. As she takes her first step, Ama says, “Hey, one quick question before you go.”

Hemmaa stops mid-step. “Yes?”

“If you’re only here to deliver a message,” Ama says, “then why is your aura cloaked?”

Time stops in the small pocket of semi-darkness.

Hemmaa flashes towards Chichi, and in the half-second it takes her to reach the bed, Ama flies across the room and crashes into her.

They smash through the window, surrounded by a splash of twinkling shards, flailing through free fall, the night sky swiveling around them, the concrete below swinging up towards them…

They hit the ground.

Ama breaks her neck.

OOO

Ama wakes up to the sound of her own neck snapping back into place. She lets out a sharp, guttural cry, as the broken femur in her left leg mends with a crackle, and then a pained gasp when the ball in her right shoulder thuds back into its socket. She scrambles to sit up, trying to shake the haze out of her head. Her sight is blurry, but slowly clearing up. Her hearing is muffled for the first five seconds, and then everything comes rushing in.

Her classmates are pouring out of the house, and there’s screaming. Some stare aghast from the porch, more spill onto the compound. A few are coming over to help her.

“No, stay back!” Ama screams, as she staggers to her feet. She is barefoot, and broken glass crunches underneath her feet. She can feel the flesh in her soles healing around the jagged pieces. They will be a chore to remove later.

Hemmaa is already back on her feet. Unlike Ama, she has no cuts and bruises to heal. Mama Wu’s beyifo are well-adept at self-fortifications and impact absorption patterns. She is built of tougher stuff, literally.

“What the hell?” Ama spits. “You came here to kill her?”

“Sorry, Ama,” Hemmaa says, as champagne wisps of light engulf her. There are gasps and screams from their audience, as the light twists and bends her bones, warps and reshapes her flesh, coating her in tan-brown fur. In two blinks, she is a hulking lioness the size of an SUV. “This isn’t about you,” Hemmaa snarls through the creature’s maw. “But if you make it, I’m happy to oblige.”

“This has to be some mistake,” Ama says. “I want to speak with Mama Wu. Let me speak with her first. Please!”

“Get out of my way, Ama.”

“Are you listening to me?” Ama’s frustration is boiling into anger. “You are not touching my sister!”

There is a flash of red light, and another round of gasps and screams from Ama’s classmates. Ama looks down to see her fingers firmly wrapped around the handle of her double-ended staff. She summoned her own witch-arm without even realizing it.

“Ama?” Chichi calls above her.

Ama looks up to see her sister leaning carefully through the broken window with frightened eyes.

“Baby, stay there!” Ama calls back.

When Ama looks back at Hemmaa, the lioness is springing towards her. Ama jumps back, narrowly avoiding two wild swipes at her face, the curved claws carving the air with glints of light.

Ama’s head is giddy with adrenalin, her muscles tensed into stone, as she and Hemmaa circle each other. Hemmaa snarls, her tail flicking left, right, and about. Ama rotates her wrists, spreads her feet apart, and settles into a fighting stance, ready for Hemmaa to pounce.

But the lioness suddenly buckles, her back lifting, her spinal column jutting up and out against her furry skin. Her throat begins to constrict and ripple, as her eyes bulge and her ears flatten back against her head. She hacks and shivers, as though on the verge of throwing up.

Ama looks disgusted. “What the fu…”

A spasmodic heave, a shudder that lifts its fur in a wave from muzzle to rump, a blaze of her eyes; Hemmaa belches out a shockwave. The stream of sound blows out Ama’s eardrums and catches her in the chest at the same time, pitching her across the compound and into the border wall. Juddering, vicious pain wracks Ama’s body as she spits up blood.

This time, their onlookers erupt into all-out pandemonium and scatter like terrified ants. Not that Ama can hear any of it.

Before Ama can react, Hemmaa retches and spews another sonic boom. Ama is already in so much pain, she barely feels this one; it is a dull, flashing sensation that spreads through her chest, sloshing darkness across her vision like flung water. The wall crumbles around Ama, as the thunderous force of Hemmaa’s beyie sends her tumbling into the middle of the road outside.

As Ama’s eardrums pop back into mint condition, she is assaulted by the sound of her own bones fixing themselves, healing. The cracking has always made her nauseous. Ama tries to sit up, shaking from the shock, gasping for air.

Hemmaa bounds through the jagged hole in the wall, and as she saunters towards Ama, tail whishing behind her, she growls, “How are you still alive?”

Ama grits her bloody teeth. “I can regenerate, genius.”

“None of us heal that fast,” Hemmaa snaps, and launches herself at Ama.

Ama rolls backwards and out of the beast’s reach. Using the momentum, she pushes off the ground and onto her feet, and wills her witch-arm to return. From somewhere on the street, it flings itself to her. Ama catches its movement out of the corner of her eye, and snatches it out of the air just in time to deflect another of Hemmaa’s vicious swipes in a burst of sparks.

Ama twists about to deliver a kick to Hemmaa’s flank so powerful, the air snaps with the sound of caving ribs. Hemmaa snarls in pain and loses her footing against the gravel for a frantic second, before throwing herself at Ama again. Razor-sharp claws whistle uselessly over Ama’s head, as she rolls over, and jabs her witch-arm hard into the lioness’s side.

Hemmaa roars furiously. Ama sinks the weapon deeper into fur and flesh. But with Ama’s iron grip, all it takes Hemmaa is a wild tumble onto her back, a lithe twist, a violent turn, and Ama loses her balance. This time when Hemmaa lunges, her powerful jaws find Ama’s shoulder.

Ama screams and swears. Wrenching the witch-arm free, she kicks at the lioness to let go. The force is enough to separate them, but not before Hemmaa has already ripped out a generous chunk of her. Blood sprays the air.

Hemmaa throws her head back, and with an eager decisive snap, swallows her bite of Ama whole.

Ama is revolted. “Girl, just…why?” she says, even as her shoulder mends itself.

“I warned you, brat.” Hemaa is speaking in a tone, a manner, that Ama has never heard her use till now. She sounds old. Almost elderly. “I will remove you. Piece by piece, if I have to.”

Shaken, Ama reassumes her stance. She is poised to strike when a stream of wind, focused into a savage cyclone, blasts all five hundred pounds of Hemmaa off her feet and sends her hurtling down the street like a crash dummy.

Ama spins in the direction of the attack. A few yards away is a girl, about sixteen, with shoulder length twists, a wax print jacket over a tank top, and blue jeans. The fact that she is wrapped in bright blazing blue sunsum doesn’t stop Ama from immediately recognizing her cousin.

“Mansa?” she says in disbelief.

Mansa’s hands are outstretched, and she looks a little startled by what she has just done. “Hi Ama,” she says meekly.

Ama is bewildered, but also too desperate to overthink this moment. Pointing in the general direction of Hemmaa’s fall, she asks, “Can you keep her occupied?”

Mansa nods. “Go get Chichi.”

Her head swimming with questions, Ama rips her skirt up to her knees. She tosses the bothersome fabric away, and dashes back into Joey’s compound, bounding through the break in the wall. The power is out, and the place is deserted. No one stuck around for the rest of the show.

Ama finds Joey on the front porch and stops. He is just standing there in the darkness, staring petrified into the distance, until he notices Ama in front of him. Then he’s like a computer booting up. “Ama!”

“What are you still doing here? Are you crazy? Chi!” Ama cries, walking past him into the house and heading for the stairs. “Come out, Chi! We’re getting out of here!”

“Ama, wait!” Joey follows after her, yelling, “What’s going on? Who’s that other woman? How did you survive getting thrown through a friggin’ wall? What the hell is going on?”

He grabs her at the top of the stairs and forces her around. There is weak light here from the emergency solar lights in the ceiling, and he notices the witch-arm in Ama’s hand for the first time. “What the—” He backs away, releasing a string of stuttered swearing.

“Are you,” he stammers, eying the weapon. “Are you…?” He whispers the last word. “An alien?”

“Joey, listen to me carefully,” Ama says. “You have to get out of here. It’s not safe. Do you understand me?”

He just stares back, confused. So Ama walks away, and to her frustration, he follows her to his bedroom.

“Chi!” Ama calls.

“I’m in here!” Chi’s small voice comes from the closet in the wall.

Ama throws the doors to the closet open to find her little sister curled up in the corner, partly obstructed by a row of hanging jackets. “Come to me, baby,” she says, even as Chichi leaps into her arms.

Their embrace lasts two seconds. Then, Ama is pulling her along, out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

“If we’re running, we should take one of the cars,” Joey says, behind Ama every step.

Ama whirls around. “Can we really?” she asks, wide eyed with desperate gratitude.

“Of course,” he says, running past her to the bottom. He goes into the living room. “The keys to the minivan should be around here somewhere.” He is like a flustered animal, scurrying from the center table, to the sofas, to the cabinets.

As he searches, Ama moves to a window to peep through the curtains. She can feel Hemmaa’s aura coming from somewhere over the wall, intensifying steadily for a few seconds, before stabilizing into a steady fire.

The aura is heading towards the house.

“Dammit Mansa,” Ama whispers, too afraid to imagine what happened to her. She spins back around. “We have to go now!”

Chichi is right behind her, and the sight of her terrified face lodges a lump in Ama’s throat.

“We’ll be fine,” Ama whispers.

“I found them! Let’s go!” Joey says, striding towards the girls with the car keys dangling from his fingers.

Ama takes them from him.

“I thought I was going to drive,” he says.

“You want to leave that to me, trust me,” Ama says, as they run to the door.

Ama opens the door to see Hemmaa, back in her human form, walking through the broken wall, swathed in roaring lemon-yellow sunsum.

Ama slams the door shut. “Please tell me there’s a way to the garage from inside the house.”

“You know there isn’t.”

“Hide! Just hide!” Ama says, pointing to the kitchen.

As Joey runs into the kitchen, Ama pulls Chichi with her to the farthest corner of the living room, where heavy curtains cover a row of windows. They slip behind the drapery, and closing her eyes, Ama concentrates as hard as she can to hide her aura.

She slows her breathing, and then her heart till it is almost still. Within herself, within her soul, she finds the core sun that radiates her sunsum and she douses its flames. Her body temperature plummets in response. She might as well be a corpse.

The light of Hemmaa’s sunsum is visible through the curtain, but it isn’t long after it enters the house that it fades. And then Hemmaa’s aura wanes and disappears with it.

They are both hidden now. A game of hide and seek.

Ama listens to Hemmaa moving around the room. Her attempt at stealth is thwarted by her unfamiliarity with her surroundings. Every now and again, Ama will hear the cloth of her kaba brushing against furniture, inaudible to an ordinary ear but harmattan wind and static to Ama’s.

She knows Hemmaa can hear Joey and Chichi too; their heavy breathing, their thrashing heartbeats. Despite the fact that the two are in separate rooms, Hemmaa seems to be moving ever so carefully towards her and Chichi’s location. Why Hemmaa has chosen to track Chichi’s sounds over Joey’s, Ama isn’t sure. Can she tell the difference between their heartbeats, or did she make a lucky guess?

Ama’s grip on her witch-arm is so tight, her fingers are numb. Now she can hear Hemmaa’s feet on the carpet. She is treading with all the delicacy of a feather, but the crunch of synthetic fiber is subtle.

Ama considers rushing Hemmaa now in the hopes that she catches her unaware. But there is a risk of putting Chichi in the path of a counterattack. Hemmaa’s steps sound more certain now, and if Hemmaa was initially worried that this was a trap, she clearly isn’t anymore. Ama wishes this were a trap. That would have been smarter.

Hemmaa is only three paces away.

Ama decides to make the only choice available. She readies to attack.

It is his heartbeat that she hears first. Ama’s ears were so trained on Hemmaa that she drowned out every other sound. But his rhythmic thumping cuts through the silence. Ama knows the sound of her best friend’s heart.

And she realizes what he is trying to do.

“Joey, no—!”

The explosion of sound is deafening, the sonic boom ripping through the air. The thunder swallows Ama’s anguished cry, and quakes the entire house, shattering every inch of glass in the room—the television, the center table, the cabinets, the windows. The sound of broken shards, like raining pocket change.

Ama tumbles out of the curtains, screaming Joey’s name in wild anguish. Hemmaa’s back is turned, and as she spins around in surprise, Ama runs the piercing end of her staff into her, lifting her inches off the floor with the force of the attack. They stagger backwards until Ama has her pinned against a wall. Hemmaa’s face ripples, her arms expanding and then retracting, her transformation failing in the wake of the pain. Instead, she scratches at the shaft of the staff, helpless, panicked, trembling. Their eyes lock as Ama leans in with the full weight of her body, pushing her witch-arm all the way through Hemmaa’s body and into the wall behind her.

Then Ama leaves her there to find Joey. Her vision is blurry with panicked tears, and her ears ring with a high-pitched whine. As she stumbles through the living room, her hearing begins to clear, and she spots a body on the floor.

“Joey,” Ama whispers, dropping next to him. “Can you hear me?”

Silence. Then a strained groan. “Ama?”

Ama almost cries with relief. She can see better now, and her breath catches in her throat when she makes out the twisted mess that is his chest. She isn’t sure if she can touch him, how she could touch him. She settles for placing a tentative hand on his cheek. The muscles in his face tremble and twitch. Ama’s do the same, but for different reasons, and with the added stinging of freshly forming tears.

“Hey,” Joey breaths. His eyes are half open. “What’s wrong?”

Ama’s tears drip onto his forehead. “You’re going to be alright,” she croaks. “I promise.”

“I-It doesn’t even hurt.”

Ama fights back a sob, and drops her head to plant her lips on his forehead, keeping them there for a lingering moment.

“But,” Joey murmurs. “I’m a little cold. D-do you mind?”

Ama sniffs, nods, and gathers him into her arms.

He sighs and stirs. “That feels better,” he whispers.

Ama nods, releasing measured, shuddering breaths. There is a gurgle coming from somewhere inside him that Ama really, really wishes she couldn’t hear. In that moment, she hates her abilities. She hates her life. She asks herself if she is just radioactive. A decaying isotope of suffering and death, afflicting everyone around her. And then, she hates herself more for revolving this moment around her own pain.

She finds his hand with hers, and trails her fingers up and down his open palm. The fear of breaking down into hysterical sobs is stark.

Joey’s eyes roll around weakly and then settle on Ama again. “Hey,” he breathes. “You…you should go.”

Ama shakes her head, even though she knows he’s right. She can’t stay here. She has to get Chichi as far away from here as she can. But what kind of monster leaves their best friend behind to die?

“I…called an ambulance…already.”

Ama wonders when, and then figures it must have been after she fell out of the window.

“I’ll be alright,” Joey says. “Go.”

Tears pour down Ama’s face as she kisses his sweaty brow again. “Don’t die,” she mumbles against his lukewarm flesh. “Do you hear me? You die, and I will hunt you down in the afterlife and kick you right in the balls.”

Joey’s lips twitch in an attempt at a smile. “D-don’t,” he whispers, “let the aliens win.”

Ama wipes her eyes and nods. “Chichi, come out! We’re leaving.” She stands as her sister runs out from behind the curtains. She throws one last glance at Joey. “See you soon.”

As Ama leads Chichi out of the house, she covers her little sister’s eyes to keep her from seeing Hemmaa’s skewered body.

Hemmaa lets out a gurgling chuckle as the sisters pass her by, blood dripping down to her chin. “This isn’t over,” she rasps. “She will pay for Saanga.”

Ama doesn’t know who or what ‘Saanga’ is, but there isn’t enough time to care. With a wave of her hand, Ama summons her witch-arm back. The staff dislodges itself from Hemmaa’s body, whipping across the room to fit itself into her hand while Hemmaa slumps to the floor.

The car keys Joey gave Ama are to a purple minivan, parked beside a luxury sedan in the garage. Chichi gets into the passenger seat as Ama starts the engine; then she lurches them backwards into the compound, swings them through a tight one-eighty degrees, and drives through the gap in the wall.

“Come on Mansa, where are you?” Ama mutters, scanning the street. “Oh thank god.”

Mansa is lying unconscious on the shoulder of the road a few yards away. Ama pulls up next to her and yanks on the handbrake. “Open the door to the backseat,” she says to Chichi over her shoulder, hopping out of the minivan.

As Chichi complies, Ama throws Mansa over her shoulder.

When Mansa is lying in the backseat, Ama floors the pedal.

They pass three speeding police cars and an ambulance on their way out of the neighborhood.

 

[magic5ball]

Nature Trail to Hell Take II (Part 1, Chapter 1)

Part I: Nature Trail to Hell

Chapter 1: The Misadventure Begins

June, 2006

            I remember the day like it was only yesterday. Then again, when your Dad drags you by a dog chain onto a rickety old bus smelling of gym socks and something… that isn’t gym socks, the memory tends to stick in the fabric of your mind like a soda stain in the carpet. Speaking of hard to remove stains, while I was begging the neighbors to call 9-1-1, my little brother was watchin’ my suffering from the kitchen window like it was some kind of nature documentary, with yours truly as the wounded gazelle! Little turd thought he was so great since he got to stay home with the Gamecube despite being two years younger than me!

            Maybe I ought to back up a bit. My name is Watterson Tostig, but you can call me Watt. And despite what everybody believed, I was not a bad kid! Sure, I put Dad in the hospital after an unfortunate incident involving a cereal stealing leprechaun, but I didn’t mean to! My folks didn’t see it that way, though. They just saw their kid rig a cereal box with a month’s allowance worth of fire crackers. And so any chance of a good summer vacation ended up going boom. Because instead of three months of all day Super Smash Bros., I was sentenced to three months at CAMP SHAM!

            I’d heard stories about the place before. Only whispers, but sometimes, whispers are enough. They said there was only one T.V.- a real crummy one that didn’t even have a DVD player. No air conditioning. Bugs everywhere. And one time back in the eighties, a kid fled into the woods and never returned. But worst of all, you had to sit still and socialize for more than five minutes at a time: a fate I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies! I called the place Camp Sham because it was phonier than a cuckoo’s nest. Also I might have forgotten the actual name, but that’s beside the point!

.   .   .

            I spent the ride there huddled at the rear of the bus, clutching my dog collar, looking back at the life I once had as it rolled away into the distance. My backpack rested in the middle of the seat, the only barrier between me and a girl my age in black- black boots, a frilly black dress, and long, silky black hair tied up in a ponytail. The only thing that wasn’t black was her skin, which had the color and sheen of a pearl.

“This is all your fault.” I grumbled. “If you hadn’t given me that idea on how to trap the Lucky Loops Leprechaun, I’d probably still be at home with Joel and the Gamecube”!

(Joel, if you’re wondering, is my baby (NOT my younger) brother, who at the time was only a year old. He drooled, pooped in a diaper and was maybe the best human being in the entire universe.)

“But you wanted ideas! So I gave you my best one!”” She protested. “I TOLD you it was really your Dad who was stealing the marshmallow bits!”

Now, Hilda and I could argue something fierce when we wanted to, but fortunately we were cut short when some chunky kid who probably ate his own boogers sat right where she was. Hilda just phased right through him like she was air. Imaginary friends are funny like that. And I knew better than to argue with Hilda when someone was close by. People always gave me the weirdest looks. Not Hilda, though. Nobody ever saw Hilda.

Good thing was the (relatively) quiet time gave me a chance to think. Mom always did tell me that when I really wanted something done, I should do it myself, after all.

At least until that time I tried to make my own indoor pool by leaving all the sinks on, then I had to ask her for everything.

But still! I love my Mom and she made a good point, and if there was any time to act on that advice, it was when I was rumbling over cracked asphalt to my certain doom. So I leaned back, opened my mouth and started singing ‘Photograph’ at the top of my lungs.  Some folks might think I’m crazy for singing garbage like Nickelback, but this was 2006. It had been less than 30 years since Weird Al invented music and would another one before Avril Levine would invent good music.

But back to topic!

Mom once told me I had a gift for music. Whenever I sang, people would run away in all directions. Unfortunately, the bus was too loud for anyone to hear my incredible voice.

So I shifted gears to plan B. While the chunky kid read some moth eaten paperback between bites of a peanut butter sandwich, I noticed Hilda had wandered off like she usually did. Girl must have though she was SO great, being able to phase through the bus as if it was made of clouds!

            I fiddled with the blot on the window. If I was lucky, maybe I could jump on a passing car and make it back home. But the camp must have had past experiences with kids trying to pull that stunt, because the thing was welded shut! In the end, I resorted to plan C: burying my head in my backpack and entering defense mode (that’s ten year old for curling up in a ball). With any luck, the counselors would think I was dead and I could escape my unmarked grave later.

For the rest of the ride I sat there, next to booger kid, trying to imagine I was still at home, watching SpongeBob while sitting in my pajamas with a big bowl of dill pickle potato chips. Alas, the off key singing of my fellow inmates couldn’t even grant me that small mercy.

Hey, I thought to myself, at least it can’t get worse than this.

[alolynn-heart]

@intriguant / Faba (cont.) "besides..." he starts again, attempting to usher the scientist back from where she came with a guiding hand to point out the path, as if she had simply become turned around — an act of the branch chief's generosity, "it's not as if you are running off to someplace that even I am not aware of, now is it? I wouldn't want to have to start questioning your diligence, miss makana."

The  whirring  of  gears  and  the  occasional  timed  beep  were  telltale  signs  the  platform  elevator  had  just  been  used.  And  not  long  after  she  made  the  ascent  back  up  to  the  conservatory  level.  There  it  was  near  relieving  to  see  a  splash  of  color  within  the  stark  white  facility.  Both  the  corsola  and  starmie  seemed  to  greet  the  scientist.  Even  recognizing  her  with  the  mirrored  mask  she  still  had  adorn.  As  much  as  she  wanted  to  stop  and  spend  time  with  the  Pokemon  that  resided  there  she  had  an  urgency  to  keep  moving.

At  least  to  a  place  where  she  could  have  some  privacy.  Tucked  just  under  her  arms  was  a  collection  of  folders.  The  papers  haphazardly  skewed  and  sticking  out.  Clearly  she  had  been  in  a  covert  type  rush.  Everything  was  pressed  close  to  her  person  against  in  lab  coat.  If  anyone  was  going  to  be  following  her,  it  was  going  to  be  him.  Of  all  people  in  Aether  Paradise.  Faba  stuck  his  nose  anywhere  and  everywhere.

Lynn  had  learned  early  on  that  if  she  was  quiet  enough  she  could  pick  up  on  nearly  any  sound  nearby.  They  were  still  following  her  down  the  stretch  of  corridors.  Finally  she  stopped  mid  step  and  pivoted  around  in  a  hundred  eighty  degree  turn.  Sure  enough  she  had  caught  the  "branch  chief"  in  the  midst  of  his  stalking.  Would  it  be  fair  to  call  it  that?  That  would  have  been  a  rhetorical  question.

"So  you  are  claiming  this  is  all  just  a  coincidental  act?  Th-That  you  just  -happened-  to  be  going  in  the  very  same  direction?  "  she  asked,  her  voice  sounding  slightly  obscure.  No  doubt  there  was  still  a  gulp  in  her  throat.  Thank  goodness  the  design  of  her  outfit  prevent  any  sort  of  emotional  give  away.  No.  Why  at  all  would  she  be  nervous?  Oh,  right.  She  had  'borrowed'  a  few  things  to  study

“My  business??”  Her  head  tilted  down  toward  the  research  she  clung  to.  "I  was  on  my  way  to  see  ...Miss  Whick.  To  deliver  the  latest  behavioral  reports  and  findings."  It  was  only  a  half  truth  hidden  behind  an  air  of  nonchalant-ism.  Though  a  fidget  if  looked  closely  could  be  seen.  She  hoped  her  coat  was  long  enough  to  hide  the  beast  ball  strapped  to  her  belt.  After  all  Faba  was  getting  uncomfortably  close..especially  with  guiding  her  back  in  the  opposite  direction  she  had  intended  to  on  going.

"Of  course  not,  branch  chief...  no  one  is  questioning  how  well  you  know  the  layout  of  this  place"  the  scientist  remarked  silently  cursing  that  her  plans  were  being  foiled  unless  she  thought  of  something.

"It's  a  shame  you  weren't  the  one  to  receive  the  role  as  President  here~"  There.  That  would  be  the  distracting  sinker.  Right?  Bated  breath  was  held  as  she  awaited  some  sort  of  reply.