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ac3id · 4 years ago

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resilience [18+]

pairings: shigaraki tomura x female! reader

summary: if you’re updated w/ the manga u prolly know shigaraki is now all beefed up phew. shigaraki stans stay winning. so here’s a fic where our struggling pro hero y/n wants to become stronger but working hard iisn’t working so she runs to shigaraki, the king of the underworld, to give her a quirk. shigaraki takes this as the perfect opportunity to teach a scum hero hero her place.

warnings: dubcon-ish, shiggy is really mean, dumbification, size kink nasty nasty

word count: 4k+

masterlist

From a young age, everyone around you had high hopes for you. Your parents wanted you to make them proud, your teachers wanted you to give your hundred percent always. Your friends admired you, they dreamed of being you. You were the golden child. Loved by everyone so, when you developed your quirk no one was shocked to learn that it was one of the strongest quirks out there.

Your parent’s dreams for you soared even higher and soon everyone was complimenting you and deeming how amazing you’d do as a Pro-Hero and you listened to them. You trained your entire childhood in hopes of becoming the No. 1 Hero, even got into a known Hero school, and graduated on top of your class. You thought you were invincible until you started your career as a Pro.

It was hard. It was so much harder than you had expected. Apparently, your will to save citizens wasn’t enough to make you a legitimate Hero to the eyes of the public. Even if you worked your ass off it wasn’t enough. Weaker and useless Heroes whose only specialty was steering drama with others would sweep in at the last minute and take your victory as theirs’.

You wanted to speak up about this but your agent had said you’d go nowhere; those Heroes had been in the business longer. No one would have taken your side, you were just a rookie. If you wanted to be admired, you had to also use cheap tricks and form connections with names.

At first, you refused. It went against your moral code but soon after you started receiving angry phone calls from your peers; them explaining how embarrassing it was that no one even knew who you were, your mind quickly changed. Next thing, you are just like the others using cheap tricks working on your public image rather than actual Hero work. You thought finally it’d work and it did! After a few months, you were under the Top 30 Heroes list. The “hard” work had paid off now, it was only way upwards to the No.1 but you found yourself not rising the ladder. You were stuck in the Top 30. Nothing upwards but other Heroes were beating your position, it was all falling over again. You needed to do something to save yourself.

That’s when you heard about him. A man who granted people power, the King of the Underground. He acted like the Devil himself. Granting your desire for a price. People talked about him in hushed whispers, they acted if he did not exist but he did. He was very much there. His men had been terrorizing the country for so long; his men were hardest to fight.

You thought about it. You could reach him and ask him for power, after all, you could do anything to be the No. 1 Hero. You couldn’t afford to disappoint the people who had supported you, your entire lives even deep down you knew the only reason everyone- anyone talked to you was for their own selfish reasons but that was okay. They were the only people you had.

So you rolled the dice and made up your mind to meet the Mad King. Shigaraki Tomura.

The hallway was run down and dimly lit; you watched your step as you moved forward not wanting to step over a dead rat or lizard. You were told that you’d see Shigaraki if you walked through it. Your heart beats faster with each step you take; the hallway is awfully quiet excluding the sounds of rats chattering away in the distance.

Meeting him was not easy, getting this far had been hell. You had to make many calls and sit through many sleepless nights just to confirm the rumor all while making it look like you weren’t investigating Shigaraki Tomura behind their backs. You had gone through a great deal of trouble to make sure your identity was kept hidden from the Government.

As you took the last turn you were met with a shut door. You latched on the handle, twisting it and pushing the door open. It was a meeting room. A long table stood in the room chairs all empty beside the very center.

A man sat there, his legs propped up on the table resting over papers and pens dressed in an expensive suit, his long white hair scanned his face. A severed hand rested on his face red, angry eyes gleaming from the gaps of the fingers. Upon seeing to enter the room he crossed his hands over his chest, muscles bulging- almost ripping the sleeves open. He looks at you finally acknowledging your presence; glaring from behind the hand his gaze sends a shiver down your spine. You stand completely captivated and amazed yet scared under the presence of Shigaraki Tomura.

You stand there frozen unable to move. You never thought you’d ever meet the most wanted man in japan like this: dressed in nothing but a t- shirt and jeans, unarmed and vulnerable

His harsh voice cuts through the air as he glares at you.

“Well?” he asks and you walk inside the room. You stand there awkwardly, wondering whether you should take a seat or not, “Am I supposed to sit down too? Might as well ask if I can kiss your feet?” He snarls, the sarcastic comment leaving his tongue without any hesitance.

He’s quite mean.

You mumble a quiet apology as you sit yourself a few chairs away from him- you’d like to keep your distance from this dangerous man, biting your lip you think of how you should start the conversation but Shigaraki is impatient. He groans in amusement and slams his feet on the table, flying the papers

“What. The. Fuck. Do. You. Want. Why. Are. You. Here.” His tone was harsh, filled with irritation. “I am here for the quirk.” Shigaraki’s brow twitches, he stares at you with confusion basking in his eyes.

“Quirk?” he pauses tilting his head up facing the ceiling, his hand goes to scratch at his neck; breaking the skin. While he thinks to himself about what you could possibly mean, your mind starts thinking about in all the ways this scenario could work out. Maybe he’d give you the quirk and let you like you were promised, only come back when he needed your assistance in some task. To be honest, you weren’t quite ready to face that day yet. Second, he could kill you right here, right now for just thinking about something so obnoxious. And that’s about it. Those were the only two scenarios you could think of. You also thought of catching him off guard and bringing him back to the Hero Commission but you also knew he was way stronger than you. You silently prayed that you’d get out of this alive and well.

For a second, you thought Shigaraki had fallen asleep. He was too quiet and the hand on his face did not help in distinguishing whether he was sleeping or not.

“Shigaraki,” you called and he turns his face back to you, “You’re that fucking Hero.” he spits with disgust. “You want a fucking quirk right? I was told I’ve got an appointment with some scum Hero who wants to get stronger.” You did not pay attention to his belittling. You had gone through much worse hate and had survived.

“Yes, now, would you please tell me how I can get one.” you added the ‘please’ mockingly, it seemed to affect the villain.

“I don’t help pigs like you.”

You almost rolled your eyes, there was more convincing to do and you did not want to talk- hell- breathe the same air as this man but you couldn’t return home alone. You had to endure it. You took a deep breath and calmed yourself down, getting ready for a long night.

“I couldn’t care less what you think about me. I was promised a deal and I expect you to keep your end of the bargain up.” you sighed, “Just for walking through that door and sitting here I had to pay a lot out of my pocket. I’m not leaving until you give it to me.” Your voice was sturdy and rigid. Exerting confidence, for a moment you felt strong. Talking back to a wanted villain like him gave you a false sense power. He sat silently, lost in thought again.

“You’re gonna be here a while? That’s bothersome. But….you do know that I can just kill you and leave? Make it easier for both of us.” he finished. Anger surged through your veins as you decided against choking him to death. “Shigaraki. Please.” you begged, Godamnit. As much as you wanted to rival his hate towards you, you were smart and knew that you couldn’t afford to make any rash decision now because a single touch from him could mean game over for you. “You’re begging now?” He scoffed, “Okay, tell me why you want it so bad.” You bite your lip deciding whether you should go along with his idle chit-chat.

“Listen. I really need it. I’m stuck in a useless rank and the walls keep closing in. I don’t disappoint the people around me. It’s really important to me. I don’t expect you to understand but- shit if you want me to beg I will. For that power, I’d do anything.”

An eerie silence filled the room, Shigaraki remained quiet. He thought about what he could want from you. There was nothing, you were useless to him- a waste of time really. He should just decay you and leave. That would be the right thing to do but then again, the way you looked at him with desperation in your eyes stirred something in him. Maybe it was the unconscious acceptance you held knowing that he is in charge. The power imbalance was starting to get him going. He could imagine you wrapping your pretty, plump lips around his fat cock while he used your throat as he pleased. He was a little tired after all. Maybe he’d even give you a weak quirk and let you off to do your worthless heroics.

“So you’d really do anything?” He was intrigued. You didn’t want to say yes because you knew he’d make you do something horrible, something you could never really recover from. You could see it in his eyes but in the end, you knew.

“Yes. Anything,”

He quickly lifted the severed hand from his face and placed it gently on the table, you genuinely wanted to cry. His lips curled at the corner, his lips split into a menacing smile. It was evil, it was dangerous yet it was the calm before the storm. The crazed smile only made you aware about how much you were going to regret this decision. It made you sick.

“Sexual favors. If you want this power, make me cum.”

Your eyes widen in shock, your mouth agape as you process his words. What?

“You can’t be serious.” your voice was low, your heartbeat quickened and you felt your hands grow cold. Anger and confusion masked your consciousness.

“I’m waiting.” he sang, his shrill voice sending shivers down your spine. He was joking, right? No way was he was actually expecting you to do it. Right? He did not say another word instead pulled his feet off the table and slammed them to the floor. He spread his legs and patted his right thigh, looking directly at you with a smile,

“you’re joking.” you commented. Shigaraki stopped smiling, his head lowered, bangs falling over his eyes; you could not see the face he was making. He clicked his tongue and the ‘tch’ sound resonating in the room, “You think I’m joking?” he asked, his voice now filled with annoyance. You did not answer; you did not what to say. You were beginning to think he was not messing with you, and that he actually wanted you to perform that horrendous act.

His head turned back to you, his eyes spiraled into angry slits, vermilion orbs gleaming under the well-lit room displaying grim intentions. You knew he was serious.

You took a deep breath, you knew the price of your dreams was high; the sacrifices you had to make: colossal. But right now, you were given a chance to obtain power- grow stronger to get a step closer to your goal but at what cost? If you, right now, gave yourself up to this notorious villain, what would you lose? Dignity? Pride? You had lost all of that the second you had entered the room.

Nothing was left to lose. From all the horrendous things he coils have asked you to do, you should be glad all he wanted was some pussy.

You swallowed nervously as you got up from the chair moving towards him in brief, calculated steps. You stood in front of him, his knee at level with your crotch; he looks up at you and smirks. His knee jerks forward, pushing through your thighs and grinding up against your clothed cunt. You gasp in surprise, almost walking away from him. Your fists clench by your side and try to surpass any sounds from passing; the movement of your panties rubbing on your clit sends jolts of pleasure throughout your body. You bite your lower lip, glaring down at him as he continues to aggressively grind his knee on your cunt, your mouth falling agape as the sensations get too overwhelming and your climax starts building. A whine falls from your lips when it stops. Shigaraki abruptly withdraws his knee from your thighs, a wet spot forming on the expensive fabric of his pants. He looks at you and smirks,

“Hero Slut.” he comments, making your blood boil, you try to retort but his fingers inch towards your hips, fingers pulling at the waistband of your jeans.

“Take it off.” you hesitate for a moment, “take it off or I’ll dust It.” he threatens, you did not want to walk out the room half naked. You quickly tugged your jeans down, it pooled around your ankles. Shigaraki’s eyes never left your lower body, his eyes stayed glued to your pussy, almost drooling at the sight black and white striped panties. Feeling embarrassed under his predatory gaze, you push your hands forward, covering yourself making Shigaraki frown. He pushes your hands away and replaces them with his own. His fingers rub at your clit through your panties making you writhe in pleasure, you feel yourself get wet, a dark spot starting to form on your panties. Shigaraki glides his finger till your hole and drives them to your hips pulling at the waistband of the fabric and letting it hit your skin with a snap, you gasp. “You like that?” he asks, smirking and repeating the action, “Take this off too.” he finishes.

He leans back in his seat spreading his legs while he watches you strip out of your panties, his eyes a shade darker clouded with lust.

“You look better now.” his voice is low and condescending as he pulls you down to straddle his lap. His hands carefully moving up and down your torso, under your shirt, fingers touching the underside of your bra. He guides one of his hands to your hip, and claps around it pressing hard enough for a flash of pain to spark along the bone as he keeps you firmly pinned on his thigh. Gripping one of your thighs firmly, he restrains you from pressing them together. He runs a palm along the inside of your thighs in fascination, you feel yourself get worked up embarrassingly fast, “Look at you,” he barks, a crazed smile blooming on his face.

“You’re all neglected. How often do you loosen up, whore?” His slender fingers trail downwards to your cunt, he runs a slender finger painfully slowly over your folds, buries it inside your hole moving it around and curling the digit inside you before withdrawing. His eyes scan your face as his thumb strokes down on your clit. Your eyes shut close as you bit your lower lip- trying your best to surpass moans which might further entice him. Your body jerks up with need as you gasp out, your hands balling into fists, choked mewls flow from the back of your throat, “I’m gonna fuck you stupid.” he growls

“N-no.”

Shigaraki chooses to ignore you as his hand grips the back of your head, pulling you closer towards him before pushing his lips against yours’ while the other hand reaches behind you, wandering across your ass, grabbing a firm hold of the soft flesh. He pulls away from the kiss and both you regain your breath, taking in as much as you can. Shigaraki leans in, you think he’s going to kiss you but instead, his lips hover over your ear. You feel his warm breath tickling your ear as he whispers in a raspy, broken voice.

“If you want this power so bad,—" your breath hitched as he pushes another finger in your small cunt, “—grind that worthless cunt on my thigh.”

You look down at him with half-lidded eyes zooming on his cock straining through his pants. He catches you staring. His eyes light up with amusement, “You want that too, huh? You’re just a cock hungry whore after all. Its fine, you all are,” He pulls his fingers out of your dripping hole and presses them against your lips.

“Open up,” he commands. You hesitate for a moment but eventually, you obey. You open your mouth, only slightly yet he aggressively shoves his middle and pointer finger into your mouth. “I don’t wanna feel any teeth.” you pucker your lips around his finger, sucking his digits into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around his fingers, tasting yourself around him. Shigaraki sighs, “Laughable isn’t it?” he begins, “Do your Hero friends know how much of a pathetic slut you are? I bet they’d love you see you like: half-naked, sitting on Japan’s most wanted criminals lap, begging to be fucked?” He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, a ‘pop’ sound reverberating in the room. He pats your thigh, “Come on. If you please me good enough I might even give you my dick.”

The realization hits you. Shigaraki wasn’t doing this entirely for his pleasure. He just wants to humiliate you, see you cry, call you names- anything to make you leave this place broken. A fair price.

A smug smirk reaches his face yet again as he watches you shift around his lap, straddling his left thigh. You put your arms cautiously around his shoulders for support, grounding your sensitive bundle of nerves down against his thigh, exhaling as the muscle rubbed against your clit in the best possible way. A tight coil forms in your lower abdomen as you frantically grind down, pleasurable sensations fogging your mind. His hands are still on your hips as you roll your hips in brisk circles against his thigh as you chase your climax, your mouth falls open at the sharp pleasure shooting through your body as you grind down faster, your mind grows hazy. Thoughts jumbled- and non-existent, only focusing on the rocking of your hips back and forth against his thigh. He occasionally flexes the muscle to intensify the feeling of your approaching orgasm, you’ve barely even had any stimulation and you’re already so close. You tug on your lower lip between your teeth, eyes skewered shut as you feel your orgasm building up, seconds away from erupting, and washing over your entire body. “Is the whore close?” Shigaraki speaks, “Looks like you I didn’t even have to fuck you stupid. You’re humping my leg like a bitch in heat. You’re already stupid. This is the real you. You just pretend- act as a functional member of this rotten society but deep down, you’re just a slut begging for a big cock to stuff her holes. Am I right?”

“Shigaraki Tomura. Fuck you.” you manage to call out in between your moans.

A blush creeps onto his face and his cock strains in his pants, the print now louder, and his cock begging to be freed. One of his hands leaves your hips and starts palming his cock through the fabric, he lets out a breathy moan as he examines your face: twisted in pleasure yet the look of hate and disgust still linger. Your displease from this entire scenario riles him up, what a disgusting man he is.

He shifts his gaze from your face to your tits bouncing along the rhythm every thrust ; his hands roam underneath your shirt stroking your soft stomach and move to grope your tits through your bra. He kneads your breast through your bra before capturing it with all five of his fingers and changing it into specks of dust. Your shirt receives the same treatment and you whine. You sit there naked, grinding on his thigh while he is still dressed, calm and collected save for the bright pink blush on his cheeks. Sweat drips down from your forehead and a pink hue rests on your cheek. You look like a mess.

“You look pathetic right now, you know?” he speaks. You know, you can imagine and you hate it very much.

A moan escapes his lips; breathing heavily into your ear- he leaves tainted comments. Groaning occasionally as his lips find its way to kiss and suck bruises at your neckline, sinking his teeth and biting down, nipping on your skin leaving marks on your smooth skin all the while his hands violate your breast, greedily groping and kneading the sensitive mounds, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and harshly tweaking and tugging at them- your eyes roll back into the back of your skull, relishing in the pain.

His cock was straining in his pants; you could feel it poking against your thigh. He moves a hand to hastily unbutton and unzip the confinements of his pants, his dick hard against the fabric of his boxers. A wet stop forming at the tip.

He doesn't hesitate to shove his hands into his boxers, groaning and bucking his hips into his hand as he pulls his cock out. His cock springs upwards. It stands tall and hard yearning with need. Pre-cum spills out his leaking tip, red and angry,demanding relief. You stare at it, marveling the size of his girthy cock. You can tell by looking- he’s too big. It was going to be a tight fit.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

“It’s too big.”

“So?” he asks, annoyance filling his voice as he feels himself get more riled up, “More prep-” you’re still grinding your pussy on his thigh, you try telling him how much you needed him to stretch you out before burying his ridiculously big cock in your tiny, pathetic, little cunt. “Uh h pleaseee…��....It will hurt otherwise.” His ears perk up at your shameless little confession. “It will hurt?” The obscene smile made its way back to his face and you regretted saying so.

“It better hurt.”

Shigaraki stands up to his full height, towering over you. You stumble and your hips hit the table behind you. You seriously looked like nothing compared to him. His shoulders broader and rigid, his arms buff and robust. Any hopes you even had in defeating him vanishes away into the air as he turns you around and bends you over the table.

Papers scatter and fall to the ground, your breasts press against the cold wood and he captures both your hands holding them behind your back in one hand. His other smack your ass making you squirm, “Consider yourself lucky.” he groans, his cock lining up with your cunt, “I don’t fuck every common whore I see.” His words sting and he pushes past your little hole, tearing it up, tears start to prick at the corner of your eyes. You sniff, “It hurts.” Shigaraki ignores you, lost in the way your small pussy gobbles up his fat cock inch by inch. “Shut up. It'll get better soon enough.” he speaks when he gets annoyed by your little grunts of discomfort. He doesn’t give you time to adjust as he bottoms out, stretching your pussy open. “There. It’s all in,” he spanks your ass making you wail out.

The stretch burns but you soon feel yourself get wetter adjusting to his size. He starts thrusting his cock into you, using your pussy as his personal cocksleeve. He’s mean with it. He goes rough and fast, pushing his cock all the way till your hilt until his tip kisses your cervix. He laughs at how pathetically you whine, you plead for him to slow down but he doesn’t listen. He pulls you up to his chest by your hair, biting aggressively on your neck, whispering perverted remarks in your ear. He plays with you tits, rolling, pinching and tugging on your nipples. His hands are all over you, except where you need it the most- your clit. The hardened nub begs for attention, burning in need to be touched and played with yet he pays no mind to it choosing to watch you suffer in agony instead.

“Pheweaze.” you beg, your tongue lolling out of your mouth. He catches the pink flesh between his fingers, petting it making it impossible for you to talk. “What’s that? What did you say? I couldn’t catch it.” He teases, pretending he doesn’t know what you need. He finally pulls his finger out of your mouth, still thrusting his cock into your cunt, “Pheleaseeee e touch my clliit. I need it.” Finally, you manage to say a complete sentence. You embrace yourself in hopes of Shigaraki finally touching you but instead he chuckles, “Is that so? Is that what you need? I thought you wanted a quirk?” You cry out in frustration. Shigaraki laughs, his shrill laugh masking the lewd sounds of skin slapping against each other. He thinks for a while, looking at you de-flowered, broken to the point where you couldn’t even form sentences properly, he smirks to himself. He’s won.

His fingers snake down to your clit rubbing it avidly. You sigh as you finally feel proper stimulation. Soon enough your loud moans of pleasure fill the empty room and you feel yourself tighten around Shigaraki, “I feel that, your slutty little cunt is squeezing me. You are close, aren’t you?”

Your moans quickly turn into pants as you let out a silent scream while you cream around Shgaraki’s cock, “You came, bitch?” he asks but you just whimper, your body still writhing with the intensity of the orgasm, “Ugh. Hero Slut.” His thrust gets sloppier, you can feel he’s close by the way his cock twitches inside of you. Next you know- you feel- is hot spurts of cum shooting inside of you, painting your insides white.

You plop down on the table beneath you, your body exhausted. He pulls out of you and you quickly turn your head back to him, “The quirk..” you meekly ask. “Messy little slut,” he murmurs, ignoring you. “Makes me wanna mess you up even more.”

“Tomura Shigaraki. The quirk.”

He hummed. “So you plan to go back and pretend you are something more than a worthless slut?-”

“Tomura. The fucking Quirk.” you weren’t in the mood for any of his shit now, “Jeez fine. If you want the quirk so bad, here, have it. Clean it up well.” He’s motioning to his half-erect cock covered with his cum and your juices. “What the fuck.” You ask, getting up standing to your full height. Even though you were much shorter to him ( and very much naked ) you still wanted to show him that you could put up a fight.

“I give the quirks. If you want it, you’ll need to ingest my DNA. And also, didn’t I say I’m gonna come on your pretty face?” Your eyes dart up to focus on Shigaraki's face – and shame washes over you as you witness his sinister look. He pushes you down on his knees and you come in level with his cock.

“Fuck you,” you stutter out, still trying to seem like you have any power, like you’re the one in charge.

He laughs, “Oh, I just did, sweetheart.”

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welllpthisishappening · 4 years ago

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Only Live Forever in the Lights You Make

Hey, remember that time Killian met Meg in some tunnels in the Underworld and introduced himself as “Captain Killian Jones” before he called himself “Captain Hook”? Because I do and, surprise, I’ve got some feelings about it! As always, I am still on my season five ‘ish, so here is about 4.2K of name-based feelings, some out of place flirting and some, surprise, Captain Cobra Swan that I didn’t plan on until I typed it. I hope you guys got all the carbs you wanted yesterday.

All credit always and forever to @shireness-says for constantly telling me to keep shoving words at the internet. Even before she reads said words. (I only listened to Arctic Monkeys and My Chemical Romance while writing this. Take from that what you will.)

----

The words are heavy on his tongue.

Still, as if they don’t belong there, or never really did and the feeling makes him ache. Although most of him aches at this point. Killian is sure his gashes have scrapes and those scrapes have bruises and gaping wounds that are likely far more metaphorical than he’s willing to admit. Staring out at the expanse of Main Street doesn’t particularly help. Hazy air hangs low over cracked asphalt, thin branches and dead leaves that only swirl slightly against the barely-there breeze coming from the Gods know where.

There’s no water here. No hint of salt-tinged air.

Occasionally there are some strikes of lightning, leaving the sky bright enough that Killian swears he can see for miles. He wishes he couldn’t. None of it looks right, feels even more wrong, and he supposes that’s to be expected in a place like this, but it also seems like another metaphor of sorts and maybe the torture hasn’t ceased yet.

Maybe it won’t.

He deserves that, he’s sure.

Darkness doesn’t scare him much anymore, at least the more literal variety — or so he will swear, but this is somehow even worse. Every flash of light that cracks across the sky dredges up memories of the kind of storms that threatened to capsize any of the ships he once called home, and he imagines it’s something about extremes.

Complete darkness can blind a man, but so can light. Stunning him, until he has to blink away the dots that hang in front of his eyes and the dots never entirely disappear.

He shouldn’t have told that lass his name.

Foolish, that’s what it was.

“I can hear you thinking from upstairs,” Emma murmurs, slumped against the side of the railing that should lead up to her room in her parent’s loft. Something similar exists in this place, of course. He can’t imagine the blankets on that bed are as soft as the ones he only barely remembers falling into, what now feels like several lifetimes ago and—

“Might be getting worse now, actually,” she adds, “surprised there isn’t steam coming out of your ears too. Y’know, just for good measure.”

Letting out a breath, he’s all too aware of how slumped his shoulders are when he turns. Emma lifts her eyebrows.

“The streets are already steaming,” Killian says, “anything else seems like overkill, doesn’t it?” “Stupid word.” “Aye, that it is. In poor taste.”

“What are you thinking about?” He tilts his head. Strands of hair fall towards his eyes, but Killian doesn’t make any effort to brush them away. “Did he fall asleep?” “Yeah,” Emma nods, eyes flitting back towards her room and the space she’d marched Henry into nearly fifteen minutes earlier. “About time, too. I think he was half a second away from falling asleep standing, could barely keep his eyes open anymore.” “Stubbornness is an inherited trait.” She clicks her tongue. “You think?” “Rather pointed.” “Nah, definitely round,” Emma objects, “in a circle-type way that could bring us back to my question and what you’re thinking about and—” “—Henry shouldn’t be here.” “No.” Jerking his head up the way he does only guarantees that several muscles in the back of his neck almost audibly object to the movement, Emma giving him a tight-lipped smile that isn’t exactly his, but is at least getting there, and that’s something almost vaguely positive.

Her hair is longer than Killian remembers it being.

He tried to remember that.

Before.

Wandering — stumbling, more like — around those caves, blood dripping down the side of his face, caking the same strands of hair that now threaten to actually poke him in the eye, and all he could think about was the exact shade of gold Emma’s hair turned in the moonlight. Preferably when she was also sitting in the harbor, feet hanging above the waves as they passed his flask between them. Or on the deck of his ship.

He didn’t allow himself that particular fantasy very often, though. Getting both felt distinctly like the kind of selfishness he’s now hoping to avoid.

“Stubborn,” Emma shrugs.

“Something about circles, love.” “And going in them, yeah. But I’m also legitimately worried about that pinch between your eyebrows, so seems like as good a time as any to fess.” “Fess?” “Confess,” she amends, “more slang.” Killian’s smile isn’t really that. Is more a grimace and twist of his lips, and yet the weight he’s only marginally worried has taken the place of his heart lightens ever so slightly. Nothing beats yet. He’s still dead. “I like that one, actually.” “When we get home I’ll make you a list.” “Of slang?” “Whatever you want.” Neither one of them move.

He’d like to move. Would love to, really. To cross this space and pull Emma flush against him until she grumbles about the inevitably uncomfortable nature of her perched on either one of his thighs and how his chin digs into her shoulder when he tries to breathe her in, but something about the overall tension in her jaw and the weight of those yet-to-be acknowledged words keeps Killian rooted to the spot.

Every one of those words came out quicker than the last, as if they were an admission Emma wasn’t entirely ready to make and he’s fairly certain the pinch between his eyebrows won’t ever disappear completely. He hopes she doesn’t cut her hair.

He hopes to get his fingers in that hair eventually.

“I mean—” Emma stammers, color rushing in her cheek. “Within—y’know, within...no, fuck that. Whatever you want. Lists of...I don’t know, movies and books and you’re a giant dweeb right? So you’ve got to like books.” “I do, in fact.” “Yeah, yeah, I figured. I just—do they have holidays in the Enchanted Forest? No Thanksgiving or Christmas, right?” Killian shakes his head. Gets the hair away from his eyes. And makes it easier to see the exact moment Emma starts wringing her fingers together. The railing is very likely digging into her shoulder now. “Yeah, that’s what I figured,” she continues, “but uh...shit, what about birthdays? That’s a thing, right?” “Do you think I get two now?”

One side of his mouth tugs up. Despite any efforts otherwise and his own, rather intimate, knowledge of that edge Emma is quite obviously teetering on.

Killian’s been balancing there for the better part of the last few days. Ever since she appeared in front of him again, magic wrapping around him and making goosebumps prickle on his skin, a low heat that felt as if he’d been put on simmer without any threat of boiling because he’s not all that capable of boiling anymore, just festering and stewing and—

“I told that lass my name,” Killian says, voice hardly loud enough to qualify as any sort of sound. One of Emma’s knuckles crack. “The one in the caves, another one of Hades’ prisoners. I can’t—Gods, I can’t remember her name.” “Megara,” Emma whispers. “Yeah, I know.” He quirks an eyebrow, a sudden retreat back to flirting that’s not entirely honest. It’s very likely he’s something of a cad. And it’s easier that way. To slink back into the role, and the person he was and that person deserves everything he’s gotten and may still get.

Of course, he can’t keep it up for very long.

Not with Emma staring at him like that — far too appraising and understanding, and the whole thing fails rather quickly.

Completely. Immediately. A few other words that end in ‘ly,’ just to drive the point home. “Wow, you totally suck at that.” Laughter rumbles in the back of Killian’s throat before he can even begin to rationalize the sound, rubbing his fingers into the raw skin just above his brace. “Fraid you’ll have to be more specific, darling.” “Low blow.” “Endearments, or…” “It’s not going to work,” Emma objects, rolling her eyes when Killian’s mouth shifts in the very specific kind of smirk he knows has always worked. “You don’t just get to start playing pirate and think I’ll swoon enough to get distracted.”

“Suggests I’m still able to distract you.” “Like that would change.”

Heat ripples up his spine. Surprisingly, so. The flicker of normalcy catches Killian off guard, facade slipping for half a moment, and that’s far more time than Emma needs. His hair is greasy when he runs his fingers through it. “Are you something of a soothsayer then, Your Highness? Good at reading minds now?” “More circles, babe. Open books, and all that.” He hums. Can’t do much else, actually. Emotion claws at the center of him, threatens to take root in that stagnant heart of his, and maybe that will help, but it also feels like it could drown him if it had a mind to. The give and take of all this may very well drive him insane quicker than anything Hades could hope for. “How do you know that?” “Which part?” “About the girl,” Killian says, “did you find her?” Emma scrunches her nose. “Regina and I did. In the forest. There was blood and—” She shivers. Tries to hide it, but open book works both ways and he’s always been able to tell when she’s thinking too. Or being inherently stubborn. “I was...well, I wasn’t cool about it.” “Sounds suspiciously like a compliment.” “Ass.” Staying upright is becoming increasingly difficult. “I believe that’s been well-documented, m’dear. I’m sorry about that.” “My inability to insult you better?” “That you thought it was my blood.”

“Presumptuous,” Emma grumbles, although that sort of misses the insult mark as well and he’s genuinely not sure who moves first. Creaking joints give way to a groaning floor, a tangle of limbs and hands that almost immediately search for skin. If only to remind the other that they’re here and real and at least partially alive.

If Killian feels his pulse pick up, he’s sure he imagines it.

That’s not possible.

“And,’ he adds, Emma’s back against the nearest wall now. He has no idea how his head found her thigh. He’s not going to complain. She doesn’t when she inevitably notices how goddamn greasy his hair is. Fair is only fair, after all.

“And?” Eyes fluttering shut, Killian briefly worries for the state of his muscles. Which appear to be unspooling the longer Emma’s fingers move, tracing over his temple and the furrows of his forehead and it takes all the self control he’s only marginally in possession of not to wrap his arms around her, bury his face in her stomach and sob.

“And,” he repeats, “that you were ever uncool about any of this.” Her body shakes when she laughs — soft and disbelieving, which is another marker in the stubborn column, really. Killian doesn’t mention that. He closes his eyes. Breathes. Counts his inhales and takes his time on his exhales, only a little disappointed that the honeysuckle scent has disappeared from Emma’s hair.

“Can I tell you something?” “Anything.” “Half the reason I think we should make a slang list,” Emma says, “is so you can say more of it. Might be one of my favorite things.” “A slang puppet, huh? Here to entertain you.” “Why are you freaking out about telling Megara who—by the way, was not nearly as snarky as her Disney counterpart would have me believe.” “I’m sure being chased around by the three-headed beast of the Underworld will do that to a person.”

Emma’s thumb taps his jaw. Three times. Exactly. “Ah now I feel like an ass.” “Impossible,” Killian mumbles. Turning his head isn’t easy, but he doesn’t have to worry about the rest of his body when he’s splayed out across the floor like this and the muscles in Emma’s stomach noticeably contract when he noses at the hem of her shirt.

She squirms. Above him and below him, and there it is again. More metaphors. More dichotomy, or some other philosophical bullshit he’s not willing to think about now. When Emma’s breath noticeably hitches. As soon as Killian’s teeth graze her skin.

“Distracting—” Gasping, Emma’s nails drag across his scalp. Which isn’t as unpleasant as it probably should be. “Ah shit, I can’t think of—” “Scoundrel? Miscreant? Blackguard?” “What century is that last one from?” “Not nice at all, love,” Killian chides, but Emma just widens her eyes and perhaps they’re both dancing. Without any music. “Probably around the time the first King George ascended the throne.” “There was more than one King George?” “Several, if memory serves. You know those royals. Can’t concern themselves with naming creativity, have to honor the past and whatnot.” “Whatnot,” Emma echoes with a smile. “You want to tell me now? About Megara and how she knew your name.” “I told her, we’ve been over this already.” “Yeah, but—” The rest of the sentence disappears on Emma’s shrug, her lower lip twisted between her teeth. Nerves radiate off her, falling in waves Killian can almost see and nearly remind him of the real thing.

Time doesn’t mean much here. Days pass on loop, and exhaustion is a guarantee more than an occasional state of being. And yet, somehow — as the last few flickers of warmth continue to lap at the base of Killian’s spine, and Emma’s fingers return to their pattern through his hair, something almost like moonlight casts a welcome shadow across the floor. Stretching over Emma’s outstretched legs and bent ankles, it curls up her arm, lingering at her elbow before it drifts towards her hunched shoulders and the edge of Killian’s wrist and then—

It’s gone.

Disappearing as quickly as it arrived, Killian wonders if he imagined it. He didn’t. He knows, he didn’t. Just as easily as he knows it didn’t happen simply because of him.

He licks his lips once.

“I found her,” he starts, “or she found me, I suppose. Not easy to keep your direction underground.” Glancing up, Killian finds Emma’s eyes on him. Wide, they don’t quite demand an explanation, but they want one and he supposes wanting is half the battle. At least metaphorically. “No stars underground, you see.” “Real confident in your navigational abilities huh, Captain?” “Only if you’ll keep saying that.”

She can’t be comfortable when she bends. Twists towards him, and kisses the top of his absolutely disgusting hair.

There’s a shower upstairs. In the right version of it. He’s not sure what’s here. He can’t bring himself to go up there.

An absolute coward.

“Anyway,” Killian continues, “there was a three-headed monster, this lass, and I—we weren’t both going to get out.” “You let her go, though. Told her to go.” He nods. Talking is something of a challenge once more. “As if you’d ever do anything else,” Emma mumbles, a note of pride in her voice that makes every one of Killian’s internal organs clench. That’s all they can do, really. None of them are working all that great, after all.

“That’s not true.” Tensing, Emma’s fingers still. “That wasn’t really you.” “Ah, that’s not totally true, either. It was at least partially me, all those deep-rooted desires given free reign. But I wanted...she was so scared, Swan.” He doesn’t bother mentioning the rest. Being more specific seems pointless, especially when Emma’s fingers stay exactly where they are. And she knows, anyway. He was terrified. Of what he’d lost and what he’d done and what he’d still be willing to do, if it meant she got out of here.

Safe.

He wants them all safe.

“I told her to find you,” he rasps. “That—I knew you were here, could...feel it, almost. No matter where I was or—” This may be their least organized conversation. Full of tiptoeing and heavy words, unspoken meaning that neither one of them is entirely ready to give credence to yet. “Gave her my name, my—my real name.”

Hair brushes the top of his head, softer than it has any right to be and several things in Killian’s chest threaten to combust. “I was doing a lot of yelling of your name in that bloody forest.” “Joke, or…” “Fresh out of jokes, I think.” He noses at her jeans, not sure if he’s desperate to touch her or the opposite. Desperate to brand himself there, so she’ll remember. No matter what else happens. “I didn’t even think about it,” he admits, “just—I told her to find you, said I was Captain Killian Jones, like that was something I could say, and that you needed to know I was here.” Emma’s silent for a moment.

Another. Two moments. That become three and four and then Killian’s counting his inhales again and doing his best not to stare too intently at her. She kisses his hair again. Luke she can’t help herself.

“Had to use the title, didn’t you?” Killian exhales. “Haven’t in quite some time.” “Did you think I wouldn’t have known it was you?” Emma teases, so the joke-thing was something of a lie. A nice one as far as misplaced lies go. Making another noise, he finally burrows closer to her until it’s closer to snuggling and clinging and another round of goosebumps explode on his skin when her hand flattens against his back. “Or,” she says, “was it something else?” “Several somethings, maybe.” “Wanna ballpark for me?” “Not sure I understand that one, actually.” “I don’t need all the somethings, but a few would be good right now. We can get to the rest of them later.”

Those words don’t necessarily fall on top of him. They’re as heavy as the rest, all that meaning and the possibility for a future that seems as distant and impossible as the past or the overall softness of the bedding upstairs. So, while gravity does its best to pull the words down on top of Killian, there’s an ease to them that makes it feel as if they’re simply resting across his back, a reminder that helps keep him pressed to this plane and this place and Emma’s left thigh.

Which is one of his favorite places to be, quite frankly.

Usually without the jeans in the way, but dead beggars can’t be choosers.

“I don’t know why I did that. The name, I—” “Liar, liar.” “Would you like to talk about pants, Swan? Because I have my fair share of thoughts regarding the ones you were wearing in Storybrooke.” “I didn’t pick that outfit.” “Rather good happenstance, then.” “Is deflection a required pirate characteristic?” she asks. “Distract your enemy with half-hearted compliments and—” “—Oh no, those are full-hearted, I guarantee.” “If nothing else, I did look stupid good in those pants.” “Hair left something to be desired, but the pants fit like a glove.” Her smile almost reaches her eyes. Obvious when light filters through the gauzy curtains, once more. “Flirt.” “Only with you.” Emma’s eyes widen. Not in surprise. Closer to frustration. A hint of impatience. The stubborn sort of determination that requires an answer. “And, I—I wanted it.” “Wanted what?” “To be that. Again, I suppose. After everything. All that I’d done, and how much I’d hurt you, I—”

“—You didn’t…” “Swan, let’s be honest that’s the worst lie either one of us has told.” “Ever?” “If not longer.” Huffing out a laugh, she slides further down the wall, a move that can’t feel good on her spine, but does ensure that she’s closer to Killian and he’s still enough of a pirate to want exactly that. “But I—a very long time ago, Captain Killian Jones believed in something. Wanted something, and thought he could get it. Even if some of it was distinctly lawless.” “Probably a requirement for your line of work.” “Ah, well that king deserved all the insults you could come up with. Stealing from him, destroying everything he’d built. That felt like justice, somehow.” “Should I mention the circular nature of time again or is that redundant?” “Unnecessary,” Killian agrees, his mouth inching further up Emma’s ribcage. The noise she lets out is closer to a giggle than he’s capable of dealing with. In a place that’s always tinged vaguely red. “I suppose part of me wanted to return to that. To the ideals, maybe not the laws or the uniforms, but certainly not the…” He swallows. “Villain. Evil. Wrong.” “I never thought you were wrong,” Emma says, soft enough that it’s difficult to hear. Over the ringing in Killian’s ears. And whatever rushes off her. Magic, of course. Responding to emotion and its innate desire to meet him halfway.

Gods, but he loves her more than he ever believed he could.

“I know that,” Killian promises, “even when I didn’t want to. Especially then.” “Make it sound less like an insult next time.” Tightening his arms isn’t easy when there’s this blasted wall in the way. Killian tries all the same. Emma doesn’t tell him to stop. “You were Captain Hook,” she adds, “when we found you. Buried under all those bodies in the Enchanted Forest.” “Eventually that’s really all that was left.” “I can make some more snide comments on pants, if you want. What’s the flammability of leather?” “I have no idea, honestly.” She smiles. He doesn’t check. Knows, can feel it in the very center of soul. “Ah, well, they can probably catch fire. Regina’s going to teach me how to do those ball things, anyway.” “Absolutely menacing, Your Highness.” “Don’t you forget it.”

The room is getting brighter.

Or Killian’s finally fallen off that edge. Either one seems entirely reasonable and maybe even a little enjoyable and he’s not sure when, exactly, he decides to start talking again. Only that the words arrive without much thought and even more feeling and Emma’s eyes don’t leave him.

“It was a mask. A reason for everything else, an excuse that I’d rationalized so I could fall asleep. Captain Hook was a product of his own misfortune, all those unfair hands he’d been dealt. The loss, the anger, the fury that grew every single time metal found skin. Being that, being him, allowed me to drift further and further into that darkness.” “But?” “But,” Killian repeats. “You found me under a pile of bodies in the Enchanted Forest.” “Oh, that’s kind of nice.” “It kind of was. After you got rid of the blade at my neck.” She flicks his chest. The knot of their limbs is another kind of miracle. “And then everything else that happened. Beanstalks, and Cora, and magic beans and—” “—You came back,” Emma cuts in. “Seems you’ve returned the favor several times over, love.” “That’s how it’s supposed to work, I think.” Maybe he’ll marry her.

The thought strikes him as suddenly as the lightning that flashes outside, a spark that’s eerily similar to the flames Emma was just talking about and there are far too many metaphors bouncing around his skull. He might just have a headache.

And yet the thought doesn’t disappear. Not immediately. No, it settles. Threatens to grow at the forefront of his brain, where the institution of marriage has never been given much consideration. Until now. With his left shoulder close to popping out of his socket, and Emma’s fingers in his hair and her back contorted while half a dozen bruises on his legs refuse to heal.

“I love you,” Killian says, unable to do anything else. Except propose, apparently. He should be alive for that.

And sitting up.

He can’t bring himself to sit up.

Only pull himself closer to Emma, until it’s obvious how much he wants and possibly needs and something about a circle. Coming back. Over and over.

“I know. Which is—” “—Good?” “Better,” Emma says. “I love you, too. Just you, you know that right?” Nodding leads to jeans scratching at his cheeks, but these pants fit fairly well too and both of them flinch at the noticeable creak coming down the stairs. Tufts of Henry’s hair stick up in every direction.

“You ok?” Emma asks her son, only to get a teenage-type shrug and genetically inherited head tilt.

Killian narrows his eyes. “What’s the matter, my boy?” The head tilt reaches an angle unaccomplished by anyone over the age of twenty-five. Killian isn’t even sure he could attempt such an angle. But it doesn’t seem to bother Henry and neither he nor Emma point out the use of those particular words in that particular order. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters, already stumbling forward. Falling is likely far too generous a descriptor for whatever Henry does next, another mess of limbs that adds to Killian and Emma’s knot, and there are a few more grunts than there should be.

From all of them.

Until they find something resembling comfort, Killian’s head still on Emma’s thigh and her legs stretched out so Henry can take advantage of her right one and— “Probably should have found a pillow,” Killian mutters, hoping it sounds like the apology he wants it to be. It’s not enough. Nothing ever could be, really. And he’s not all that surprised by Emma’s head shake, the way it makes her hair sway and brighten under the bit of light they’ve probably created just now and she winces when Henry’s chin digs into her knee. He starts snoring five seconds later. “I’m fine,” Emma says, and it’s impossible to argue with her. Even in this impossible place. “You’re comfortable like this.”

His heart thumps.

With wishful thinking or more misplaced hope, but it’s there all the same and he kisses exactly where his lips land.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #laura writes canon #CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP WRITING SEASON FIVE ANGST #i saw some gifs of this moment last night and my brain was like: alright go #also: if the timeline of this doesn't make sense #don't tell me #i kind of looked at some episode synopsis and then decided i absolutely did not care #and if you can't see main street from mary margaret's loft then that's just too bad

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buckthegrump · 4 years ago

Text

IBTHNTTTY - 9

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Y/n hates Bucky Barnes. Absolutely loathes him what makes it worse is that she has to share her office with him. Now with a promotion on the horizon she has to find a way to work with him and not against him.

Word Count: 1621

Warnings: this one has a lot of fluff, swears, sickness stuff, your welcome

A/n: leaving comments/ sending asks makes me happy

Working with Bucky on their project was turning out to be much simpler than Y/n once thought. During the first half of the week, he’d been super sweet to her. Honestly, it had set her on edge. Then one Wednesday, he had a personality change and was back to being a dick.

Which was almost a relief, but Y/n would be lying if she said that she hadn’t enjoyed the softer side of Binky Barnes. She had taken to calling him Binky in her mind to distance herself from those unwelcome feelings. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t working.

And to top off this week, she’d had a surge of anxiety on Thursday night. It was messing with her stomach, and when she woke up Friday morning, she didn’t feel much better.

Y/n’s car had finally escaped Carol’s grasp and was sitting in her building's garage. But Y/n realized that walking made her feel like she was exercising daily, so she felt less guilty about lounging on the couch the rest of the time.

The smart thing to do would’ve been to drive her car, especially since it was pouring down rain. But she knew that if she’d even tried to get into any moving vehicle, she would’ve gotten car sick. She had this notion that if she got fresh air, she would feel better. It was just a minor stomach ache, after all.

Her rain jacket that had been a gift from her parents had done nothing in the rainstorm. Neither had the fresh air. Her stomach was still uneasy.

Her outfit clung to every nook and cranny of her body, not leaving much to the imagination. Little baby hairs that had escaped their cages were now glued to her face. And she was dripping, legitimately dripping all over the floor.

As she entered the building, she had a thought. A troubling thought, she could risk getting motion sickness in the elevator that would last a few seconds, a minute at most. Or she could walk up the stairs, but who knows how long that would take.

Elevator it was then. She walked into an empty one hoping that she would get to suffer alone. (She was always extremely grumpy when she got sick.) But she wasn’t ill. It was just anxiety.

Just as the doors started to close, Bucky slid through them. Damn it.

“Hey,” he greeted, not looking up from his phone. Y/n responded with a nod.

The elevator jolted into motion, and she almost heaved right then and there. She held her fist over her mouth and closed her eyes.

“Are you ok?” He asked, looking over at her.

Y/n waved him off. She was uncomfortable; her clothes were still soaking. (Not that she thought they would magically dry between entering the building and the elevator, but one could dream.) All she wanted to do was rip them off and put on her biggest and comfy-est t-shirt then crawl into bed. Ok, so maybe she should’ve stayed at home.

He closed the distance between them. She felt his hand, which was freezing, against her forehead.

“Your hand is cold,” she whined.

“No. You're just hot,” Bucky said.

“Stop trying to get in my pants, Binky.” His hand stiffened against her forehead and was pulled away.

“I meant your temperature, you’re burning up. Did you walk here in the rain?”

Y/n swallowed, attempting to keep the bile from coming up. “No, I rode my roller skates.”

“I highly doubt you would’ve even been able to get the skates on. Go home, you're sick.”

The doors opened with a soft ding, and Y/n was off the elevator in a flash. She walked to her office with her head held high, ignoring the looks she got from her co-workers. They were probably staring at her because she was sopping wet, but Y/n felt like they could sense her sickness.

No, she was not sick.

When she was finally safe in her office, she slumped down into her chair.

“You need to go home,” Bucky repeated.

“I have a deadline,” she paused, “today that I can’t miss.”

“How long will it take you to finish it?”

Y/n didn’t answer. She was focused on getting the draft edited and sent off.

Luckily the edits were mostly done, so she finished the draft before noon. Before she got the chance to send it, she pulled her trashcan into her lap and vomited.

A hand started rubbing small circles on her back.

“Let me take you home,” Bucky whispered.

With no more fight in her, she sent the manuscript to Natasha and let Bucky help her out of her chair. She pulled away from him just as someone knocked at their office door.

Coulson entered after Bucky told him to. “I have a -” Coulson took one look at Y/n and froze, “Good God, Y/n, are you ok?”

“She appears to be a little sick, so I was going to take her home. All her work is done for the day -”

“Yes, of course,” Coulson nodded and stepped out of their way, “you can take the rest of the day too, Barnes.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Y/n walked through the office space, this time a little less confidently, with Bucky right behind her.

Once in the elevator, Y/n leaned most of her body weight on the railing. There were small black dots in her vision and her knees buckled beneath her. Bucky was quick to catch her before she could fall to the ground; he then lifted her into his arms.

She mumbled something about being too heavy for Bucky to carry, his only response was for her to shut up. Letting herself relax in his arms and nuzzled her face into his neck.

“You smell good,” she mumbled.

Bucky’s chest rumbled with laughter. “I’m surprised that my smell isn’t making you nauseous.”

“Did you not shower today or something?”

“You’re halfway to death and still making fun of me,” he chuckled.

“Someone has to; if I don’t, your head will get too big, and you’ll be insufferable.”

“I think you’ll be pleased to know that you are not the only one who thinks that,” he told her. She hummed into his chest.

* * *

Y/n must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing that registered was Bucky helping her out of the car and into her building. He tried to pick her up, but she was being stubborn and walked with Bucky hot on her heels.

He stood by patiently while she fumbled with her keys. Bucky gently grabbed the keys from her hand.

“I can do it,” she whispered.

“Sunflower,” he chuckled.

She froze and looked at him. “You haven’t called me that all week. Are you mad at me? Did I do something to make you mad at me? Because I’m sorry if I did. I don’t really hate you.”

He opened the door, and she walked in. Slowly, she melted to the floor, ready to just sleep there.

“No, no, no,” Bucky said, helping her to her feet. “You need to get out of those clothes and into something dry before you catch a cold on top of the flu.”

“I don’t have the flu.”

“Sunflower -” Bucky walked with her as she half led him to her bedroom.

“You never answered my question,” she said. Without thinking about it, she stripped down to her underwear.

“Oh my god,” Bucky quickly turned his back to her. “You can’t just take off your clothes like that.”

“I’m in my own house and -” she opened and closed her drawers. She finally found a new change of panties and her comfy shirt. After changing, she walked over to her bed. “You’re avoiding my question.”

“No, I’m not mad at you,” he said.

“Bucky, come here,” Y/n ordered. Once he was standing next to her bed, she opened an eye to look at him. “Will you stay?”

“Oh, I don’t trust you not to do anything stupid,” Bucky reached out with his right hand and gently pressed it to her forehead. “Do you have a thermometer?”

An unbidden giggle escaped her lips. “My mom made me my very own first aid kit when I moved here. It’s in the bathroom under the sink.”

Bucky’s thumb stroked her eyebrow before he walked away.

“Is your first aid kit in a little mermaid lunch box?” He called from the bathroom. She mumbled something into her pillow, not even she knew what she was trying to say. “Here.”

He held out the thermometer for her.

“Will you do it? Just stick it in my armpit,” she groaned.

“Believe it or not, sunflower, I’ve taken someone’s temperature before,” He said.

“Some people are a stick it in the mouth kind of people. I just don’t want you to put my armpit thermometer in my mouth.”

“Noted.” He hesitated, then Y/n pulled at her neckline to give him access to her pit.

“I’m hungry.”

“Probably because you’ve puked up everything you’ve eaten,” pulled the thermometer from her after it beeped. “But you’ll have to wait until you don’t dry heave for a few hours. You are currently at 103. If you go above that, I’m taking you to the doctor’s.”

Y/n grabbed his hand, and he stilled. She pulled him closer to him. Getting the hint, he took off his shoes.

“You don’t have to wear your pants,” she said. “Unless you’re going commando. I don’t want your dick out ready to play.”

He ignored her and climbed onto her bed and sat next to her. He didn’t get under the covers at all, nor did he lay down.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes au

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katsitting · 4 years ago

Note

"Audacity"?

AN: So, we’ve got another one that I ran with. I hope you enjoy, and that this is along the lines of what you had in mind :) All typos are mine

Ships: Tomarry

Rating: T

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern, Canon Divergence, Professor Tom Riddle, Sexual Tension, Student/Teacher Dynamic, Tom Riddle is a Dark Lord but Harry doesn’t know this, POV Third Person Limited, Not Beta-Read

You can read it on AO3 here.

_______________________________________________________________

“That’s total bollocks” Harry said, aware that he was playing a dangerous game, but unwilling to anyway. To do anything else would be to admit defeat, and Harry, even when acquiescence was the safest option in his toolbox, would sooner kiss a Mandrake than do as much.

To hell with that.

“Harry!” Hermione hissed into his ear, with what Harry could imagine was an ashen and horrified look on her face. Harry didn’t turn to face her, though, not when Professor Riddle was standing in front of him with a look of absolute contempt on his face.

“This is insane, Harry. You’re going to get detention, or worse, expelled.” Hermione was buzzing with nervous energy at his side, while Ron, the more terrified of the two, remained silent. It was as if Ron had absorbed all the fear and good sense Harry had because what Harry said, was going to continue to say, wasn’t sensible in the least. “Harry, please, see sense.”

Harry couldn’t, not over the loud rush of anger, of bitterness in his ears. It was a writhing, living mass in the centre of his chest, a poison slowly spreading through his veins.

Stopping wasn’t an option. Not anymore.

“No matter how you slice it, it’s wrong. You can’t just say that the Unforgivables have their moments where they—the total bloody opposite of what the word unforgivable even means—are forgivable.”

Professor Riddle’s expression darkened, his contempt growing into something that resembled loathing. The murmurs in the classroom had all but vanished; Harry doubted there was even an intake of breath. Still, Harry couldn’t find it within himself to care, to be concerned. He only had room for fury in his heart.

Because how fucking dare he?

A dark wizard had murdered Harry’s parents using an Unforgivable.

A dark witch had tortured Neville’s parents until they’d gone mad using an Unforgivable.

There was no justification, no reason for the use of dark magic. Even if Professor Riddle was brilliant, one of the most talented young wizards to grace this school, he was wrong.

The gall, the bloody nerve, to say that they could somehow be justified.

Harry’s fingers were shaking to the point that he couldn’t keep his pencil in his grip.

“Mr. Potter—“ Riddle began, but Harry didn’t let him finish. He was on his feet before he realised what he’d done, hands clenched into fists at his hands. His shaking had spread from his fingers to the rest of him.

“No, don’t say another word.”

The room went still. Everyone did. Even Riddle had paused, his expression freezing into one of disbelief.

Harry drank the look in, taking that moment to give Riddle the most disgusted look he could muster, before turning away and beginning to gather his things. He wasn’t going to stay a second longer.

What would be the point? He was angry, no, furious. Staying in this classroom, with his pissant of a professor, would only invite another argument, would only cost his House more points.

It was such bullshit. Such horseshit.

Harry tried not to think about his anger, tried not to focus on the nervous glances Ron and Hermione cast his way in the hopes he’d face them and sit back down, but that anger—

It was all he could focus on, all he could taste in the back of his tongue as he shoved his books into his bag. He was so furious that he couldn’t stand it, that he couldn’t breathe through his it.

How could someone so brilliant be so blind? How could someone so young be so heartless? It was maddening. It didn’t make any bloody sense!

His head still rung with Riddle’s cavalier discussion of dark magic, of what a fascinating history they had, Riddle had said. He couldn’t get the words out of his head, couldn’t erase the look of fascination in Riddle’s dark eyes as he spoke about the subject to his class.

It was disgusting, so fucking—

Harry shot the thought down before he riled himself up any further. If he let himself just run with this, there was no telling what else he might do, might say. Dumbledore could cover for him, but not even he could protect him if Harry took things too far.

“Mr. Potter—“

Harry’s fingers stilled, his head snapping up to look at Riddle without meaning to. Riddle’s expression had grown icier in the time Harry had spent gathering his things. It was like all the colour had been drained out of him, his humanity gone.

Harry didn’t let that intimidate him. Squaring his shoulders, Harry levelled him with a fierce expression of his own.

“Sit down.”

Harry didn’t. He refused to be cowed, to be silenced for his legitimate position. No one got a pass at saying that dark magic was justifiable, not even the professors.

No, especially not the professors.

Riddle had been alright for a Slytherin, even if he was some of the harsher professors when it came to his lessons, but now, Harry was certain that he was worse than all the rubbish in Slytherins he knew.

The Slytherins he knew at least were forthright with their noxious beliefs, but no, not Professor Riddle. Riddle was the worst kind of Slytherin, the most heinous of all, he was a bloody liar. A terrible person pretending to be kind, to be good. He was—

A dark wizard through and through.

“Mr. Potter, don’t make me repeat myself.”

Still, Harry refused to back down. The room grew chillier still, the tension among the other seventh-year students enough to make everyone rigid in their seats. Harry wanted to feel bad for putting everyone through this, but he didn’t. Harry felt no guilt.

“Class dismissed. Mr. Potter, you stay.”

Riddle’s voice was a whisper; no louder than the flutter of a page turning. With how everyone reacted, it might as well been a Bombarda. Everyone scrambled to gather their things, to rush out of the room and escape from the mounting conflict with between them.

Harry paid them no mind, still not standing down even as Hermione and Ron lingered on the outer perimeter of his sight. They should have left with everyone else, but Harry understood their reservations, their hesitance. A Harry that was alone was a Harry that could get himself into deeper trouble.

Calling Professor a fucking dark wizard would do precisely that, and the temptation to shout that off the top of his lungs, was growing stronger by the seconds.

“Granger and Weasley, I believe I said that class was dismissed.”

From Harry’s peripheral, he could make out Hermione freezing in place, her hand falling away from where she had tried to reach for the outer edge of his robes. Her face was expressionless, but by the state of her hair, Harry knew she was flustered and on the verge of panicking. Harry almost winced at the look on Ron’s face. He fared no better than Hermione; he looked faint, his face a shade of pale green.

Hermione was short of having a panic attack, and Ron, by the look of things, was in the middle of one.

Harry did feel a twinge of guilt then.

Harry turned to Hermione with a smile on his face that he meant to be comforting, but Hermione’s expression didn’t look convinced. Her hair was still frizzed up, as if the strands were sucking up the tension in the room.

“Go. I’ll be fine.”

Hermione hesitated, unwilling to leave him alone but also equally as unwilling to disobey a direct instruction from their professor. The tension radiating from Riddle was growing worse by the second, it was only a matter of time before he directed his ire on Harry’s friends if they didn’t move fast enough.

Harry didn’t want to drag him into his mess.

“Go.”

Hermione gave a subtle nod, and then, with a fierce expression on her face, managed to undo whatever spell of panic Ron was in and lead him out of the classroom.

Harry didn’t watch them as they left, not with Riddle watching him as closely as he was. It was like he was trying to see beneath Harry’s skin, to uncover some sort of secret that he didn’t know.

What he was trying to find, to uncover, Harry didn’t know nor care.

Riddle could look all he fucking liked.

“Mr. Potter—“ Riddle began, voice so soft that Harry struggled to catch it. It wasn’t angry or upset. It wasn’t much of anything. It was empty, but it was still eerie enough to make the hair’s on the nape of Harry’s neck stand on end.

“While I admire your passion on the subject, what you have said and done today, is—“

Harry couldn’t help his smirk when Riddle stopped talking, lifting his chin a little to stare at Riddle from beneath his nose. A gesture that said, no, screamed—

I dare you.

I bloody dare you.

Whatever the circumstances, Harry was not afraid. Nothing Riddle said could scare him, nothing that he did could make him take his words back. Riddle had lost all of his respect, his goodwill. There was nothing Riddle could possibly do to him now that would make a bloody difference.

Detention?

Expulsion?

While detention was definitely a tool in Riddle’s arsenal, Harry’s behaviour wasn’t enough to justify expulsion. Dumbledore wouldn’t allow it, and in fact, Harry was certain, Dumbledore might even praise him for his defiance.

“The audacity Mr. Potter, to accuse me of being accepting of dark magic, to derail my class with your ridiculous tantrum—“

Harry laughed, unable to help it when Riddle’s expression turned lethal, when Riddle crossed the room to loom over Harry like some sort of angry ghost from across his desk. Harry had never considered Riddle the type to throw fists, but with the look he was sporting, Harry had half a mind to prepare himself for an all-out brawl.

“If given the chance, I’d do it again,” Harry said, and Riddle froze, all the anger draining out of him leaving behind an expressionless mask. “Hogwarts has no place for dark wizards…sir.”

It was miraculous just how fast Professor Riddle switched from one emotion to the next. It made one wonder just how sane he was, if one could even call Riddle sane at all for spouting the nonsense he’d had in class.

“Seventy-five points from Gryffindor and a month’s detention, Potter.”

Harry didn’t flinch, already expecting that. His entire house was going to kill him, but it couldn’t be helped. Actions had consequences, and although he would have preferred getting out of this unscathed, that was not going to be possible after what he’d said.

Oh well.

Riddle didn’t say anything more for some time, his gaze burning into Harry’s eyes. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, but Harry did not blink. He didn’t want to miss a thing even though his eyes were starting to water.

“Listen well, Harry—

The sound of his name coming from that mouth was enough to make Harry’s skin crawl.

“For someone that is so quick to accuse others of being a dark wizard, I find it curious that you would choose to submit yourself to detention with the very wizard you are accusing of condoning dark magic.”

Harry’s blood ran cold, shock enough to drain away all the burning righteous indignation swimming in his gut. Riddle’s lips had into a saccharine smile and—

Those eyes.

They were lit with something Harry couldn’t identify, something he couldn’t place. All that he knew was that it was wrong somehow, that it was—

No, Harry tried to shake off the unease. He’s only trying to scare you.

Harry squared his shoulders, fighting down the wave of unease murmuring in the back of his mind to turn away and run.

“It’s not very intelligent of you, Harry,” Riddle purred and Harry blanched, unsure of how to respond when Riddle’s face changed again, something mischievous now gracing his features. “But I suppose, that is what others find so endearing about you. This recklessness.”

Harry’s throat caught, a burn he didn’t want to acknowledge blooming across his cheeks. How did he even begin responding to that?

“I’d be careful if I were you. Someone might just find you too endearing, and—“ Riddle’s lips were curled into a strange smile, one Harry had never seen on his professor’s face before. Harry tried to swallow down his discomfort, to not take a step back when Riddle tilted his head to one side, observing him from beneath his lashes.

What the fuck?

“Never you mind, Harry. You’re free to go.”

Riddle waved his hand, and it was like Harry could breathe again, had been snapped out of his unwanted and unexpected stupor for a moment to take a step back and reach for his moleskin bag.

The moment was over as quickly as it had come.

What the fuck was that all about?

Harry couldn’t even begin to answer that question, to sort through this own confusing thoughts. Even after he’d left the classroom, rushing through the halls all the way to Gryffindor Tower at a much faster pace than he would have liked, he was at a loss.

It was obvious Riddle had been upset. That couldn’t have been more clear, but—

But I suppose, that is what others find so endearing about you. This recklessness.

It was almost as though he were paying Harry a compliment, and that was wrong on so many levels that Harry didn’t even want to consider it. Riddle didn’t pay compliments like that. Especially not after what Harry had said, had done, in the middle of class.

What the fuck?

Harry wasn’t looking forward to detention.

#tomarry #harrymort #I did a thing #one word prompts #Anonymous

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starsandmoonys · 4 years ago

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Uh oh, here's another shitty one shot.

Regulus Black, the happiest Ghost

"That's a bad colour on you"

Sirius spun, there shouldn't be anyone in this room. He reached for his wand, startled. He was picking what to wear because he was going to see Remus today and was really trying to look his best.

"You can't just show up out of nowhere and scare the shit out of me," Sirius said, aggravated but turning again to his wardrobe to search for a proper shirt, a better colour.

"Especially at these times, it's not safe. I could've-" He added, but stopped himself.

"Sure, give me all you got, I'm see-through." The voice behind him chuckled, getting nearer. "Also it's the whole point of my existence, I show up whenever; scare you. It's fun." Arrogant and annoying even after death, some things just don't change.

"Yeah, that's how you get your kicks, now."

"It's my power, and I love using it. I can't exactly scare anyone else. Stuck with you, my dearest brother."

"You can leave now, I'm busy." Sirius was buried in his pile of clothes, getting more annoyed and finding he has absolutely nothing to wear or nothing that would fit appropriate to where he's going. Sirius normally never cared what he wore, he thought he always looked good in whatever and anyone else's opinion never mattered, but it was Remus and he needed to please and impress.

"I can help, Blacks have always had style." He was now beside him. He could feel the coldness spreading out. Sirius looked up, he saw Regulus, his little brother. He was cold, pale, transparent, but he was smiling. It wasn't the first time Sirius would see him after he died. He would always show up to Sirius. He would talk to him, keep him company when the days would just be unbearable.

Regulus would always be beside him even during missions and duels with death eaters. Helping with lines like "Watch it.", "Lookout.", " on your left.". He'd been there when he cried over Remus. Sirius would talk his ears off but he never leaves, no matter how repetitive the conversation gets. He listens, and funnily enough to use the new information to tease the hell out of his brother in important situations. Like the last meeting of the order when he kept walking around making kissing faces at Remus just to irritate Sirius and get him to lose his focus and stare at the wrong person. Regulus's ghost was far happier and playful than when he was actually alive. Sirius thought of all the reasons why that made perfect sense.

Regulus had no Walburga, no missions, no pressure or responsibilities, not even the dark lord could hurt him. He only existed for his brother, and that was enough. He was always in a great manner. Only got sad when Sirius would cry or finish a mission looking miserable.

Sirius had a really hard time accepting Regulus's death. He always blamed himself for it. He was the one that left him. He abandoned him to those wretched humans they call parents. He let his brother be fooled by them, he let him sink into the darkness until it swallowed him whole. Until he died, and that was always on Sirius. Maybe if he hadn't left, his brother would still be alive. Maybe they would get through this war together. Regulus would move on with his life, be happy. Instead, he got his brother as a ghost, a voice and a shape, only Sirius could see or hear.

The first time Regulus appeared in front of Sirius, he thought he had finally slipped into madness. He knew he wasn't wired up right in the head, but to actually be able to see his own dead brother, a few days after his death, was his final straw. Especially when no one else could see him, he wasn't a normal spirit. His existence broke Sirius, it was always a reminder of what he did. Sirius would crash, breakdown, cry, sob, and scream at the pale figure. He couldn't be real. It was his mind playing sick tricks on him, maybe it was his parents doing something to him. It had to be anything but the fact that Regulus was actually there.

That was a year ago. After many sleepless nights, experiments and research, Sirius came to the realization that Regulus was a legitimate ghost, he was there for staying. He wasn't a part of Sirius's mind, and it made everything so much worse for him. His brother didn't choose afterlife, he chose to stay. When Sirius asked him, he would tell him that he wanted to be by his side, just like Sirius stayed and took all the spells and hits for him at the Grimuald place. It's torture to Sirius but he got used to it. Regulus wasn't going anywhere and Sirius was enjoying the company, maybe it's selfish but he has his brother.

"Shut up, turtle neck." Sirius eventually responded. Starting to give up on the colourful floor he sat on; piles of shirts and trousers, spread everywhere.

"They're cool, and you know it."

"Sure they are, Reggie."

"Coming from the bloke who owns half the stock of silk shirts in Britain. You buy them in every colour, it's disastrous."

"Why are you here, again?" Sirius turned his head to face his brother, who was now crouching examining the clothes, making disapproving noises and frowning.

"Fine, I'm leaving. You're on your own. Good luck." Regulus said, getting up and going towards the end of the bedroom, walking rather slowly.

"You're just going to roam around the house then come back again because you're a lonely bitch."

"You're a lonely bitch, Sirius." The Spirit responded, monotonously.

"We're both lonely, now can you please come and help, and stop being a pain in the ass, Reg." His brother just smirked at him. He knew what was coming. So he added and beat him to it. "Do not say the joke you're thinking about."

"Oh, you mean the joke about the pain in the ass? Yeah, you just stole it." Regulus was now beside him again, grinning. "Sure, I'll help. You wouldn't really want to miss tonight's pain in the ass, would you? Big bro." His grin got wider. Sirius could only facepalm as his brother was now laughing and doubling over on the floor with laughter at his very lame joke.

"I'm losing my mind here, in a crisis, and you're laughing," Sirius growled. He wanted to grab Regulus, smack him. His hand would just go through him, it makes him sad.

"So, the usual. Except, I'm the one laughing this time." Regulus said, finding his composure again.

"I'll just cancel with moony, and miss out on the opportunity to see him for the next three months," Sirius mumbled, getting up, shoulders slouched. He felt like crying.

"Or, you could wear those and have the greatest evening for the next three months." He turned around and saw Regulus trying to pick a shirt and a pair of trousers out of the pile, he failed obviously and ended up pointing at them while looking at Sirius. He walked back and picked up what his brother chose.

They were dark Jeans, a white shirt and a black leather jacket, except that it's not the one he normally wears. It's much more modest, without all the chains, pockets and excessive accessories. "Simple, yet charming," Regulus commented as Sirius was examining the clothes.

"Thank you, you're a lifesaver." Sirius looked up to meet his brother's eyes. It's insane how they're just more alive now than ever before. "Aren't I always?" Regulus beamed back at him.

"Yeah, I'd hug you." Sirius smiled, looking down at his clothes. "Don't worry, I hug me every day." Regulus was wrapping his arms around himself, "Like that, self-love. It does wonders. You should try it."

"One day, Reg. One day, I just might. I'll go change now." Sirius said, smiling sadly.

"I have all the time in the world," Regulus spoke confidently, hands on his waist. "By the way, you really needn't stress that much about what you wear. I don't think Remus gives a shit, Sirius." Sirius cracked up, hummed in response and turned around for the second time to leave the bedroom. "and I mean it in every good way, brother." Regulus shouted from inside the bedroom as Sirius was shutting the bathroom door.

It's funny how things turned out with Sirius, he grew up in a hell house, with abusive parents. Ran away to his new family, the Potters. Left his actual brother in the hands of Voldemort. Fell in love with his male, half-blood, werewolf best friend. How he's currently fighting in a war against his former family, against everything he was raised to believe in. How he has his brother with him at any given time, comforting him when neither James nor Remus could be there. It's funny how everything in Sirius's life seems shit yet the best it could ever get at the same time. He didn't want it to end.

The Au I was talking about. I tried not to make it sad. Probably failed. Idk. Anyways, if you like it. Tell me. Maybe I can think of part two. I'm a Regulus stan, I have so much Regulus content and would write essays and essays about him. :)))))).

His relationship with Sirius is just so precious. :')

This is not in anyway edited sorry for the mistakes.

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tamakiamajikistentacles · 4 years ago

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Fucking Hormones {KiriBaku}

A/N: Please be sure to reblog, comment, review, and like if you enjoy! Feedback is what keeps me motivated! This is pretty much pure crack born from this post I made that kind of blew up? Hopefully this is a good crossover to sate your KiriBaku needs!

Bakugo had a vivid imagination. Growing up as an only child and travelling with his parents kind of necessitated it. When he was a kid he had spent long hours both in his parents’ office and on planes letting his imagination run wild. It was why he had the design of his hero costume six years before he had ever stepped foot onto UA’s campus for the entrance exam and how he already knew what color the walls would be painted when he opened his own agency (Pantone 360 C, thank you very much).

As he grew older though, that particular attribute had evolved from creating future plans to creating fantasy lovers once he hit puberty. Nameless, faceless, and oftentimes sexless, he imagined hands on him and his hands tracing over curves and dips of muscle depending on the night; sometimes they fucked him, sometimes he fucked them. Either way it played out, there was no name to shout or eye color he could manifest to look into.

Until one night in his dorm room when he came so hard with his best friend’s name on his tongue that he thought he’d blackout. He’d had the image of red hair and red eyes and sharp teeth in his head as he concentrated on the idea that his hand wasn’t his own but rather that of the classmate next door.

The initial bliss from release didn’t last long, panic flooding his system as he realized that he was fantasizing about Kirishima. There had never been a specific person in his thoughts before and the fact that he enjoyed it more when he was thinking of that stupid grin on his face? He was fucked. Absolutely fucking fucked.

He grabbed his discarded shirt and wiped himself clean, yanking his sweats back up his legs and trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next because holy shit, this was not what he’d expected when he’d settled into his bed less than half an hour ago to jerk off. There was no doubt that Kirishima was his best friend and kind of the only person he could stand being around voluntarily for more than twenty minutes and that he was tan and muscled and—shit.

“This night can’t possibly get worse,” he murmured, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple.

Then his balcony doors flew open with a deafening crash, shuddering in the sudden wind that swept through his room under the moonlight. He jumped to his feet with his heart hammering in his chest, turning between the balcony and another loud bang from his bathroom door flying open and hitting the wall. Crackling lightening clouded his vision as thunder boomed.

He was under attack literally two minutes removed from cumming, what the fuck—

“Hello, my cheesy little rigatoni,” a sultry voice purred from the bathroom doorway.

“WHO IN THE FUCK ARE YOU?” he shouted, sweatpants slung low on his hips and his palms igniting for the fight that was sure to come.

A feminine chuckle filled his ears as a furry creature emerged from his bathroom, long auburn hair seeming to grow fuller as it shifted in the breeze and pink painted lips smirking devilishly as she grew closer. Cloven hooves clicked on the hardwood floor and yet somehow the one thing that registered to him as disturbing was the ample bust covered in brown fur.

“I’m your hormone monstress, sweetheart. You can call me Connie because you and me?”—she gestured between them— “We’re gonna have a lot of fun together.”

His eye twitched. “I ain’t the fun type and I sure as hell don’t need some…some… whatever the fuck you are giving me shit about jerking off!”

“Now that’s no way to speak to the one who’s going to guide you through these changes.”

“Guide me though…? Newflash, bitch: I’ve gone through puberty. Just listen to my voice, fuck! Do I sound like my balls haven’t dropped yet?”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and her blue eyes held indifference. “Honey it’s not my fault breaking into the Japanese market was hard and then caused a backlog. Even if assignments come in late I still gotta do ‘em.”

“Are you absolutely fucking kidding me? I DON’T NEED YOU!”

“If you want help getting in the pants of that boy who’s name you just shouted while shuckin’ corn then I think you do,” she tempted, watching his jaw set. “What’s his name, now? Kirishima?”

“Do not say his name,” he warned with a threatening point of his finger.

“C’mon now honey,” she said, hopping up to sit on his desk and crossing one leg over the other. “We’ve got to get planning because the five-finger shuffle isn’t gonna keep you happy for long when all you want is that boy’s hand down your pants.”

Bakugo stared at her for a long moment before looking down at his hands and then over his shoulder to his open balcony doors. Then, with a nod of conviction, he moved to close the balcony doors and slipped back under his blankets.

“I’ve gone fucking insane,” he murmured as he closed his eyes. He was having a weird as shit lucid dream after blacking out from that orgasm. All he had to do was fall asleep in this dream and he would wake up alone. And when he woke up this walking pair of furry tits would be gone and cum would be flaking off of his skin.

She was not gone.

At least, not permanently. It was like she just materialized next to him when his dick even so much as twitched when he thought something inappropriate about Kirishima.

The first time it happened was in training the day after she’d first appeared. They had all been rotating sparring partners, and when he was paired with Kirishima and had him pressed against the ground for the five count the redhead smiled excitedly.

“Man, you’re the best even without your quirk! Seriously so manly!”

Bakugo scoffed, waving him off to where his water bottle sat. “And don’t you ever forget it, Shitty Hair.”

As the laughter of his friend faded he felt a soft brush at the base of his neck, whirling around ready to fight whatever classmate decided to touch him. Instead, though, he came face to face with what he thought had been another creation of his imagination.

The monstress who’d introduced herself as Connie the night prior stood before him in a UA training jacket unzipped to show off her cleavage and her hair pulled high in a ponytail atop her head.

“What the fuck—”

“Oh sugar, you may think that hair’s shitty but I bet it’s good enough to pull when he’s between your thighs and those teeth? Mmm, just imagine ‘em givin’ a nice little nibble to your—"

“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU HORNED BITCH!”

A jolt of panic ran through him when he realized that his classmates might not be able to see her. They were going to think he was absolutely off his rocker screaming at nothing. But when he surveyed the training grounds he saw that no one was paying him any mind.

“Believe it or not I’m not big on audiences,” she cooed into his ear.

And that’s how he spent his days going forward—paranoid of her popping out of thin air to tease him about Kirishima unknowingly making his heart jump into his throat or making his pants feel tighter. It didn’t happen every time (she would’ve never left his side then, honestly) but it happened enough that he legitimately contemplated labeling her as a villain. She made his life hell just like one with all her antics.

It had been an exam day in Cementoss’ literature class, their task to complete twelve multiple choice questions and two open-ended prompts. He’d read the material and taken plenty of notes to breeze through it with only one multiple choice that he wasn’t entirely sure of. So with nothing better to do he surveyed his classmates, spying Kaminari nervous and breathing heavily with Kirishima sat behind him concentrating on the paper in front of him harder than Bakugo had ever seen. He’d helped him study so it was nice to see he was putting all his effort into doing well.

But when his tongue darted out to wet his lips time slowed to a crawl and suddenly he was feeling very, very warm as that tongue stayed poking out of the corner of his mouth.

“He looks like the type who just knows how to use his tongue, virgin or not,” the monstress whispered from his left, and when he whipped around to face her he saw that she was perched on the windowsill wearing reading glasses and skimming over the text they were being quizzed on. “Do you think he’s the type to be excited and quick or slow and enjoy bein’ a lil tease?”

Bakugo snapped his pen in half.

Then there was the evening in the common room when the entire class had gathered for an ice cream party because sure, a bunch of teenagers definitely needed all that sugar on a Wednesday night. Though it wasn’t terrible to be sat amongst Kirishima, Kaminari, Jiro, Ashido, and Sero as they talked about strategic costume alterations and he savored the cinnamon ice cream in his bowl. It was fairly calm until he heard the grating sound of Kirishima’s straw trying to get every last bit of his milkshake, and he looked up to tell him to knock it off but froze when he saw the redhead’s cheeks slightly puffed out from the treat and a trail of vanilla dripping from his lips and down his chin.

Pressing the cold bowl in his hands against the crotch of his pants didn’t do as much as he hoped, especially when Kirishima swallowed loudly and wiped the drip from his face with two fingers, promptly sucking it off a moment later and declaring with a laugh that he may have brain freeze.

“Hmm,” he heard from beside him, turning to find Connie with her own strawberry cone in hand, “I think we both know that what you’ve got for him wouldn’t give him brain freeze. He looks good with a little something on his face, don’t you think?”

Fuck yes he did but he wasn’t about to tell her that, instead choosing to shovel a spoonful of his own dessert into his mouth. The knock of the metal spoon against his teeth hurt just enough to distract him for all of three seconds from the raging boner he was sporting.

There was also movie night in Sero’s room when halfway through the second movie Kirishima needed a phone charger and crossed in front of his spot in the hammock to bend down and get the spare cord from Sero’s desk drawer. His tshirt lifted slightly as he did to expose the curve of his lower back and the dimples set at his hips which were subtle but defined enough that Bakugo idly wondered…

“…if you could feel ‘em when you wrapped your legs around those delicious hips?”

He hated that she could read him like a fucking book. But he also hated that he had apparently now developed a fetish for best friend’s back.

Even during training when he was watching Kirishima work on his Unbreakable form against Shoji from the sidelines, the class’ task to critique their peers’ moves and assess them for potential counters that villains could utilize, he stared at the hard lines of his back. When he activated his quirk the hardening deepened the definition of his muscles as they raised up in craggy patterns that drew hills and valleys down the length of his spine.

His strength and resilience was hot as shit. Bakugo could train with him until his arms trembled with overuse from his quirk and not a single scorch mark would be left on the redhead, just another wide smile. Even close-range explosions couldn’t crack him, and he could think of situations other than close combat where that would be useful.

“Shame that you can’t scratch those shoulders up, ain’t it?” Connie murmured over his shoulder.

Not quite, he mused to himself. He had great control of himself when it came to his quirk, but where Kirishima was concerned was rapidly becoming a different story.

Say he did try to scratch those shoulders—if his quirk went off because he was in a stupidly dizzy haze due to Kirishima being that close to him, he wouldn’t hurt him. A far bigger blessing in his opinion. Besides, scratches weren’t the only way he could mark him up.

“What’s that smirk for baby?”

“Eat shit and die.”

Bakugo wasn’t a rule breaker. He lived his life on the straight and narrow in every aspect except apparently for his sexuality. Which is how he ended up breaking locker room rule number one: don’t check out your bros when changing.

At least he wasn’t obvious about it though, he justified. A peek from the corner of his eye here, a half-lidded glance there. With a quirk like his he didn’t get the chance to be subtle often but he was damn good at it.

No one around him knew that from his peripheral he was tracing the outline of Kirishima’s body in just his boxer briefs, savoring it for every second he could before his uniform pants slid up his legs.

A soft tickle on his arm let him know that something had noticed and he grimaced at the sound of her voice.

“Ohhh you picked a good one, my tasty little cherry bomb,” she cooed from her position against the lockers, bottom lip bitten between her teeth as she gazed longingly over his shoulder. “I could bounce an American quarter off of that tight little ass.”

“Shut your damn mouth!” he hissed as a furious blush covered his cheeks. Another glance at his friend showed that he was finishing the top button on his shirt before tucking it into his pants. He could even make the uniform look good, it was entirely unfair.

“Even with clothes on that boy has you feeling tingly,” she teased as tendrils of her hair wrapped around his waist. “But honey we gotta get in them pants and find out if those red drapes have a matching carpet!”

Before he could stop it his traitorous mouth revealed, “They don’t.”

She gasped and pulled him closer with her hair, his bare chest pressed against her furry one. “Start talking, motherfucker.”

“Fuck, it’s not a big deal!” he defended, squirming in the tight grip of her hair. “You’ve seen his hero costume—he’s shirtless! His happy trail is pitch black, okay? It’s… just something I noticed. And then that pink bitch told me he started dying and spiking it for high school, in middle school it was still black and he always wore it down.”

Connie narrowed her eyes but unwound her hair to let him finish dressing, crossing her arms as she surveyed the remaining boys. The locker room was almost completely empty save for himself, Kirishima, and Kaminari.

“He doesn’t like her, does he?”

Bakugo paused as he pulled on his blazer. “Raccoon Eyes? No? I mean, shit, I don’t know? I just know they went to the same middle school or whatever.”

She hummed. “Middle school friends, high school sweethearts, hero power couple, lil pink babies with some sharp teeth…”

“Shut. the hell. up,” he warned. “I’d know if he liked her, I’m his best friend. He’d tell me shit like that.”

“When?” she asked sassily. “You haven’t spent a lick of time alone with that boy since my cute ass got here. You’ve only hung out together in your little group so when would he tell you?”

The fact that she had made a damn good point had him wanting to blow up the entire building.

“Fuck you,” he spat, slamming his locker shut. He shoved his bag under his arm and stomped over to his friends, Kirishima spotting him over Kaminari’s shoulder and giving him a grin that should not have been as hot as it was.

“Hey, man!” he greeted, Kaminari turning and doing the same.

Bakugo grabbed the sleeve of his blazer and tugged him towards the door. “Walk with me.”

He stumbled as he followed, a clumsy wave to Kaminari thrown over his shoulder as he gained his bearings enough to walk with his friend once they reached the hallway. He’d since let go of his sleeve, hands shoved into his pockets and a flush to his cheeks.

“Everything good bro?” Kirishima asked with a furrowed brow.

“I gotta go to the shopping district tomorrow.”

“Oh, what do you have to get?”

“Got a bunch of shit I need to grab,” he huffed as they exited the building and started down the path to the dorms. “You said there was a new album you wanted to get, yeah?”

He grinned, surprised but delighted that he’d remembered him mentioning it. “Yeah, it’s a rerelease of my favorite album on vinyl and when I looked at it online it was so cool! Like the actual record is dark blue and then it has—”

“Just come with me tomorrow and show me then, Hair for Brains.”

“O-oh? I mean, yeah. Yeah!” he said excitedly. “What time were you thinking of going?”

“Train leaves at nine.”

The sharp smile was blinding and dammit he wanted to blast the butterflies in his stomach straight to hell where the little beasts belonged. Half of him was desperate to keep the smile on his lips while the other half wondered how hard would be too hard if Kirishima ever bit his neck as he worked a red and purple bruise into his skin, and just imagining it had him quickening his pace to get the fuck to his dorm room and take care of the rapidly growing problem just below his belt.

Kirishima kept up with his longer strides and didn’t leave his side as they got into the elevator to go to their floor. For the time being, Bakugo hated that their rooms were right next door to one another. He was bound to hear him moan his name some night (what if it was that night? or in the next five minutes?) and he was wholly unprepared to try and talk his way out of that particular situation.

“Did you see the group chat?”

Bakugo blinked. “What?”

“Sero’s dad dropped off like eight boxes of dango from Tokyo and he said he was gonna share with us after dinner! Do you want me to get you when it’s time for dinner and then we can find them to eat? Wait, do you think he’s gonna share with the entire class? Because I’d feel bad if we were the only ones—”

“Just knock on my door when you’re ready to eat,” he grunted as he pulled his keycard out of his pocket, strategically angling his hips away from his friend. “I’m starting my essay.”

“Oh yeah, sure!” he agreed as Bakugo entered his room. “I probably should too, I mean the English translations take me forever and that essay’s supposed to be like two thousand words—”

He closed the door on his rambling and dropped his bag to the floor. Like fuck was he starting that essay when he could feel his heartbeat in his underwear.

“You know…”

Shit.

“…even if it takes him a while to translate I’ve got some nice English phrases you can drop on your date tomorrow, baby.”

“It’s not a date, shitty bitch!” he hissed as he threw open his closet door to find comfier clothes to change into. The sound of her voice was an instant boner killer so the great idea of jerking off before dinner was shot down as he’d gone softer with each word that rolled off of her tongue.

“But it could be!” she said, excitedly throwing her hands above her head.

“No.”

“But you heard how excited he was! You two can sit nice and close on the train and if your jacket’s over your laps? Honey!”

“You need to fucking get over the idea that tomorrow is a date because I only did it to hang out and see if he actually does like Pinky. He fucking doesn’t but now I wanna hear him say it,” he grumbled as he slipped his tshirt over his head.

Connie sighed as she slumped down to sit on his bed. “Katsuki, can you just let yourself be honest? You want it to be a date. Since we met I’ve always pegged you as a guy who gets what he wants. Why are you so against this?”

Bakugo paused for several reasons. The first was the use of his given name because really, had she ever even said his name? Given or surname? Not that he could remember; it was always too-sweet pet names with her. Second was the tone which held no sass or sex appeal or teasing. And the last one was the fact that shit, he did go after what he wanted, didn’t he? Except…

“I’ve got him as a friend and a bastard like me can’t wish for much more than that. ‘S already more than I deserve at this point.”

“Baby, punishing yourself ain’t helping anybody.”

“I’m not punishing myself!” he snapped. “I’m stating a fact! I won’t ask for more when it isn’t something that can happen!”

“You mean you can’t be brave enough to take a chance.”

His shoulders tensed and anger sparked both from his palms and throughout his entire being. Him? Not brave? HIM? Katsuki FUCKING Bakugo? Future Number One Pro Hero of Japan?

“Shitty woman I’m braver than half of the extras in this school—in this country!—and don’t you ever fucking question that again! I’ll fucking show you who’s not brave! Stupid fucking bitch with your goddamn furry ass tits coming into my room and calling me a fucking coward..!”

He continued his angry rambling as he stomped to his door and yanked it open as hard as he could.

Turning away from Bakugo, Kirishima entered his room and tossed his blazer aside, one hand raking through the gelled spikes of his hair. His smile dropped; he was ready to lay in his bed with Fleetwood Mac on shuffle and wallow like the sad, gay disaster in love with his best friend that he was.

“Hey there, big boy.”

He nearly jumped out of his hardened skin at the smooth greeting from the monster posed atop his sheets, one leg kicked up behind him with a hoof pointing to the ceiling and his head lazily held by a propped-up arm.

“Maury you scared the shit out of me!”

“Sorry, sorry. Hey, listen, how’d everything go with your blonde boom stick? Did we see his boom stick yet? Tell me I didn’t miss it because I’ve gotta know if that kid’s pubes are as spiky as his hair.”

He frowned as he changed from his uniform into his lounge clothes. “You’re gross, dude. But anyway, Bakugo doesn’t like me like that. You gotta stop pushing it.”

“Kirishima, c’mon, you gotta have a little faith!”

“Faith in what? That he asked me to go to the shopping district with him tomorrow as a date? That’s not likely, man.”

The monster rolled his eyes as he stood up and approached him, arms crossed in front of his chest and an unimpressed look on his impish face. He hadn’t particularly wanted to pull this card but goddammit this kid had to get a fucking grip.

“Super unmanly of you not to act on your feelings, Red,” he goaded. “I thought no regrets meant you’d man up and shoot your shot with that walking stick of dynamite but I guess you’re not as strong in those beliefs as I thought.”

“C’mon man, that’s not fair!” Kirishima said with a pout.

He threw his hands up. “Am I wrong though? One day you’re gonna regret not saying anything and be upset when you realize that you two coulda been together.”

The redhead bit his lip. “I can’t just ruin our friendship like that.”

“Kid, listen. Do you think that Crimson guy you like would keep his feelings for someone a secret like this? Or would he sack up and figure out if those feelings are returned? I’m not sayin’ I’m great at the whole romance part of all this but damn, you gotta try!”

“I can’t!”

“Can’t or won’t? Trying doesn’t mean professing your love straight away! Just go ask him something about tomorrow like why he asked just you and not all your friends. Get a feel for it before you get a feel of him!”

Kirishima bit his lip. “I guess… I guess I could ask why the rest of our friends weren’t invited. Maybe say that Kaminari texted me…”

His voice trailed off as he turned to his door, brows furrowing as he considered the idea of going next door to Bakugo’s room. Without knowing or meaning to his feet carried him across the room and only once he had stepped out into the hallway did he realize what had happened, his lips parting in surprise and then even further when Bakugo’s door flung open and the blonde stepped out of his room. His face was flushed and his teeth were bared but when he realized Kirishima was in the hallway too the snarl dropped into a neutral frown.

They stared at one another for a long moment before Kirishima slowly approached his best friend. “Hey. I was just coming to see you.”

“Yeah? You ready for dinner now?”

“No,” he said. “I wanted to uh…”

He cocked an eyebrow at his friend, not used to the hesitation. It was… fuck, it was cute.

“Bakugo, tomorrow—”

“Is a date,” the blonde finished with conviction. He hoped the anxiety curled in his gut wasn’t visible on his face because shit, he may have just made the biggest mistake of his damn life if this went sideways.

Kirishima’s jaw dropped. “A-A date? We’re going on a date?”

Bakugo rolled his eyes and reached out to fist his hands in the horrendous orange shirt and yank him close, his body warming at the blush that rose on the redhead’s cheeks.

“We’re going on a fucking date,” he said before cupping the back of his neck and pulling him into a kiss. The muffled noise of surprise quickly turned into kissing him back and holy fucking shit he was kissing Kirishima.

Behind them stood the two hormone monsters, smirks across both their faces at one more first kiss in the books. Maury held his hand out for a low five and without even looking Connie batted his hand away and gave a slap to his ass.

A/N: Please be sure to reblog, comment, review, and like if you enjoy! Feedback is what keeps me motivated! Crackfics aren’t my specialty and I know there were some OOC moments but I hope this at least made y’all laugh lmao

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ashley-ghuleh · 3 years ago

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Chapter 1: A Friend

(Little note, this is waaaay longer then I thought it would be. But I’m pretty happy with it, here’s to just writing to have fun~<3)

In which a Phoenix befriends a Crow. And the roaring Fire is to meet the Icy Sea.

High school for the rich, some think it would be nicer than a middle class school. Nice kids from prestigious families with good standing reputations. Those people are wrong, rich schools are just as bad if not worse than those of anything lower than them.

Rude kids who were living either spoiled lives with parents who gave them everything they’ve ever wanted.

Or kids coming from homes where they feel smothered by the ‘charitable acts’ their family was known for, or how controlling their parents could be.

And then the kids who didn’t have it so rough who rebelled no matter, just wanting to cause trouble for fun, showing up for school properly dressed and disheveling themselves once in the building without a care if a teacher scolded them, though most teachers have given up on this type of student and their stubborness.

But not all students who acted or dressed this way came from a household that was normal or standard for a rich family. Some who did this came from a place like, The Kohle family.

When it came to higher power in a society of nothing but fake suits and dresses.

The Kohle’

A house made of a mother and father like most were, Elizabeth Grace Kohle Heiress to the original bloodline of Kohle, and James Kohle, formally James McKnight though when he married into the family he had taken the Kohle name in place for his given name as to gain further power from the title. This family on the outside looks picture perfect. Seven kids, six boys and one girl, blessed with many children to continue on the family name. Two loving parents to care for the kids and bring their family to greatness. But under the picture of a ‘perfect’ family portrait lies the full unedited truth. Seven kids, six boys and one girl, six prodigal children and one black sheep. It wasn’t easy being the disappointment, but it was a dirty job and somebody had to do it, and that somebody was Marcus Kohle, born fourth before the twins, his father’s only hated child and his mother’s favorite.

Being babied and spoiled by his mother and disregarded or shunned by his father and other siblings his father has turned against him, happened to be what shaped this tiny rebel.

Marcus looked like any normal teenager going into school, but these students wouldn’t know this was his fifth transfer for fighting and being an all around troublemaker.

He walked through the halls remembering the short tour, his school uniform tidy and neat, his hair nicely styled as his mother had done for him before he left that morning, everything in its place.

Until he stepped through the doors, heading right to the locker rooms. Changing into black beat up combat boots and then ruffling up his hair so it hung perfectly a mess, while undoing the buttons on his uniform dress shirt and loosening his tie to hang lazily around his neck. Walking out he strolled with his bag to his locker ready to cause some chaos.

Those feeling suffocated by the bosom of their parent’s cloaked public affection were like Ashley Carter.

The Carter’

This home was built on a steady arranged marriage of two high school sweethearts, David Carter and Adela Guilani now Adela Guilani-Carter. She kept her maiden name so if things got ugly she could easily drop the hyphenated last name of her husband. Two ‘loving’ parents of course, who were blessed with a single gifted daughter.

Being born with birth defects that stunned the two parents had been such a reputation concern, that they announced the birth of their daughter without showing her face. The doctor had said Ocular Albinism didn’t run in the family lineage as far as they could find, it just happened to be a rare occurrence.

Rare she was, Ashley Carter was an oddity in a world of normalcy that her parents tried to force upon her. Once she had hit 14 she didn’t care much anymore.

She was the family disappointment, a disgrace to the family name and she would never be what her parents wanted for an heir or a child.

This torn family dynamic wasn’t lost on most other families, some of them were sympathetic, giving the pale eyed girl a safe place to decompress and feel as though nothing or no one could do anything to her, they couldn’t touch her in these safe havens.

Walking into school, she was in her school uniform of course. Hair tied up in high ponytail and her uniform skirt pulled up some to show off her knees as well as her top two blouse buttons undone and her cherry red converse squeaked softly as she trudged to her locker, another day of torture was all she could think.

But she didn’t know that she was about to make the friend that would fight for her till the end.

Some of her friends met up with her to walk to the lockers, chatting softly as she would adjust her sunglasses, the indoor/outdoor lenses for these ones taking a little longer than usual to switch over.

Ashley looked the same as she did the year prior, but with this new year and being a year older, she had changed her looks a bit, having decided she was done hiding she no longer wore her colored contacts to hide her eyes and the most outrageous part of her new look was her new hair color.

Kids from other classes and her own watched her walk by, chest length hair that was now a bold fiery red, Ashley was tired of hiding, wanting to be seen for the girl she could and would be. This new color caused her ‘poor’ mother to faint and her father to demand her to “Wash it out! Now!” Only for the recently rebellious teen to reply with, “ It’s permanent. And no~”

The colors resembled the many hidden within a burning flame, reds, oranges and even some soft pinks, yellowy oranges, all laid out with the best strategies to make her unnatural hair color look.. Well natural. It made her skin seem paler but brought out the color of her freckles, her eyes though always milky crystal seemed to be brighter in a sense.

Closing in on their destination, Ashley and her friends slowed to see a new student being cornered by the lockers, the red haired girl’s happened to be the one this boy’s back was pressed to. “ Hey! I said to say something funny, you're the new foreign kid right? I bet you got a fucking hilarious voice and accent! Go on skinny, say something!” This teasing voice, that was oh so grating on Ashley’s ears made her groan, it belonged to a boy she hasn’t been able to stand since they met at the age of 10, “ Tommy. Fucking. Wilson.” She grumbled now standing before said boy, a born jock through and through. It was like in the dna for that family or something. He would’ve been handsome if he didn’t act so ugly.

“Ashley Carter~ Finally ready to submit to me and become my girlfriend.” The new student against the locker, snorted with a sharp inhale before snickering. “ She’s way out of your league.” His voice was soft, masculine for a 14 year old boy and oddly feminine in an angelic satisfying way.

The two girls that had been walking with Ashley giggled at the remark and not so much the strange European accent he had and tried to fight around.

Tommy and his two friends looked confused and then shrugged it off. “ I changed my mind, totally thought that you would sound funny but you don’t and honestly..” He narrowed his eyes at the new boy. “ The sound of your voice makes me wanna punch you.” He brought his fist up and Ashley stepped in, smacking Tommy on the back of the head, while he reacted she spoke, glaring down at him. “ If you lay a finger on him, I’ll remind you of what I did when you messed with Cecilia’s lunch and fed her meat. Knowing full well she went vegetarian.” The young jock’s eyes widened at the idea and he straightened himself out and dusted his shirt off. “ Well.. I guess-” “ You're just going to let a girl scare you?” Came the squeaky voice of another boy in Tommy’s little friend group.

Ashley stepped forward putting more heat into her gaze while taking her sunglasses off to show fully the anger in her murky eyes. “ Test your luck punk.” She hissed before the small gaggle of boys and Tommy became legitimately scared and ran off down the hall pushing passed students as they went.

The new boy stood up and sighed, running his hand through his messy hair, “ They didn’t hurt you did they?” Came a sweet soft voice belonging to a beautiful girl only describable as looking like a picture of a blond bombshell girl, the little accessories she wore and her vintage looking makeup were perfect replicas of most early war propaganda posters from the 50s. “ I’m fine thanks..” He said softly trying to not talk too loud, any louder than he was his accent would slip.

“I’m Cecilia, you can call me Cici~” She held out her hand, cocking a brow. He took it and shook it weirdly, clearly uncomfortable.

A tall raven haired girl on Ashley’s other side grinned and gave a tiny two finger wave. “ I’m Lilith. Call me Lili or Li'l.” He nodded at her before looking at Ashley whole nodded at him. “ I’m Ashley. Also the girl who just saved your little tush. What’s your name, new kid?” She asked while getting into her locker and arranging her things and grabbing what she’d need for her class.

He grumbled something under his breath and then sighed through his nose. “ Marcus.. Kohle..” Cecilia jumped and gasped. “ Holy shit! Like the Kohle family from Germany that owns and operates a huge oil rig branch?!?” Groaning the new kid, Marcus, nodded and rubbed his forehead.

“Don’t remind me please.” He sighed, Lilith and Ashley both nudged Cici who shrugged and flailed a bit, “ S-sorry sugar.. Didn’t mean to upset you. So! You guys just moved here right? You're gonna need some friends!” She giggled, smiling brightly. Ashley nodded, “ Yea, and it might as well be us if you're gonna survive in this jungle. Especially if you want to avoid conflict with Tommy.” Marcus grinned and laughed coldly. “ I was doing my best.. Not to hit him.” Lilith nodded.

“Steer clear of him if you can kid, he packs a punch..” Ashley snorted and shut her locker, “ When he can land one. My depth perception is clinically off by birth and can aim a hit better. Tommy couldn’t hit the broad side of a cow with a banjo.” She quipped while looking down slightly at Marcus. “ What class do you have first?” The german boy looked at his curriculum list. “ English li-....” He frowned at the word he was obviously having a hard time with. Cecilia peeked over his shoulder and saw it, “ English literature.. Not to be rude, hun, but I’m guessing your English reading is..” She raised a worried brow and Marcus frowned deeper and flapped his hand back and forth, the three girls looked at each other and nodded. “ It's okay, we’re all in that class with you, so we’ll help you. We’re friends now! So we’re gonna do what friends do best and help each other~” Cecilia giggled, her giggles were infectious and Marcus smiled softly, Ashley looked down at him taking him in for a moment, small and thin as a whip. His hair was messy and was a rich, dark black, it was so dark it had a soft tint of an iridescent shine like crow feathers. His face was sharp, feminine. His skin was almost sickly pale, but his eyes were what stood out to her.

Deep, blue oceanic eyes. They looked tired, obvious by the deep set circles under them, but she found herself feeling like she was falling into a dark blue void, swirling through an angry whirlpool in the temperamental sea. Even with how emotionally exhausted he looked, his eyes held this intense energy to them.

Ripped from her thoughts by her friends, she looked to see if they noticed she had spaced out, Marcus didn’t notice, neither did the girls, Lilith was running her fingers through Marcus’ messy tresses. “ Your hair is so cool.. It reminds me of a crow~” She grinned, the foreign boy nodded his thanks softly. “Oh! Oh! Our little friend group is complete! We’ve got the sassy Italian’s,” She giggled, waving at herself and Lilith, “ I’m Italian too..” Ashley pouted, “ Yes, but now we also have.” She sang that ‘a’ to draw it out while shoving Marcus and Ashley shoulder to shoulder, “ The phoenix and the crow~” The blond bubbled and grinned brightly.

The two looked at each other and then shrugged, “ Works for me. Just don’t be calling me that around others.” He grumbled though wasn’t actually grumpy about it, Ashley nodded, “ I mean I like it but it's a little… Stage name-y? How about something more subtle for general use?”

Marcus looked up at her and immediately spoke before anyone else could. “ Ash.” He stated plainly. “ Phoenix's rise from ashes, reborn into the world. Becoming greater with every rebirth.” He said with a bored tone almost like it was so obvious before adding on, “ Plus it's her name but shortened.. I am foreign but not dumb.”

The girls all laughed and smiled at the boy’s antics, he was going to be a lot of fun to get to know and hang out with. Already each girl held special places in their hearts for this precious kid and wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

“Well gang.. We better get to class before Professor Davidson comes searching for us.” Groaning at the idea they made sure they all had everything including Marcus and went onto class.

Walking down the hallway were four new best friends, and two who would stand up for the other no matter the scenario. Beautiful bonds were made between the Phoenix, and the Crow.

But the two thought, how would the intense Fire handle meeting the Freezing Sea, that’s been raging for centuries?

That’s something they’ll find out together. As they would do so, with many things to come.

#AshleyGhulehWriting #my original characters #Unedited writing I'm just going for it #writing for fun

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whyaretheyfictionalcharacters · 4 years ago

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Kinktober - Day 3

Day 3 is Nudes!

xoxo Lexi

“What were you doing?”.

Eren takes in the photographic studio Levi owns downtown, the huge umbrellas reflecting the brightness coming off from the lamps still on on the opposite side of a wide, grey backdrop. A metal stool with a thick fur blanket thrown over it is abandoned in front of it, like an item from a long forgotten dream. The room is not very spacious – Eren has seen the other rooms Levi uses as studios in the converted warehouse and this is certainly not the biggest one he has – and he knows his husband uses this for his more...intimate commissions. He's never been at one of those sessions but he knows from what Levi has told him that erotic and nude photography can be very tasteful and elegant if done properly. And Levi doesn't do anything if not properly.

“A client is commissioning an album for her partner”, Levi replies as he walks to switch off he blinding studio lights. “High heels is the theme. Have never seen anyone bringing so many shoes in one session”.

“And fur, I presume?”. Eren touches the soft, synthetic blanket, rubbing it between his fingers. The texture is fluffy and comfortable, but if he pays enough attention he can feel the slight roughness of the synthetic fabric. He tries to imagine the blanket in a different context, maybe thrown on the floor in front of a lit fireplace, like at the cabin they've rented for Levi's birthday last Christmas. Eren can imagine it sliding against his naked skin, figuring how it'd feel down his body.

“And nothing else”.

There is nothing much to add about the session Levi has just had and Eren knows better than enquire about the client and her identity. Not for jealousy – Levi s one of the most straightforward people he's ever met – but because Eren values privacy more than anything else in regards to intimacy and eroticism. The only thing Levi told him more than once is that there are a lot of individuals “in the Scene” that he knows requesting these sort of photographs. For the older man it's always been a job like another and as a man of the “Scene” himself, Levi doesn't mind complying to help others achieve their kinks and pleasures. If erotic photography is a kink, Eren is not really a connoisseur. He's personally never been portrayed by Levy despite the raven-haired numerous attempts at doing so, however…

Eren knows he's a good looking guy – he's not that oblivious – but the idea of posing naked in front of the camera makes his blood rush quicker in his veins and butterflies sparkle in his stomach in an anxious way. And yet, now...maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

“Would you—”.

At the unsure words Levi turns from the lamp, his trusty travel mug probably full of Lapsang Souchong held firmly in his hand. “What?”.

Come on, Eren. He's your husband. He's seen you naked more times than your mother has. “Would you want to—to photograph me? You know, naked. Like your client”.

Deep, grey eyes stare at him seemingly blank though Eren sees the minute difference in the pupils, something he's trained himself to do after almost three years of marriage. Levi twists his obdy to face him now, full attention completely on him. “You know I would”.

“Do you have another appointment soon?”. A shake of the head is all the answer he needs. Eren inhales deeply attempting to build himself up. “Right. So...”.

“So...”.

“How do you want me?”.

The brunet can sense his body becoming a bit restless under the attentive scrutiny of his husband, who brings his hand up and switches back on the lamp. “Naked”.

Fair enough, Eren thinks with an affectionate eye-roll and a small smile. While Levi goes to set back up the studio, he takes off his navy sweater and begins to unbutton his dress shirt; his hands are shaking annoyingly hard and the act of working off his clothes resembles more a herculean task worthy of a classic, Greek epic poem on its own. It's so frustrating how nervous he is considering this is certainly not the first time he's undressed in front of his husband and yet it all feels new. It takes him what seems like an hour before he can hand his discarded clothes to Levi, who as usual folds them neatly and puts them on one side.

Eren looks down at the metal stool for a minute before focusing back up on the older man. “What do I have to do?”.

“Stand behind the stool first. Legs apart. Wider. One hand behind your back”. When Eren complies he fixes marginally his pose. “Not something I do with clients but I can touch this, can't I?”, he asks referring to the tanned body.

The twenty-seven year old sees an almost invisible smirk on the other's thin lip and he can't help but huff a laughter. “Was that in our vows?”.

“No. It would've been grand, though. Especially in front of our parents. 'I'll take thee from behind, front and side every day for the rest of our lives as my legitimate husband'”. Eren explodes in a full-belly laugh, his abdominals shaking with hilarity. “Imagine your father's face”.

“Oh, he's seen worse things up people's butts. I've seen worse and I'm just a family doctor”.

“Ever told you I don't envy you one bit?”.

“Yep”, Eren grins with fondness.

Levi makes him grab the stool with his right hand and he pushes it forward slightly, only the front legs touching the hardwood floor now. “Come forward. A bit more. That's it, stop”.

Looking down, Eren notices the top curve of the stool – now sitting uncomfortably cold against the hidden soft member – is leaving the lighter skin of his groin bare to the eye. The only thing left to the imagination is the size of his dick, the rest? Pretty much everything is well in sight. Levi's steps appear deafening loud in the silence of the studio before a warm weight is placed on his left shoulder. He studies with detached interest while Levi does his job, throwing artistically the fur blanket over his shoulder. After the last light fixes are done, the brightness suffused to a more intimate luminosity, the older man marches back to prepare his camera.

As he waits, Eren can sense goosebumps appearing on his arms but even naked in the middle of a brick-walled room he's not cold; the jitters are palpable as he stands there, muscles tight and jaw clenched.

“You're as sexy as an antique wardrobe”, Levi mutters from behind his viewfinder.

A confused frown. “Are those sexy?”.

“No”. The deadpan almost makes him laugh. “Relax, brat. You're trying to seduce me, not make me sign up for the army”.

“Right. Right, yes”, he sighs. “Uniforms are sexy, though”.

“You're not wearing a uniform”.

“Right”.

He hears a few clicks, sees Levi change position but still staying dead on in front of him. Eren is not completely uncomfortable, though the chill of the metal against his groin seems to be spreading to his whole body now. When he tells the other, Levi rushes to fetch a space heater and puts him outside the frame but still close enough that the warm air hits pleasantly Eren's legs and hips. It seems to go on forever before the older man tell him to leave the stool and blanket on the side and pick up his white shirt.

“I want you to wear it and then take it off down to your elbows”, he's told with the same assertiveness Levi sometimes uses in the bedroom. “Turn on your side, left leg forward”.

After Levi has adjusted the lighting some more he joins Eren in front of the backdrop and twists his arms around so that the shirt hanging from his left arm covers his groin. Through the viewfinder he can notice the sensual, tight curve of Eren's cheeks highlighted by the shirt white hanging behind it. He's been numerous times in this sort of situation – taking nude pictures, sometimes even sexually appealing ones – and always, always kept his professional wits about him. His mind has always looked at what he was seeing under an objective, artistic point of view. Yet now, having his own husband posing naked in front of him is enough to make his jeans feel a bit too tight.

“Look forward”. He takes a few more shots and zooms in. “Look at me”. Eren turns his head. “No, head facing forward still. Just look at me with your eyes”.

“Won't I be ridiculous?”.

“If you think about how much I want to fuck you right now, probably you won't be”.

Eren chokes on his own spit, sputtering inelegantly before glaring at the other. “Levi!”.

“What? It's boudoir photography, Eren. I'm taking nude pictures of my husband right now”.

“So, you want me to think about having sex with you while I'm standing here, naked?”.

Levi looks up from his camera, eyes burning behind black lashes. “If that helps with you relaxing”.

A throat clears uncomfortably and then Eren follows the instructions he's been given. He can't really see Levi in this position. There's a black and pink mass of colour on the corner of his eyes as he tries to stare where he assumes the camera is, and for the first time since he's taken his clothes off Eren lets his mind travel.

The way Levi has always looked at him in the bedroom is something he can't seem to ever forget, with his usual cold eyes burning with lust as Eren walks out of their en-suite with only a towel around his neck, his body still damp from the shower. He can envision the raven-haired lying on their bed, ankles crossed and arms behind his head, watching every line of Eren's body. Levi would have to be naked as well in this setting, obviously, because his physique is the most attractive piece of art he's ever seen. Levi's body is perfect with strong lines flowing straight down his stomach, the bedside lamps creating hypnotic games of light and shadows on his cutting abs; the well-defined cord of his biceps as his head rests on his hands.

“Now we're getting there”.

Levi's voice reaches him like a bucket of ice water and he shakes himself, sight focussing back on Levi taking a few more pictures of him before walking to his laptop to check the shots he's just uploaded from his camera.

As time goes by he's asked to changed position endless times, alongside props and lighting equipment – Eren's never known this was the work that goes behind one shooting session and fortunately Levi doesn't seem to have another client booked for the remaining of the late afternoon. As the day draws to a close Eren relaxes more and more, comfortable in his own skin the more time he's standing naked in the middle of the studio. It's a forbidden feeling the one he has as he poses bare for his husband while Levi takes picture after picture: the knowledge that he shouldn't be doing this is almost disorienting, sending a rush to his brain in a pleasant way when he starts to enjoy the evening spent doing exactly this. When Levi gives him the all-clear to get dressed again before disappearing behind the door that leads to the public area of his photographic studio, Eren takes his time doing so despite small shivers shaking down his muscles from the cold.

He's sitting on the chair tying up his shoes, Levi walks back in with a steaming mug of tea which is handed to him with a small, familiar smile and a kiss on the cheek. “I asked Mina to help me out cleaning up in here. We can go home after that, I'll work on them and we can look at them together next week if you want to come down here again after work”.

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might-guys-acorn · 5 years ago

Note

Do you do hc's? If you do, could you do Akatsuki relationship hc's please?

Ive never done hc's before, but Im gonna do my best :) hope they turn out okay! -🦎

P.S. this post will be super long, so my apologies in advance folks❤

===============================

Pain

Super quiet baby.

Shows his affection through actions, not words

Has difficulties showing his emotions, but genuinely tries his best.

Isnt sure how to be in a relationship, so is very awkward. Stutters a lot when talking to or about you: "Uh.... Y/N.....I think you look, uh, s-stunning today."

Blushes all the time.

You love it

So you do literally anything in your power to cause it. Brushing his hair out of his face, complimenting him in front of others, kissing him on the cheek randomly, etc.

Loves kissing in the rain. It overwhelms his senses, from the feel of the drops on his skin, to the smell of your hair, to the light shiver he can feel run down your spine after a while. He loves every second.

Will do anything for you. Legitimately ready to end the world for the one that he loves

Konan

Super sentimental type

Talks about her past a lot, and wants to hear all about yours.

Emotional connection is an absolute must, looks are always second in her book

Want you to get along with her friends, specifically Pain. You two are the most important people in her life, so its essential that you get along.

Thinks its precious that youre interested in her hobbies. Plenty of nights will be spent trying to help you learn origami, but at the end of the day, theres just a bunch of lopsided cranes and crumple flowers around the two of you asleep on the carpet.

I dont think shed be much of a cook, so meals are a must for you. She'll always compliment you on it though : "Y/N, this breakfast looks lovely. How'd I end up with a catch like you?"

She does make a mean cup of tea though

Likes to leave little notes or origami figures around for you to find when shes away :)

Deidara

Super obnoxious ngl

Likes to show you off to everybody. Like. Everyone. Other members, enemies, people on the street. You name it.

"LOOK AT MY S/O! ARENT THEY THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BEING YOUVE EVER SEEN? THEY ARE ART ITSELF, I ALMOST WANT TO BLOW THEM UP, THEYRE THAT GORGEOUS."

Theres never a quiet moment with him

Especially right before bed, when he starts to babble nonsense because hes tired. You never knew a person could have so many thoughts until he never let one pass without it leaving his mouth

His babbling is pretty endearing though, because he is forever thinking about how amazing you are

But the only way to shut him up is to kiss him

Luckily, hes an incredibly good kisser

Will forever refer to you as his muse. And model many an artwork after you. Its very sweet until he makes them explode to show off the 'true beauty'

Sasori

Very detached at the beginning

Doesnt like having ties to this world

But he soon realizes there's no way to get rid of you, and he doesnt particularly want to either.

After that realization, he spends as much time with you as possible

Expect lots of cuddles, quiet nights, and endless hours of talking. About his past, his parents, his puppets. He wants you to know it all, because he feels like with all of it, he has to be unlovable

Is very shocked when you stick around and accept him, becomes very attached to you afterwards.

Doesnt do dates often, but on the occasional one, hes incredibly punctual and expects you to be

Hes very insecure about his "heart". He absolutely melts if you take time to let him know that its wonderful, just like him

Overall, hes just very relieved to have you in his life

Itachi

Truly surprised to be in a relationship at all

This isnt part of his mission

100% soft boi™️

Loves to hold your hand, kiss your knuckles, gaze into your eyes, all of it. Anything he has to do to remind himself that youre real, and that you love him.

Becomes a literal puddle when he realizes youre trying to name and differentiate all of his crows

Lets you feed them regularly and marvels at how sweet they are to you

Doesnt understand how someone so pure could be with someone like him, but wont complain simply because he hates the thought of losing this light he's found in his life.

Spends all his time making sure youre happy. Taking care of you when your sick, reading to you on long nights, cuddling you when you get sad. He just wants you to feel better

Doesnt give gifts often, so when you find your favorite one of his crows (Midnight, youd named it) sitting on the table with a red bow around his neck, you cry for hours.

He gets confused and thinks hes done something wrong, but you just kiss him and tell him that its perfect.

Kisame

Doesnt realize hes fallen for you until he sees you wading in a river late at night, singing softly to yourself

Really likes holding your hand

Has some jealousy problems, but not because he doesn't trust you. He just doesn't trust everyone else.

Lots of beach dates

Thinks it's adorable how he has to convince you to get out of the water when its gotten dark and cold

Prefers you don't give him nicknames, just really likes the way his name sounds when it comes out of your mouth

Loves that youre not scared of Samehada, and thinks its precious when you talk to it like its a pet and not a sword

Is even more smitten when Samehada coos back at you, its loyalty to you both means the world to him

Hidan

Insists on your belief in Jashin

Wants you to believe and become immortal with him

The eternal Bonnie and Clyde

Also the kinkiest of the bunch

Has zero issue talking about bedroom business in front of anybody

Likes how you blush when he brings it up in front of large groups of people

"Aw look at how red your cheeks get, thats so cute"

Does things to get on your nerves, because he loves watching you react. Seeing how flustered he can make you is a frequent game he'll play, cuz your anger is just as cute as your smile

Likes to casually hand you his scythe even though its too heavy for you to handle

Watching you try to hold it up makes him laugh, and you yelling at him for laughing only makes it worse honestly

Will try to get you to go on missions with him, simply because you two work together better than anyone else. No one knows him like you do, so sacrifices are always more fruitful with your presence.

Kakuzu

The most distant of the organization

Will be very difficult to connect with

But when he realizes that you seem to know the bingo book better than he does, will insist that you work on his team

From there, he'll see your personality and be thankful for all the hearts he has, because there can be an extra to give to you.

Your smile makes his day, and seeing the way you squeal when the pay comes in for a takedown melts every heart he's got

Thankful that youre just as much of a tightwad as he is, it means you make a very cheap date

Appreciates your intellect, and is happy to have a partner that is as smart as they are attractive, unlike his past partner Hidan.

Silences are an essential part of the relationship, but niether of you mind. Your presence is all he needs to feel at ease, rather than filling the air with meaningless small talk

Tobi

Never fails to laugh at your jokes

Enjoys making you laugh, even if it means making himself look like an idiot

Definition of silly romantic

Will spend lots of time telling you that youre special to him, even if its in a way that doesnt make sense

"I dont need gravity when Im with you, Im always on cloud 9"

Likes to mess with you when you try to touch him by tranferring his body to other dimensions

"Youll have to try harder if you really want to hold my hand, Y/N"

When he does get serious, though, he'll pull you to his other dimension to talk. Its quieter and theres no risk of interruptions

Likes to hug you from behind, and always has a dumb joke on hand if he ever sees you crying

#akatsuki #akatsuki headcannons #pain #konan #deidara #sasori #hidan #itachi #kisame #tobi #naruto imagines #naruto #kakuzu

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goliath-de-senfina-sango · 5 years ago

Link

They say no plan survives contact with the enemy. Danny wishes they were wrong.

Dash Baxter was a conflicted person right now. He’d been feeling off practically all school year, and Valerie, Star, and Paulina were about ready to tell him to fuck off while they went and did their own awesome friend stuff. If he was pressed to think about it hard, he would say that it started when Manson had gotten the school to change the menu for a whole ass week. Now, Dash typically cooked or baked his own food anyway, so it was hardly something that sucked for him but plenty of his teammates bought lunch at school and they weren’t weird vegans like Manson! He’d gone up to her to give her a piece of his mind about all of that shit since he couldn’t exactly go yell at a teacher, and maybe he shouldn’t have yelled but he was angry and his voice got louder when he was mad.

Then Fenton got between them like Dash was gonna throw hands with Manson or something. Don’t get him wrong, he knows how dangerous a girl can be – Valerie would never have been friends with him if he didn’t respect how dangerous a girl like her could be – but his father had raised him to never lay hands on a woman. And besides, Dash wasn’t feeling violent! Or, at least, he didn’t think he had been.

Except that when Fenton got between them, Dash had been pissed. He’d gone from mad to unseeing rage and stuffed one of the dumb mudpies in Fenton’s face, and then Fenton started throwin the garbage, and then a food fight happened. Now, some people might think that his year was off because of the fire that happened after this food fight, but it was actually the start of it. Dash Baxter only threw hands when someone was threatening his friends, not for getting between him and someone else. Not for nothing. It was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever done in his life and he felt horrible about it afterward but he couldn’t think of what had gotten into him.

Worse still was when it kept happening. Mikey and Lester were rambling kinda loudly about some stupid card game and Dash got annoyed, went over to ask them to quiet down. Then there was this weird this rush of some sorta warm slimy something down his spine that was there and gone in a flash, and he was barking at the two of them, “Shut the hell up or else I’ll make you.” He almost didn’t realize he’d said that but then Kwan elbowed him hard in the ribs and Dash winced, running a hand through his hair. “God, did I say that? Shit, sorry dudes I didn’t mean that!”

Except… he did. Dash was the one who said it, right? And he said it practically automatically, without even thinking it. Was that who he was becoming? Was he turning into his grandfather? Kwan promised him he wasn’t, Vincent said he wouldn’t let Dash turn into his gramps, but then Dash was shoving scrawnier kids into the lockers out of his way, and he’d been about to mouth off to Fenton for no freakin reason other than he was there and his freaky mad scientist parents had to be the ones to put that green fire and stuff. Then a god damn monster popped out of Fenton’s locker, attacked Foley, and Dash was out of there.

Right after the fire the school had everyone set up meetings with the counselor, Dr. Spectra, and Dash went too, just like everyone. She even gave him a journal to write his feelings down in so he could work out what he was feeling and put it in words at his own pace. He didn’t like how she was implying that he couldn’t put his feelings into words at the same speed as everyone else, but if she was then hey, she wasn’t… she wasn’t wrong . And after writing it all down in that black journal, Dash came to a bit of a conclusion: Fenton was at the center of all of this.

Danny Fenton was a bit of a freak already, his eyes glowed when he was pissy even back in 6th grade and Dash knew it had to be because his parents were mad fucking scientists and either they experimented on their kids or the radiation in their house had gotten to em. And now that freakiness was popping up and destroying the whole damn school! Hell, Dash was pretty sure one of the Fentons’ damn ghosts had stuffed a buncha frogs down his pants the other day, cause he heard laughter when he ran away. But that had nothing on how furious Dash had been when Fenton called him stupid .

Dash wasn’t fucking dumb he was a little slow but so were plenty kids! Nerds and geeks like Fenton and Mikey and Josh all thought they were so fucking smart that they could get away with calling anyone else stupid ? Dash had been planning on educating Fenton on just how smart an idea that was. Then Falluka yelled at him and Kwan… God, Kwan looked so fucking disappointed in him.

So Dash was feeling a little conflicted and a lot shitty when Danny Motherfucking Fenton walked up to him in his star trek hoodie and said, “Dash I need your help.”

“Oh yeah?” Dash snorted and sneered at the smaller boy. “Why should I help?”

“You remember the monster thing that nearly tore off Tucker’s leg?” Dash paled a bit and nodded. “Something worse is lurking in the school. Something smart. We need your help to expose it before we can get rid of it.”

“So you want me to put my ass on the line and risk getting mauled because your freaky monster is out here lookin to eat someone?” Dash scoffed and turned away. “I ain’t stupid, Fentina, no matter what you think.”

There was a growl behind him and the hairs on Dash’s neck rose up. He tensed and damn near sprinted when he remembered that Fenton was packing heat. Maybe he was stupid. But then Fenton sighed and the lights flickered. “Dash, did you notice that you’ve become more and more of a jerk lately? You used to be the awesome jock who could run faster than everyone but Valerie and you made cookies for the whole class.

“Now you insult everyone at every turn and you tried to beat me up for telling you off. Doesn’t that feel wrong to you? I know nobody wants to believe my parents about the ghosts but you saw the monster, you saw Tucker bleeding and this is real Dash. And what do ghosts do in movies?”

“You sayin I’m possessed, Fenton?” His voice was shakier than he wanted it but it made… well sense was the wrong word but it lined up. “Wouldn’t I blackout or somethin?”

“Not necessarily. Some ghosts are smart n subtle and they can make you do things, feel things enough times while you’re awake that it’s habit-forming. My friend Sydney Poindexter can show you.”

Dread hit Dash like a tidal wave and he turned to bolt. Then he was cold and he relaxed all over, went deathly calm. He was submerged in the utmost chill vibes. Then he was utterly terrified, so much so he almost needed a change of pants. But then he was over the moon happy, frothing at the mouth pissed and then calm again.

The heat slowly returned to Dash’s bones as the back of something- someone filled his vision. Then he was looking at the bucktoothed, weak chinned weird movie hologram ghost of - if Fenton was to be believed - Sydney fucking Poindexter . “You see, Dash,” Fenton said while Dash stared at Poindexter with a very real sense of dread and awareness that someone who could fly could catch him faster than he could run, “if Sydney here were to possess you from time to time and adjust your mood and behavior just a little bit each time, especially over the few months we’ve been in school, you’d start doing everything he made you do on your own. You wouldn’t notice it either, it’d feel like your own feelings.” Dash finally looked at Fenton. “Got the picture, Dash?”

“... I thought your family hunted ghosts down?” Dash’s voice was as small as he felt. Because of that, he nodded quickly when he realized he’d been asked a question. “Y-yeah, I get the picture. I’ve been. I’ve been fucking possessed. ” Icy hot fury and horror filled him up to the brim and Dash shook, fists clenching and unclenching. “I’m being haunted by someone and they’re fuckin with what kinda person I am. But who the hell would do that?”

“Dash, Sydney is going to hide so that Ishiyama doesn’t turn on the security system and shoot holes through him - and he’s a good person, Dash, trust me.” Yeah, sure he is. “And we’re gonna go to the principal and have her call a very specific person to the front office. I need you and I to be hiding right next to the door to the hall, because when he sees you, he’ll know what’s happening.” Fenton reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out- ok, he really did have bottomless pockets because no way he kept a gun and a belt in there. He handed it to Dash who held it in his hands, feeling a bit numb. “Put that on. It’ll give a nasty shock to any hostile ghost that touches you.”

“So that he can’t possess me again, right?” Fenton nodded and Dash was putting the belt on before he even knew it. It clicked into place and he felt a warm buzz rush through him. “Fuck, thanks Fenton. Danny. Do we uh. Do we go now?”

“Dash you’re heading to practice,” Fe-Danny said, and Dash sighed and slumped against a locker. “Don’t worry though, we have a plan.”

“Right. A plan.” Dash took a deep breath and nodded. He wanted to get whatever ghost asshole had been messing him up, making him into a total asshole, right the fuck then. But Fenton was the nerd with the sci-fi gun and a ghost friend here, not Dash. And he wasn’t all that keen on being near Poindexter of all dead people, so he nodded again and half turned. “...This… after this ghost dude is dealt with, I’ll… I’ll go back to normal, right?”

“That’ll take some effort on your part, Dash. Do you want to go back to normal?” Dash whirled around to tell Fenton of course he did but he was just gone.

Dash scoffed and shook his head, walking to practice. “Got his boyfriend’s dramatics.”

It was legitimately the simplest of plans. Danny had come up with it so it was very simple and easy to understand. Danny and Dash headed into Ishiyama’s office at lunch, Sydney waited just outside of Danny’s own sensing range for him - which had gotten alarmingly smaller since his resurrection - and when Dash identified Bertrand as his late grandfather, Danny, Sam and Tucker would turn him into a pile of green sludge, then go after Spectra after making the case that she was also something inhuman disguising herself to feed off of the students. Simple.

Easy to understand didn’t mean easy to execute. When Danny Fenton of all people approached Ishiyama and said something was up, with Dash Baxter backing him up, she called up Bertrand Baxter to her office. Dash looked absolutely floored by that revelation though and turned on Danny immediately. “Are you saying my fucking grandpa is the one who’s been haunting me?”

“I really hope you’re not like, attached to him or anything.”

“Oh no, he was awful but dude, you knew? ” Danny sighed and nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“He could’ve possessed you in the shower when you took off the belt and figured out how much we know.” Danny looked to Ishiyama, who had gone pale and was typing furiously at her laptop. Danny, however, headed to the door to the hallway and crouched down, reaching into his jacket. Dash was still standing in the doorway to the principal’s office, however, and so when Bertrand came in and Danny got to see his disguise for the first time - short, grey slacks with dress shoes and a red dress shirt with a suit jacket and bowtie. His hair was grey and his eyes were green and he looked like a stereotypical rich white guy, reminding Danny how wealthy Dash actually was - Bertrand stopped and stared at Dash for three seconds.

“Oh. you. Wonderful to see you again you sissy ass brute, have you been sewing anymore wittle teddybears for yourself or are your sausage fingers too big for that?” Oh, Danny hated that tone. So, he pulled out his rifle, aimed it at Bertrand’s face, and smirked.

“Wow, you looked slimy in life too, huh?” Danny got to see wide green eyes filled with shock and terror before he squeezed the trigger on his gun and Bertrand became a green splat on the wall that Danny would have to clean up later.

“You didn’t even leave a little bit of ass for me to kick?” Sam groaned as she stood up from behind the wait desk, patting the shaking attendant’s back while she got closer. In her hands was a thin metal tube with the Fenton Logo on it and a button, looking to any trained eye like a typical collapsible bo staff. “I got this whole new weapon from your mom and everything.”

“Please don’t say that in front of the principal - and hey, we’ve got more ass to kick.” Danny grinned, maybe a bit wider than humanly reasonable, and turned to Ishiyama. “I’d like to make a complaint about Bertrand’s boss.”

“You can make that complaint to her right here in person, darling. ” Danny spun to look at the source of the predatory purr that was damn near right in his ear. Red suit, red hair done up in ridiculous horns, and eyes that were slowly shifting from green to yellow to orange. “I don’t believe we’ve met yet, Mr. Fenton, but it’ll be my pleasure to give yourself and your friends a session. Free of charge.”

“Hm, I hear you, Penny, I do. Counterpoint.” Danny grinned as Sam hit the button and swung her now humming staff - the Fenton Anti Creep Stick™ - at Spectra’s face and watched as it sailed through the air where Spectra had been. The creature named Penelope had twisted back and around fluid as water to avoid the strike and spun around, kicking Sam in the gut and knocking her into the reception desk. Danny snarled and raised his rifle, managing to shoot Spectra in the shoulder.

Spectra flicked the ashes from her shoulder where her suit and ‘skin’ had been burned - though her skin looked more like it’d suffered a fading sunburn than it did a glob of ionized ectoplasmic plasma - and backhanded a shocked Danny. He raised his arms in time to block the nails that were now claws with his jacket, but these sleeves were cotton and simply tore open while he was flung back as well. “Oh Danny, honey, you should really do your research more. I’m not a ghost .” Darkness flooded the room and they - Danny, Sam, Tucker, Dash - were in what Danny assumed to be her office. He hissed and pulled out the Peeler, but that was smacked out of his hands and clattered loudly to the floor.

The others disappeared in a cloud of smoke, which the room was steadily becoming. “Come now, Danny, none of that. We’re here to talk, after all. About you, before you ask. After all, you have quite a few pressing anxieties to address, don’t you?” A clipboard appeared in her hands from the smoke all around them and she read over it while Danny reached for the bonds to his friends. The threads were… slack, dim, quieter than they should be.

“Daniel James Fenton, your sister had an appointment set up with me for you, worried unlike every other child here you weren’t getting enough attention. But of course, someone like you can never get enough attention.”

“When I get my hands on you I-”

“Ah, that testosterone you keep shooting up with really is making you more aggressive, isn’t it?” Danny snarled at her and she tutted at him, walking slowly around her desk. “Or is that the ectoplasm running through your veins causing you to act out violently on mere speculations and possibilities from what’s more than likely just a bad dream from your little friend. That’s what it does, after all. Corrupt the mind and soul. Oh, but of course you know that, don’t you?

“Your parents have all the science on ghosts at their fingertips and surely you’re smart enough to read up on it. Oh,” she covered her mouth and sucked on her teeth, looking all the world like she’d just noticed something inconsiderate coming out of her vile mouth before vanishing into the darkness. “Oh, well I suppose you could read it but it wouldn’t stick, would it? The dead can’t learn anything new, after all, you’re just an echo of who you were before.”

“Bias and prejudice aren’t science!” Danny raised his rifle again, energy racing to his eyes as he searched the shadows desperately. The light rose to his call, filled him untethered him from the Earth, but what he Saw felt wrong . Even the lies the eyes tell him are truer than what was around him and he knew that but he couldn’t see through the smoke. “Sam and Tucker have hammered that into me plenty well enough by now to cut through bullshit like that! And really, I liked your office better after that flubber wannabe and I trashed it.”

A flash of red suit came into view and Danny pulled the trigger, but Spectra was faster than the green hot plasma, and claws swatted his weapon away while slashing at his chest. Thank Tucker for leather jackets and all the protection they offered but now Danny was on his back, the ground and somehow the kind of uncomfortable chair that all schools used to punish the students for the simple crime of being there.

“Ah yes, Sam the rich goth girl who befriended you as soon as she heard that you were the son of the town crazies. The one who warned you away from coming out to your parents so they could help you become normal again - or as close as someone like You can get.” She laughed, the sound of ice spilling down a glacier into the cold dark waters below, and it echoed around him like the chill of a winter night. “Don’t you know she’s only friends with you because you’re ‘unique’? Because you’re a freak ? Don’t you know, oh so darling Danny, that as soon if you were able to get rid of all this craziness and live a peaceful life, she’d grow bored with you and leave?”

“You don’t know a damn thing about Sam, she’s not like that!” Danny rolled out of the chair and got to his feet, every movement like he was covered in sandbags and the smokey shadows every two feet away seemed to swallow up his voice, growing darker and pressing closer like a rolling tide. Light curled into a ball in his palm, and he hurled it where Spectra was, but the shadows ate his light and left barely a foot in any direction to move.

“Oh and the year you’ve known her has revealed everything to you, hm? Well, I suppose when someone murders you with peer pressure and you stick around them it’s clear how pathetically desperate for another friend you are. After all, the only other one you have is your oh so precious Tucker . Precious, pragmatic Tucker who cheered you on to go to your parents about all this, more than ok with you getting dissected for it. After all, he’s a smart boy and you can’t have fooled him as well as you fooled yourself into thinking you’re the same Danny Fenton he knew before you died.”

Spectra laughed again, claws digging into his shoulders, and anger, resentment, and fury rang through his soul, the chime of a burning bell. Light struck Spectra in the face, the Fomorian’s cackles finally cut off with a shriek of pain as she stumbled back and the choking darkness ebbed a foot away again. Danny snarled at her, spying the empty hollowness where his light had sheared off the false skin on her face, another ball of orange-silver light crackling at his fingertips.

“You keep Tucker’s name out of your filthy lying mouth! He would never hurt me!”

“He sure did take his time making you any sort of protection though, and once he got your parents to give him something that made his very touch a taser’s spark to your skin he wasn’t in any rush to modify it for your safety. Almost like he didn’t want you able to touch him, or he didn’t feel like making you something genuinely substantial as protection - after all, he finally got another one working and where did that end up? On Dash.” Danny stepped back when the shadows closed around Spectra once again, glaring into the dark of her office and kicking the desk to the wall for room. It didn’t even clatter against the wall when it vanished from his sight and he couldn’t tell if that was because there was no wall or if he was simply losing his stars forsaken mind.

“Modifying the Spector Deflector took time, you slippery little oil stain, now come out where I can punch you.”

“It hardly took time for your parents to make it, did it? And oh your parents.” She purred, voice taking on a cloyingly sweet tone and Danny shuddered at the cold against his skin, the smoke curling against his jacket and following him as he flew up to the ceiling to make some room. Now, though, it looked like he was trapped in the abyss with no floor, no ceiling, no way anywhere and if he ever stopped flying he would fall and fall and fall and there was no end to this darkness, no stars to sing to him and comfort him and it was like the times before his very first self .

“We can’t forget the source of all this anguish can we? Those darn parents of yours that put ghost hunting and science and your better sibling before you the whole of our life and even your afterlife! Oh, even you know now that normal old human authorities would clutch their pearls and steal you away to a safer place to live than with them. How many times have you had artificial ectoplasm in your food, either poisoning you or bringing it to life for you all to fend off? How many times have they barged into your room with no concern for your privacy and dragged you away to do work for them like an intern? How many times have you nearly died because dear old Dr. and Dr. Fenton couldn’t be bothered to make their home a safe place for a child?”

Danny curled up into a ball then, clutching at his head and closing his eyes. The star song that rang through his body and warmed his bones when he was a ghost grew dimmer and darker and colder with each word out of the dark and past the echoes it took a moment to realize that whining sound was coming from him. “Shut up! Shut up shut up, you don’t- so they’re a little clumsy! No one can be the best parents ever, and they love us! They love me!”

“Is that why they killed you?” That laughter felt like a slap to the face and Danny slipped into intangibility, only to fall from the air as his power left him, and he landed on the cold hard ground, alone and shaking. “Your father so careless with the most outrageously dangerous things that he left a doorway to the land of the dead plugged in even with the door to the lab still open. Your mother, so stubborn, so sure of herself, would never listen to your advice on how to simply not mutate the food that her family eats let alone listen about how ghosts actually work from you . Daddy dearest doesn’t truly care what you want to be, he knows that you’re not smart enough to become an astronaut, skilled enough to live off your art alone, and that all you really have to fall back on is the family business of ghost hunting, so why shouldn’t he talk over you about it all? Your own precious Mommy didn’t have an answer for you as to what she’d do if she knew you were a ghost.

“Oh, your parents are just so awful that they went and let you die, and you don’t want to face the truth of it? Is it because you’re afraid that you’re just like them, keeping Agatha locked up in that soup can for a whole weekend before you let her out, turning Hunter into a splatter on the ground, shooting my dearest little assistant because he’s a ghost? Or is it because you know, deep down, that what they would do as soon as they knew you’re not human is strap you down and cut you up to see what you actually are. You don’t even know, after all!”

His light was a pinprick in the distance, practically gone and with it the gossamer strings that bound him to his friends and let him know he wasn’t alone. They were gone because he was alone, wasn’t he? How could he not be, with whatever the hell he was? There wasn’t a thing out there like him, and if the dark pressing in on him like oil choked sea water swallowed him up then no one would truly understand what was lost. Would they even feel they lost something at all?

“Are you a ghost pretending to be human again? Or are you a creepy little boy with creepy little powers? A changeling left behind by a faerie through that portal, or some kind of curse? Oh, who cares what you are? Not a boy, not a ghost, not a fae or jinni or beast of this earth! Who could possibly care for a thing - a mistake like little Danny Fenton? Or should I say, C-”

Orange, fury, protect, love, wrath, HOW DARE SHE blazed down the bond between Danny and Jazz and filled him with a warmth he’d near forgotten existed. Green light cut through the darkness and engulfed Spectra, peeling away her suit and her skin and the darkness that made her up like one might an onion or potato. “ How dare you, you worthless parasite? How dare you lay a single clawed hand on my baby brother while you sit here, curled up in your precious darkness to hide from the truth that would burn away your empty, worthless lies?” Danny had never heard Jazz so angry, had never seen such fire in her aura and it kindled that spark inside of him that was growing oh so distant. “Sydney?”

Danny had never loved the color green so much before he saw peridot flames leap from Sydney’s hands and engulf the room, before sweeping in to swallow Spectra up in a pile of burning rot . They were back in Ishiyama’s office and the waiting room before it, Tucker and Sam and Dash all pale and shaking like they were freezing, but the heat of Sydney’s flames and the rage in his screams were like a camp fire in the cold woods. When Danny turned to see Jazz she was practically a chrome and green knight, wearing armor he’d never seen before and brandishing the Peeler at Spectra like a shotgun at a mugger. “I can’t believe I thought someone so pathetic they had to pick at the insecurities of literal children for a misery meal would do anything to help my brother.” She squeezed the trigger and held it until even Spectra’s shrieks of agony were nothing more than echoes in the room.

Jazz turned to Danny and before she was even fully out of the armor he had his arms wrapped around her, clinging tight to the only person that felt well and truly real at the moment. She hugged him back just as fast and relief slammed into the horror and misery and blended with the vindication until he couldn’t tell what feeling it was that blurred his vision and made his face wet with tears, but when Jazz ran a hand down his back he shook with the force of his sobs. Tucker and Sam put hands on his shoulders and the threads between them were a sickly puce and bloody red that had him dragging them both into the hug with him. They stood there, leaning on each other in the office and crying, and some part of Danny knew that they were going to be alright.

They had each other, and nothing could get to them when they were with each other, right?

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swampgallows · 4 years ago

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i know read more doesn't work on mobile anymore but whatever

...

i have completely zero attachment to the physical world lately and i know i "should" change this but im at a stage where I'm in so deep that i don't want to. I've utterly given up on trying to become employed or talk to my parents or interact with the outside world in any significant way. i haven't been talking with my irl/raver friends because i know I'm completely off their wavelength and have nothing to contribute since I'm no longer participating in the tangible world. i don't know how to and i don't want to, i guess, and the world doesn't seem to want (or miss) me either.

i could blame the pandemic but it was like this when i was working too, but had the added disadvantage of me being forced to interact with the world regardless, and how that compounded on my self-harm and self-neglect. i wasn't eating or sleeping so i could get to work on time, for instance.

i could blame wow and say it was an addiction but i think it's only a symptom of something larger. the only time i can recall being significantly invested in the real world is when i was in college and at the height of my raving "career"; i had genuine motivation to be part of a community that existed in the physical world, even if it was on the fringes. to me that's better than being completely sealed off in my room and prioritizing people and places that I'll never actually get to be with.

i have spent the majority of my life, even as an extremely young child, in a daydream world detached from reality, and i have no idea how I'll ever hunker down and make something of myself in the real world. i feel like i don't belong here and that there is nothing here for me, that i don't matter and I'm not missed or missing out on anything, and I'm too exhausted or unmotivated to try to find out how to fit into this planet, how to weave myself into the fabric of existence that everyone else seems to be part of.

the pandemic has made things worse for me by cutting off rave parties, as it was truly one of the only things that got me out of the house and wanting to occupy a physical space. and that's even when i had a job, i only lived for and aspired to get to go raving on the weekends and see my friends. the rest of the time i existed in a fog, and pretty much always have. ironically i spend so much time detached and daydreaming that i have no legitimate dreams or aspirations anymore.

i have never dreamed of a job or work. ive lost nearly all drive to be creative, especially when it comes to visual art. people assuage themselves for not feeling creative during 2020 despite all their new free time but i have felt this way for almost a decade and have been isolated for 3 years. i know i keep saying it but i feel like i have to drive that point home because it's not a 2020 problem, it's not something "everyone" is going through, it's something I've been struggling with for a long time and i feel like the shitty timing of everything has caused my therapist to view my struggles with this "global" lens. i have been in this exhausting detached permanent crisis/survival mode for over a decade. i can't pinpoint where it started or if it's innate or related to trauma since it happened when i was so young, but I'm less focused on that more than like

I'm an adult and i know i need to learn to become independent. everyone i relate to is mentally ill or dependent to some degree so i don't have any mentors or even examples of how to do that. nobody i know is moved out on their own except for one friend from high school who married a guy that works in the movie business, but she also started writing software in her early 20s so she's on a separate echelon altogether. anybody else either had their parents buy shit for them or is funded by means beyond their own paycheck.

i know i have to live in this world because i do. no matter where my mind is, it exists in a physical body that i have to shelter and nourish and maintain, despite how much i hate it. i am practically bedbound by "Ailments" and spend days existing in one corner of my bed in a corner of my bedroom, essentially my entire life whittled down to a 3x4 foot area of my twin sized bed slumped over a laptop. it's fucking up my neck and arms to not be sitting at a desk, let alone to be upright. my neurological problems from last winter keep cropping up and i don't know if that's due to spondylosis or anxiety and I'm not risking rona to have a doctor prod at me for a bit and then just shrug and tell me to drink water.

i want to get more exercise but it's been 100F every day and I'm scolded for going out at night existing as a woman. i have no destinations so i haven't driven my car in weeks. before that everything was on fire. exercising in my house is nearly impossible because of all the hoarded shit and the low ceiling. the one room with a high ceiling has no privacy.

i keep complaining about the same things because i have the same problems and zero solutions or even ideas. people just say "try new things" but there is nothing i am even curious about. i don't want things. i don't have wishes that can come true. i don't have aspirations. i don't have dreams. and even if i did i have nowhere to start and don't know how, or it's shit i can't do alone.

and let's face it: by my own design or not, I'm alone.

#blathering

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laboratorium2d · 4 years ago

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Children's Animated Series, As Graded by a Parent Who Has Watched Far Too Many of Them

My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic: The brony thing is legitimately weird, but this is legitimately a great show. The combination of epic-fantasy plots with a deep dive on friendship is a winner (and has also been deeply influential on kids' television). It also makes the obligatory pro-social messages feel earned, rather than an afterthought. The characters are charming, the writing sparkles, and the animation is still distinctive. Endlessly watchable, which is a good thing when your kid wants to watch endlessly. Fake holidays: Nightmare Night, Hearth's Warming Eve, Hearts and Hooves Day. Grade: A+

Avatar: I was fifteen years too old for this when it was on TV, so I didn't understand what the fuss was about. Now I do. It's epic but not grandiose, funny but not dumb, and morally deep without giving into plot gravity. The world-building, the writing, the animation, the voice-acting, the fight scenes, the side characters: everything works, and everything is pulling in the same direction. (The sequel series, The Legend of Korra, is more of the same, with an interestingly updated setting and better music.) If your kids are like mine, they'll want to talk about everything, and so will you. I guess binge-watching is a family thing now. Grade: A+

She-Ra and the Princesses of Power: This show is so gay. However gay you expect it to be, it's ten times gayer. It's also pro-diversity along every axis you can imagine, including body-type. It's completely awesome. It captures the uncannily compelling techno-fantasy atmosphere of the original, and it has characters with the same names, but otherwise it's a total gut rehab. The character studies at its core are compelling, even as the overall plot and action hold a young child's interest. It takes lots of anime animation tropes and tones them down to the verge of naturalism, which I wouldn't have thought would work, but totally does. Grade: A-

Wild Kratts: The big kid was learning biology from this show almost from before she could talk. "Giraffe. Long neck. Eat leaves." The premise of the show is genius: animated versions of veteran kids' wildlife-show hosts Chris and Martin Kratt have suits that give them "creature powers," and they travel around the world having adventures with animals. The science is legit and it's presented entertainingly. And the characters are winners, especially the creature-suit inventor Aviva Corcovado and the colorful villains. The only thing consistently annoying about this show is that it can be shouty. Everyone is Just! So! Excited! About! Animals! Grade: A-.

Phineas and Ferb: The Arrested Development of kids' animation, Phineas and Ferb is impossibly dense with overlapping plots, brick jokes, and a large army of recurring minor characters. Every episode features an original song, some of which are genuinely brilliant ("Squirrels in My Pants" is a household favorite). It is also a wholly, completely sweet-hearted show. Even the antagonists -- Candace and Dr. Doofenshmirtz -- are sympathetic, charming, fully-realized, and allowed to grow and be happy in ways that a lesser version of this show would never even have realized was a possibility. The allegretto pacing and intricate writing keep the show consistently fresh. New Disney at its best. Grade: A-

Ben and Holly's Little Kingdom: From the same team who brought you Peppa Pig, but even drier underneath its treacly trappings. The comedic timing is straight out of classic British sketch comedy. The voice actors are clearly in on the joke, which if anything makes the show more fun to listen to than to watch. B+

Dinosaur Train: Sometimes high concepts work. The show 100% owns its message: dinosaur physiology is a diversity metaphor, presented with just the right degree of insistence. The characters are sketched with grace and sympathy, and the science is pitched just right for its target audience. Over the years, the show (like all railfans) has gotten increasingly obsessed with its train equipment: the aquacar, the submarine, the ... zeppelin. The songs are surprisingly catchy, too: our favorite is probably the Dinosaur Train Zeppelin song, which, yes, is a Led Zeppelin pastiche. Grade: B+

Odd Squad: This one really grew on me. If all you've seen is short clips, it just seems like everyone is shouting about math all the time. But the show overall is delightfully goofy, with a real sense of how to string along a running gag, and some genuinely talented child actors. Grade: B+

Creative Galaxy: Despite being a total Daniel Tiger rip-off, down to the animation style, the obligatory song in every episode, and the live-action codas, this one is actually kind of nice. The art projects are well-chosen both to interest kids and also to actually be doable. Fake holidays: Heart Day. Grade: B

Peppa Pig: It took me a long time to appreciate this show's arch sense of humor. Everyone's pretensions and ambitions are punctured; embarrassing mistakes and small indignities await adults at every turn. Once you realize that the show is making fun of most of its characters but loves them anyway, it's much more bearable. Grade: B

Curious George: Entirely forgettable, with two mildly redeeming qualities. George himself is as charming as always, and the jazzy musical score is pleasant. Grade: B-

Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir: It took me a while to understand what this show was doing. It's very, very French. Grade: C+

Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood: Even my kids recognize that Daniel Tiger is needy and whiny. The show inadvertently teaches kids what to be afraid of and how to misbehave. There is also something deeply wrong with the economy of the Neighborhood: everyone seems to have multiple jobs and the public transit system runs on magic. On the plus side, the potty song has come in handy as a reminder: when you have to go potty, stop and go right away. Fake holidays: Love Day, Snowflake Day, Dress Up Day. Grade: C+

Ready Jet Go: I suppose there's some science in here somewhere, I guess. Grade: C+

Tumble Leaf: Reviewers might call this one "gentle," by which they mean "boring." The animation is lovely and the music is calming. But what's the point? Grade: C+

PAW Patrol: Unbelievably, incredibly formulaic. For example: have you noticed that they get in their trucks at exactly the same point halfway through each episode? Just Canadian enough to be noticeably off, but also rah-rah in a George W. Bush-administration kind of way. Sometimes I imagine grown-up versions of the pups. Chase regularly engages in police brutality, Rubble has a drinking problem, and Marshall has joined the alt-right. Grade: C

Nature Cat: Nature Cat is annoying and his friends are worse. I'm not clear on what they're supposed to be learning. And the theme song manages to be both unmemorable and an earworm. Make it stop! Grade: C

Super Why: More like Super Why Does This Exist, amirite? The whole show is oddly paced: I find the story-within-a-story structure confusing and can only wonder how much of it kids actually get. Having each character deal with a different aspect of literacy leaves the show's educational content unfocused. And the Super Letters are like the world's lamest game of Wheel of Fortune. Plus the song is an earworm, and not in a good way. Grade: C

Sofia the First: Empty Disney calories, this show is the reductio ad absurdum of Disney's democratization of the idea of "princess." The plotting, the writing, and the music are technically proficient. The cel-shading effects that give 3D animation the luminosity of 2D hand drawn are lovely. The messages are perfectly innocuous. But the heart of the show is a giant gaping void. Fake holidays: Wassailia. Grade: C

Lion Guard: More empty Disney calories, like Sofia the First but with more obnoxious characters. Inexplicably real holiday: Christmas. Grade: C-

Peg + Cat: All I can remember is that the show is inexplicably drawn on graph paper, and they have a BIG BIG PROBLEM every few seconds. When people complain about STEM, and I remember that this show exists, I have to admit that they have a point. Grade: C-

Martha Speaks: The AV Club's term for this kind of show is "least essential." Even by the standards of kids' shows, the premise makes no sense. Nobody here, human or canine, is remotely sympathetic. And the plot comes to a screeching halt every time it's time for a new vocabulary word. Grade: C-

WordWorld: I have so many questions about this show. If everything is made out of words, what about the ground? The sky? Windows? And what are the letters in the words made of? What is going on with the accents? And who greenlit three seasons of this garbage? Grade: D+

The Adventures of Puss in Boots: This is a weird, weird show. And not in a good way. Grade: D+

Trolls: The Beat Goes On: Quite possibly the most misanthropic kids show currently streaming anywhere. The combination of grimdark setting and hackneyed uplifting plot tropes is somewhere between unsettling and child abuse. Poppy is a walking illustration of emotional labor; Branch has severe PTSD. The show treats both of these as laughable quirks. And I am never going to get used to the Auto-Tune. Grade: D+

Kung-Fu Panda: The Paws of Destiny: Pretty much your standard DreamWorks animation. This is not a good thing. Grade: D

If You Give a Mouse a Cookie: The animation and voice-acting are innocuous. But building an entire show around the "if X, then Y" formula led to some disastrous choices. The show taught my big kid how to say things like, "If I see a rock, I just have to bring it home with me." It takes a special kind of kids show to affirmatively instill bad habits. Grade: D-

The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle (2018): An absolute travesty in every possible way. The remake is the direct opposite of everything the original represented: crude instead of clever, manic instead of playful, and mean instead of goofy. Grade: F-

#culture

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yeats-infection · 5 years ago

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hard agree with ur roommate on that WIP, that snippet was sooo good oml

by popular demand, here’s what i have so far of the possibly never-to-be-finished or maybe eventually-to-be-finished band of brothers weed farm AU, tentatively titled PURPLE HAZE, below the cut:

Dick was no hippie. He was also no fool. “We’ve got to hide it from the air,” he said thoughtfully.

“The real pros plant it between rows of corn,” Nix told him.

All in all this was going better so far than he had thought it would.

“What do we do with all the damned corn?”

“Why, moonshine, of course.”

“That’s pushing your luck,” Dick said. He was a real pragmatist. “How do you know all this?”

Nix scratched his head. He knew it was his poker tic, and he knew that Dick would know that too. “Family connections,” he said.

“I thought your family connections were in the fertilizer business,” said Dick, who knew this well, in fact, having worked for said company, for a brief time after the war, during the period when they had all independently decided they were going to try to hack it in the Real World.

“Well, what do you think they started off fertilizing?”

Dick hesitated. “I just don’t know why you never told me any of this before,” he said. “You haven’t made a habit of lying to me.”

“This was just omission.” Nix shrugged. “You’re a straight laced kind of man.”

“That I never wanted to drop acid with you when we were over there doesn’t mean I’m… entirely opposed to mind-altering substances.”

Nix had sure as hell fielded a lot of dirty looks, and, worse, concerned looks, in the CP over in Vietnam, when he closed the tent flaps behind himself and Dick after some particularly rough patrol or briefing and sparked a joint. Dick had always put a thoughtful hand up to go with the dirty or concerned looks, because Nix had always offered the joint to him, even knowing he wouldn’t take it. Especially knowing he wouldn’t take it.

“Well,” Nix said, “before I brought this proposal to you I wanted to make sure I had retained anything at all from my degree in horticulture.”

He took the film canister out from his pocket and put it between them on the kitchen table. For a moment Dick studied him, and then he grabbed the canister and opened it and poured the contents out onto one of the nice floral cotton placemats that had been made for him by his sister.

“I’m calling it Easy Diesel,” said Nix.

“You’ve got to be god damn kidding me,” said Dick, but he picked up one of the larger of the buds and carefully started pulling it apart. They had come out nice, if Nix did say so himself. They were big and sticky and a psychedelic iridescent purple-green.

“It’s my own breed,” Nix went on, wondering if he sounded desperate. He sure as hell felt desperate, not least for a god damn toke. “Good for sleeping.”

Dick cocked a pale eyebrow in his direction. “It helps you sleep?”

“Sure, this strain does, but I can breed different strains that’ll make you feel different things…”

“Nix, you grew this?”

He turned the bud in the light through the kitchen window, curiously, like a jewel.

“Well, I grew its grandparents from seeds, and then I crossed them, and this is the cross, second generation, grown from a cutting.”

“How many of these have you got?”

“Four in my bathtub in Jersey,” Nix said. “I’ve been showering at my sister’s. Couple more in the basement too, under a light.”

“And where do you get the seed?”

He’d hoped not to have to involve Dick in this part of it. “I have a contact,” he said.

“Nix, if I’m going to go in on this with you, I need to be an equal partner.”

“Fine. It’s Spiers.” As it had been over there. “You know he lives in Texas now, and he can get seed from Mexico. But I don’t need him anymore unless we want to grow another strain.”

“We might want to keep that in mind,” said Dick.

“Alright. I’ll write to him.” He indicated the bud in Dick’s hand. “We might want to try that before you sign on the dotted line.”

Dick passed the bud back across the table to Nix who set about expertly shredding it into flakes. “I don’t have any papers,” Dick said, watching him.

Nix cocked an eyebrow. “You used to smoke rollies exclusively!”

“Been trying to quit cigarettes. You just can’t keep anything in the house.” At Nix’s upward glance he said, “This is fine, though. As long as you have a way to smoke it.”

“You think I’d come all this way and level you with this without a way to smoke it?”

Nix had a little pipe in his overnight bag. He packed it and they lit up. The rest was history.

Nix had enlisted right after college. He didn’t want to go through the whole song and dance of avoiding the draft, and his father was breathing down his neck, having gotten a Purple Heart at Monte Casino in the Second World War. Dick had signed up straight out of high school, having believed out of his damnable earnestness that it was the right thing to do. Dick was like the “some folks are born, made to wave the flag” line from the beginning of “Fortunate Son,” but none of the bad stuff after. That was just the way he was. He had been at boot camp then in school learning to be an officer. They saw each other summers and went to the drive in movie theater and talked about the news from the Soviet bloc, and about spies and space and music. Sometimes Dick had Things to Say about the stuff Nix was learning about at Yale, like colonialism and hegemony, but they argued about it good naturedly and then they moved on to arguing about music. Dick liked those Greenwich Village folkies and he was legitimately let down when Dylan went electric. Nix had Are You Experienced on repeat. There were other things they didn’t talk about at all, like that Nix had read Alfred Kinsey’s reports in class and thought of himself first as a one, then as a two, then a three, and now intermittently as a four, sometimes even a five. The truth was he only incidentally thought of any people who weren't Dick. He couldn’t even regret being doomed to such a sorry condition, because being around Dick was such a joy. It was a joy, in its brutal way, even when they were over there. It was a joy when he had forgotten he could feel joy.

Now, after everything, Dick had all this land, off Route 6 not far from the New York border, on which the trees moved quietly, and the hills were low and green. He had all that land, and just about nothing else, because he had spent just about every penny of his salary from Nixon Nitration and his war pension and his inheritance from his parents' deaths buying that plot to get himself away from the world. In New Jersey, working for his father as little more than a body in a suit, Nix had just about everything he wanted, except his own soul. That was somewhere yet to be seen. In Vietnam, he must have put it down somewhere, like his helmet or his canteen or something, except that he had forgotten to pick it up. This had happened to most of them, except for Dick, who had doggedly held onto his somehow as he had also held onto his life, his relative sanity, his damnable good looks, and his even more damnable good humor.

The big idea was a relatively obvious one to Nix, who had had his first toke in San Francisco just before shipping out, and who drove out to Dick’s farm twice a month or so to shoot the shit at the kitchen table and lie sleepless in the twin bed in the guest room listening to the woods and the snoring from the next room over and debating numerous impossibilities until dawn, when he would get up and go down to the fallow fields and make estimates as to the soil quality. Then he would make coffee and biscuits. “Well damn, Nix, you didn’t have to do that,” said Dick, coming down around seven, chuffed and bedheaded, which was exactly why Nix had to do it.

He understood he had ulterior motives. But he could make an entire list of reasons why this wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had that weren’t those ulterior motives.

Finally Dick said something like, “I don’t know how I’m going to do this anymore.” They were sitting at the kitchen table in the sunset. He offered Nix a weak smile that might be described as heartbreaking. “Might be scrounging for a job around Nixon Nitration.”

Nix couldn’t help himself, though it did feel like the first second when you had to stand up and start running across an open clearing under enemy fire, before the adrenaline kicked in and everything cleared. He had been waiting for the right moment for what felt like his entire life. “You wanna know what I think?”

Dick’s brow tightened. “I always wanna know what you think.”

“But do you really wanna know what I think.”

It was expensive to get a grow operation going. Nix had some money, but he’d long since drunk most of his nest egg, so it was barely enough to get seed and nitrogen and decent irrigation. They woke up with the sun and worked the field until it went down, and some nights they came stumbling in at dusk, sunburned, parched, and there was hardly any food to put on the table. It wasn’t much worse than it had been at war — rice, stale bread, cans of beans or tuna fish, hot water with lemon. Ears of steamed or grilled corn, eventually, when the crop got kicking. By night Nix hunched over the grow light in the living room and tended to the hatchlings. “Never seen you act so gentle,” Dick said, putting the radio on, settling onto the couch with the paper, dirt under his fingernails.

“Yeah, well.” His face was hot, not just because of the proximity to the light. “They’re notoriously fragile.”

They shared a joint, went separate ways to bed. Most nights Nix passed out before his head hit the pillow. This was a marked improvement from what things had been like back in Jersey. Who knew the secret all along had been back-breaking agricultural labor? He thought about writing a letter to the Secretary of Veteran’s Affairs or whoever was supposed to be handling the burgeoning public health crisis that was an entire generation's rampant PTSD.

They were accustomed to working hard together. Dick had never been the kind of officer who had gotten off on asking the underlings to do all the shit-shoveling, and Nix had followed suit, only wanting to be an officer half as good as Dick. He remembered participating in a kind of bucket relay, tossing sandbags off a truck toward the CP on one of the many, many nights it flooded. In the highest heat of the day he sat in the cool grass in the shade, drinking too-tart lemonade and puncturing a hose just-so with a knife to lay some makeshift irrigation. Dick came out after a few minutes with what passed for sandwiches. His sunburnt nose was peeling, even though he sometimes put zinc oxide on it like a lifeguard in a soap opera. “Remember when you got hit in the head?”

It was a ricochet that glanced off his helmet — the closest he had come over there to turning in his dance card forever. He had a headache for a few days after, and the doc had moved a flashlight between his eyes with an air of concern. Dick had been quite alarmed. He hovered for a while like some kind of fairy godparent. It was kind of embarrassing, but Nix didn't say anything about it.

“Of course I do.”

“Well,

Nix went to town to buy nitrogen at the Agway. On the way back he stopped for cigarettes at the general store. Scanning the magazine rack whilst the shopgirl fished out his Marlboro Reds he nearly had a massive coronary. There was a picture from Vietnam on the cover of Esquire Magazine with the following caption:

HEART OF DARKNESS: D.K. WEBSTER REVISITS VIETNAM

He picked it up. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“What’s that?” The shopgirl was a pregnant woman in overalls and a man’s ribbed tank top. She tossed the cigs Nix’s way.

“Nothing.” He showed her the magazine, wishing he had the sleight of hand to just shove it up his shirtsleeve. “I’ll take this too.”

In the parking lot, he checked that the bags of nitrogen were secure in the bed of Dick’s pickup, and then he sat on the back bumper in the profound sun and opened to the table of contents, then, skipping cologne ads and spreads of beautiful women in states of undress, opened to the introductory page preceding Webster’s article. According to the byline, the pictures had been taken by a photographer who had been with their company for a little while, had been all over the country and had disappeared in the Spring of 1970 somewhere on Cambodia’s Highway 1. The article was preceded by a two-page spread of one such photograph of Easy Company on Hill 926 toward Christmas ’69. He looked over the faces of all the boys, naming them, the dead ones and the alive ones and the should have been dead ones and the should have been alive ones, inside his mind, until he came upon the pixelated black mar of his own eyes. Then he folded up the magazine and put it in his back pocket and drove back up to Dick’s farm in something of a fugue state. Over there, on the rare occasions upon which they had access to a Jeep, Dick usually drove it, because Nix was usually under the influence of something or other. Dick could not be gotten under the influence of anything besides grief, or anger, a few times that he let Nix see, and these did not seem to cloud his judgement overmuch. It had been something to see Vietnam that way — like a tourist, watching the forest from the windows, the beach and the water, the blood in the water, the great napalm swaths like deep burned scars. He had thought at first that Dick thought he was stoned and useless, but now he wasn't so sure, and anyway it had felt like a strange gift, like new eyes…

Back at the farm, he practically threw himself down in the better chair pulled up to the kitchen table. He rolled a joint and sparked the end of it. Thus prepared, he took the magazine out of his pocket and began to read:

In March 1969, D.K. Webster appeared before the editor of this magazine and just about prostrated himself before the news desk to ask if he might be permitted to cover the conflict in Vietnam. He flew to Saigon that June and embedded himself with E Company of the elite 101st Airborne, where he remained until February of the following year. Shortly after returning stateside he checked himself into an inpatient mental health facility. Now, three years later, he has at last filed his first story for this magazine. — Ed.

The boys were just about to go to the wire for the night when I got to the camp on Hill 926. The guns among them were varied and babied like children. Spit-shined barrels caught the last sun. The medic came over at the last with speed pills. There was no dinner. I was shaken up, literally, from the chopper, and also figuratively, being as I had been the only living cargo, unloaded en route to Saigon with corpses draped with their camouflage ponchos, ripped through with bulletholes and muddy with blood. I was pretty sure my brain had released the store of psychedelic chemicals you were supposed to get at the moment of death so it was just as well the medic didn’t offer any speed to me, that first night, though he would later.

The boys were my age. Some were younger than me. After some spiteful if hushed debate among themselves they gave me a helmet which had belonged to someone dead. There was blood splattered inside it and nothing to clean it out with. Still, I put it on. The bodies in the chopper had put the fear in me and there were not, absolutely were not, enough cigarettes. I waited for someone to offer me one, but nobody did. Instead the First Sergeant offered me a gun.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

Remembered belatedly you were supposed to call them sir. Some of the grunts snickered.

“Point it and shoot it,” said the First Sergeant.

I’d been in places where they wanted to put a show on for me and in other places where they herded me back onto the chopper as soon as they heard I was a reporter. I had also been in Saigon, where there was not much to do but lie in bed drunk and jerk off until raw. On Hill 926 I was another body with a beating heart. I took the gun and we went to the wire. There were more boys out there taping sixteen clips together so they’d go faster. They had gloves to move the big box guns by the hot barrels but the fabric was wet and rotting. Cassette player spinning Donovan. Somebody had VOODOO CHILD engraved into his helmet. At last somebody gave me a god damn cigarette. You would have needed something to look across what men like these in previous wars might have termed no man’s land. The napalm had turned the edge of the forest into a bridge between this world and Hades. The night fog was coming out of it. Between us and that was barbed wire stretched over blood-slaked mud, hung with charred corpses. Now I was glad there had been no dinner.

The speed was kicking in for just about everybody else. Because there was nothing to shoot at yet they took a keen interest in my well-being. “Keep your head down.” “Keep your mouth shut.” “Keep the belt flat.” “If you get hit, yell for the medic. Only if you get hit!” Finally, “For gods sake wait for one of us before you god damn start shooting.”

I asked them if they ever got friendly fire.

“Medic in 4th Company got killed that way.”

“Took out some of the Lurps in the 67th.”

You were always learning new words which were just ways of saying things that took less time.

“Long range recon patrollers,” explained one of the boys. The nameplate, as well as the sleeves, had come off his jacket, but everybody called him Babe, except for the medic, who called everybody by the surname, and Babe’s was Heffron. When he looked to the forest, he saw something I didn’t, because of his training, and because he had put greasepaint around his eyes, like an ancient Egyptian lady, against the infernal messaging of the high yellow moon. Ready to burst like a pincushion mushroom on the edge of the horizon. “Ours are coming,” he said.

“You see em?”

The call went down the line to hold fire. The movement in the fog and the skeletons of the trees — like actors on a stage, like apparitions, ghosts. There were two negotiating the brutal wasteland, delicately around the landmines. Someone put a flare up. There was a captain and a corporal, differentiable by the insignia upon their tattered uniforms. They wore greasepaint and carried rifles. The corporal had let his rest against his forearm and shoulder so that he could roll a cigarette from a pack of loose tobacco drawn from inside his destroyed fatigue jacket.

A line from Dylan surfaced in the civilian part of my mind: Maggie come fleet foot face full of black soot…

“How long have they been out there?”

“Since yesterday noon.”

The captain went toward the CP to speak to the major. The corporal came into our foxhole and sat up against the sandbags to light the cig he’d just rolled. His boots were so bad he might as well have been barefoot. His eyes were dark, helmet askew and dented. A startling quality of blood on his person not necessarily his own. “How many, Lieb,” said the gunner, Toye.

“Two companies coming down from the mountain camp. Who’s got pills?”

“Two companies?”

“That’s what I said, ain’t it?”

“Lieb, we’re just one company.”

The dark gaze found me. It was like looking back into the edge of the forest, the skeletons and fog, shadows, death lurking close at hand. “Who’s this then?”

Heffron cackled. “They gave us a correspondent.”

I made up my mind I had to talk to the LRRP that the boys called Lieb, because he scared the shit out of me.

The Lurps’ job was to go into the woods and try to figure out whereabouts the VC were moving, where they were encamped and the gear they had, their numbers, the locations of their traps and tunnels. The company at the camp on Hill 926 had two men who served this purpose, the captain, Spiers, and the corporal, Liebgott. Rumor was general in the camp about the quantity of VC these men had killed and the things they had seen and done. Between them they had done five tours before this one. Between them they were rumored to have survived a chopper crash, at least three VC ambushes, a court martial, a suicide attempt, a week without sleep, more than fifty parachute drops, booby traps galore, setting foot in the city of Hue, flushing out a collective six VC tunnels, and stepping on a no doubt exaggerated quantity of dud landmines. Spiers was unapproachably scary. He had allegedly executed prisoners on numerous occasions. In the heights of misery when not even the Dexedrine pills could bring you up out of the depths of the fear the men would joke about asking the captain to take them behind the CP and get it over with.

Liebgott, called Lieb, not seeming to understand what this word actually means in the German language, was also a stone killer by all accounts, thoroughly dead in the eyes, like looking at them you were surprised his lips weren’t blue, and they caught no reflection, but he spent all his time at camp, which was slim, listening to Da Capo and The Notorious Byrd Brothers (Do you think it’s really the truth that you see? I’ve got my doubts it’s happened to me) on cassette and chain smoking. This made him seem like someone I might have gotten to know if I had stayed in college, though I understood this was a fallacy. Anyway, by this point I was taking the uppers when the medic offered so I went over of an early morning when he was shaving his face.

He had Love on. “You know you have the same name as this band,” I said.

He was trying to figure out if I was serious. He had the razor poised right over his carotid artery. Under all the greasepaint he had good skin, thin beard, hollow cheeks. His hair was limp and filthy. In another life he might have been good looking. I sat down in the mud. That’s how bad I wanted to talk to him. I sat in the goddamn mud. The mud was made of blood and piss and worse around here. It didn’t even faze him, because he was sleeping in worse every night he was out there.

Tried another in: “You listen to Forever Changes?”

He set the razor gliding again over the bone of his jaw. “Had a tape,” he said. “It rotted.”

“Well, I’ll see if I can get you another one.”

He was trying to get the read on me. “What do you want.”

“Talk to you.”

“Not enough to get shot at out on the wire?”

“This is for Esquire,” I said. “It ain’t for Newsweek.”

He spat in the mud, but it came so perilously close to the toe of my left boot that it might’ve been intentional. “Can’t say I’d make a good centerfold,” he said. His face was twitching with the smile he was playing like he was too tough to put on it. “Even in lingerie.”

I liked him, though he made himself very difficult to like, and was out in the bush with Captain Spiers more nights than not; when you got him warmed up, he would talk about it, sometimes too much, sometimes things you didn’t really want to know. I went back to my bedroll and wrote them down and tried to put them out of my head. Six months later, I was at the tail end of a sleepless 36-hour benzo binge, and the wind was blowing wrong, out of the wrong mouth at the wrong end of the world, bringing rain and the smell of death and napalm and the latrines, on the suffocating humid night when Spiers half-carried him out of the woods —

Dick’s shadow loomed over Nix’s shoulder and distorted the light on the text. “This is mildly embarrassing,” he said.

Nix felt like someone had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him out of a dead man’s float. “Hell,” he said, voice cracking, “for who?”

Dick shrugged. “Everybody involved.” He headed over to the stovetop percolator to spoon in fragrant coffee grounds. “David might've played it a little less fast and loose on the schoolboy crush front.”

“Schoolboy crush?”

Dick cocked an incredulous eyebrow. “Nix, your reading comprehension leaves something to be desired.”

“On — wait. On Liebgott!”

Dick turned back to the stove. “Maybe you need an eye test.”

Nix dropped the magazine on the table like it was radioactive. He supposed it might have been. His heart was acting up. What other kinds of things had Dick noticed? “My head was pretty damn far up my own ass.”

“I’d say so. Anyway, in my day we called that kind of prose florid.”

“In your day! Where the hell?”

“High school English.”

The knock at the door in the night was a sharp shock, bright as lightning, that sent them both back to Khe Sanh and before. Nix ducked. Dick went behind the doorframe. They kept low into the kitchen, where Nix took his old officer’s pistol out from where he kept it hidden behind the fridge. Then they went to the door, keeping to the edges of the hallways.

On the porch was Liebgott. He could have made his own way in likely right onto the couch without either of them noticing, so it was something that he had knocked on the goddamn door. It was particularly something given that none of the boys from Easy should have known about the grow operation, or even about Dick’s farm, being as Dick’s address on file at the V.A. was a post office box in town and Nix’s was still in Jersey. These considerations were nil to somebody who had spent the better part of five years in the bush of Vietnam. He took a last draw from his cigarette and put it out against the rubber sole of his boot, then he put the butt in his pocket. As far as Nix knew, he hadn’t said a word since January 1970.

“Joe,” said Dick diplomatically. He put his hand out and Liebgott took it. Then he took Nix’s. He had handsome dark eyes, but they were full of a wall. You could tell he saw you, but it was like nothing followed the necessary channels to the brain to spur emotional response. It had been like this even while he was still talking, and after a while you got used to it.

“You comin' in,” said Nix, knowing he probably would even if he wasn’t invited.

Inside, they all three sat at the kitchen table in silence nobody was about to break. Finally Dick got up and went to the drawer where they kept the rollies and their share of the product. He passed a sheaf of papers and a film canister full of bud to Liebgott across the table. Nix understood as well as Dick apparently did that there would be no getting anything over on this kid, who had eyes in the back and sides of his head. He’d probably had a nice tour of the property before coming inside. “You hungry, son,” Dick said.

Liebgott shook his head. He extracted one of the buds from the canister and inspected it. They did look mighty good if Nix said so himself. They looked artful in Liebgott’s hand. There were black scabs across his knuckles and a dark rime of filth under those fingernails which still existed. He seemed satisfied enough with what he saw to take a paper out of the sheaf and start shredding the flower into it.

“Captain Nixon calls it Easy Diesel,” said Dick, like he was trying to pretend it wasn’t the funniest thing in the world.

Liebgott looked up and a smile flashed across his face like the savage golden light of a flare falling over the far hills. His smile was sort of brutal, like the edge of a knife in a barfight, or like a seething animal. Luckily it went away as quickly as it had come. He rolled the joint with a quick grace and lit the business end with his old silver Zippo Nixon hadn’t seen since the war. There was a skull engraved on one side and on the other it read IF YOU ARE RECOVERING MY BODY, FUCK YOU.

“I don’t know how you found us, Joe,” Dick said thoughtfully. “You don’t have to… tell us. But we ain’t exactly keen to have just anybody here.” He paused and looked quickly to Nix, who tried to make it abundantly clear by means of eyebrows that he wasn’t sure they ought to go down this road, wherever it was leading. Dick ignored him. Liebgott was watching them, fully understanding their attempted clandestine exchange. “We ain’t exactly keen to have the DEA here,” Dick said at last.

The cherry at the end of the joint atomized with a crackling hiss. Liebgott looked between Dick and Nix with extreme seriousness sullied only by his exhaling a dignified white cloud out his nose. Then he nodded, once, curtly, demonstrating he understood his orders as they had been relayed.

Nix flashed Dick what he thought was a what have you done type look. But Dick looked totally unbothered. He should have gone into this business years ago for how violently unflappable he was. He said to Liebgott, “I’ll get some blankets and you can make up the couch.”

Liebgott shook his head to say no need. He got up, careful not to scrape the chair against the floor, shook each of their hands again, and in less than a minute’s time he was back out the door with nothing more than what he’d come in with except the joint.

Nix and Dick, on the porch, listening to the crickets, watched him disappear into the darkness.

“Are we hallucinating,” said Nix eventually.

“I sure as hell hope not,” Dick replied. “We’ve got to ship all that product or we’ll starve.”

In the morning Nix was in the field, inspecting the plants. Liebgott was standing there at his quarter for god knew how long before he cleared his throat and Nix jumped about six feet in the air. There was a smirk shifting across Liebgott’s face that he would have been better about hiding when Nix had been his commanding officer. He looked like he hadn't slept. Back over there he had looked like that a lot, but it had been different, because of all the uppers they were taking. He cocked his head back over toward the long driveway and then he was off across the dew-wet grass which had already soaked through the hems of his canvas pants and his destroyed shoes.

Nix followed, like a duckling behind a hen. Liebgott still walked as though there were eyes in all sides of his head quickly processing information as he moved. Nix doubted you ever lost that kind of skill, even if in the real world it made you look like a mental patient. He caught up so they could walk side by side through the dew-wet grass. “What did you think,” he asked Liebgott.

Liebgott passed Nix the universal sign of furrowed brow that meant please clarify.

Nix gestured with pinched fingers to his own mouth as though Liebgott were also deaf. “The grass.”

He shaped his hand into an a-ok sign.

“You get any sleep?”

He nodded an infinitesimal nod, like the answer was a secret just for Nix to know.

“Well if you think it could be better just tell me how.”

Nix had had a high school friend whose sister was deaf from scarlet fever and whom he had watched on occasion communicate with her by means of sign language. Early on, back over there, he had sent off to command for a book, but by the time it came he understood it wasn’t that Liebgott couldn’t speak, he just didn’t want to. It was something like how people’s hair supposedly turned white if they witnessed some evil thing, or how people became ascetics in the name of god. If you were really fucked up on drugs or fear or otherwise, or if the natural magical thinking from childhood hadn’t been fully beaten out of you, you might have seen it as the sacrifice he had given to the forest for letting him out without a scratch so many goddamn times. It had been a bit of a trial to explain this to Spiers, who was practical almost to a fault, sometimes.

Liebgott showed another a-ok sign. Then he did a thumbs up which Nix knew meant it was good.

All in all it was smart. If he was still talking, Nix might have asked him, what have you been up to? You been sleeping on the street? You been to the V.A.? What did they tell you? And the answer would’ve been nothing good. Instead they just walked in the cool grass together in the sunshine and the morning was beautiful, and the air was sweet. It was all lovely until Liebgott had to physically stop him, laughing, somehow silently but also hysterically, from stepping right onto the razor-thin tripwire stretched invisibly across the dark gravel.

In the kitchen, Dick was doing the numbers. He took his glasses off when Nix came in and put the coffee on. “He learned a thing or two from Charlie,” Nix said, leaning against the counters.

“Who, Joe?”

“Our driveway is thoroughly ratfucked.”

“Hmm,” said Dick. He put the glasses back on and turned back to the accounting book. He was going to do this whole thing as above board as was humanly possible. The vivid daylight came through the window and struck the lens of his unstylish Ray-Bans and threw a kind of prism of color upon the white paper and the chicken-scratch sums. Nix felt like maybe this was something you would paint if you had the necessary implements and artistic ability. “Maybe we should see if we can get any more help.”

He was mildly ashamed to say it, but the doc had always kind of creeped Nix out. He imagined a hypothetical conversation with Dick, who he knew loved the kid, almost like a son: Listen, don’t get me wrong, he’s a good kid, I owe him my life, yadda yadda. But either he’s dropped the brown acid one too many times or the voodoo exorcism went FUBAR.

The doc had arrived on the farm on the heels of Sunshine and Rainbows, aka Mr. Bright Eyed and Bushy Tailed, aka one Edward “Babe” Heffron. Nix had written Babe in South Philly, being as he was a connoisseur of bud and once upon a time had been famed among their company for smoking anything anyone put in his hand, often to his own detriment. The operation was getting big enough that Nix needed another pair of hands, other than Liebgott, of course, who was still fortifying the long driveway whilst giving away his cover by playing Led Zeppelin IV as loudly as was possible. It was a tough calculation, because Babe was a genius of pot, but he couldn’t keep a damn secret, and lo and behold he had dragged along with him a dark shadow in the human form of Eugene Roe. They came up the driveway in a big old Ford pickup that rattled its rust off in the potholes. Liebgott had dismantled the traps specially for their arrival when they had called from Williamsport to say they were an hour out.

“I figured we could use a medical professional to lend some credibility to the operation,” said Babe thoughtfully, sparking a joint on the porch over sweating jam jars of iced tea.

Roe snorted or something but it wasn’t really a normal person’s self-effacing laugh. Winters clapped his back. Nixon knew Roe had dropped out of medical school after two years but there was no need to say anything. Everyone knew that. Now he was working construction and Babe claimed to be working as a mechanic in a garage, but this seemed suspect given the state of the car they had driven up in.

“Well we sure as hell are glad you boys are here,” said Dick magnanimously.

Babe exhaled an opaque cloud that rivaled Nix’s own father’s ability with a stogie. “Can we see the bush?”

They went out all together to the field and ducked between the rows of corn. Babe knelt in the soil. It was damp with dew and quiet in here. It would have been almost like over there except it smelled good. “What’s the cross,” Babe said, inspecting the plants.

“It’s an indica blend…”

“Well, I can tell that,” he said.

“So you’re an expert on the plant now too?”

“I’ve just smoked an awful lot of joints in my life, Captain Nixon.”

Roe snorted again. When they all looked to him he said, “You said in the letter there was some kind of altruistic reason for all this.”

“It’s medicine, Gene,” Babe said gently, but also like they had had this conversation thirty thousand times. Nix filed away for later the intimation that Roe had read the letter he’d sent Babe at home in South Philadelphia.

“I guess you don’t remember the psychic break you had at the Do Lung Bridge.”

Babe waved this remark off, even though Nix remembered it too. It threw a chill down his back, like a water balloon had hit him at the base of his neck. “That was laced,” Babe said.

“With what!”

“I don’t know! Something bad!” Babe turned to Dick and Nix. “Gene’s teetotal,” he said, like this was a big old point of contention.

So that counted out the bad acid. Maybe he was just like this. Maybe he had had those big sad bug eyes as a child or an infant or a fetus in the womb. “Good on you, Doc,” Nix said.

“I ain’t trying it,” Roe said, folding his arms over his narrow chest, “no matter what it does.”

The doc was a tough cookie. Babe had claimed, over there, about as high as the Byrds song, that the doc came from a long line of the kind of folks described in Dr. John’s “Gris-Gris Gumbo Ya Ya” and that, as such, he could heal wounds with his mind. When it didn’t work, as on the night when Jackson died, or the night when Hoobler died, or in the forest when Muck and Penkala died, or the night when Liebgott stopped speaking, he went to sit for a while on the edge of camp until Dick went over and made him eat something. Nix watched them in a state of confused envy, and then he went to write the letters to the families, so that Dick wouldn’t have to.

At dusk, after they ate a light dinner of corn on the cob and rice and beans, he took the boys up into the hayloft with an armful of blankets. “Sorry this is the best we got,” he said. He had said that about a hundred god damn times since they got here.

Roe looked like he wanted to say, you’ve got to stop apologizing for everything. Instead he said, “Where does Lieb sleep.”

Babe perked up. “Joe’s here?”

“You didn’t see him in the driveway?”

Nix sighed. “He’s gonna want to know what he did wrong that you saw him,” he said.

“Does he still — ”

Nix shook his head. “Not a peep.”

In a couple days time, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he was hot and tired and stoned, up to his elbows in earth in the field, showing Babe how to replant the hatchlings he’d grown from seed. “You guys room together or what?”

“Me and Gene?” Babe’s eyes were red in the corners from smoking and from the sun. “What about you and Dick?”

Dick, who had the radio on inside turned up as loud as it would go, so that they would hear it in the field, playing Crosby Stills and Nash doing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” “What about me and Dick?” said Nix.

Babe was a smart kid. He realized this was going nowhere. With muddy hands he popped one of the seedlings out of its little pot and cradled it into the ground. “Well, I think he thinks he’s looking after me, but in actuality, I am looking after him.”

---

i do hope to someday finish this. webster in this AU is based on michael herr and that whole section is my impression of dispatches. the band that lieb and webster start to bond over is arthur lee’s band love. lieb’s lighter is based on a real one i saw on here sometime. this whole conceit is inspired by steve earle’s “copperhead road.”

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holidaywishes · 4 years ago

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The Light Beyond The Stars I

part i: playing tricks and keeping secrets

Summary of series: When Malcolm is young, he dreams of a place where he could run off to and leave his life behind. When he meets Cassandra, his perspective changes and his dreams only include her.

Summary of Chapter: Meet Malcolm, a young boy forced into metalwork by his father to a Blacksmith who couldn’t care less about the boys well being. Cassandra, on the other hand, is a demigod who lives with her father, Apollo, and the rest of the Gods in Mount Olympus; all of which care a great deal of what she does with her time. When Cassandra meets Malcolm while travelling with her father, the two become quickly become close, much to the dismay of Apollo.

Warning: talk of child labour, implications to child abuse, tiny bit of angst, maybe a bit of fluff

Author’s Note: I don’t know about you, but I have been obsessed with Greek God mythology for as long as I can remember first learning about it and my absolute favourite God has always been Apollo; I think he’s one of the most interesting and intensely overlooked Gods because he’s not one of the “big three.” Legitimately. Like go read up on him and you’ll see what I mean. Let me tell you about this God. He’s, first and foremost, the God of Music and Dance -- hence the Apollo Theater in New York City. But aside from that he’s also the God of Truth and Prophecies, Sun, Light, Health, Healing and Diseases, Poetry and Knowledge, Archery along with his twin sister Artemis, Protection of the Young and like a million other things. He’s also regarded as the most beautiful God, so like... there’s that. BUT ALSO, HIS MUSES! Technically, they’re his siblings but like, with them, he nurtures kids love for music and myths. The muses were my, and I’m sure a bijillion others, favourite part of Hercules. Apparently, on Wikipedia (super credible source I know,) there’s even a section about Pan comparing his music to Apollo’s and challenging him to a contest. DOES THAT NOT SOUND LIKE OUR BOY?! And I guess Apollo was charged with giving humans the form they have now? Like after we were split up from our soulmates or whatever?! If you can’t tell, I’m super excited about this idea and I don’t think that he’s given as much credit as he should be. Enter: Me. Writing a story about Apollo’s daughter, who he named after the woman he loved who broke his heart, falling in love with a mortal who her father forbids her from seeing. It’s something I’ve been thinking about writing for a while but I just haven’t had a chance to start yet. I have a handful of other series I’m writing as well so I can’t guarantee when the next chapter will be up but I hope you enjoy this introduction to the series! 😘

masterlist

the other masterlist

Malcolm’s P.O.V.

You found yourself stowed away in an old barn about two miles from your house, staring out the hole in the roof and imagining running away to a place where your Dad couldn’t sell you away and you would no longer have to work until your bones ached.

“Malcolm?!” a small voice called from the barn door, “Malcolm, are you in here?”

“Charlotte..” you whispered back, “be quiet! I’m up here.”

“Father is looking for you”

“I’m sure he is,” you scoffed, “he’s not my father. He’s yours.”

“If he finds you in here again,” Charlotte sighed, looking down at her feet, “he’ll hurt you worse than before.”

“Then I guess he better not find me.” You laughed and she came up to the perch where you sat, staring up at the stars with you

“It’s been such a long time since you first came here, Malcolm,” she said, avoiding your eyes, “I’m sure if you and him could just see eye to eye on something, then maybe he wouldn’t be so hard on you.”

“He’s a grown up.. he doesn’t care about me, only what I can do for him”

“I’m so sorry your father sent you away. Sent you here. But I promise, he does care!”

“You see all those stars?” You said, rejecting her statement

“Malcolm...” she whined, wanting you to talk to her

“There’s amazing worlds out there, you know,” you explained, “worlds that don’t have parents who keep their children locked away. Worlds where fathers don’t sell their sons to work until their bones break. Worlds where anything is possible.”

“I’m not locked away!” she argued and you laughed

“MALCOLM!” You heard Charlotte’s father called, “BOY! WHERE’D YOU GO?!”

“Please Malcolm. Don’t make him hurt you again...” Charlotte begged and you smiled faintly as you stepped down to find the man screaming for you

“I’m here.”

“Ah good,” the man said, “It’s time to go into town. We have work to do.”

“What kind of work?” you asked shyly

“What does it matter what kind of work?!” he yelled, “WE HAVE WORK!” He grabbed your arm, throwing you into a wagon as you looked back to find Charlotte hiding behind the wooden door of the barn. When the wagon finally stopped moving, you slowly stepped out and followed the tall, angry man into the tent where you were stationed in front of burning coals, forging metal together for knights and vikings alike. Days like this were long but not new, and often ended with you covered in dirt, sweat and burns; except on the rare occasions where the man, who called himself Francis, decided he could use you to trick the locals out of their money. You watched as Francis downed multiple steins of ale and you knew you wouldn’t be able to fight him off this time, so when he told it was time to play games with the people shopping in the square, you followed his lead. “Hurry up, boy, we want to get to the square before everyone is done their shopping!”

“Yes sir” you said under your breath

“What did you say?” He yelled, grabbing the back of your neck and forcing you in front of him, “don’t mutter, Malcolm!”

“Yes sir!” you repeated, loudly this time so he could hear you clearly

“Keep walking.” He pushed your back, forcing you

Cassandra’s P.O.V.

You watched from your window as your mom left Mount Olympus after her monthly visit, waving goodbye as the sad look on her face broke your heart

“She looks much older than the last time she was here,” your cousin, Anthea, said, looking out the window before your mother was out of sight, “I mean she is mortal so I suppose that makes sense.”

“I’m part mortal...” you added, a question lining your words, trying to trip your cousin, who was the product of what she called a ‘true’ God pairing, into saying something she didn’t mean.

“But you have so much of your father in you!”

“Yeah I know...” you sighed, turning away from her to roll your eyes, “that’s what everyone says.”

“I’ve never seen someone summon the light quite the way you do, not even your father...” Your only response to her was to him sarcastically, “we just want the best life for you, all of us here, you know that don’t you?”

“I know, Anthea, but I sometimes...” you stammered, “I don’t know.. sometimes I wonder what more there is.”

“What more could there be? Is Olympus not enough for you?” she snapped

“That’s not what I meant and you know that” you corrected

“What did you mean then?” she asked

“I just meant.. we have so much family here. I love our family.. but what if I want.. my own life? My own love?”

“You’re so sappy. So human”

“Yes...” you sighed

“Cassandra!” you heard your father call

“Why do you think he named me that?” you asked your cousin

“Cassandra!” he repeated

“After the woman who broke his heart?” you asked again, as you made your way from your room to where your father was searching from

“Cassandra!” your father called once more before his voice would rise

“After the woman who’s not even my mother?”

“CASSA--”

“I’m here father!” you finally answered, popping up from behind him with a bright smile on your face

“It’s time to go Cassandra” he said sternly

“Go? Where are we going?” you asked, excitement seeping from every word

“I have business in Hamelin..” he answered, “and I want you there with me.”

“To explore?!” you exclaimed

“To learn.” He clarified and you smiled at his insistence before he winked at you to follow him, “Come, little one. Your carriage awaits.” He jokingly outstretched his hand to help you into the small box that would take you where you needed to go

“Oh father,” you cooed, “it’s so... mortal!” You laughed, looking at the small details inside the cart while your father just shook his head in response

“It’s necessary is what it is. We couldn’t very well bring a winged horse to a human village now could we?” you shook your head playfully, smiling as you kissed his cheek

“Well, I love it!”

“I named you Cassandra, by the way, not for the woman I loved but for the woman I know you will become,” he stated, smiling when he noticed the surprised look on your face from the corner of his eye, “the name means to excel; to shine. Both of which I believe you’ll do.” You smiled to yourself and continued the ride to Hamelin in silence, reveling in your fathers ability to remain youthful even while being responsible for so much. When you finally got into town, your father told you to stay close because there was a lot you needed to learn but when he turned toward the infirmary, you turned toward the entertainment you heard nearby.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMAN!” A tall man in a tattered coat called out to the square, gathering a large crowd in front of him, while a boy stood meekly by his side, “GATHER CLOSE! TODAY IS YOUR LUCKY DAY! A CHANCE TO WITNESS... MAGIC!” He exclaimed, while a burst of smoke dazzled the locals. The man went on to do a few card tricks that you were certain you’d seen one of your uncles do once or twice, continuing to entertain the group in front of him with acts of flame and what you could only describe as.. foolishness. None of it would you go so far as to relate to tricks much less magic, so you began to walk away until the man announced his son would be taking over while he ‘replenished his powers;’ making his way, rather non-discreetly, to the tavern nearby.

“Can I get the children to gather closer please?” he said politely and the parents pushed their sons and daughters to the table gently. The boy behind the table smiled at each child, as if he were getting to know them, and you found yourself drawn to him as well; making your way to the side of the table as he continued his act. First, he had the children watch as he placed a small ball under one of three cups he had placed on the table and told the children to watch the ball as he moved the cups around each other.

“Where is the ball?” he asked simply while the children each contemplated an answer, seeming to agree that the ball was in the cup on the left side, “not in that one, I’m afraid!” He said, a smile beaming across his face before he repeated the trick twice, a new crowd of children filing in. His second trick involved a deck of cards, to which he asked someone from the crowd to pick from, his eyes finally landing on you and he approached you almost gingerly, “will you pick a card for me?”

“Any card?” you asked, a blush running across your cheeks as a smile made its way onto your face

“Any one you’d like” he replied, his eyes trained on you as you picked your card, “don’t show me but put it back in the deck.” You did as he asked, trying desperately to tear your eyes away from his, but the vibrancy of the emerald orbs staring back at you made it all but impossible to look away. “Is this your card?” he asked, lifting up the Jack of Hearts and, even though you both knew it wasn’t, the wink he gave you made you think you were in on it

“It is!” you said, letting your mouth fall open slightly to sell your shock and the audience erupted in a fit of applause. His last trick, however, was your favourite. He put away all of his props as if he were cleaning up, and the crowd began to disperse until only a hand full of people were left around the table. He leaned in closer to the crowd and whispered something that you didn’t quite catch but it left the crowd with wide eyes. Shortly after, a beating drum began to play from around him and the audience looked for someone playing instruments but couldn’t find anything.

“Do you hear that music too?” he asked, cupping his hand around his ear, “it happens every time I put everything away. I can’t seem to find where it’s coming from. At first I thought I was hearing things,” he explained, the children’s eyes in the crowd continuing to grow wide at his remarks, “but then someone told me they could hear it to!” You smiled at the reactions he was getting from everyone, watching carefully what he did when they looked between each other, noticing him press down on his foot under the table, leading you to quietly make your way closer to his table. The music got louder and louder, as if somehow it were getting closer to the group but, still, no one playing guitar or flutes or drums appeared. “It’s the oddest thing because it will get so loud,” the boy continued, just as the music hit its crescendo, only to fall silent, “and then it just stops!” The audience was left in awe and the boy politely bowed as they applauded him, while you waited nearby for him to pack up.

“That was impressive!” you called to him before he walked too far away

“Thank you,” he smiled, stopping so you could catch up to him, “for you help too.”

“Ahh yes,” you snickered, “mixing me into your tricks. I’m not so sure how I feel about that.”

“You were great,” he replied, “but you’re not from here are you?”

“I’m not,” you admitted, looking down at the ground to hide the blush rushing your cheeks, “do you know everyone in town?”

“Well, I grew up here... and I perform here often”

“Doesn’t it ever get to you?” you asked and he tilted his head in confusion, “playing so many tricks on such young audiences?”

“Kids are easy to trick because they’re quick to believe”

“But they’re just kids. Why do you want to trick them? Does your father ask --”

“He’s not my father,” he interrupted, “I work for him. I do what he asks of me.”

“I’m sorry, I just.. assumed. I didn’t mean to cause any harm,” you apologized, introducing yourself when the moment had turned quiet, “I’m Cassandra by the way. I’m here with my father for a business trip...”

“Malcolm,” he smiled and his eyes glistened, “nice to meet you. Will you and your father be staying in town?”

“I don’t believe so. He’s over at the infirmary; I was supposed to be with him but...” you added, “you distracted me.” You noticed a small blush on his cheeks before he dropped his eyes to the ground and you felt quite proud of yourself

“So, your father’s a doctor then?” he asked what should’ve been an easy question to answer. ‘No,’ you thought to yourself, ‘he’s actually a god but helping people makes him feel more important than... being a god..’ Of course, you could never say that because you’d be shunned from your family and Olympus forever,

“Among other things” you fibbed, smiling when he looked at you again

“Cassandra?” you heard your father say, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where did you run off to?”

“Father,” you said, clearing your throat and straightening your posture, “this is Malcolm. He was performing magic tricks earlier and I was distracted -- entertained...” Malcolm outstretched his hand but Apollo hesitated, looking the boy up and down before shaking his hand

“Well, hi there Malcolm,” your father smiled, “I suppose Cassandra told you we’re just visiting”

“She did, sir. She also mentioned the visit would likely only be today...” Malcolm’s voice was sad and the expression on his face seemed to match his tone

“As it turns out, there is much to do at the infirmary. Hamelin needs us, Cassandra. That’s what I was coming to tell you,” Apollo corrected, “we’ll be staying a few days until everything is taken care of.”

“Really?!” you exclaimed and your father nodded, “oh that’s exciting! Thank you, father!” you jumped up to hug your father tightly and he laughed in surprise

Malcolm’s P.O.V.

“I guess I’ll be seeing more of you,” you joked but caught the eyes of Cassandra’s father glaring at you, “we’ll be seeing more of each other.” Her laugh made your heartbeat faster but also seemed to calm your nerves at the same time

“I guess so” she said brightly before Francis stumbled out of the tavern and found you

“There you are!” he slurred, “how’d we do kid?”

“Hello, sir,” Cassandra’s father greeted, outstretching his hand, “I’m Apo-- I’m Paul. This is my daughter, Cassandra”

“Hi” she replied meekly,

“We’ve been talking with you son”

“He’s not my son!” Francis yelled, still fumbling over his words, “no he’s my.. he works for me. Sort of like my protégé.” Francis smiled and puffed up his chest as if to say ‘look at me and how great I am’

“Ah I see, well,” Paul started, “he seems like a great kid.”

“Kid? The boy’s 16 years old. He’s nearly grown. What are you talking about kid?” Francis argued

“My father and I are just about to head back to our home but I, we, would love it if you and Malcolm, would join us for some tea.” Cassandra tried to pacify Francis and the situation, “Maybe Malcolm could show me how he does his magic tricks?”

“Don’t you know, girlie?” Francis crept close to Cassandra, enough that she could smell the ale on his breath, making both you and her father stiffen, “a magician must never share his secrets.” You watched as Cassandra’s father loosened his posture and dropped his shoulders, so you did the same

“We’d still love the two of you to come for tea. Wouldn’t we father?” she turned to Paul, who you could see was trying to resist her charms

“We wouldn’t want to impose” you tried to rescue him from the situation but it was clear he’d already been defeated by his daughter

“Nonsense. We have tea ready to be enjoyed. The more the merrier!” He exclaimed and directly everyone to their nearby carriage. When the four of you arrived, Cassandra and her father exited the carriage first while Francis fell out of the side but you caught him before anyone could hear him and send the two of you away. While everyone enjoyed their tea, you could see Cassandra’s father getting annoyed with Francis and his increasing instability

“So..” you started, trying to garner the attention away from him, “where are you from?”

“A little town but it’s quite far from here,” Paul answered, stopping Cassandra from seemingly sharing anything, “I’m not even sure you’d know it.”

“It is beautiful there though. We’re very lucky to live in such a wonderful place.” Cassandra added, smiling at you and Francis to keep everyone’s moods up. You locked eyes with hers, bright and inviting, for just a moment before she dropped her eyes as she sipped her tea; turning her head only when she heard a bell coming from outside.

“I think that’s our cue,” Francis said, “it’s getting late, Malcolm. Charlotte and Marie are likely getting worried.” You nodded in response, gently setting down the tea cup and saucer on the table, Paul and Cassandra standing up to show you out. While Paul got the two of you situated in the carriage, telling the coachman of the location you needed to be let off at, Cassandra rushed out before you left.

“It was nice to meet you both,” she curtsied, “I hope we’ll meet again.” She said as she stood straight again and you noticed that she had dropped something at your feet that neither her father or Francis caught sight of. When you picked it up, you realized it was a note for you; opening it up, you smiled at the cursive lettering that seem to glisten in gold, though no gold had been used.

“Meet me in the square tomorrow.” The words read and you looked back at her as she stood beside her father, whose hands were crossed behind his back. You nodded to her as if to give her a positive response to her note and she smiled before dropping her eyes to the ground; an action her father was quick to realize from both parties, leading him to direct her back inside the stone house. The ride back was silent, the only noise coming from Francis’ laboured breaths, but you smiled at the thought of seeing Cassandra again.

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