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deja-you · 4 years ago

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times new roman | episode seven

t. jefferson x reader

summary: Y/n needs a date. Thomas would be more than happy to oblige.

word count: 2.9k

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Y/n’s mouth hung open as she stared at the snapchat of her and Jefferson from the night before. What had happened? She tried remembering the previous night, but was met with a terrible headache instead. Looking down, she saw that she was wearing a t-shirt that was most definitely not hers.

She wasn’t given much more time to panic The bedroom door opened, and Y/n flinched at the light that was being let into the room.

“Morning, angel. How are you feeling? This is for you.”

Thomas sat next to her on the side of the bed and handed her a tall glass of water. She muttered a ‘thanks’ and downed the water in a matter of seconds. Y/n took a moment to take Thomas in. He was dressed for work already, making Y/n feel even more self-conscious of her state of undress.

“What happened last night? I can’t remember much. Did we...?”

The previous evening, Y/n had not been enjoying the gala. She had given up on hiding in her dad’s office when he sent off a few texts asking where she was. Now Y/n had resigned to lurk around the ballroom, hiding behind ice sculptures (where had they even gotten those?) and pillars in an attempt to avoid anyone and everyone.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t avoid everyone forever.

“Y/n, there you are!�� Angelica grabbed her arm and pulled her in for a hug.

When she was released, Y/n had the time to soak in Angelica. God damn, did that girl know how to dress. Y/n couldn’t help but admire how good Angelica looked, the glittering fabric of her dress hugging her body in flattering ways.

“Angelica, if things don’t work out for you and Mr. Church, you know how to find me,” Y/n smirked.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Angelica couldn’t help but laugh. “Where have you been? This is my first time seeing you tonight.”

Y/n shrugged. “Oh, you know. I’ve just been... around.”

Angelica raised an eyebrow. “Have you not been enjoying George Washington’s extravaganza? It’s only the biggest party of the year, don’t you know?”

“Dad always goes overboard with his party planning, doesn’t he?” Y/n rolled her eyes.

“Mr. Washington is so serious all year, let your old man have some fun. Besides, who doesn’t love a big party?” Y/n made a face, and nodded in realization. “Ah, right. You. You don’t love a big party.”

“Just not my scene, okay? But dad gets so excited about it, so I don’t mind too much.”

“So what, a party’s not your scene? No big deal. At the least, you can enjoy the free booze.” Angelica grabbed two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Y/n.

That would be Y/n’s mantra for the rest of the night. Free booze. She had no classes tomorrow and nothing planned. What was the worst that could happen?

Angelica muttered something about ‘that idiot Hamilton’ and apologized briefly to Y/n before making her way across the ballroom. Y/n’s soft sigh was drowned out by the exceptionally sleazy jazz music Washington had picked out for the evening. The swinging notes of the saxophone had Y/n buzzing and feeling warm inside. Or maybe that was the alcohol. She looked down at the already drained glass in her grip. It was definitely the alcohol. Relishing the feeling, Y/n gave her empty glass to a passing server and replacing it with another.

“Isn’t it a little early in the evening to be getting drunk?”

Y/n pulled the glass away from her lips. She would recognize that voice anywhere, it had been haunting her thoughts for the last week. What did she have to do to blissfully enjoy a glass of champagne by herself?

“Mr. Jefferson.” Y/n whipped her head around to face him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Back to this ‘Mr. Jefferson’ nonsense, are we?”

The frown on his face was the only unpleasant thing about his appearance. Sure, Y/n wanted some time alone, but she couldn’t deny that Thomas looked good. The way his tailored suit showed off his toned arms, mm -- Y/n was getting distracted. She regained her composure, but not before Thomas noticed.

“See something you like, angel?” He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lips pulling up into a smirk.

Her skin felt warm, and she had to look away so he wouldn’t see the impact he had on her. “Not particularly.”

She looked at him, then at the bed, and the over-sized t-shirt she was wearing. Thankfully, he understood what she was insinuating.

“Oh! No. No, we didn’t. Trust me, if we had, you would have remembered.”

Y/n groaned and buried her head in his pillow.

“Bad hangover?” He asked.

“No, I just can’t stand you.”

“That’s not what you were saying last night.”

She gripped his pillow -- was that satin? -- and threw it lazily in his direction. “How much did I drink last night? What did I do?”

“Well, not me.”

“Oh. My. God. Can you stop with the innuendos?”

Thomas chuckled. “Sorry, angel.”

“Stop calling me that. It’s sweet and endearing. I don’t like how it makes me feel.”

“Alright, princess.”

“That’s worse. So much worse. Never ever call me that again.” She refused to meet his eyes, knowing he was wearing that stupid grin. “So what exactly happened? I can’t be held accountable for my actions, just want to put that out there. I was so wasted.”

“You want me to start from the beginning?”

“No, no. I remember the beginning. That part I remember. I remember glasses of champagne, and then I remember you approaching me.” She pointed an accusatory finger at his chest. “And then the rest is blurry.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and watched her carefully. Did she really not remember anything? How much was he required to tell her, and how much did she really need to hear?

“Well, I was trying to have a perfectly cordial conversation with you. Apparently you must’ve found what I was saying boring, because the next thing I knew, you were dragging me to the photo booth,” he informed her.

“The photo booth?” She repeated. Memories of bright flashing lights came back to her. She gasped and moved her hand to cover her mouth when she remembered the snapchat Peggy had sent her earlier. “No.”

“So you remember?”

“Vaguely. Did we...?” The words felt heavy in her throat. “Did we kiss?”

“You kissed me.”

“Remind me not to get that drunk ever again.”

“Well, you’ve kissed me when you were sober, too. Just thought I’d remind you.”

“Don’t. Don’t remind me. Can you just finish telling me what happened last night?”

The photo booth was empty. Everyone had gathered around the stage to listen to Washington give his big speech. Y/n had heard him practice the speech nearly a dozen times and she was certain she’d be able to give it herself at this point. Because of this, she felt no need to listen to his speech again.

“You’re going to be my best friend for the evening,” Y/n said. She noticed that her voice was an octave higher than it usually was, probably due to her alcohol intake.

Thomas raised his eyebrows as she dragged him into the photo booth. “Why’s that, angel? Aren’t your friends at this party?”

“Sure, but you just happened to be around at the right time.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You should be. Also, we look great together,” Y/n pointed out.

“That why we’re in the photo booth? So you can document how great we look together?”

She nodded eagerly. “Obviously. Now look cute for the picture, or I’ll have to find a new bff.”

“We can’t have that.”

The numbers on the screen began counting down.

Three.

Thomas slung his arm around Y/n’s shoulders and pulled her tightly to his side.

Two.

Y/n was a little surprised at how natural the action felt.

One.

Thomas stuck out his tongue, Y/n leaned against him and grinned widely. A bright flash.

“That’s a good one,” Thomas said.

“Shh, we don’t have time! The next photo is coming up.”

“What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” she said frantically, “fake laugh!”

They both began to laugh unnecessarily loudly, eyes bright. Another flash.

“What’s your plan for this next one, angel?”

Y/n looked over at him. Thomas still had his arm wrapped around her, and their noses would touch if he moved his head just slightly. Wrinkles formed at the corner of his eyes as he grinned down at her.

“Just go with it, okay?”

“With wh--”

The screen finished its countdown, and Y/n gently grabbed his cheek and guided his lips to hers. A flash.

Neither of them were concerned about the countdown after that. Thomas’s hands found their way to her lower back and he pulled her onto his lap. Y/n had one arm draped around his shoulder, the other hand was laced through his hair. It was a sweet, delicate moment between the two of the. The kind of scene that would fit nicely in a rom-com with Kiss Me by Sixpence None the Richer playing softly in the background. Neither of them knew how many countdowns and flashes had occurred by the time they finally parted from each other.

Breathlessly, Thomas asked, “is this what you do with all your best friends?”

Y/n threw back her head and laughed for real this time. “Only the ones that look like you. Now c’mon, let’s get out of here.”

She flung open the photo booth curtain and Thomas followed after. Y/n was making a beeline for the door when Thomas grabbed her arm and stopped her. She turned around to give him a confused look.

“Angel, I know you’re in a rush to get out of here, but do you think we could stay for one dance?” He asked with pleading eyes.

Y/n paused to consider. An old blues song was playing, and if Y/n was just a little more sober, she would have been able to recognize the tune. Still, she decided she liked it.

“Okay. One song. But I’m not going out onto that dance floor.”

“Of course not. Why dance on the dance floor when there’s a perfectly secluded spot on the other side of the coat closet?”

“Mr. Jefferson.” She bit her lip and drew out his name. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

He laughed and led her to their own personal dance floor. “Y’know what? I’ve changed my mind. You can call me whatever you want if you do it in that voice.”

“Oh yeah? That’s good. I have a large amount of choice names for you,” Y/n quipped, allowing Thomas to slip an arm around her waist, his other hand laced through her fingers.

“I’m sure you do, angel,” he hummed. “I’m sure you do.”

They swayed to the quiet music. Y/n couldn’t help but admire everything about Thomas, and if she wasn’t drunk she would have had a lot more restraint, or at least, a lot more shame.

“Anyone ever tell you you have beautiful eyes?”

“They’re just brown, Y/n.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re not beautiful. You probably look great with glasses on.”

“Oh, I do.”

Y/n smiled softly, closed her eyes, and rested her head on his chest. There was a peaceful contentedness about dancing (if you could even call it dancing) alone together behind the coat closet. There were words that went unspoken in the intervals between seconds. They didn’t need to be spoken.

“Angel?”

“Hmm?”

“The song’s over,” Thomas said softly.

“Already?”

“Already,” he repeated. “Ready to get out of here?”

“More than ready,” she sighed.

They parted from each other enough to walk, but for all purposes, they were still very much intwined. Thomas had almost got her out the door when Y/n stopped in her tracks. Thomas was forced to stop, and he turned around to see that Y/n had stopped to grab another glass of some alcoholic drink from a waiter.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You’ve had enough to drink, Y/n.” Thomas was exasperated.

She held up a finger and drained the rest of her drink. “You can never have too much to drink.”

“Yes, you can,” Thomas insisted. “It’s called alcohol poisoning.”

“Just let me have my fun!”

He cocked his head to the side and considered her for a moment. “Have you had anything to eat this evening?”

“I’ll eat tomorrow.”

“Good lord, Y/n. If you die, Mr. Washington is going to blame me. You need to be taking better care of yourself. Come on, let’s find you something to eat.”

They finally made it out onto the street, and after a good fifteen minutes of searching for a place to eat, Thomas settled on a soft pretzel stand, seeing that nothing else was open at the time. Thomas paid for the pretzels, handed one to Y/n, and concluded that the pretzel was most definitely not soft. It was dry and tasted like cardboard, but he bit back any complaints.

Thomas and Y/n walked aimlessly through the streets of New York while they ate their pretzels. Neither felt the need to fill the silence, they were both satisfied with the other’s company.

“So what are our plans for the rest of the night?” Y/n said with a yawn.

“The rest of the night? I have work in the morning.” He glanced over at her. “I should get you a cab, huh?”

“A cab? If you’re going to buy me a car, I’d prefer something like a Tesla.”

“What? No. I meant-- Look, angel. It’s late. I should get you home.”

“Home? No thanks, I’m good.”

“Would you please just cooperate with me?” He sighed, tilting his head back. The street sign caught his eye. Thomas took a minute to consider his options. “Y’know what? We’re only a few blocks away from my place.”

Y/n clicked her tongue and tilted her head to the side. “Thomas Jefferson, are you asking me to come home with you?”

“Yes. Wait. Not like that.” He shook his head. “C’mon. It’s not safe out here and you’re too drunk to get home by yourself.”

“Whatever you say.”

Thomas rolled his eyes and began to lead her back to his apartment building. The walk was slow, Y/n wasn’t exactly in the kind of state to run a marathon. She stumbled along the sidewalk, only staying upright because Thomas had an arm around her to catch her every time she tripped. On the elevator ride up, Y/n rested her head on his shoulder and he thought she would fall asleep right then and there.

Finally they made it into his apartment. Y/n was too drunk to admire the sleek and elegant kitchen they walked into, but she would definitely notice it the next morning. When Thomas closed the door behind him, Y/n reached behind her and unzipped her dress, letting the dark fabric fall to the floor.

“Welcome to m-- what do you think you’re doing?” His mouth hung open, and he did his best not to let his eyes drop below her eyes.

“Getting more comfortable.” She shrugged, taking a few steps forward and running her hands over his tie. “I think you’d be more comfortable, too, if you took off a few layers.”

He swallowed roughly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Thomas, I want you. Don’t you want me, too?” She had a hurt expression on her face, and Thomas had to force himself to look away from her wide eyes.

“Angel, I want you more than you know, believe me. But you don’t really want this,” he told her.

Y/n frowned. “Yes, I do. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“You’re not in the right headspace to be making these decisions. As much as I want you, I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.” He was convincing himself just as much as he was convincing Y/n. Why did she have to be so tempting?

As if to remind him just how drunk she was, Y/n’s legs gave out beneath her and Thomas was lucky to catch her before she hit the ground.

“You’re a mess,” he mumbled, slipping one arm beneath her knees and the other supporting her back, Thomas picked her up.

“A mess for you.”

“I-- what? That... that doesn’t even make sense.” Thomas tried not to think too much in depth about that while he carried her to his room.

He laid her down gently on the bed, and it seemed she almost immediately forgot about any intentions of having sex with him when she ran her hands over the softness of his bedsheets. Thomas sighed in relief, moved to open one of the drawers in his bedroom, and retrieved an old college t-shirt of his.

“Here, put this on.” He tossed the shirt to Y/n. Thankfully, she put it on without any further arguments. Thomas mentally noted how good she looked in his college t-shirt. Good luck getting that image out of your head tonight, Thomas. He shut his eyes firmly and took a step in the direction of his living room couch. Thomas hesitated at the door, giving her one more glance. “Goodnight, angel.”

“Wait, Thomas?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Thomas’s breath caught in his throat. He shook his head, she didn’t mean any of what she was saying. “Y/n, you’re drunk.”

“Yeah, I know,” her words were slurred. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

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psychedellic-phase · 4 years ago

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Fifteen (part 10)

A/N: Part of this chapter is inspired by the song 2 Years by Thomston. Thank you to the lovely anon that told me this song reminded them of this fic! I highly recommend listening to it!

word count: 3.9k

tw: mentions of childbirth, slight season 9 spoilers, otherwise fluffy

masterlist: “A few months later we were in Boston, on that strangulation case. It’s a pretty hard case to forget, I mean, you delivered a baby. A real human baby, that you brought earthside with your own two hands. You delivered him, and she named him after you. Baby Spencer.

Morgan and I dragged the unsub out into the street, hearing that poor woman scream and cry as you brought her baby into the world, but you did great, and he was beautiful. Just like his namesake. When I walked back inside I saw you give her the baby, and my heart just about melted into a puddle on the floor. You and kids, it just does something to me. It feels like my heart comes out of my body and into your hands like putty. It's an odd feeling, like you’re physically poking around in my chest. In a weird way I’ll miss it.

Then I saw JJ give you a side hug, and put her arm on your chest. She even leaned into your neck, with a soft, sweet little nuzzle. You probably didn’t notice it, but I did. I always noticed. A million little ways to say ‘I love you’ without actually saying ‘I love you’. Right?

Yet again, I said nothing. I had no logical reason to be worried. She was married. You told me daily how much you loved me, how special I was, how beautiful, how amazing, how lucky you were. It’s a shame you didn’t feel like that at the end. But I made it okay. I told myself I was just overthinking it all, like usual. I buried it all down. Again, and again, and again.

That night we went to that bar Rossi loves and everyone was happy, talking about how you delivered a baby.

Alex asked you, “How on earth did you know what to do?”

You explained how you memorized all the delivery manuals when JJ was pregnant, just in case. I often wonder if you’d do half the things you do for her, if it were for someone else. Or are some things just for JJ?

I just smiled and laughed, still pushing the feelings away. It was a night to celebrate and I was determined to not be a party pooper. Instead, I went the other way. I was the life of that party. We all got on stage and sang ‘Piano man’ karaoke, and if anyone was making love to a tonic and gin that night, it was me. Many, many, tonic and gins. I stumbled into an Uber with you and ended up at home. You helped me into bed. You wiped off my makeup and undressed me, putting one of your large shirts on me, leaving a bottle of water, two advils, and a note that said “i love you, love” for me to see when I woke up. Stuff like that makes me wonder if you’d only ever do some things for me. It sounds selfish, but I hope wiping my makeup off and putting my moisturizer on for me is something reserved for us. I know there are many things I have reserved just for you, Spence. No one will ever be that kind to me again, and that’s a fact.”

Are some things just for JJ? Really? He was irritated for a passing moment, why were you mad about him caring about his best friend? Before he had even met you?

But then that anger was soon replaced with confusion. Why’d you never mention it? In all the fights you had, you never once mentioned JJ. You never once threw the feelings that were so clear to everyone in his face. Why? Why not?

Every word made him feel like he didn’t really know you, but also made him wonder if you even knew him? Because if you did you would’ve known he did nothing for JJ, but everything for you.

“I immediately fell asleep.

I woke up at some point, maybe around four am, and you weren’t in the bed next to me. I remember patting the sheets, looking for you as I usually did at night. To sleep, I needed to feel you pressed up against me. I didn’t. I panicked. I looked at the note, and for half a second I thought you left. It did look a little like a goodbye note, Spence. I yelled your name a few times, and when I didn’t get a response I really started to worry. I got out of bed and stumbled around; my head was still fuzzy. I walked around the house calling your name. You still didn’t answer. I finally found you on the balcony.

It was warm for April, and you were sitting on a chair in your pajamas, staring at the stars.

“Talking to the moon again?” I said, and you turned to look at me.

The moon was a waxing crescent (thank you for that) so I couldn’t see you well. If it had been full, maybe I would’ve seen your sad eyes.

“Hey, what’re you doing up?” You whispered.

I sat in the other chair, “I woke up and you weren’t there, so I came to find you. You scared me half to death, Reid.”

I was looking at you but you wouldn’t look at me. I needed you to look at me.

“Go back to sleep.”

“Only if you come with me.”

I was trying to be funny, but the pit in my stomach was insane. I really felt like I was staring the end in the face. That was the first time I ever saw you like that, completely shut out from me. You were always forthcoming with me, no matter what was going on. Your voice was rough, like you were getting a cold. You cleared your throat.

“I think I want to stay out here a while longer.”

“Okay, then I’ll stay with you.”

“Y/N...” You were warning me, I should’ve listened.

I stood up to walk back inside and I patted your shoulder. I disappeared to get a tub of ice cream and two spoons. We both knew your stomach would hurt afterwards, but we didn’t care. The comfort that binging on ice cream when you’re sad brings is well worth a tummy ache. And even in my half drunk brain fog, I could tell you needed it.”

Spencer chuckled, remembering how you always kept two tubs in the freezer “just in case.” Whenever one of you was having one of those days, the other would grab a tub, and you’d sit in silence and eat. That was back when each other’s company was enough. He still kept one tub in his freezer, hoping in some weird way that you’d be back and the two of you could sit and eat in silence, and somehow that would make it all okay.

“We sat in silence staring at the sky and taking turns grabbing spoonfuls of cookie dough ice cream. It was comfortable, domestic, calm.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

You shook your head, “Nothing’s bothering me.”

“You only talk to the moon when you’re upset, Spence.”

You sighed, knowing I was right. The ice cream was for bad days, but the moon was for when you needed to think. And think alone. You said staring up at the moon helped you feel grounded; it reminded you how important we are. It always reminded me of how small I am, how I am literally a speck of dust on a planet that’s a slightly bigger speck of dust that’s hurling through time and space. It reminds me of how small we all are in the grand scheme of the universe. Then you’d tell me: “Everything that makes up us is from those stars. We’re literally made of stardust.” Then I’d feel important too, because you made me important. I mattered because I was in this place at this time with you. You’d tell me about the big bang and the million miracles that led to us being here, alive in this moment. You’d say it reminded you how lucky you were that you got to exist in this world with me. I don’t know if I believe in God, Spence, but if there is one I thank him for letting me exist at the same time as you, even if it was only for a finite time.”

He had to remind himself to breathe. How could words suffocate? How could ink take his breath away? Spencer wished it was nighttime, so he could talk to the moon again, so he could feel important again, so he could feel lucky.

“You didn’t answer.

“Was it the case?”

You just nodded slightly, as if to say ‘sort of’.

“This is literally as good as it can go. We got the guy and you brought someone’s baby into the world. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a happier ending.”

“No.”

That’s all you said, and I let the silence fester. We both just kept eating the ice cream. After about fifteen minutes you said, “The world looks different from here.”

“From the balcony? Yeah I guess, the city looks small, tiny ant people.”

You chuckled, “No, like from where I am right now in my life. I just see the world different than I did yesterday.”

“And I’m sure we’ll look at it differently again tomorrow.” I was trying to help, but it was 4:30 in the morning and I was still slightly buzzed. No amount of ice cream or an existential crisis was going to get rid of that.

“I held a human being in my hands as it took its first breaths today, Y/N. I was the first thing he ever saw. I literally held his life in my hands.”

“I know. Maybe you should take up obstetrics.” Another failed attempt at a joke.

“It just made me think.”

“About what?”

“I just, I always thought I wanted kids,” you said it doubtfully and with a shrug. You looked at me in my eyes finally, and wow did it hurt.

“But now I’m not so sure.”

I’m pretty sure my jaw almost dropped. How did delivering a baby make you no longer want a village of kids on Christmas morning? I thought it’d have the opposite effect. I thought it’d ignite your baby fever, like it ignited mine. My heart sank, “Why?”

“I-I don’t know.”

I tried, again, to lighten the mood, “Is it because of the actual birth part? Because I promise I can handle it. No epidurals for me.”

You half smiled, “No, no it’s not that.”“Well then what is it?” I had this dreadful feeling that you were going to tell me that it was me. That I was the reason. That you wanted kids, but you didn’t want them with me.

“How am I supposed to pass on these genes?”

“Your super smart, tall, handsome, magnificent genius genes? C’mon Spence,” I scoffed.

“I meant schizophrenia.”

The air went cold between us.

“You don’t have it though.”

“Having a grandparent with the disease increases your chances of developing it by 5%.”

“Yeah, and I have bad eyesight and terrible allergies and had braces as a kid, which our kids will inherit.”

“You don’t understand what I mean.”

I rolled my eyes, “No, Love, I don’t. But I do know that you can’t be scared of what ifs.”

You ran your hands through your hair, and just groaned. You sighed, but I kept rambling. I blame my loose lips on Rossi. He kept buying, and I kept drinking.

“And there’s so many what ifs. What if they do get schizophrenia? But what if they don’t and you didn’t have kids because you were scared?”

“It’s not just that it’s—”

“It’s what Spencer?”

“I-I didn’t have a dad! I don’t know how to be one.”

We sat in silence. I didn’t know what to say.

“I just don’t think it’s for me anymore.”

I felt tears sting my eyes. If we weren’t on the same page, this conversation was going to end horribly. “

But if you don’t want them then—“ I stopped and shakily wiped my face.

“Then what?” You sounded scared.

I stopped myself from saying something that I’d regret. I wanted to say ‘then I can’t do this.’ Thank god I didn’t.

“I just, I always thought my kids would be your kids too. I don’t think I want to be a parent if you aren’t there with me.”

Your eyes were shining from the tears and the sliver of moon when they met mine, “Really?”“

Yeah, I’ve told you this a million times, love. You will be the best father because you know what it’s like to not have one. You become better than the people before you.”

You dropped the spoon into the almost empty tub, “I know, I know. I just got in my head about it all.”

“Stop thinking about years ahead, Spence. All you have to think about is right now. I know it feels like we’re running out of time, but don’t rush life.”

You smiled watery and I went to sit on your lap. You rubbed your hand against the small of my back and we watched the sun start to rise. We were done talking to the moon. I dragged you inside, the new day’s sun was coming in through the windows.

“Do you really think you’re running out of time?” You asked me, holding me close.

I nodded, “Yeah. I always feel like I am. I thought I’d have two kids and a golden retriever by thirty-one, but I have none of that and I’m getting close to thirty-two. Twenty-four hours just feels shorter and shorter everyday.”

“That’s because each day is a smaller and smaller fraction of our memories. Time feels quicker and quicker every day.”

There you were. There was my love. My you.

I squeezed you, “I know. It’s just scary. I feel like I’m behind.”

“I feel like that a lot too. You know I thought I’d cure schizophrenia by twenty-five?”

I smiled, “Even you can’t do everything, love.”

“Do you want to catch up?”

“How so?”

“We could get a golden retriever.”

I laughed, “Sure, and next you’ll be saying ‘let’s have a baby.’”

You shrugged and swooped me in front of you, “Why not? Me, you, a baby, sounds pretty good.”

You said it as a joke, but it didn’t feel like one. “

You mean that?” I looked up at you and could see that longing in your eyes. You could see it in mine too. Always so pensive, Spencer Reid.

“I didn’t mean like right now, but we can soon. We have to get married first.”

I rolled my eyes, “Who says we need to get married first? JJ and Will didn’t get married until Henry was four. They’re perfect.”

“Henry wasn’t planned.”

“And?”

“And, I’d like to marry you before knocking you up,” you said it like a joke again, peppering me in kisses.

“We don’t need a stupid piece of paper from the government, Love.”

“So you don’t want to marry me?” There was amusement in your voice.

“Oh, I want to marry you. I want to marry you so hard, Spencer Reid.”

We laughed, “I want to marry you so hard too.”

You kissed my forehead, and then my lips before moving away from me.

“So, we both know we want to marry each other and we just agreed to have a baby, like soon?” I clarified.

“Yes. We did. So, what’s stopping us from doing it right now?” You started milling around in the book case, looking for something. “

Don’t you dare get down on one knee right now, Spencer Reid. I told you already, I am not getting engaged without my nails done.”

You smiled, “I wasn’t! I wasn’t! I was just going to put on some music.” You held up a CD, and I smiled. You came back and pulled me close, and we started to sway back and forth. I always wanted to dance in the kitchen with the love of my life. That morning I did.

After the song ended, we went up to bed finally. I remember laying down and kissing you, going to the place we usually went. Afterwards, you held me against your chest again, “Did you mean it?”

I nodded, “Every word.”

You sighed happily, “So did I.”

I looked up at you, grinning, “So does that mean puppy Reid and baby Reid are coming soon?”

You rolled your eyes, “Puppy Reid, I can handle. But baby Reid is after Mrs. Reid. Call me old fashioned, but that’s how I want to do this.”

I toyed with your hair, “I can handle that.”

While I was packing, I found the CD you were rummaging for. I put it on and danced around the kitchen again. It wasn’t the same. ‘Your Song’ by Elton John is a love song, and love songs just hurt when you’re alone. I swayed in the sunlight, imagining you were swaying with me, talking about having a baby and getting married. I miss that feeling. I miss talking to the moon. I miss ice cream. I miss dancing in the kitchen to Elton John. I miss baggy tee shirts. I miss little notes. I miss the way “How wonderful life is when you’re in the world” felt when I was in your arms. I miss late night kissing. I miss the way you feel with me. I miss us. I miss you, but I miss that you.

You’re probably wondering what your souvenir from that night is. I thought about giving you the CD, I thought about giving you some ice cream and a spoon, I even thought about giving you the moon, but I decided on the note. “I love you, love.”

The note was badly wrinkled and his pencil chicken scratch was faded with time. He smiled, remembering the hundreds of notes he probably left you. They always ended in “I love you” with a little doodled heart. He remembered dancing in the sunlight and looking at engagement rings and rescue dogs. He missed you, and not just the version of you from that memory. He missed the version of you from the end. He hated that you didn’t miss that him too.

“I thought going through all of this would bring me some closure, and now that we’re halfway through I realize that was a mistake. Instead of stitching me up, this opened wounds I thought I had long since healed. This brought it all back. I hope this doesn’t do that for you. I hope it’s the period on the end of this run on sentence. I hope this is closure for you. We both need that.”

He took the letter and the note and walked to his bed, flopping on it and staring at the ceiling fan. It was soothing, in a weird way. He fell into a trance.

His phone ringing tried to snap him out of it. He didn’t reach for it and waited until the vibrations died. They came again, and he forced himself to look at it.

JJ.

Great, first Derek, now JJ. He knew they were just being good friends, but it was getting tiring. He wanted to just be alone, and he especially didn’t want to hear from JJ. His relationship with her was a point of contention with you and he didn’t even know. Between what he had just read and the photo from her wedding, all the old feelings he had for her were brought back to the surface and made him feel gross. He now realized the way your face would turn sour whenever he would pick JJ up in a spin and your off remarks when he’d mention going out with her. In hindsight, you were being jealous but somewhat reasonable. Before he met you, he wondered if he was just waiting for an alternate universe where he could be with JJ. One where there was no Will and no bad Redskins date, where he could look at her without it hurting. Now he knew he’d only be waiting for an alternate universe where he could be with you.

The phone buzzed again and he finally decided to grab it and answer.

“Hello?”His voice was groggy and hoarse from not being used.

“Spence? Hey, it’s me, I just wanted to see if you were okay?”

He didn’t answer, eyes still trained on the fan.

She cleared her throat, “I just talked to Derek and...”

“What’d he say?”

“He told me about the letters, little dramatic huh?”

He could hear her roll her eyes. JJ was the sweetest person alive, but when it came to Spencer the claws could come out.

“Yeah, I’m up to number ten,” he kept his voice steady and almost bored, not wanting to reveal anything to her.

“Out of how many?”

“Fifteen.”

Spencer stood up and walked to the window by the chess table.

“How are you doing?”

“Did you know every seven to ten years our cells regenerate completely?” Spencer spoke into the phone, staring out the window. It was mid afternoon by now and the snow had stopped. The cars on the road had ruined the innocent white snow, leaving dark gray slush in their wake.

“Every cell?” JJ said back, the phone making her voice crackly and hard to hear.

“Yeah, skin cells live two to three weeks,” He swallowed thickly, “So the skin she has right now is skin I’ve never touched. Those cells don’t know who I am. My lips are already on the second cycle. They’ve never kissed her. Eventually I’ll have a body that doesn’t recognize hers and she’ll have a body that recognizes someone who isn’t me.”

JJ didn’t speak, just sighed, “You know that isn’t true.”

“It is, Jennifer,” He ran his hands through his hair, “I’m going to be stuck here and she’s going to move on and it’s killing me.” His voice cracked at the end.

“Then don’t think of it as being stuck, think of it as a turning point. You get to choose a direction now. You’re at a crossroads, Spence, you can choose to move on.”

She sounded earnest and he knew she was right, but he couldn’t help the feeling. It’s like he was in quicksand and no one could pull him out.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

JJ sighed, “Do you want to talk about the letters?”

“No,” he said harsher than he intended, “I just want to finish this and then figure out what I’m supposed to do.”

“Well, if you need any help, you know where to find me.”

He nodded as if she could see him and whispered, “Bye.”

He hung up before she could respond. He threw the phone on the window sill and walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water over his face. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror. It looked foreign. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, his skin looked pale, and his hair looked like he had just rolled out of bed, which he kind of had. He felt like his whole body was bruised. He toyed with his hair to get it to a tolerable place and sat back down on his bed, grabbing the tenth letter.

part 11!

taglist! (just let me know if you’d like to be added!)

@l0ve-0f-my-life @aperrywilliams @helloniallslovelies @random-ravings @ajwantsapancake @andiebeaword @boiled-onionrings @frnks-stuff @icantevenanymore1 @mellifluouswildbluebells @rottenearly @sammypotato67 @blushingwueen @peaxhyjaes @justanotherfangurlz @juniorgman187 @mbowles23-blog @blameitonthenight21 @goldentournesol

#spencer reid #spencer x you #spencer reid fic #spencer reid smut #spencer #reid #reid x you #reid fic #cm #cm fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #mgg #fanfiction #matthew gray gubler

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cchellacat · 4 years ago

Text

I Will Be Waiting

Darcy Lewis Bingo

Y1: Soulmate AU

Bucky/Darcy

18+ for some smutterfluff

Darcy never wanted to meet her soulmate, fate has other plans.

Thank you @hawksmagnolia for all your support and help and for the absolutely beautiful cover art/mood board!

Darcy had been coming to New York since she was a kid. She loved the hustle and bustle, the people, the sounds, and the vibrance of the city. When Jane had taken up a teaching position at Columbia she’d been excited, with Jane as a guaranteed roommate she could finally afford to live in the city of her dreams.

It took her a month, applying for jobs to find one but she lucked out and got a great foot in the door at Stark Industries. It only took a year before some wise guy sent her up to act as Stark's assistant for the day; no doubt thinking she’d crash and burn or walk out as every other person had for the last ten years. Not Darcy Lewis, no siree, Darcy Lewis was not a quitter and Tony Stark was an overgrown man child, accustomed to pushing people's buttons till they cracked. Darcy didn’t crack. She pushed back. In less than a month she had Stark’s schedule running like clockwork and Pepper had given her the stamp of approval, promising that she’d be canonised as a saint when she died. Darcy had been walking on cloud nine ever since. Her job was a bit of everything, but surprisingly similar to a lot of what she'd done for Jane, everything from paperwork and coffee to experimental engineering. Her salary rivaled most department heads and she had been able to move into an apartment in the Tower. When Jane had visited Darcy she’d crossed paths with Tony and the two had hit it off. Jane’s funding went from meager to unlimited and she was offered science space at the Tower. All in all, life was good.

One of Darcy’s favourite places in New York was in Central Park. There was a small plaza, in a quiet area of the park, perfect for some sun and picnicking at lunchtime. On a plinth at the far end was a statue. The real mystery though was that no one knew where it had come from. The statue of the man was just over six feet, he appeared to be a soldier, in full uniform from around the second World War. He stood, with one arm reaching out, as though waiting for someone to take his hand. There was no record of it being commissioned, no artist had claimed it. Eventually, the city had simply installed the wide plinth with room for the invisible stranger to stand on and constructed the small plaza since it had become somewhat of a tourist attraction. Many people visited just to get a photograph with the handsome soldier.

As with any good urban legend, a fairly ridiculous story built up around the statue. The most prevalent story was that he’d been a real man, frozen in time and only his soulmate could break the curse and bring him back to life. This was completely absurd, but romance sells and so it was in every tourist book and even had its own following on social media.

Touching the soldier was seen as good luck; people said if you did you’d meet your soulmate within a year. It had such cultural belief that many people ended up saying their first words to each other in this very spot. It was rumoured that Pepper Pots had met Tony Stark here ten years ago while she was on her lunch break and the man had spoken to her for the first time when he was passing through on a date with another woman. Darcy doesn't know if that's true, but she's about ninety-nine percent convinced it’s pretty damn accurate. Her boss has a picture of himself and Pepper in front of the soldier on his desk that he often looked at smugly.

The Searching Soldier was deemed as the perfect place for romantic proposals, first dates, and even the occasional wedding. Darcy had seen her fair share of men and women getting on one knee and popping the question in the last two years since she’d made it her regular lunch spot and she couldn’t help but love this place for that alone. The Searching Soldier had become an icon and a symbol of true love and Darcy’s escape from the constant buzz of the building she worked and lived in.

She crumples up her napkin and grabs her coffee cup and ambles over, throwing the waste in the bin before coming to a stop in front of the statue. She’s been inclined more than once to just climb up the steps and touch him, but she’d never been particularly superstitious or even very desperate to meet the man who will give her his first words. In spite of that, every time she stands here, part of her is really tempted to do it anyway. She’s looked at his face every day for two years, trying to figure out the expression. It doesn’t look hopeful or happy. His eyes are slightly wide, his mouth caught mid-smile, or perhaps on the cusp of speaking a name. He looks, Darcy thinks, both resigned and startled. Some days she thinks he’s saying goodbye instead of hello. Her phone beeps, disturbing her a little from her contemplation and she realises she's going to be late back to work if she doesn't hustle. Throwing one last look at the soldier and his out-stretched hand she hurried off.

Stark’s experimental lab was a perfect example of finely organised chaos. Darcy both hated and loved it. There was certainly never a dull moment with Tony as her boss, but the number of clean up requirements every time an experiment went wrong meant overtime as well as exacting and specially vetted clean up crews to ensure no proprietary research left the building.

It’s getting late but Tony is in the final stages of construction of what he says will be a time machine. Darcy doesn’t want to think about the possible ramifications of such a breakthrough and has already discreetly informed Pepper and the Legal department.

“Hey, pass me the sonic wrench will you?”

Darcy glares at the tools in front of her. She’s half-convinced he makes this stuff up just to mess with her. She randomly grabs an oddly shaped tool and passes it over.

When it happens, Darcy is caught off guard. The machine hums to life in almost the same second that the lab doors are forced open. Tony grabs her and hauls her up onto the pad behind him, his watch enveloping his hand as the repulsor glove activates. There is shouting going on and a gun fires. She’s not afraid to admit that at the moment, panic sets in and she’s hardly coherent of anything other than the feel of Tony's hand in hers before he wrenches it free and then slides something onto her wrist. The next thing she knows, the machine whirs to life, there's a sharp noise like metal on glass and then she's falling.

Silence envelopes her as she hits the ground. The bright light of the lab was gone, replaced with almost total darkness and the scent of damp. She groans, pushing herself up and is thankful when Tony’s twin moan of pain reaches her ears through the dark.

“Tony?”

“You ok, Short Stack?”

“I’m fine, what the hell was that?”

“Time travel without a capsule. A little bumpy, but we managed.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?”

“No, why would I?”

“Are you insane? We can’t go experimenting on ourselves.”

“Would you rather we stayed where we were and got shot or kidnapped?”

Darcy glares as Tony’s suit deploys and an ethereal glow emanates from the nanotech.

“How are we meant to get back?”

Tony grins.

“I’m glad you asked. I put a recall device on us both before I launched us out of time.”

“The wristband?”

He nods and moves to check her over.

“You seem alright. How are you feeling? Dizzy?, headache?... how many fingers am I holding up?”

“Ugh, you are not a doctor, Tony. I’m fine. Just jittery.”

“Hmmm, shock, probably. Good, that means they work.”

“Means what works?”

“The wristband isn’t just a tracker, it’s like a bubble of real-time from our timeline, one that travels with us and keeps us from what I theorised could be temporal sickness caused by the jump.”

“So what now?”

“We lay low for a few days, in forty-eight to ninety-six hours the tracker engages and we’re pulled back to our own time. Easy.”

“Sure it is, but what are we meant to do while we wait? Do you know when we are? We don’t have any money and I refuse to stay trapped in this mouldy basement for the next two days.”

Tony looks mildly chagrined before shrugging a little and muttering about him figuring it out. Darcy sighs and follows him. She was putting in for danger pay when she got back. This was above and beyond.

They make their way up through some abandoned tunnels, the air turning colder and colder the higher they climb. When they finally make it to the top Darcy realises they are in a railway tunnel and there is a train coming straight at them. Tony manhandles her for the second time that day and pulls her out of the way. Only his suit saved them from a steep snowy drop into the ravine below.

They’re barely back on their feet when an explosion rips through the air and the side of the train car that almost hit them rips open. Even with the speed it’s going, the unmistakable form of a man falling has Darcy crying in horror. Tony doesn’t hesitate. At that moment he forgets where he is, all that matters is saving a life. He takes off, leaving Darcy safely on the embankment, and flies after the man as the train speeds out of sight.

A shaking and cursing soldier drops in front of her as Tony lands and his suit retracts back into its casing. Darcy is barely processing it all as she stares at the stranger, he looks so familiar. He’s tall, dark-haired with the bluest eyes she’s ever seen. He shouts angrily, accusations flying back and forth as Tony explains who they are. Darcy doesn’t blame him, she wouldn’t believe them either. He does tell them the date though, 1945. She has traveled back in time seventy-five years, they are apparently somewhere in Austria. When he finally gives them a name, Tony winces and Darcy’s ears perk up. She knows that name. She knows it because the man in front of her died a hero, falling to his death from a train just before the end of the war. If they weren’t already white with the cold she’s pretty sure Tony would be turning transparent. How the hell do you tell someone they’re dead and have been for seventy-five years? Yeah, it goes down about as well as you’d think. Darcy suddenly sneezes and the sound of her teeth chattering stops both of the men mid-argument. It’s the first time the guy finally looks at her, his eyes seem to widen and then he’s whipped off his coat and swept it around her.

“We can’t stay out here, we have to get off this mountain and back to base.” He addresses Tony. Darcy almost wants to punch him for the rudeness of ignoring her even as she pulls the warm coat around her tightly, savouring the comforting warmth.

“What do you not get about you’re dead? You can’t go back, you can never go back!” Tony punctuates each point with a finger jab at Sergeant Barnes, she grabs his hand to stop him. Barnes looks about one more jab away from knocking Tony out.

“Tony, we still have to get out of here and somewhere sheltered. We don’t know how long we have before we go back and we can’t just leave the Sergeant without any help either. Maybe he can’t go back, but there must be something we can do to help him, right?”

Tony looks at her grudgingly and nods.

“Okay, I’ve got a plan. We get back to the base, I go in alone and talk to Howard. We fly to New York and I’ll make sure Barnes here gets set up with a new identity and a job.”

Darcy smiles as brightly as possible at Barnes.

“See? A whole new start, it’ll be great!”

Barnes's eyes widen for a moment before he bites out the words she had been dreading to hear her whole life.

“I won’t leave Steve!”

To be fair, he looks almost apologetic the second after they came out of his mouth but Darcy closes up and Tony growls.

“What did you just say?”

Barnes raises his hands shaking his head, looking beseechingly at Darcy.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, I just-”

“Have you got any idea the damage those words have done to her you selfish neanderthal?”

Tony had seen her words once, completely by accident. They’d had to go through decontamination after a spill in the lab, the showers hadn’t left much room for modesty. Her words crawled up the small of her back, just below the rise of her jeans. After that, the older man had been stupidly attentive and protective of her. She’d honestly never expected to encounter her soulmate like this, and especially not with Tony in tow. Tony who knew more of her secrets than anyone other than Jane.

Barnes' face at Tony’s accusation was bitterly remorseful. His eyes flashed to Darcy, boring into her own deeply, seeing the hurt and rejection she’d lived with her whole life. He stepped towards her, his lips parted, she wanted to say something, but any words she could have said were swiftly cut as Tony pushed him back and away from Darcy.

“I said I’m sorry!” his voice is harsh and Darcy thinks she can almost see the threads as he unravels. “But I can’t leave Steve, he needs my help, he’ll get himself killed if I’m not there-”

Tony gabs Barnes and shakes him.

“Rogers lives. You died and Captain America carried on, did just fine without you. You going back, being alive? That could change all of history and just might get your friend killed. Do you want to do that? Risk the future just to butt in where you’re no longer needed?”

Tony’s words were scathing and sharp but no less true for the content.

“Tony! That’s enough….” she turns to Barnes. “Look, I’m sorry this happened, but you were meant to die, it must feel like your life has been turned upside down, I know. But it’s better than actually being dead, right?”

His eyes settle on her and he shakes his head, she suddenly wants to be anywhere but here. He looks lost and afraid and she can’t help but feel this is her fault.

“Better than being dead? I can’t see my best friend ever again and my soul mate is going back to the future. I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life, I’m over the fuckin moon.”

She recoils like a blow has been struck. He’s angry, of course, he is. She is too. This should never have happened. It’s not fair, but if there is one thing she’d learned in life it’s that it is never fair. She’s toe to toe with him, shaking from anger or cold, she’s not sure which.

“How do you think I feel? I’ve been shot at, fell through time, nearly got hit by a train and now my soulmate wants nothing to do with me and even if he did I’m never going to see him again! You’re not the only one with a sucky life Barnes but I’m not having a tantrum over it. Suck it up soldier and deal with it. This is life.”

Twin blue eyes blaze at each other before Tony comes between them again and then she ignores Barnes, letting Tony guide her as they get off the mountainside.

It takes six hours to get back to the base. Tony somehow manages to carry them both, flying low and slow until the dark green tents and the wooden barracks appear. They drop down a few miles out, Tony leaving them both sneak in and find Howard. He doesn’t think it will take much to convince his dad of who he is and tells them to stay safe until he gets back.

Barnes stalkes about the clearing they’re in like an angry bear while Darcy does her best to push away the strange grief she feels welling up in her heart. It doesn’t make much sense, really, it’s not like she knows him or is going to get the chance. The wristbands are their only way home, not equipped to carry an extra passenger. Tony had already put the full stop in her unspoken question about her staying. It was a huge no-no, she didn’t belong in this time, he was almost certain the time-stream would rearrange itself around her if she stayed but that it would most likely try to erase her the longer she stayed. He’d made too good an argument for the universe trying to Final Destination her ass to be comfortable with taking the risk.

“I don't even know your name” She jerks a little at the abrupt statement, suddenly aware of how close he'd come to her.

Bucky feels like his world just ended and nothing is ever going to feel right again. When he’d fallen from the train he was certain he was going to die. It was a long way down and in those few moments where he fell he’d almost made peace with his end. The words inked on his arm the only regret he had. He’d wondered his whole life about the girl that would one day try to reasure him.

See? A whole new start, it’ll be great!

Wondered what he’d say to her, how he’d greet her. Instead of one of the many things he’d hoped he might say he’d pretty much rejected her for someone else. He cringes at the thought that she had spent her life wondering who Steve was to him that he’d refuse her. Now here he was, with the one girl he was made for, who was made for him and he was furious at himself for the cock-up he’d made of it. He runs a shaking hand through his hair, feeling the small ice crystals melt when they come in contact with his hand. It’s freezing out here but he hardly feels the cold. It’s been that way for a while now, not just the immunity to the cold, but the strength and the speed and his senses all sharper and better than they’d ever been. He can see her shivering, even with the long blue coat of his wrapped around her tiny frame.

God, they haven’t even been introduced properly. He feels like a fool.

“I don’t even know your name.”

She looks up at him, seeming surprised at his closeness.

“Darcy Lewis.” she doesn’t give him more than that, a brief snippet of knowledge.

“James Barnes, but my friends call me Bucky.” she raises a brow, “I’m sorry for how I reacted back there, for what I said. You didn’t deserve those words. I was just worried about my friend. You gotta understand, I’ve known him since we were kids, he’s like family to me.”

Darcy sighs. “I get it, I do. Consider it forgiven.” she shivers again and hugs herself tighter.

Bucky feels a twinge of guilt.

“Don’t know how long your friend’s going to be, we could..” he trails off, his hand, held towards her hesitantly, gesturing for something.

Darcy looks at the outstretched hand, it's like a bell in the back of her mind, like deja vu.

“Look, you’re obviously freezing, come here and we can huddle, share warmth. I know it's a little unconventional, but I promise I’m not trying to make a move.”

Darcy snorted.

“Like I couldn’t take you if I needed to.”

The way she side-eyes him and the little twist of her lips as she delivers the words induce a sudden chuckle. It’s been a while since a dame smacked him down so dismissively. Part of him admires her moxie while a deeper part finds a bittersweet understanding of why the universe paired them. He could see it. How they could be. If life had given them a different path.

Darcy throws a half-hearted glare his way.

“What, you don’t think I could?”

“Oh, I’m certain you would if I got fresh, Doll. Come here, you’re freezing, no use refusing just to make a point.”

“And if I said no?”

“You could, '' he nods his head. “ But you won’t, you’re too practical and smart to be the kinda girl that’d cut her own nose off just to spite her face.”

“James Barnes, is that a compliment for little old me?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. Of course, she would be full of sass to match his.

“Tellin’ you you’re beautiful would be a compliment. I’m just calling a spade a spade.”

Darcy presses her lips together, refusing to smile and lets him take her hand, he pulls her in close and wraps his arms around her as she tucks her head into his chest. When she realises he really is like her own personal space heater she unashamedly clings to him like a limpet.

“Getting comfortable, Doll?”

“Digging in, like the spade I am.”

She replies dryly then lets out a tiny giggle and feels an answering rumble of amusement from his chest. His arms tighten around her a little and she sighs, some of the tension bleeding from her shoulders.

“Thanks,” she tells him quietly.

“Least I could do.” He responds equally quiet. A silence lapses between them but it lacks the jagged edges that it had held before. Darcy breathes him in. It would be so easy, she thinks a little sadly, to get used to this.

It’s dawn when Tony gets back to them, Howard in tow. In less time than she’d expected they were in the air and flying over the Atlantic. Tony and Howard are upfront, conspiring away while she’s stuck in the cabin with Bucky. It’s strange watching the man, her soulmate, the little voice in her head whispers, as he sleeps.

Out there in the snow and ice, he’d been all hard edges and furrowed lines. In sleep the angles of his face softened, he looked younger. She’s not blind, the man has the sort of face you’d expect to see in some lookbook for a model agency. Maybe if he’d been born in her time he’d have found himself doing exactly that or perhaps acting on some cable tv show. He was almost pretty but with just enough dangerous charm to describe him as strikingly handsome. More man than boy, despite the big blue eyes and soft lips. If she had to admit to a type, he was exactly hers. Not surprising considering the words curling up her spine. It doesn’t seem to be something she can entirely dismiss, even when she knows there's no future here for them. Her heart sees him and she feels like the breath is knocked out of her. But even the knowledge that he hadn’t been rejecting her is now more of a burden than a relief. A burden because she can’t help but wonder what could have been. It’s like being given water in a desert and then having someone take it away to pour into the sand. In his sleep, he curls an arm around her and pulls her in close. Darcy lets him, selfishly allowing herself to pretend that this isn’t just a temporary stop along the road. She closes her eyes and rests her head against his chest and cuddles in. Deep inside she thinks they really could have been something.

The change in air pressure, subtle though it is, is what wakes him. He finds Darcy wedged into his side, fast asleep. He can feel the plane descending. She’s a soft warm, sweet-smelling refuge of hope amidst the raging storm of his emotions. He’s torn. He thinks he should be pushing her away, this is just prolonging and making matters worse. He doesn’t want to get attached. She's going to leave and he’s never going to see her again. His heart, soul? Whatever they want to call it, this connection the universe gave them is pushing him to keep her close and never let her go. It seems the longer they spend in close proximity the stronger the pull is between them. He has no idea where he’s going to go from here. What sort of future he’s going to have, but the unsettling feeling that there isn’t one without her leaves him numb.

“Hey…”

His eyes flick down to meet hers, gazing up at him, sleep heavy and soft. This is what he was meant to wake up to every morning, he thinks, somewhat bitterly before a fond smile, curls around his lips at the cute scrunch of her nose.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Darcy huffs and reluctantly pushes away from him.

“Please don’t…” she trails off. The way he was looking at her made her heart swell, she could feel herself softening to him with every second. “This wasn’t what I expected…” she pauses and shakes her head. God that was a stupid thing to say, neither of them could have predicted anything like this.

Bucky purses his lips but keeps quiet. He can see her struggle to put her thoughts in order and his Ma raised him to be polite. He let her gather them, seeing the little wheels turning behind her eyes.

“When I was a kid I used to pretend I didn’t have words. I figured it was easier to say I was blank than admit my soulmate didn’t want me… wouldn’t want me. I told it to myself so much it felt true.” It had felt like that. She had cut herself off from any sort of longing to protect herself from the pain of being rejected. It wasn’t something that happened very often, but it did happen. People refused their soulmate, denied the bond and it would fade into nothing, Meeting your soulmate wasn’t a guarantee of happiness, it was just a chance, an opportunity to find the person best suited to you, but it didn’t guarantee love. “I thought if we ever crossed paths we’d both walk away content with the decision. Me happy to let you have what you wanted, you happy not to have some overly emotional drama queen stalking you.”

He could feel her sadness, her eyes were wet and her voice wavered. He gently cupped her face and caught the tear as it trailed over her pale skin.

“But now…. Now it feels like, -”

“Like we’ve been cheated. Like you were given a chance but the choice has been taken away. It was your choice before, to walk away from me when you thought I wouldn't want you.”

“But I didn’t have all the facts. If we’d met in my time… God, everything would be different, we’d still have a choice, an opportunity to ... I can feel it, you know? You feel it too right?”

His thumb stroked over her lip.

“Yeah, I feel it too, s’like magnets pulling together. Never wanted to know someone the way I want to know you.”

The sincerity in his voice struck a chord deep in her soul. She felt the same echo in her own.

“But we can’t. And this… the way you’re looking at me and touching me… I want it so badly but it’s just going to hurt so much more when I leave... if we keep doing this. I can’t afford to get this comfortable with you, I don’t want to... I’ve been hurting my whole life but now it's real and in front of me and I…” Darcy crumples. Maybe she’d convinced herself she’d never have a great love, but it didn't mean she’d ever really stopped wanting it. She feels like every moment in her life leads here, an inexorable inevitable point, fixed and immovable and she doesn’t want it to end.

He gathers her close, feels her tears soaking into his shirt as she cries. She’s breaking his heart. Every bit of him wants to protect her, comfort her; seeing her like this and knowing there is nothing he can do makes him furious at the world, at whatever god consigned them to this tragedy.

“It’s not fair...it’s not.”

“I know it’s not, princess. But we’re going to hurt either way. Why not make a few memories to hold onto?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, his mind changed. Maybe this wasn't going to be a forever, but he'd be damned if he didn't at least hold onto whatever he could get.

Darcy breathes and considers his idea. Maybe he’s right, isn’t this going to hurt no matter what?

“We might only get hours, a few days at most.” she’s not sure if she's trying to discourage him or begging him to tell her it doesn’t matter, that he’ll take whatever he can get. He doesn’t disappoint her.

“Then we make them count. Enough for the life-time, we could have had.”

Bucky places two fingers under her chin, bringing her gaze to his. Darcy blinks then lets it all go, lets her guard down, and sinks into his eyes. She thinks for a moment she forgets to breathe. His eyes are soft, a warmth in the deep blue. He smiles gently, encouraging an answering smile from her lips.

“Okay.” She finally lets go of the fear, embraces the chance to snatch a few small moments of beauty amid the chaos of their inevitable defeat. How, after all, could you win against time?

“Okay?”

Her smile grows wider at the happiness in his eyes and he hums a little tune. It’s a small thing but it brings a tiny snort of laughter from her, an old song so ironically apt.

“They can’t take that away from me.”

“What?” Her brows rise, was he serenading her?

“The way your smile just beams.” He sang softly, grinning down at her. She giggles.

“The way I sing off-key?” She answers back in kind.

“The way you’ll haunt my dreams… no no they can’t take that away from me.” He presses a kiss to her forehead. “Seventy-five years and people still know that song?”

“I like the Fred and Ginger movies, that one was a favourite.”

“I’d have liked that, taking you to a movie, on a date. Take you dancing somewhere so I could hold you close.”

“You don’t have to dance with me to do that” Darcy wiggles her eyebrows suggestively and Bucky thinks he’s never felt so charmed in his life.

When they finally get off the plane Darcy pulls Tony off to one side.

“I need time,” she tells him.

“Lewis, I swear if I could fix this…” He looks pained, but Darcy just shakes her head.

“No, that's not what I meant. I need time on my own with him, it’s the only chance we’ll ever have and I want to make the most of it, you understand, right?”

Tony sighs. She’s stubborn and fierce and he’s done his best to ignore the way the two had gravitated towards each other once their words were spoken. He knew from his own match that trying to keep them apart would have been pointless so he hadn’t tried, maybe even encouraged it by staying with Howard and letting the man talk his ear off. He gets it, he really does and just once, he can give her this.

“Think you can keep out of trouble till we get pulled back?” at her nod he continues. “Fine. When the recall alert goes off make your way to Central Park. We’ll meet at the little plaza, it should be deserted enough and open enough for our return back. You’ll have about half an hour to get there so don’t stray too far.”

She surprises him with a quick hug and a whispered thanks in his ear and then he watches as she drags Barnes off by the hand.

Forty-three hours later her wrist device beeps. Darcy looks at it mournfully and cuddles into Bucky’s arms. He’s spooning her, her body snugly tucked against his. It all feels so monumentally right, the feel of his skin against her, the rhythm of his heartbeat in time with hers, the way each breath between them works in harmony. His arms are wrapped tightly around, holding her fast, she wishes she could stay here forever, in this one perfect moment, suspended like a dragonfly in amber.

“Bucky, baby, we’ve got to go.” His body tenses and he mutters into her shoulder.

“It’s not fair Darcy… it’s not right.”

“I know. But we’ve had this.”

“S’not enough, doll. It could never be enough.”

He growled, tugging her under him as he rolled on top of her. His mouth met hers swiftly, kissing her till she was breathless and clutching him to her as her body sang for his.

It’s quick and desperate. Two bodies trying to merge deeper than imaginable, both of them attempting to leave their mark on the other. When they peak she cries, even as her body shudders in pleasure. It’s the sweetest torture. To have this and know it will soon be over. She feels his tears on her skin, falling to mingle with her own against her cheeks as he kisses her deeply. She never thought a kiss could feel like this, like hello and goodbye and forever.

They make their way to the park with a few minutes to spare.

When she enters the clearing where the little plaza is usually found, all that's there is a wide grassy space with a few benches and a path. It’s a little jarring to see it like this, without the presence of the Searching Soldier the place felt empty, haunted. Before she can think about it anymore there’s the sound of shouting and the retort of a gun. It’s like the lab all over again, only this time it’s Bucky that grabs her and forces her behind him.

“Put the fucking gun away Howard, it’s not going to help!” That's Tony's voice carrying through the trees.

Tony and Howard burst into the clearing, running, and made a beeline for Darcy and Bucky.

“Three minutes till we get delorean’d back to the future, Lewis and we’ve got a sorcerer on our ass.”

“What? Like Strange?” A blast of golden light cuts through the trees and they’re thrown off their feet.

“More Voldemort than Dumbledore, but sure.”

“What the hell do they want?” Bucky hisses at Tony.

Tony shoots him his patented “Am I the only smart person in the room” expression and Darcy elbows him in the ribs.

“What do you think? They want to know the future!”

“You’re telling me you managed to get Nazi wizards on our asses in less than two days?”

“Like it’s my fault!”

Darcy glares like she could set him on fire.

“Fine, it’s about 12% my fault, the rest is his,” he tells her, nodding at his shamefaced father.

“Oh god, there’s two of you. Now I can tell Pepper where you get it from!”

Tony scowls as they dodge another blast, running and throwing themselves behind a low wall beside the path.

“What are we meant to do?”

“We just need to stay in one piece till we get yanked back.”

“What about Bucky, and Howard?”

A sudden flash of light behind them as a portal opens sends them scrambling, but instead of danger, the serene face of a woman looks down on them as she emerges from the rip in reality. Her head is bald, her porcelain skin seems to shimmer, and about her neck is the faint green glow of the eye. Darcy recognises it as the Time Stone.

“Dr. Stark.” she nods.

“Ancient One.”

Darcy is taken aback at the seriousness of his tone and the respect he gives the woman without question. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

Four sorcerers follow behind her and scatter quickly, facing off against the enemy as spellfire bathes the clearing in an eerie light.

The Ancient One moves her hands in a complicated pattern, a golden dome engulfs them in a protective bubble.

“You are safe now and there is not much time.” She regards Bucky with a sharp eye and traces some unseen line back to Darcy. Her gaze softens as he takes Darcy’s hand in his, moving protectively in front of her.

“You have nothing to fear for your soulmate, Sergeant Barnes, I mean neither her nor yourself any harm.”

“All due respect Ma'am, but I don’t know you and I don’t trust you.”

She nods to him and returns her gaze to Darcy.

“The timeline of this universe has been irreparably altered. I can see why now and perhaps this way is better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your Sergeant had another path he should have followed, one that still would have ensured you crossed paths here in your future. That way is now lost, since it cannot be recovered, perhaps there is a way to resolve your current predicament.”

“Can you send Bucky back to the future with us?” she asks her hopefully.

The Ancient One smiles mysteriously.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. But I am afraid your soulmate will have to take the slow path.”

Darcy’s face fell. She had hoped… The watch beeped again, Tony gave her an apologetic look as he held his hand out to her.

“It’s time, Short Stack.”

She doesn’t let Bucky's hand go even as she is reluctantly pulled away by Tony. Bucky seems about to speak, the smallest regretful smile turning his lips and then the Ancient one taps his shoulder just as Darcy's hand leaves his. Bucky freezes, caught in a moment, utterly still as his whole body seemingly turns to stone. Darcy tries to lunge back, a cry of horror ringing out.

“He will be here, waiting, Miss Lewis. And like any good fairy tale, true love's kiss will break the spell.” The Ancient One imparts softly.

Darcy doesn’t have time to react to the words before she feels caught up in a whirlwind of motion and the world jerks sharply to the left.

They come awake together in the lab they left from. Tony tripping over himself to check the machine. The place looks fine, nothing seems out of the ordinary. It’s like the firefight in here never happened.

“Tony?”

He sweeps his desk for his phone and checks the date.

“Just as I thought. The same day we left from, it’s lunchtime. We’ve come back before we left. Come on, we better get out of here before we run into ourselves.”

They take the secret elevator out and Darcy follows Tony without question, still half in shock and trying to wrap her mind around the events she’d just experienced.

Before she knows it, they’re back at Central Park. Tony shepherding her along in a daze.

“It all makes sense now, this is crazy. I mean, you’ve spent every lunchtime here for the last two years... Darcy..., Double D! Snap out of it.”

“He’s been there, all that time?” she finally says, shock and disbelief colouring her tone.

“From the moment we left. He’s been there. Waiting for you.” Tony puts his hands on her shoulders and she doesn’t know whether to sob or laugh.

“I didn’t lose him?”

“Look, “ he tells her, nodding over her shoulder. She turns her head, as though seeing the statue for the first time. It’s him, it’s really, him.

She looks back at Tony, shaking her head.

“What do I do? What if it doesn’t work… what if-”

“Lewis! Breathe.”

Darcy curls her hands into fists and sucks in a deep lungful of New York air. She is a well of mixed emotion, confused and hopeful and terrified. It’s almost too painful to believe this is real. That he’s been here, all this time, trapped in a single moment, waiting for her to free him.

“This is unbelievable.”

“I know.” he agrees soothingly.

“He’s the Searching Soldier”

“Patron Saint of true love and all-around good luck charm. New York may never recover the loss. Pretty sure, lover boy over there accounts for about a quarter of tourist revenue.”

Darcy snorts, a hysterical giggle forcing its way out. Tony only manages to keep a straight face for about a half-second longer than her before they're both howling with laughter. Passers-by stare at them as they walk past. Eventually, breathless and shaking but far calmer, Darcy stops.

An exasperated cough to their right has both turning sharply.

Stephen Strange is dressed casually, a grey jacket with a matching scarf wrapped around his neck, hands stuffed in the pockets.

“I don’t have all day you know.”

“Strange.” Tony gives the wizard a distrustful frown. He dislikes Strange on principle. The man tacks an inordinate amount of pleasure in needling him.

“Stark, Miss Lewis.”

“What are you doing here?”

Strange rolls his eyes, a look eerily similar to Tony’s own” How do I deal with these idiots” sneer crossing his face before he dispels it at the look Darcy throws at him. She is so clearly done with all the shit today.

“Well, we can’t just let the rest of New York know that a man has been trapped in stone for seventy-five years, can we? Besides, the sudden disappearance of a national treasure would be impossible to hide and the economic impact… what, what? Stop laughing, honestly, Stark, can’t you take this seriously for five minutes?”

“So, you’re here to cover it up.”

“Indeed. Miss Lewis will break the spell, I’ll cast an illusion and Wong will bring the duplicate statue through from the Sanctum.”

“How…”

“Did I know? Well, the Ancient One left a reminder on Wong’s phone. Got the alert this morning and crafted a replacement...”

Darcy shakes her head, tuning Strange out, and faces the statue. She’s put it off long enough. She takes off, leaving Strange and Tony bickering behind her, and crosses the plaza. She only pauses for a moment at the bottom of the plinth before determinedly taking the steps and standing beside him.

She knows the answer to the question now. The expression on his face had been both I love you and goodbye. She takes his hand in hers and steps closer before pressing her lips to cold stone. For the tiniest instant, she thinks it didn’t work, but then it’s like the world suddenly found its breath and cold marble becomes warm flesh, unyielding stone transmutes to living motion and she faintly hears a gasp before strong arms crush her close. Bucky’s voice, whispering her name, fills her ears and then he’s kissing her as if he’ll never stop and she revels in every second of it. A Million possibilities open before them. Infinity beckons.

#wintershock #darcy/bucky #dlbingo2020 #dlbingo #my writing

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maylovexhs · 4 years ago

Text

everytime - HAPPY AND SAD(Chp. 31)

Author’s Note: Hello, I have a new music muse and name is MISS FKA TWIGS. So, thank her for helping me write. But anyways, here’s another chapter of everytime. Enjoy - May

Catch up on everytime here

October 25th, 2019. 11 AM.

*HARRY’S POV*

“Woo-hoo!” Kacey said, clapping to her band. “Space Cowboy is down!”

I smiled, grabbing my water bottle from the floor.

“I’ll see you backstage” I said to her.

“Won’t be long” Kacey said. “Thanks again for doing this, H. Didn’t have to but . . . thanks”

“All my pleasure” I said to her.

Kacey nodded. I walked off the stage, passing Kacey’s camera crew. She was filming a video for her last show of her tour.

“Hello, Kacey’s documentary” I smiled to the camera as I passed, walking backstage.

Tom, one of my best friends, stood to the side of the hallway. He waited as I rehearsed with Kacey. Tom handed over my phone to me.

“Y/N called you” Tom said.

“She did?” I asked her, not too surprised.

“Answered for you and told her you’ll get back to her” Tom said.

“How kind” I sarcastically said.

I opened my phone, tapping on my phone app. I pressed on Y/N, choosing to FaceTime her as Tom and I walked. Y/N picked up a few rings after.

“Hey Princess Jasmine” I said to her, referring to her last show two days ago. “Slept in?”

Y/N rolled her eyes at me. She looked to be home.

“Yes” Y/N said in a rushed tone. “You? SNL? Why am I finding this out now on Twitter?”

“I forgot to tell you?” I asked her.

“Umm, yes?” Y/N said.

“Well, I’m doing SNL” I said, smirking.

Y/N rolled her eyes again at me.

“What?” I asked her. “Had to keep it a secret”

“I guess this means we’ll be having dinner with you in a month” Y/N said.

“As usual” I said to her.

Nothing much changed between Y/N and I. She just finished touring two days ago while I’ve been promoting my single. We didn’t talk much over the last few weeks but that’s expected.

“How’s Houston?” Y/N asked me. “How’s Kacey?”

“She and Houston are alright” I said. “Tom and I are going as storm troopers to her party”

“Are you?” Y/N asked me. “Never took you as a Star Wars fan”

“I am” Tom said to Y/N.

“Hey Tom!” Y/N said to him. “What’s up?”

“Other than being Harry’s emotional rock?” Tom said. “Nothing really”

I heard a buzz sound coming over from Y/N’s side. The same buzz I heard before whenever someone came over at her house.

“Ashton?” I asked her.

“Yup” Y/N said. “We’re going out for the day”

Ashton. Y/N didn’t tell me much about him ever since she got together with him a few weeks ago. But one thing was sure: she was happy with him. Over the moon happy.

“Can I call you later?” Y/N asked me.

“Yeah, yeah” I said to her. “Have fun with Ashton”

“Thanks” Y/N said, smiling. “Bye Tom! Bye H!”

Y/N hung up on me.

“Who’s Ashton?” Tom asked me.

“Y/N’s new boyfriend” I said.

“She has a new boyfriend?” Tom asked me, surprised. “Wasn’t she with the Adam guy a few months ago?”

“She was” I said. “He’s a dick”

Tom smirked to himself.

“What’s that look for?” I asked him.

“Nothing” Tom lied. “Just remembered something”

I stopped walking, staring at him as I tried to figure up what he was up to. Tom stopped walking, turning around to me.

“What are you thinking?” I asked him.

“It’s nothing” Tom said. “I just remember when I was writing with Y/N. . . and remembered when she called you a dick”

I crossed my arms at him, slightly surprised.

“You didn’t tell me this” I said.

“Didn’t ask” Tom said.

“When?” I asked, walking to him. “2015?”

Tom nodded.

“That’s all she said of you” Tom said.

I smiled to myself. 2015

Five years ago. Our first falling out. We were two completely different people back then. I was a dick to her and she . . . she did nothing wrong. I was just a twenty-one year old who made terrible decisions when it came to love.

I looked to Tom.

“Am I a dick?” I asked him. “Still?”

“Oh, where do I begin with you?” Tom said, joking with me.

“I take that as a yes?” I said.

“Oh, definitely yes”

*Y/N’S POV*

I got up from the couch, hearing the elevator ding. I walked over to greet Ashton while my dogs ran. My dogs immediately barked at him.

“Woah, woah” I heard Ashton say.

I smiled, seeing him bending down to pet my dogs.

“I’m not an intruder.” Ashton said. “All I brought was food”

Ashton stood up. He looked much cuter in person than in all those FaceTime calls.

“They need to get used to you” I said. “But hi”

“Hi” Ashton said to me.

Ashton leaned in to kiss me. We only kissed a few times before and it’s only been three weeks but I missed the taste of his lips. I missed them against mine.

Ashton slowly pulled away from me.

“I missed you” Ashton said.

“I missed you too” I told him.

My dogs retreated from Ashton as our kiss was my seal of approval of Ashton to them.

“Thanks for coming over” I said to him. “I would have loved to go out and do something but jetlag is a real-“

“Bitch?” Ashton said, finishing my sentence for me.

I smiled at him.

“I was going to say a pain in the ass but . . .yes” I said. “It is a bitch”

I walked away, Ashton following behind me.

“It’s alright” Ashton said. “I felt some drizzle on the way in. Didn’t bring an umbrella”

“You didn’t?” I asked him. “You can always have one of my hundreds umbrellas”

“You have one hundred umbrellas?” Ashton asked me.

I slowly turned around to him.

“I love the rain” I said. “I like to take walks when it’s raining. It calms me”

Ashton scrunched his nose.

“I have so much to learn about you still, don’t I?” Ashton asked me.

“Mhmm” I said, turning back around.

I walked into the kitchen.

“Do you want to set the food down and wash your hands first before we eat?” I asked him.

Ashton placed the bag on the kitchen counter.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Ashton asked me.

“Down the hall, right next to the big big mirror” I said.

“You own one of those mirrors?” Ashton asked me.

“Just one of the many things you still need to learn about me” I said, using his words from before.

Ashton gave me a touché look before walking away to the bathroom. I began to take out the food from the bag. I smirked to myself.

I’m back home. I’m finally home.

Later. . .

“Here you go” The waitress said, putting a cup of hot chocolate down on the table in front of me. “I’ll come back if you need anything else”

The waitress walked away. Ashton drank a sip of his coffee. I took the spoon from the table and tasted some of the whip cream that sat on top of my cup.

It was still raining. Not pouring hard but there was still rain. Ashton and I took a little walk to this cafe. I had to convince him to come out with me despite the cafe being around the corner from my apartment. All I had to say was that I was buying.

“You’re sure you don’t want anything else?” I asked him. “You can have more than coffee”

“Hey, I’m still filled from Chinese” Ashton said.

“But you still are drinking coffee?” I asked him.

“Baby sips” Ashton said.

I let out a chuckle, looking down.

Ashton made me happy. Happy in a strange way I never felt before. It was like a new beginning with him. It felt like I had nothing to hide from him, as if he already knew everything about me but he didn’t. And it didn’t matter if he didn’t know anything, I felt safe with him. I knew deep down I could share anything with him and he wouldn’t judge me. He had that ease to him. I liked that feeling. I liked how I felt around him. And I was scared of that feeling going away so soon. I didn’t know why I felt scared but I did.

“I think the couple over there are on their first date” Ashton said.

I looked up to Ashton, snapping out of my head.

“What?” I asked him.

Ashton nodded, looking to someone behind me. I turned around and took a quick glance of the couple Ashton was talking about. They looked to be teenagers, possibly in college. The girl seemed to not be paying attention to the boy as he talked. I turned back to face Ashton.

“How can you tell?” I asked him.

“She’s not interested in what he’s saying” Ashton said. “But she’s pretending she is. She blushes when he looks at her”

“And that what makes it a first date?” I asked him. “How do you know if it’s the second or third? How do you know if they’re siblings?”

“You don’t blush at your brother like that” Ashton said. “You don’t blush at all”

I shrugged, sipping on my hot chocolate.

“But it has to be their first” Ashton said. “Why would she pretend to be interested when she could have not gone out with him?”

I looked to the couple again. She did look a little annoyed at what he was saying.

“Could be” I said, looking back to Ashton. “Or she’s about to break up with him”

“Wouldn’t she tell him before she brought something?” Ashton asked me.

I shook my head, smiling.

“Do you always do this when you go out?” I asked Ashton. “Point out who is and who isn’t a couple? Is that what you were doing all this time I was gone?”

“Maybe” Ashton said. “But I don’t mean to. The last thing I want is someone to see me staring at them like an insane person”

I smiled at him. I wondered if he could read me. . .

“What about me?” I asked him. “Anything that catches your attention?”

Ashton looked down to my hands. I was holding my cup in my hands.

“I think you’re nervous” Ashton said.

“Am I?” I asked him.

“Yeah” Ashton said. “But you hide it well. You distract people from seeing it but there are some cracks”

“Some cracks?” I asked, setting my cup on the table.

I crossed my arms, a little intrigued.

“Go on” I said.

“You go quiet sometimes” Ashton said. “You’re thinking about something that makes you nervous”

“And?” I asked.

“And the way you hold your coffee cup” Ashton said. “Both hands. You have a strong need for control”

“Hmm” I shrugged.

“Am I right?” Ashton asked me.

I smirked at him.

“A little bit”

10:55 PM.

*HARRYS POV*

Sang with Kacey? Check.

Changed into my Storm Trooper costume? Check.

Having the time of my life at Kacey’s party? Check.

So far, the night was going alright. I felt it was going alright. Everyone was in a good mood. Surprisingly, Tom didn’t vomit yet from all of his drinks. Usually, he reaches his breaking point after a few drinks.

I spotted Kacey and a few of her bandmates talking across the arena. I walked over to them.

“What are you up to?” I asked Kacey.

“We’re having shots” One of Kacey’s bandmates said to me.

“Want one?” Kacey asked me, holding her own shot glass.

“Sure, why not? It’s not like I got a place tomorrow morning” I said, shrugging.

Kacey handed me a shot. I immediately drank it. I felt the side of my chest burn the second after. Kacey laughed as I made a sour face.

“God, is that straight tequila?” I asked her.

“Houston special” Kacey smirked.

Kacey downed her shot. Unlike me, she had no after reaction.

“Wanna dance?” Kacey asked me.

I offered Kacey my hand. Kacey took it, pulling me to the dance floor. I looked at the people dressed in costumes around us. They reminded me of someone. Y/N.

I looked down, picturing Y/N here. If she was here, she would have everyone’s attention. Her costume would, at least. I would be by her side all night, either because she was trying to get me to have fun or I didn’t want to miss a second of her. I missed her. She should be here.

“What’s that face for?” Kacey asked me. “Still recovering from one?”

“It’s nothing, it’s just . . . I wish someone was here” I said.

Kacey squinted her eyes at me.

“Why do I feel like it’s Y/N?” She asked me.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked her.

“A little” Kacey smiled. “You should call her. Visit her”

“I will” I said. “I am. Soon”

“In a week?” Kacey asked me. “Or a month?”

“Somewhere in between” I answered.

“Then you should definitely call her” She said. “Tell her you miss her”

“Tomorrow” I said. “It’s late. She’s busy with her boyfriend now”

“She has a boyfriend?” Kacey asked me, her eyes growing with curiosity.

I nodded.

“How long?” Kacey asked me.

“It’s new” I said. “But she knows him for a few months”

“Is that why you miss her?” Kacey asked me. “She’s with him but she should have been here?”

“Hey, I’m happy for her” I told Kacey. “I’m happy she found someone. We may have stopped talking a little because she’s busy with him but she’s my best friend. I have to be happy for her”

“But are you really happy?” Kacey asked me.

I looked down, not wanting to answer. For one, I wasn’t that close with Kacey to talk about my feelings. And second, I didn’t quite know the answer. I should feel happy. I’m having fun with friends and I’m back on the charts. Why shouldn’t I be happy?

“Harry” Kacey said, calling my attention back to her. “Are you happy?”

I shook my head.

“I should be” I told Kacey. “But I don’t feel it.”

Kacey smiled at me, as if she knew something.

“I’m not in love with Y/N” I said. “But I miss her. I miss being around her. She makes me feel . . .”

“Happy?” Kacey asked me.

I nodded.

“Well, I know you don’t want to hear this but. . .” Kacey began to speak. “That sounds like love. The love no one expects”

“If it was, I still can’t be with her” I told Kacey. “She’s happy with her boyfriend”

“Maybe” Kacey said. “But she could happy with you too. Who knows, maybe even happier”

I looked down. I didn’t know how to respond to Kacey’s advice.

“But for tonight,” Kacey said. “Let’s distract your misery.”

Kacey took my hand, dragging me along as she walked.

“Where are we going?” I asked her.

“Where else?” Kacey asked me. “To the photobooth”

#hs imagine #harry styles imagine #harry styles imagines #hs imagines #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #hs fanfic #everytime chapters #everytime HS

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olliepig · 4 years ago

Text

Waiting in the Wings chapter 5

Thanks as always to the wonderful (and ever patient) @willow-salix for all her help in getting this beast out.

As always, the whole thing is available on AO3 here

********************************

The cheers of the crowd bathing her in a glow of satisfaction that she’d never managed to find elsewhere, Cat stood on the stage of the Opera House after her performance of Swan Lake, savouring the moment. It was a marathon of a ballet that took every ounce of energy she had, and the appreciation shown by the audience at the end made the hard work and downright pain of her chosen career totally worth it.

She knew as well as everyone else on the stage that the post performance glow could be short lived and, with her long day nearly over, she was relieved that all she had left to do was receive her flowers, get changed and head home. Sensing a shift in focus from those around her, she looked over to the wings in time to see one of the Opera House staff staggering onto the stage with quite possibly the largest bouquet she had ever seen and heading straight for her.

Since her first performance of Giselle, larger and larger arrangements of flowers had started arriving at the Opera House to be presented onstage at the end of each show. There was never a name or message on the card hidden inside, just the initial S and two kisses. It was a fact that didn’t go unnoticed and became a source of debate and amusement within the company whenever she performed to see how many flowers she would receive and whether the mysterious sender would make themselves known.

Outwardly, Cat pretended to be exasperated by the constant influx of flowers but secretly she loved it and always thanked Scott profusely for his thoughtfulness. She had never expressly told him what her performance schedule was, so she supposed that he had looked it up and made arrangements accordingly. It had never been discussed aside from her giving her thanks but it was something that made her heart flutter dangerously every time and she cherished it.

With the curtain calls over, and with everyone having somehow managed to avoid tripping over the flowers as they laid on the stage, Cat headed back to her dressing room, barely able to see over the top of them. It wasn’t the only bouquet she had received that night and as she walked she thought that it was lucky that it was a route she had followed so often as she was relying almost entirely on memory to find her way.

As soon as she was safely in the dressing room, she carefully placed her flowers in the sink and pulled out her phone.

How the hell am I supposed to get these home on the tube?! They barely fit in the bloody dressing room! (Thank you very much for them btw. They’re beautiful!)

Smiling, she put her phone down and started to get on with the business of getting her costume undone when, almost instantly, her phone buzzed with a reply.

Good job I'm here tonight then, isn’t it? I’ll have the car at the front when you’re ready.

Cat smiled as her heart lurched with the unexpected excitement of seeing Scott again. It wasn’t the first time they had met up since their night at Penny’s and their friendship felt like it was blossoming. Multiple messages were exchanged daily and the more they learned about the others lives, the more comfortable they became.

What?! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Why don’t you come round to stage door and I’ll come down to meet you there? I need to grab a shower before I leave and I’ll be a while so you can wait in my dressing room.

Text sent, Cat raced through getting her tutu off and threw a tracksuit on. Checking her phone, she smiled again as she saw the reply,

I wanted to surprise you and yeah, that sounds much better than sitting out here by myself. See you soon!

Keen not to keep Scott waiting, she flew down the stairs, shoving down the nagging thought that she shouldn’t be this excited to see someone who was supposed to be just a friend. It was a decision that they had made together and she was determined to stick to it, regardless of the little voice in her head that kept pointing out that it had been her idea and that he had merely agreed to it.

Scott was already waiting for her when she arrived and her breath caught slightly as she took him in before he spotted her. He really was almost impossibly beautiful, she thought; the very epitome of tall, dark and handsome. His impeccably cut suit looked to be the same colour as his dress blues from his airforce days, a memory that stirred another flutter in her stomach.

“C’mon then you,” she greeted him fondly, enjoying the look of surprise on his face when he registered her next to him as she grabbed his hand and led him into the maze of corridors backstage.

“Well hello to you too,” he smiled, following behind and enjoying the touch of her hand much more than he thought he should.

Having never discussed the identity of her flower sender with anyone but her closest friends, bumping into two members of the corps de ballet on the stairs while escorting Scott Tracy back up to her dressing room was definitely not part of Cat’s plan to keep it a secret, especially as, she realised with a start, she was still holding his hand.

A hot flash of something akin to jealousy flared through her as she saw the appreciative glances they threw his way as they passed by and she mentally kicked herself for it as she hurried an oblivious Scott up to the relative privacy of her room. It wasn’t that she was trying to keep their friendship a secret; she just really didn’t want to be pressured into publicly defining something that was so far totally undefinable to her.

“You did great tonight,” Scott started with a smile that made Cat’s heart rate increase as the door closed behind them.

“Thank you very much,” she grinned, turning away quickly so he couldn’t see the effect he’d had on her. She watched in the mirror as he headed over and made himself comfortable on her window seat before starting the job of unpinning her headdress and letting her hair out of its tight bun. “When you said you were here I wondered if you’d seen it.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it, even if it did mean a ridiculously early start this morning. Sorry about the flowers by the way,” he added as he caught sight of them, the small sink making the arrangement look even bigger than it was. “I didn’t realise you’d have other bouquets as well and I genuinely didn’t expect mine to be quite that big.”

“That’s OK,” laughed Cat, moving on to removing the worst of her makeup. “It was hilarious watching them try to get them all onstage. I’m just glad you’re here to help me get them all home.”

“So, um, what would you like to do once you’re ready? I’d be very happy to take you for dinner if you'd like?” Scott knew full well that she wouldn’t have eaten since late afternoon and would likely be hungry after all the energy she had used in her performance. He had many happy memories of late meals after her shows and was keen to recapture those moments, even if they didn’t lead to the same end to the night as they used to.

“Not sure I really fancy dinner,” came the reply, throwing a bucket of ice water over the daydream he had somehow slipped into. “It’s been a long day and my feet really hurt. I was just planning on making some pasta and chilling out tonight if you’d like to join me?”

“That sounds wonderful,” smiled Scott, his initial disappointment at her rebuttal turning to enthusiasm for her counter offer, visions of cosying up on the sofa appearing in his head.

“Right, I’m going to jump in the shower, keep making yourself at home and I’ll be as quick as I can,” she finished, grabbing her clothes and disappearing without a backward glance, leaving Scott to his thoughts.

Scott looked around and wondered what to do. He'd been in the dressing room once before after Giselle but with Penny and Gordon there too he hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time. He was acutely aware that this was her private space in the theatre and he didn’t want to pry. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. He found her fascinating and wanted to find out everything he could about her life but he wasn’t prepared to violate her privacy, so he contented himself with settling down on the chair at her dressing table and looking at the pictures that she had stuck around her mirror.

He’d looked at nearly all of them when, to his surprise, he spotted a picture he had taken of Cat and some friends of hers whose names he had once known. Seeing it again transported him back to that day: waking up with her beside him before going for a lazy brunch, then heading out on a trail walk along the James River where they bumped into a group of her friends, joining them for a while on their walk and laughing with them as they took the pictures.

He wondered, with a pang of regret, if she still had the picture of the two of them that had been taken moments later, cuddled up to each other and smiling, cheeks rosy from the slight chill in the air. He’d not thought of that picture since the day it had been taken. At the time it hadn’t seemed like it was of any real importance, just a snapshot of another day together with the promise of countless more like it in their future, but now… Well, now it mattered somehow.

His musing was interrupted by Cat breezing out of the showerroom, now dressed and ready to go. As they chatted amicably while she gathered her belongings, to his delight he noticed with a start that she was wearing the same outfit that she had at Pennys, sending his thoughts spiralling back to the events of that night and making him wonder if there was a significance there that he was not yet aware of. He was very relieved when she thrust a couple of her bouquets into his arms and led him out of the room, unwittingly breaking that particular train of thought before it could affect him too much.

Down at the stage door, Scott found himself hanging back while Cat signed autographs for the second time in as many months. Unlike the last time, however, he was now playing the role of a glorified vase and within the first 10 minutes he started to quite seriously regret his choice of bouquet as the foliage tickled his nose for what felt like the 100th time.

The number of people who turned out, and were prepared to wait in the unseasonably cool London night to speak to their favourite dancers, amazed him. When he thought about it properly, he wasn’t sure why; they were stars in their own right and their fans wanting to meet them made perfect sense. It was a world away from his experiences of waiting alone for Cat after her early performances in Richmond and his heart swelled with pride at her accomplishments since then as he watched her work her way through the crowd.

As he waited, he became uncomfortably aware of people watching him too and once he had realised that, he became sure he could hear his name being whispered in conversation, making him quickly duck behind the flowers, using them as a shield. He was well aware of the attention his presence could attract and also very keen not to let the focus be taken away from those who deserved it so he started to maneuver himself away from the crowd.

On their way down from the dressing room, Scott had promised Cat that he would have the car waiting for her once she was finished and when he became certain that he had been spotted, he gratefully snuck away to fetch it, rifling through his pocket for the keys and trying not to drop the damn flowers that were quickly becoming the bane of his life.

Safely settled in the driver's seat, Scott allowed himself to slump for a moment and prepare for the evening ahead of him. He cherished his friendship with Cat but there was no doubt of how he still felt about her. As soon as they’d started talking again it was clear to him that they still had a connection and the night they’d spent at Penny’s had cemented that. Or at least he’d thought it had.

He understood why she had made the decision to be friends and nothing more, but that didn’t mean it hurt him any less. He had pushed that hurt down in order to keep her in his life and he’d been pleasantly surprised at how natural it had felt when they had met up a few weeks later. Where he’d expected awkwardness and long silences, he’d found laughter and flowing conversation which encouraged him to persevere further, truly hoping that one day his feelings would fade and he could be the friend she desired.

When they were apart, he almost managed to convince himself that friendship between them would be entirely possible, but as soon as they were together, he longed to reach out and bridge the gap between them. Being so close to her but unable to act on his feelings was like some kind of delicious torture that he hated and loved in equal measure. He was hopelessly addicted to her, and he had no idea what to do about it.

*****

Feeling unnaturally clumsy under Scott’s gaze, Cat muddled around her flat, finding light switches and vases while simultaneously urging him to make himself at home and apologising for the non existent mess. She hadn’t been expecting a visitor when she had left that morning and she reddened as she spotted the underwear that she’d left over a radiator to dry, grabbing and stuffing them down the side of a cupboard, most likely never to be seen again.

If Scott saw her, he didn’t mention it and for that she thought she would be forever grateful. He followed her around, helping as much as he could as he looked around in interest at the place she called home.

“Hey,” she commented with a smile, finally coming to rest and surveying the veritable florists that had appeared in her kitchen, “remember when you used to just get me a single rose after a show?”

“What, like this one?” Scott grinned, holding out a blood red flower that he had produced from lord knows where.

Cat smiled slowly as she met his eyes, making his heart race. He kissed the flower and presented it to her with a deep bow, as he had seen her doing to her partner on stage earlier that night and was delighted when she received it with a curtsey.

“I…. Thank you,” Cat smiled, genuinely pleased with what she hoped would be her final floral gift for the night. The rose brought back so many memories of their time together and for that alone it meant more than all the other flowers combined.

“Right, shall we get dinner on, then? We're still making pasta?” Scott broke the moment and took charge. Seeing a kettle, he filled it and set it to boil before looking around the kitchen for any hints of where utensils and food might be kept.

“Bottom drawer, next to the fridge,” Cat instructed, following his line of thinking and directing him towards the saucepans. The pair of them bumped companionably around the kitchen as they made the simple meal for themselves, falling easily back into old habits and divisions of labour.

“Ooh, wine,” Scott exclaimed, emerging from the fridge and holding a bottle triumphantly above his head. “Would you like a glass?”

“Yes, I think I would,” came the reply from somewhere deep within a cupboard as Cat rummaged through for the sauce she was looking for. “It always takes me ages to unwind properly after a show and I do like a nice glass or two now and again.”

“I remember,” Scott replied softly as he put the bottle down. Something in his tone caused Cat to stop what she was doing and turn to look at him, finding his eyes mesmerising as they caught hers.

Cat was pinned by them, her breath quickened as she drowned in their depths and she fought the sudden urge to take the few steps needed to close the gap between them. His lips looked so soft and inviting and she found herself wondering if they tasted the same as when she had last kissed them.

“Shit!” Cat’s attention was distracted by the unmistakable sound of a pan boiling over. She rushed to mop up the worst of the water, the moment lost.

By the time she looked back up, Scott had moved too and had busied himself by pouring two glasses of wine and getting the plates ready for when it was time to dish up their dinner.

It was probably for the best, she told herself. They were just friends. They’d both agreed. And friends didn’t look at each other like that, right?

Settling down after dinner, they flopped into well practised positions on the sofa, facing each other with their legs comfortably tangled together in the middle and her feet in his lap.

As he listened to Cat talking about her plans for her summer break and the ballets she had coming up in the new season, Scott had found his mind drifting back to the moment that they had shared in the kitchen, feeling once again the way his breath had seemed to catch every time her eyes met his.

Lost in her, he absentmindedly rubbed her feet, feeling the tense muscles slowly loosen under pressure from his thumbs, the action soothing him and allowing him time to let his racing thoughts settle.

Ultimately, he had no idea what was going on. If they were to be friends, he’d make his peace with that and would continue to hide his true feelings for her until they faded, but they continued to have moments that were charged with such intensity that they were impossible to ignore or write off as something else.

He realised that she had stopped talking and was watching him with an almost unreadable expression but for the little smile creeping onto the corners of her mouth.

“Sorry,’ he apologised, feeling the heat creeping up his cheeks and snatched his hands away as if her feet were on fire.

“No, it’s OK. It felt good,” she reassured him. “You were always really good at that. It just brought back a lot of memories, that's all.”

Scott smiled gratefully and went back to working on getting the knots out of her feet, a comfortable silence coming over them. Listening to her talking had planted the seed of an idea, one which he was unaccountably nervous about broaching lest she think he was overstepping any boundaries. As he worked, the idea grew and coalesced into something more tangible, something that he thought might actually help cement their friendship.

“I’ve got something to ask you…” he started hesitantly, “You can absolutely say no but I wanted to ask anyway.”

“OK, fire away.” Cat fixed him with a look that excited and scared him in equal measure as she fiddled with her wine glass.

“I know you were saying you have some plans for your summer break, but if you have a bit of time would you like to come out to the island for a visit? Spend a bit of time in the sun?”

“Wow! That’s quite the suggestion,” she paused, taking a moment to consider the offer and nearly causing Scott’s heart to stop. “Yeah, that sounds lovely,” she decided, giving him a small nod and a beaming smile that lit up her face.

Scott let out the breath he realised he’d been holding since he’d let the question into the open and his smile matched hers, relief washing over him. “Really? You don’t have to agree to it if you’re not completely sure.”

“No, I really want to, it was just a surprise that’s all.” As the idea took hold, Cat could feel herself getting more excited. She’d not had a proper chance to relax since the previous summer, and even that had been marred by the tail end of her previous relationship, so the thought of a week on a tropical island with Scott was definitely something she could get on board with.

“Amazing! You’re going to love it,” Scott smiled, beyond delighted at the thought of being able to show her his home and introduce her to everyone who was important to him. “We can sort out the details another time though. You look exhausted and don’t think I’ve not seen you stifling yawns for the last 10 minutes.”

Cat couldn’t do anything but laugh. “Yeah, you got me, I think it might be my bedtime. It’s awkward question time now, though. Where were you planning on staying tonight?”

“Selene said I could use her place so I was just going to go there,” Scott responded at once, his answer taking her by surprise. “Um, who’s Selene?” Cat tried very hard to maintain an even tone and a neutral expression despite the flash of jealousy that surged through her for the second time that night, somehow catching her by surprise again.

“John’s fiancee and my best friend. Remember, I did tell you about her?” replied Scott, trying very hard not to grin at her obvious discomfort.

“Ah yeah, I just, um... forgot her name, that’s all…” Cat tried to explain, fooling nobody, least of all herself.

“You weren’t jealous there were you, Miss George?” Scott pressed, a glint appearing in his eyes and a wicked grin on his lips.

“Not at all,” Cat insisted, suddenly becoming very interested in her wine glass and trying to ignore the flush that had appeared on her cheeks. “Well, it’s very late, we've had a drink and I have a spare room so you’re welcome to stay here if that would be easier?”

“That does sound tempting. I’ll not be sleeping much though,” he couldn’t help but pause for effect and was gratified with the response when Cat’s eyes shot back up to meet his as she cocked an eyebrow at him. “It’s 2 in the afternoon my time so I’m pretty wide awake I’m afraid. If you don’t mind me watching TV and having a quick nap so I’m good to fly back tomorrow, then I’d love to stay.”

“You’re a terrible tease, Mr Tracy,” Cat shook her head but her smile betrayed her true feelings. “Of course that’s OK.”

Having set Scott up with everything he could ever possibly need for the coming hours, Cat finally retired to bed but despite her exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily for her. No matter how hard she tried, her thoughts kept returning to the man in her living room and how torn she felt about him. From the moment they had met again, something had been constantly there, telling her that she couldn’t let him go but to her it wasn’t as simple as that.

At an early age she had learned the pain of rejection by those who should have loved her and it had scarred her deeply. In Scott, she had found someone to whom she had given both her trust and her heart, and his sudden departure from her life had hurt her tremendously.

Once broken, trust wasn’t something she gave out again that easily and she had thought very carefully before letting him back into her life. Yet, despite everything, she wanted to give him her trust. She wasn’t prepared to risk loving him for a second time but friendship seemed to be a good compromise to make in order to be in his life but not stray too close.

When they were apart it seemed perfectly easy. The messages and calls flowed constantly and there was no end to the things they could talk about. The problem arose when they were together. He seemed to have a magnetic pull on her that was getting increasingly difficult to deny. She had slipped up once and even though her body might be crying out for a repeat performance, her mind was made up.

Groaning quietly, she rolled over and buried her head in the pillow. It was going to be a long night.

*****

Whatever Scott had planned for their Sunday morning together, it was not the little cafe that he found himself sitting in a few blocks away from Cat’s flat. At the very least, he had imagined going someplace where there were proper tablecloths covering tables that didn’t wobble when you leaned on them, risking spilling drinks with every move. However, the food was excellent, the coffee plentiful and the company the best he could imagine so, all things considered, he was very happy with his situation.

Full of food and starting to feel tired from a day that had started almost 19 hours earlier on Tracy Island, he stretched back in his chair, inadvertently catching the attention of the waitress and flashing her a smile in response to her enquiring look.

Across from him, Cat felt a rush of annoyance fire through her as she sipped her coffee and tried to maintain a neutral expression. She’d been feeling on edge all morning, the fight between what she was prepared to give and what she really wanted, wearing her down and making her feel vulnerable and irritable.

An idea sparked at that moment though, one that would both prove to herself that she was fine with their friendship being nothing more than that and take away any temptation to push things further.

“You should get her number,” she suggested, instantly surprised by how much that simple little sentence hurt.

“What? Why?” Scott stuttered, completely blindsided. He couldn’t think of anything in his behaviour that had suggested that he might have wanted a date and had no idea where this suggestion could possibly have come from.

“You were flirting with her. All those jokes and looks while we were ordering, and that smile right there? Don’t say you weren’t,” she continued, hating herself for every word but doubling down and pushing ahead anyway. The thought of Scott dating anyone hurt her more than she was willing to admit, but she had started down this path and she was committed now.

Scott sat back, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair, not quite believing what was happening. “I wasn’t flirting, I was being polite and friendly. There is a difference, you know.” He knew he was being defensive, but at that moment he just didn't care.

“You’ve got to admit it though, you are a flirt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not hit on someone, given half a chance.” Cat felt like she was watching herself from afar, not quite believing what she was saying. As soon as the words were out of her mouth she felt the cold rush of dread spread over her and picked up her coffee cup again in a bid to disguise her shaking hands.

“Listen, this conversation is starting to make me really uncomfortable. I don’t want to date the waitress and I’m not really sure where all of this has come from. Can we just drop it now please?”

“Sorry,” Cat looked down at the empty cup in her hands, desperately wishing that she could go back in time to before she’d ever thought of her wonderful ‘idea’. In retrospect, she wasn’t sure what she had expected to happen, but it certainly wasn’t the reaction that she had gotten. She couldn’t remember a time that he’d ever spoken to her as sharply as that before and it had shaken her.

Scott nodded curtly and went back to his coffee, looking outwardly calm but his mind was whirling. He always flirted. It was part of who he was and he’d always thought she liked that, or at the very least accepted it about him. It had never been an issue when they had dated before so he couldn’t understand why him behaving totally normally to a waitress was now cause for comment.

Fine, he thought petulantly, if flirting means that I want to sleep with someone and we’re just going to be friends then I’d better stop flirting with her too. Don’t want her getting the wrong idea now, do we?

A pang of loss hit him as soon as he made the decision; he had come to crave the excitement that her looks and touches gave him and it would be hard to give that up. Not that he’d been the only one doing the flirting, he thought in annoyance. Not responding was going to be a tough but perhaps necessary evil given the circumstances.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked with the barest hint of a smile.

Cat nodded miserably. She knew he was angry, she could see it in the set of his jaw. The sparkle had gone from his eyes and he was avoiding looking at her but really she couldn’t blame him. She’d messed up and called him out on something that came to him as naturally as breathing, so he was perfectly entitled to be annoyed and she hated herself for being the cause of it.

Walking around the local park afterward, Cat did her best to act as if nothing had happened but she wasn’t getting anywhere. She knew from experience that Scott needed a bit of time to cool down when he was angry, but they had limited time together and she didn't want to waste it, even if he was clearly in a bad mood with her.

Slowly, the frosty atmosphere between them thawed slightly but there were still long, awkward silences that had never been there before and Cat had to work hard to initiate any conversation. The animosity that had radiated from Scott since they left the cafe abated but Cat found she still couldn’t relax as she started to notice a marked change in Scott’s behaviour towards her.

Since their argument, he hadn’t been cold exactly, but there was a reservation in his actions that hadn’t been there before. Where he had been open and playful, often touching her hand or holding a smile for fractionally longer than necessary, now he was barely making any contact at all and she felt the loss keenly.

Despite trying to act relaxed, Scott was trying desperately to squash down his natural urge to fix everything. He knew that a quick smile and a cheeky comment would make everything OKagain but he hadn't liked being called out for flirting so he was damned if he was going to use it to get back into her good books.

Her comment about asking out the waitress had confused him and nothing more but, when she started challenging him about flirting constantly, that had angered him. The more he thought about it the more angry he had become and the more he doubled down on his resolution not to flirt with her again.

Deep down, he knew he was being petty and probably overreacting but he’d gone to a lot of effort to pull together his trip to London He’d been so excited to see Cat and spend some quality time with her and it felt like her actions at brunch had thrown all his efforts back in his face and ruined it. He stewed silently as they walked, his growing anger mixing with regret, knowing that he would need to apologise at some point but not willing to back down and fix everything quite yet.

The longer it went on, the more her attempts to apologise and lighten the mood were rebuffed, the angrier Cat became. She knew she’d messed up but his treatment towards her was completely disproportionate. She’d apologised and in her experience of adult relationships that was the point at which people would talk about it and move on. Scott treating her like she was barely even an acquaintance when she was giving him a chance to regain her trust was going too far and she wasn’t going to stand for it.

She’d had enough and took them on a shortcut back to her flat, keen to get the walk over so she could talk to him more privately. Her anger at his childish behavior was growing by the minute and by the time they reached her flat she was seriously considering whether it was worth even continuing their friendship at all.

Closing the door behind her, Cat was surprised to find that Scott had already grabbed his bag and was standing ready to go.

“I need to get back...” he tailed off, glancing down at his bag as he shifted uncomfortably.

Cat had always known he was going to need to leave after brunch. She would much rather have had a chance to sit down and talk properly but time was against them and she wasn’t going to let him run away on her when the going got tough again. “OK, but I’m going to ask you something before you go.”

“Of course,” Scott replied warily, not expecting the sharp tone of her voice or the way she straightened as if preparing herself for battle.

“Is everything OK with you today? You’ve seemed pretty distant since we went for brunch,” she challenged with a lot more confidence than she felt. It was not a question that she wanted the answer to, but she couldn’t let him go without asking him, she had to know.

“Yeah, I’ve told you I’m fine,” he answered shortly, keen not to get drawn into a discussion right now when emotions were clearly still running high for both of them.

“I just… I wasn’t sure if you still wanted to be friends or not?” she met his eyes, finding her strength and challenging him to be honest with her now that the question, and her deepest fear, was in the open.

“Of course I do. What gave you that impression?” Scott was growing frustrated by her questions, baffled as to how they could possibly even be having this discussion.

“Yesterday you surprised me for the night, bought me the biggest bunch of flowers I’ve ever seen and invited me to spend a week with you on your family's island, and this afternoon you’ve hardly even looked at me,” she argued, feeling more confident about making her point but not wholly convinced by his answer given his actions that day. “I get it, I messed up earlier and I’m sorry, but I feel like I have whiplash from how fast everything has changed. So I’ll ask you again, and I want you to be honest with me - do you want to be friends or not?”

“No, I don’t,” Scott snapped, as anger surged through him, shocking her with his ferocity.

Everything he’d been doing to ensure he didn’t cross the line from friends to something more had been taking its toll on him, and that, combined with whatever the hell it was that had happened at brunch, had finally pushed him to his limit.

“I flew 13,000 miles to see you. I rearranged my time off so it fitted in with your performance and your schedule. And today you tell me I should be dating some waitress I’ve never spoken to before? You want to know what I want? You”

Cat was speechless. All she could do was stare at him, her mouth slightly agape, as he bared his soul.

“I want to date you, Cat, no one else. I was to kiss you and take care of you and love you like I used to.”

Suddenly realising what he’d said, Scott pushed past her without waiting for a reply and walked through the door, slamming it on his way out and leaving a bewildered Cat to wonder how on earth she was going to salvage this one.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Scott Tracy

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dontmindthefangirling · 5 years ago

Text

Catfish {t.h.}

part 9

gif by @peteparkrrs

Summary: What happens when you start to fall in love with a boy online, completely unaware that it’s Tom Holland behind the computer screen?

Warnings: swearing

part 8 | series masterlist

You were beginning to think that you should have had Jane or one of your other college friends come with you on this impulsive trip because you legs were shaking so bad you didn’t know if you were going to make it to your seat. Tom somehow picked you out of the crowd, and he somehow knew that it was you. Hearing his voice say your name after so long brought back all of the giddy emotions you used to feel when you’d talk for hours on the phone late at night.

It was hard to believe that was almost a year ago. But you were nineteen now, and you had to pull it together.

You and the rest of the fans were led into a large auditorium, with seats facing a stage that only held a couch and a few chairs, which you assumed would be for the cast members. You were grateful that Tom wasn’t on the stage yet because you’d rather be sitting when you saw him again. It would be so embarrassing to pass out in front of all of these people.

Holding your ticket shakily in your hand, you were led to your seat which was about three rows from the stage, and as you sat down in the red plush chair, the bright lights seemed to illuminate your entire body. A part of you had hoped that you were seated further back, but maybe this was good. Tom would see you again.

But did you really want that?

It hurt to see him, especially after all this time, and you truly thought that you had moved on but as soon as he spoke your name and he stood a few feet in front of you, it felt like you never moved on. So many mixed emotions were running through your entire body, and the last thing you had read about Tom was an article claiming that he and Zendaya were dating.

What if that was true? You were just setting yourself up to get even more hurt than before.

It was too late now. He had seen you, and you figured you weren’t going to leave until you talked to him. But that was also wishful thinking. He was a movie star now, and he may be too busy for a common person like yourself.

The fans around you were buzzing with excitement, but you couldn’t stop your knee from bouncing up and down as you kept your eyes glued on the stage, waiting impatiently for Tom to come bouncing out. You were sending updates to Laura, wishing that your friend was here with you to steady your racing heart and mind.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the cast of Spider-Man: Homecoming!” a loud voice said over a microphone. The fans around you erupted into cheers, standing to their feet, but you were too stunned to do so as you spotted Tom walk onto the stage, waving to the audience, followed by his co-stars. He looked even better than you thought while he stood in the light.

When the fans around you sat back down, and the cast took their seats, you saw that Tom’s eyes were scanning the crowd. You wondered what he would do when his eyes fell on you, if they would fall on you.

Your heartbeat was loud in your ears, and you felt your veins pulsing against your skin as his gaze slowly made its way towards your side of the seating. It was almost immediate when his eyes spotted you in the third row. The rest of the cast was thanking the fans for coming to this event to promote the movie, while Tom’s move was slightly ajar, his eyes wide. It was like he wanted to communicate with you via his eyes, but the longer he stared at you, the more your heart began to hammer your chest. You looked down at your feet, feeling his gaze burning holes into your body.

“Oh, yeah! Um, thank you guys so much for coming,” Tom said suddenly, after Jacob nudged his leg with his own. Hearing his voice over the microphone, loud in your ears, and echoing along the walls of the theater, made your heart twist and flip. You closed your eyes tightly, wishing that you never came here.

“We’re very excited about this movie,” Tom spoke slowly, because his eyes kept flickering over to you. Your head was down, and your eyes were shut tightly, and it was hard for Tom to focus on the fans that were present. He felt terrible about it, but you were literally right in front of him. His mind was clouded with thoughts of you, of how he had wished he had been honest with you from the start and maybe you both wouldn’t be feeling this pain that pierced your two fragile hearts.

And he couldn’t get over how beautiful you were. He never tried imaging what you looked like during your online affair because he knew that he would’ve loved you no matter what you looked like. You were already the most beautiful girl in the world to him.

But seeing you in person took his breath away.

Laura and Jacob started bantering about some funny behind the scenes jokes they had causing the audience to erupt into laughter, but Tom couldn’t bring himself to smile because he was so fucking wrapped up in your presence. He watched you, as you kept your head down, refusing to look at him. And it hurt.

“What was your favorite scene to film, Tom?” Laura asked, smiling as she looked at Tom from across the couch.

“My favorite scene?” Tom repeated, as he wasn’t completely listening. “Um, I don’t know. All of it?”

The crowd laughed again, but Tom only gave them a close-lipped smile. “I don’t want to give away too many spoilers, but...”

He trailed off when he spotted your figure stand from your seat out of the corner of his eye as you quickly made your way towards the exit of the theater. And he knew he had to follow you. He wouldn’t lose you again.

“I-I’m sorry, I, uh, I have to go,” Tom mumbled into the microphone before standing from his seat.

“Tom, what-” Jacob started, as the crowd began to murmur, but Tom was already jogging down the stairs and rushing out the door that you left through only moments before.

The exit that you took brought you into an alley behind the theater, and you groaned, not knowing what street it would have taken you to. You figured you could wait outside by your school’s shuttle bus until the interview was over because you couldn’t stand being in that room with him anymore. Hearing his voice was so painful especially when you knew that he could never be yours. It just made you think about all the times you talked on the phone last year.

You hugged yourself as you took a few steps away from the door, walking slowly towards the street. You shouldn’t have come. You knew it was stupid, but you thought that maybe seeing him would make you realize that you had moved on. But it did the exact opposite.

“(Y/N)!” a voice panted, and you turned to see Tom almost falling out of the door. You stared stunned, as he approached you.

“What are you-”

“Please, don’t go,” he begged. He kept a respectful distance from you, but this was closer than when you made eye contact in front of the theater, and you couldn’t help but stare.

His hair was curly, with one stray curl falling in front of his forehead, and you never realized how pretty his brown eyes were until you saw the flecks of gold that danced in them.

Your mind was racing through everything you wanted to say, everything you wanted to yell at him for hurting you the way he did, but in that moment, your mouth went dry and you couldn’t so much as breathe let alone yell at him.

Tom seemed to feel the same way because for a solid five minutes, you both just stood in the alley behind the theater, staring at each other, as if you were both trying to figure out if the other was real.

Eventually, Tom cleared his throat and looked down at his feet quickly before looking back at you.

“Why, uh...why did you come here?” he asked gently.

“To be honest, I don’t know.”

Tom’s lips pulled at a frown, and you could tell he didn’t like that answer. But it was the truth. You didn’t know why you put yourself through this.

“Don’t you have an interview or something to be at?” you asked softly, pointing to the door that he came through. Tom shook his head and took a small step towards you.

“No, (Y/N), you’re more important than any interview,” he said gently.

“Why?” you croaked. “We haven’t talked in almost a year.”

“I don’t care,” Tom said, taking another step closer to you. “My feelings for you never changed.”

You didn’t know how to take his words. When you found out who he really was, you assumed that everything was a lie, that he was just playing you as a dumb fan who fell for a prank. He was an actor after all.

But the fact that without ever seeing a picture of you before, that he was able to pick you out of a crowd just by the look of pure emotion on your face, or that he was skipping an interview to talk to you in a crummy alley behind a theater in the middle of a city he’s never been to before, made you start to think that maybe he wasn’t lying about everything after all. He even knew your voice.

“I...I don’t know how to take that,” you admitted, still hugging yourself.

“Look, (Y/N), when you found out that I wasn’t Peter and I was Tom, I was so mad at myself for lying to you in the first place,” Tom began. “But I meant what I said. Everything else was true besides my name.”

“You have a pretty important name,” you almost scoffed. “It’s not like you’re just another Joe Schmo from England.”

“I know,” Tom groaned, running a hand through his curls. “I was being an idiot.”

“Yeah and a fucking jerk!” you exclaimed.

“I’m trying to fix it!” Tom shouted back, but groaned and tugged at his curls when you looked away from him. Your heart was hammering against your chest as you tried to remain calm, but your hands were shaking.

“Do you know how much I was hurting...and I still am,” you said, lowering your voice as you tried to steady your breathing.

“Yeah, I think I have a pretty good idea,” Tom breathed.

“Why did you lie?” you asked suddenly, looking up at him. Tom stared at you for a few moments and let out a deep breath.

“I wanted to get to know the real you,” he whispered. “Without you acting different because it’s...y’know, me.”

You scoffed and shook your head. “That’s so fucking hypocritical, Tom.”

The anger came back quicker than you were expecting, but it was like you had been transported to that summer night almost a year ago and your world came crashing down all at once.

“You wanted to get to know the real me, but you were hiding yourself!” you spat, tossing your hands to the sides.

“I know! Okay, I know it sounds hypocritical, but (Y/N), everything else was true besides my name,” Tom said, sounding defeated, like he knew you would never believe him. You stared at him as a few silent beats fell between you, the only sound coming from traffic.

“Why should I believe you?” you finally said, barely above a whisper. Tom took another step closer to you.

“Because, even after all this time, I still remembered your voice,” Tom whispered. You kept your eyes on his as he took another small step towards you.

“And I remembered that this was your home state, which is why I looked for you,” Tom said softly. You could feel his breath against your face now, and you felt frozen as you stared up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“And I wouldn’t be here, if I didn’t care about you,” he whispered. He had a sad look in his eyes, but you were so close now that you were sure he could hear your heart.

“You care about me?” you whispered back, your whisper cracking mid-sentence.

“I care about you so fucking much,” he sighed. Slowly, he brought his hand to your cheek, and just the contact of his skin on yours sent goosebumps throughout your entire body.

“And, I don’t think you would be here, if you didn’t care about me too,” he whispered, his breath gently fanning onto you. And he was right. There had to be a part of you that still cared if you were willing to get on that hour bus ride by yourself, just to see him in person.

You looked up at him, as he gently placed his other hand on your waist, and your breath became hitched in your throat.

“I do care,” you breathed. “I don’t think I ever stopped.”

Tom’s breathing was shaky as he rested his forehead against your own, and being this close to him allowed you to feel every part of him that you always dreamed of feeling. You could smell the clean scent of his cologne, and his curls tickled your forehead. You closed your eyes, listening to the sound of both of your breathing.

“(Y/N)...” Tom whispered. You opened your eyes, enough to see the way his eyes flickered to your lips. “Can I-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence because you had already closed the gap, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that had sent shivers down your spine. Tom kept his one hand on your cheek, and the other on your waist, pulling you closer as your lips moved in sync in a dizzying kiss. The kiss was desperate, and it was as if you were both trying to convey to the other everything that you felt over the past year. As angry as you were about the whole ordeal before, feeling the neediness in his kiss made you believe every word he said. And he was right- you never stopped caring.

His lips tasted like a cherry chapstick, and your hands had snaked their way behind his neck, playing the curls at the nape of his neck. You didn’t think it was possible to get closer to one another, but Tom pulled your flush against his chest. You knew you needed air, but you couldn’t stop.

Reluctantly, you both pulled away, but only far enough so that your lips barely brushed against the other’s.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a year,” Tom gasped, and for the first time in a while, you laughed.

“Me too,” you chuckled. Tom’s lips curled into a heart-fluttering smile before he pulled you back to him, crashing his lips onto yours once more. This time, you couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, knocking teeth as you both began laughing, falling into one another like two halves of a heart that finally became whole.

“I’ve missed you,” you whispered against his lips, looking up and meeting his eyes that were now twinkling.

“I’ve missed you so much, darling.”

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, hiding your smile as you realized how ridiculous this whole situation seemed to be. Two people who would have never met if the internet didn’t exist, and now here you were, refusing to let go of the other.

“What is it?” Tom asked, as you hid your face. You leaned back, and looked up at him.

“Nothing...I just missed hearing you call me that,” you sighed. Tom smiled and pressed a kiss to your hair.

“You can hear me call you that anytime you want, darling.”

You hugged him tightly to you, inhaling his calming scent. In that moment, you knew that this was better than any late night phone call.

part 10

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#tom holland #tom hollander #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #catfish #spider-man #Spider Man: Homecoming #spider-man imagine

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curiositiiii · 4 years ago

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A Day of Differences | Ch 1

Hello, and welcome to the first chapter of my original story. A chapter should hopefully be up every other week or so, depending on how school goes. WTLBF is about a group of superpowered people known as libra, and follows one in particular, November, as she joins a conspiracy to break free of the training facility for all the wrong reasons: to spite a literal manifestation of her inner demon, and to try and impress her longtime crush Chassia. Recurring characters are listed in order of appearance.

WC: 3169

Characters: November (POV character), Lanü, Saffra, Lloy (mentioned), Harper Ren (the evaluator), William ‘Will’ (name not given)

All text in italics in the story itself is dialogue from Lanü. As she’s an internal voice and doesn’t have a physical manifestation in the real world, her dialogue is more like a thought inside November’s mind. For that reason, it’s italicized to distinguish Lanü’s contributions from November’s.

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They’re late.

For what has to be the fifteenth time in the past half hour, I glance at the basic black clock that hangs beside the dorm door. It’s been three minutes since I last checked. Three minutes doesn’t seem like a lot, but it’s an eternity when the speaker overhead was supposed to read off your name in a haze of crackling static no less than thirty minutes ago. Doubly so when punctuality is so stressed that it might as well be the motto of Libra Red. And all this disquieting change combines to make one unnoticeable girl create imprints in the carpet as she paces, anxious.

Relax, child. You’re always so overdramatic. Perhaps Dr. Dai should adjust your medication next time you happen to visit his office.

“Shut up, Lanü,” I murmur. Once again my gaze drifts to the clock. The second hand ticks around with agonizing slowness, and not even a minute has passed since my last check. Great. If she keeps talking, this has the potential to become even worse.

Finally -finally- the loudspeaker buzzes to life. “82-RA20 through 82-RA25, please report to the auditorium for your evaluations.” The speaker is unfamiliar, their voice closer to the overly formal speech of Director Hathwick rather than the chipper, warm voice of the secretary normally assigned to this busywork.

Without hesitation I fly through the door. See, these evaluations are routine, like everything else here in the complex. Everything is exactly on time, exactly the same. There’s a kind of comfort in the sameness. Different doesn’t happen here.

Which means that even though the results of all this different are still going to be the same, there’s a natural curiosity propelling me forwards to go find out the cause of all this difference. Maybe they brought some fresh raspberries to hand out. Perhaps we’re all due for some medical examination. Maybe they aren’t doing the libra evaluations today, a questionnaire or therapy session propped up in its place.

Silly November, Lanü chuckles, amused. Your daydreams are entertaining at least, despite their pathetic nature.

“I don’t recall asking for your thoughts,” I snap at the inner demon. When everything about yourself is pathetic, and more than slightly, it’s just as well that your inner demon decides to criticize nonsensical things like daydreams. Better that than the important stuff.

If you wanted, there’s a way to change all of that… it’s no help to anyone when you lie there and embrace this contemptible lifestyle. Negotiations, however, would be most helpful to your situation.

Like I haven’t already told her a thousand times: “Never in a thousand generations, Lanü.”

You don’t have to be a bitch about it, she whines before fading out, her honeycombed voice disgusted with me yet again.

Behind me, Saffra snickers as she brushes past. The mocha-toned girl’s hilarity is evidenced by the jangling of dozens of beaded bracelets stretching up her wrists. Saffra, official ident 82-RA24, is so small in frame that her entire body shakes from the tremors of stifled laughter. The only exception is her short-cut black bob, held stiff by litres of candied hairspray. At least she doesn’t turn to try and chat. Her contempt is more bearable than her conversation.

A few footsteps ahead of me, she turns, shifty eyes colored a vivid saffron color by contacts focusing on me. My relief came a bit too soon. “Talking to imaginary friends again, November?”

The Memoriam doesn’t bother to say anything else, thank Vera, but instead turns her attention towards my mind. Her effort is useless. I’ve already cleared my head of thoughts except that of my own headspace’s security, and begun the deep breathing exercises every libra child is taught as defense against Memoriam prying. This all serves as an encryption process hiding the rest of my thoughts from the minds of those like Saffra, dropping in just to see what’s there.

Her presence is a throbbing headache, marked by the trademark earthy smell of saffron and sugary sweet, sticky, footsteps that create light, stabbing pains wherever they lead. Every Memoriam has a trademark, just like how every Elemental and Creator has their tic. The ability isn’t there without the other accompanying it.

These three also happen to be the most powerful classes of libra, although this is unrelated to trademarks and tics.

The headache lifts, Saffra evidently growing bored of sifting through nothing. Her pace increases around a corner towards the auditorium, although for all her speed she’ll still be stuck in line one place behind me. My ident is 82-RA23, meaning I’ll be in the middle of the five-person set called up. In the middle of the group, invisible, just the way I like it.

Completely unnoticeable and ordinary, according to you.

According to reality, not me, although even the goddess Vera’s more in tune with reality than Lanü.

At last I reach the expansive auditorium of our year’s campus and settle into line behind Lloy. Up on the stage, feet can be seen moving beneath the dull grey privacy panel that protects the libra undergoing evaluation from the judging gaze of others, indicating that they’ve begun without me. I try not to mind. It makes sense not to follow protocol, to do things different, seeing how they’re so far behind right now.

Part of me minds. That part nags, panic rising with my heartbeat. Different doesn’t happen here after all, it recalls. Different gets you flatlined, at best.

The plethora of other differences start to spring out from around the room. Leaning against the dull cream walls are the Afterthought guards normally stationed around the auditorium on the twenty-first of each month, when our evaluations take place. Except there’s more than usual swarming the space like ants escaping a destroyed nest, and all of them seem tense.

If there’s anyone in the world that shouldn’t be tense, no matter the situation, it’s an Afterthought. Only the eighty most powerful, most competent machines churned out from the Libra camps have the honor of progressing to Afterthought status upon graduation each year. Candidates are kept and trained at the Libra Black facilities, in a cutthroat competition to beat out at least twenty other fellow Libra Black in their year and secure their Afterthought status.

They’re the highest class of libra, the rank we’re always pushed to try for. Incredibly powerful, respected above almost everyone, given comfortable and enjoyable job assignments in fascinating places, with luxurious benefits and short contracts to make it even more worthwhile, becoming an Afterthought is all any libra aspires to be from the time they’re old enough to know what it is.

Many won’t reach it, of course. Anyone who started off in Libra Blue or Libra Yellow, the bottom 75% of libra, never had a hope to begin with. Members of Libra Red though, the upper quarter of libra excluding the hundred selected for Libra Black training, have a shot. Every month after evaluations, transfers up to Libra Black and down to Libra Yellow are announced, as well as the new Libra Reds replacing their spots. This month two or three will probably be announced, since graduation is in a little over a year. Hopefully I won’t be one of them.

November, dearie, your lack of ambition is upsetting. You’re among the most powerful libra in this entire trash locale. There’s absolutely no reason to deny yourself the privilege and power of becoming an Afterthought. Hell, it would be so easy to abandon these worthless has-beens and move on up in the world. One word, darling, and I’m at your command. All it would take-

“No, not now, not ever,” I whisper back, furious, ignoring the sniff of amusement from Saffra behind me.

See, I don’t exactly qualify to become an Afterthought. Unluckily for my potential promotions, I still have a heart.

It’s my turn to climb up the silvery steps to the top of the stage. An Afterthought motions me forwards with one wave of their arm, face hidden behind a reflective visor. Time for this month’s grand performance.

Hurry up, Lanü commands, my slow, steady ascension up the narrow stairs and around the privacy screen too slow for her tastes. I grimace. Here, surrounded by Afterthought guards clad in identical tactical armor, with the evaluator a little ways ahead, I can’t say anything in response. To do so would probably incur a psych strike. And the last thing I need is more visitations to Dr. Dai.

Every month, the evaluations are the same. There’s a comfort to be found in the dull, repetitive nature of our monthly evaluations. They call us up over the speaker in sets of five libra, every twelve minutes. We wait in line, perfectly still, until we’re beckoned up the stage and behind one of two bleached wooden curtains, both of which contain an evaluator. The evaluator sits us on a metallic tripod stool that’s always too tall for me. They are always nondescript. Dark hair of an indiscernible shade, unnoticeable eyes, same navy blue formal wear. They recite from a script, and we recite back. The evaluations are never different.

What was a morbid curiosity has long turned into a dread inside my chest, sucking the rest of me down into its madness. Nothing ever changes. Nothing is ever different at Libra Red. Day in and out, we follow the same routines. Nothing is unique, nobody is special. Different doesn’t happen here. Different gets you flatlined.

Given how unusual evaluations have been so far, it shouldn’t surprise me that the singular evaluator for today is different.

It’s the scar that jumps out first, the faded, angry splatter mark of a burn long since bleached to a pale pink contrasting against his otherwise normal olive skin. The scar encases the entire left side of his face, running from his hairline down over his left eye to the jawline and down the poor man’s neck. When he raises his left hand to mark something down on the clipboard that like all evaluators, he carries, I can see the scar there too, trailing down what little of his forearm is visible and running across the palm, ending in five slender traces on the back of his hand where if anyone held hands with him, their fingers might rest.

I wonder what libra got punished for that. I wonder if their death was merciful.

There’s no question that inflicting such a wound even by accident would have brought death upon the poor child; that much is obvious by one look at the evaluator’s eyes. They’re a glittering onyx, with nothing but stormy contempt behind them. They’re dark as an Afterthought’s armlet, dark as the void, dark as the barrel of a gun.

“Your name is November, correct?” He asks, sounding annoyed. I must have missed him the first time.

“Oh- yes, sorry sir.” Lanü’s chortle bounces around in my head. At least someone is amused by this spectacle.

The evaluator seems unphased, and rather than give a huff of annoyance simply nods at my response. Perhaps he’s amused at my incompetence. “Alright November, we’ll begin with the vitals check. Your sheet also says that a blood draw has been requested, so if you don’t mind spending a few extra minutes here we can proceed with that now. Will that be alright? You may go to the infirmary to have it done after supper if you’d prefer.”

“...That’ll be fine,” I murmur, taken aback. It’s not normal for them to ask. On any other evaluation day, they always demand. Not because they’re rude, or pushy, but because that’s what they’re supposed to do. That’s what the system is. Yet another foreboding difference for today.

A med-tech emerges from behind the velvety red curtains, drawn halfway across the oak stage today to shield the full arsenal of evaluation supplies. Usually the curtains are drawn fully open, so the drama students can practice easily for the upcoming play they’ll be performing for the first time on Switch Day, written and performed entirely by Libra Red. Today they’ll remain half-closed, in blank gaping expression.

“Excuse me, shouldn’t I be sitting down?” I request as the med-tech prepares to draw blood, setting up a folding table to rest my arm against. They’re efficient at their job, and begin to swab down my arm even as they shake their head.

“My sincere apologies, but unfortunately we don’t have a seat for today. As a favor for an old friend, I’m permitting his son to shadow me for evaluations today and as he’ll be here through the entire evaluation process, I’ve offered him the seat. The request was last minute, so unfortunately we weren’t able to find any other stools. Again, my apologies.”

As he speaks the evaluator flicks his pen towards the corner of the privacy screen, where a boy perches in birdlike wonder. He’s recognizable, although from where I couldn’t say. Few people visit us, particularly human teens -we’re government soldiers in training, not a tourist attraction- so it couldn’t be from that. So what piece of pop culture is he from?

The boy’s enlarged eyes, a pale shade of blue-grey, bore into my back as I turn to the evaluator. Blinking, I try to erase the shock of a guest from my mind, although that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still sitting behind me, light chestnut hair in disarray like twigs. Everything about the child, who is perhaps a year or two older than me, is reminiscent of a bird tethered to a tree, yet eager to take in the scenery.

A quick jab of the med-tech’s needle is all the distraction I need. They siphon off three small vials of scarlet liquid from my left arm, slapping nothing but a bandaid atop the wound as compensation. That out of the way, they proceed to take my temperature, heart rate, and blood pressure, as well as perform the quick mental check-up questionnaire that’s part of vital checks.

They’ve been drawing blood samples an awful lot lately. Do you wonder if perhaps your transfer paperwork is being drawn up?

I desperately want to tell Lanü to shut it, but with present company being what it is such an action would be inadvisable.

We’re all out of differences in this odd take on an evaluation, and the evaluator knows it. It’s time to proceed to the part that never changes. With a sigh he runs the pen across the papers on his clipboard. “Alright November, your sheet says that you require a second to demonstrate your ability.”

“That’s correct.”

“80-BA119-G, if you would?”

He phrases it like the boy has the free agency to say no. From behind the same curtain the med-tech emerged from, a blonde boy shuffles forwards to stand three paces ahead of me. His gaze, a watery baby-blue, doesn’t meet anyone’s. At least, that’s assuming the floor can’t see. Dressed in the outfit usually reserved for libra in training -white polo shirt, black blazer, black pants, white pumps- he could pass for a Libra Red in my year if it weren’t for the pastel blue armlet tightly bound over his left bicep, and the two thin blue lines at the hem of his uniform pants.

If Libra Black become Afterthoughts, the most powerful among all libra, Libra Blue is the exact opposite. They become nothing. There isn’t anything left for them after they turn eighteen and become a legal adult. Regarded as a waste of resources, those unfortunate enough to be classed with the bottom twenty-five percent of libra are completely reset once they come of age. A Libra Blue over eighteen isn’t a human anymore, or a libra, since most consider the two mutually exclusive categories. They’re nothing but a robot constructed from flesh and blood and wasted futures.

With an unusual expression of etiquette added on, a ‘please’, the evaluator asks the boy to display his ability. 80-GBA119 obliges, biting on his lower lip as both of his hands suspend mid-air, quivering. In between the palms a shimmering, translucent film of water begins to coalesce. The action takes all of his energy to maintain.

It’s pathetic in a pity-inspiring way. Poor thing. He’s trying his best, even if his best is nothing but a failed joke.

Somewhere nearby a Libra Black scoffs at the spectacle. It isn’t hard to tell why: if this boy can do no more than create a softball of water, a Libra Black with an ability similar would be able to create and control a waterspout from only the vapour present in the Nevada Sector air. Knowing that, poor 80-GBA119 almost seems laughable to me as well.

This is the part of the evaluation that never changes. I already know full well what’s coming, and I can’t stop it no matter how desperately I want to.

Eyes are the portal to the human soul, and it’s his eyes I now inhale, drinking in every detail of their baby blue gaze. They’re closed doors, with no existence behind their mama’s boy blue exterior. Whatever type the portal was, it’s long since been torn down and the pieces burned on the pyre of a Memoriam’s graduation gift.

I always look at their eyes. There isn’t anything left I can do for poor 80-GBA119 now, so I’ll try to preserve what’s left of him. It’s a shame, really. This poor boy is going to die like all Blues do, and I don’t even know his real name to wish him goodbye.

Eye contact won’t form the bond I need, however. Lucky for me, I can look at others without the potential to wreak havoc. Eyes may be the portal to the soul, but vision alone can’t form a bond strong enough to tether two people into some sort of acquaintance, nor form a bond in the psycheplane. Talking or touch works best.

If it was an option I’d prefer to utilize conversation as my means of connection. The bonds it forms are easier to forget after they break apart. But there isn’t any time for that, so instead I grab the boy’s shaking hand, giving it a sympathetic squeeze before letting go. It’ll all be over soon, 80-GBA119.

Nothing forms a connection quite like touch. The most vicious of the five senses, the ability to feel warmth or coolness, the different textures of the world, is often taken for granted. Without the sense, one might as well be blind and deaf and senseless. It’s enough to drive people mad.

“Permission to proceed?” I ask the evaluator, trying not to focus on the boy in front of me and the papery-thin ball of water he maintains. He doesn’t seem to notice that my voice breaks.

“Permission granted.”

And so I close my eyes, ready to begin the blissful, repetitive task of descending into myself and my own personal realm, a sort of fourth dimension known as the psycheplane. It is, as Lanü puts it, Showtime, darling!

#WTLBF #writeblr #writing #creative writing #original writing #YA #young adult #WIP #Chapter 1 #curiostory #idk how to tag lol

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yehet-me-up · 5 years ago

Text

The Play’s The Thing

Pairing: Jongin x reader

Genre: theater/actors!AU, friends to lovers, fluff

Rating: PG13 for language

Word Count: 2,683

Request: "I can't take making love to anyone but you" NINI SMUT FAMKS

‘Fanny! You are killing me!’

‘No man dies of love but on the stage, Mr. Crawford.’

‘You seemed almost as fearful of notice and praise as other women were of neglect,’ Daniel says to you, with undue pomp and circumstance.

He carries on with the rest of his monologue, so seriously and stiffly that you want to snort. You catch Jongin’s amused look from where he stands and almost cave. For weeks he’s shown an almost supernatural ability to make you lose your ass and laugh at the most inopportune times.

But this isn’t your first rodeo; nor is it your first overly self-important acting partner, and you refuse to break character. Fanny Price would be proud indeed of your composure.

Other than Daniel’s overacting, the dress rehearsal goes off without a hitch. Tomorrow night you’ll be on stage again, this time in full costume and make-up, living your dream. The thought makes your stomach buzz with excitement. No matter how many plays you do, it never gets old.

‘I don’t know how you keep a straight face,’ a male voice says in your ear later, in the dressing room.

His breath teases the skin of your neck and you grin involuntarily. You can’t help it, no matter how professional and composed you try to be Jongin has a certain effect on you. When you turn he’s slinging his bag over his shoulder and raising a brow at you.

You turn off the lights at your dressing station and give him a wink. ‘Patience you must have, my young padawan.’

He turns off his own and folds his arms, leaning a hip on the table. ‘Want to run lines tonight?’

Your grin fades. ‘I think we’re both as ready as we’ll ever be,’ you reply quickly. Best to keep your distance from him, now that this is almost over.

Instantly you regret the words as you watch his face fall. Dammit, he looks like a sad puppy dog and all you can think about is kissing his stupidly handsome face. Therein lies the problem; if you go to the bar down the street, or to his apartment or yours, one more time and run lines with him... you might officially fall in love with him.

Which is definitely not going to happen.

‘We could just get a drink then? To celebrate opening night tomorrow?’

You sigh, caving and hating yourself for it. ‘Alright fine. But you’re buying.’

‘Deal.’ He smiles - so easily, so brightly, you wonder how on earth he’s remained so untainted by the world that joy comes so easily to him.

The walk to Mulligan’s down the street is your hell and your heaven all in one. It’s an exquisite torture to be walking down the sidewalk in NYC with such a handsome man beside you, watching the sky paint a colorful sunset

His arm is warm and strong slung casually around your waist. The way he meanders in an out of conversation with joy. Both would make it seem like you’re a couple to anyone passing by.

You sigh as he holds open the door and escorts you to the familiar booth you usually occupy in the corner.

He even orders for you. Not in a possessive asshat way, like he knows best. But with an ease bred from the fact that he knows what you like. It should shock you, that you’d be fine with someone else taking control, but by this point you’re used to being surprised by Jongin.

‘Are you excited for tomorrow? Or nervous?’ you ask him conversationally once the drinks arrive.

He takes a drink and considers the question, his brows tugging together. ‘Hmm, mostly excited. It may only be my second official rodeo, but I think I’m ready.’

‘That’s good, I’m glad. You’ve been working your ass off. If I didn’t know you were still a rookie I’d have thought you’ve been doing this for years.’

He bows dramatically in thanks. ‘What are you most looking forward to about the opening tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow I get to catch you in flagrante delicto with Jennifer Rogers and try not to laugh my ass off on stage. So that will be fun.’ You joke with him, but inside the thought makes you want to punch something.

‘Oh, come on. You know I can’t take making love to anyone but you,’ he counters with a cheesy grin.

His eyes are teasing, but they also drift down to focus on your lips briefly and you feel that frisson of heat that stirs annoyingly whenever you think about kissing him for real, off stage.

‘Easy tiger, Fanny Price is a lady,’ you say with a hair flip. ‘The most she does on stage is kiss. Thank you very much.’

‘She does kiss two different men though,’ he says with a waggle of his brows. ‘Scandalous.’

‘Jerk.’ You laugh and throw a sugar packet at him.

He dodges it easily. ‘So. Who’s the better kisser, me or Daniel?’

‘Who’s the better kisser, me or Jenn?’ you counter rapidly to avoid letting him know how much you love to make out with him on stage.

He holds up his hands in surrender. ‘Touché.’

The waitress stops by and he orders another round and some french fries.

‘You know, I saw her and that AADA prick who plays Mr. Rushworth making out in the props closet last week,’ he says conversationally.

Your eyebrows shoot up. ‘Well, at least it’s on brand, right?’

He laughs easily and takes another swig of his beer. ‘They seem happy. I’m glad for them.’

‘Kind of cliche, don’t you think? Falling in love while performing Mansfield Park,’ you say.

He runs his thumb along a deep groove in the wood of the table, his brows pulling together in thought. ‘I think it’s nice. Life imitating art and all that. Especially when it comes to love. More love is never a bad thing.’

You laugh, too loudly for the moment, and take another sip. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, his lips tugging into a lopsided grin.

‘I know, you think I’m too sentimental,’ he says, holding your gaze.

One day you’re going to sit down and figure out how the hell he gets behind your miles of armor, you think. How he undoes you and makes you more vulnerable and exposed than you’ve ever been. As if there’s something in his cologne or on his touch that makes him your truth serum.

‘No, it’s not that at all,’ you say and swallow around the feelings rising in you. ‘I think it’s sweet that you believe in love so much.’

‘There are as many forms of love as there are moments in time,’ he says dramatically, waving an arm broadly out to his side.

‘Okay fine. I’ll give you that,’ you say pointing at him with the hand holding your beer.

‘You must believe in it to some degree. Even the most cold hearted actress has to have a bit of a soft and sentimental interior. You have to, to do what we do.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He knows how much you hate talking about feelings, but you decide to indulge him. ‘I love my family dearly, natch. My friends. My cats. And I love acting. I’m so blessed to be doing this full time.’

You look around at the dive bar; the faded neon lights, the bikers playing pool in the corner, the waitress carrying a gigantic plate of nachos. You think about your self-described heart of stone and wonder what you’d qualify as love.

‘I love queso, no question. A damn fine cup of coffee. Walks through Central Park when it’s snowing. I love discovering an amazing musical off- off- off- Broadway and knowing it will blow up soon, but I saw it first. Still can’t say I’ve ever personally experienced the kind of love ol’ Jane was so keen on.’

He ponders that while he watches you, a question working its way around his face and you know it’s going to hit you hard when he asks.

‘What kind of love do you have for me, then? Am I on par with queso?’

He doesn’t say it in a smart-ass way. Nor does he say it in jest. There’s something so sincere and open in his face when he asks that your mouth falls open slightly.

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry, and in that moment you see a million ways this could play out. Your creative mind can’t help but imagine endless possibilities.

You could slide back into the guise of the whip-smart, sassy woman you’re comfortable with and tell him he’ll need to buy you more than a few beers to earn the level of queso. Then he will stop looking like every romance lead ever and you’ll put him permanently in the ‘devilishly handsome, talented, and kind, but just friends’ category and all is well.

You could tease that he’s far too delicious to be just queso; that he’s perhaps an expensive dark chocolate. With sea salt. Maybe you’ll watch him with bedroom eyes and lick your lips. Maybe he’ll invites you back to his place and you will have sex, finally. Maybe you’ll get part, but not even close to all of what you secretly want from him.

You could tell him he makes your heart sing and causes you to want all the stupid things you swore you’d never be naive enough to want from a man.

You could tell him you love him more than New York city, damn near more than acting. You could tell him you’ve fallen head over heels for him over the past few months; that you’d even be willing to follow him back to LA when this play wraps.

But… no. He’s not some manic pixie dream boy, here to charm you out of your tough outer shell; or some hero, riding up on his white horse to save you from another night alone in your bed.

He’s just a man who couldn’t possibly want you back, who can’t know how much this question makes you long for things that will never be.

So you look down at your beer to escape the intensity of his gaze and shake your head slightly.

‘Yes, Jongin. I love you like I love queso. You’re equally as good with a beer.’ You give him a warm smile and click your bottle to his before taking a sip.

He chuckles to himself. ‘Are you going to leave me and run off with our oh-so-formal Daniel? Will I be cast aside just like Henry Crawford.’ He clutches his chest like the thought pains him.

‘Excuse me, you’re hardly Henry Crawford.’

He scoffs. ‘What, aren’t I as handsome? As impulsive? As romantic?’

‘Hmmm. Handsome, impulsive, and romantic? Yes, that’s definitely you. But a bastard and a cheat? Nah, you could ever be that.’

The joking leaves his eyes and he watches you curiously. You wonder what he sees.

‘So, you think I’m handsome then?’

You choke on a sip of beer. Shit. ‘Umm. I’m pretty sure anyone with a pulse would know you’re handsome. Aliens on Mars know it. Prehistoric fossils know it.’

He shakes his head, suddenly more serious. ‘No, but you think I’m handsome?’

The change in tone makes your heart race and you awkwardly brush your hair behind your ear. ‘Of course I do. Why does it matter though?’

He looks relieved and leans back in his chair. ‘Because I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the world and I just wanted to make sure you weren’t joking.’

He says it so matter of factly you struggle to accept the compliment. Surely he’s just being dramatic. ‘Ha ha, very funny.’

With a noise of frustration he grips the table and pulls his chair around so he’s sitting side by side with you. He holds your gaze and rests his hand on your knee.

With anyone else you’d be driven mad by how casual and touchy-feely he is. An arm across your shoulders at read-throughs. Nudging your feet with his when you lean against opposite couches at your place. The way he toys with the hair on the back of your neck when he thinks you’re focusing too hard.

‘I’m not kidding. I like you. A lot. You always laugh it off when I say something romantic, so I just assumed you weren’t interested in being more than friends.’

Your mouth falls open. ‘Are you fucking with me?’

He makes the damn puppy dog face again. ‘No, I’m not. I even tried to kiss you once, for real, remember? Backstage after that long night of blocking scenes last week?’

You frown and try to remember. ‘I mean... you helped me fix that necklace that was tangled. And we were standing close, but I absolutely would have remembered you trying to kiss me.’

He looks up at the ceiling and smiles, closing his eyes as if he’s asking for divine guidance. When he looks back at you he seems older, wiser, and more resolved.

‘No, I had my hand resting on your jaw and leaned in. Then you started talking incredibly fast about remembering to face center stage during my monologue and I took that as my queue you weren’t interested.’

‘Oh.’ You laugh to yourself. Has he honestly been just as into me for weeks and I didn’t see it? ‘I figured you were just being nice. You’re really interested in me?’

Once your initial confusion and surprise have passed you get back to the important point at hand. ‘But you live in LA and I live here. I’m older than you.’

Now that you’ve started talking it once again doesn’t feel like you can stop. ‘And I probably make more money, which bothers a lot of men. I’m a morning person and you’re a night owl. And-’

In one smooth motion he lifts his free hand to cup your face and kisses you, cutting you off. He swallows your noise of surprise and works his lips against yours in earnest, his thumb massaging the skin behind your ear.

After a beat your surprise fades and you melt into him. You’d forgotten how amazing kissing someone is when it’s for real and not on the stage.

Then again, you’ve been kissing him for weeks as Fanny Price and he tastes just as true and wonderful as he always does. The way his hand slides up to hold your thigh, however, is definitely not something he’d ever be able to do as Mr. Crawford.

You lean forward and fist a hand in the shirt at his chest, tugging him closer. He smiles into the kiss and you feel his rumble of laughter.

When he’s not being professional as an actor he certainly kisses like he means it. On stage the kisses are prim and proper. Five seconds, timed to perfection. Smudge-proof lip stain, for both of you.

But now that you’re alone he kisses like an earthquake, steady and powerful, decimating your doubt and asking entrance into your heart.

When you pull back, what feels like a second an an eternity later simultaneously, you’re both breathing heavily. He gives you another megawatt smile and you lift your finger to stroke down his neck, in awe of him and the fact that you missed, well, all of this.

‘Does that help your concerns?’ he asked, smug and pleased.

You laugh and kiss his cheek. ‘We’ve got a lot of practical details to sort out. But for now, yes, it does.’

He nods, seemingly unable to stop smiling. ‘Good. About time, too. I’ve been flirting with you for ages.’

‘Well, loverboy. Make good use of those flirting skills and get over here and kiss me some more.’

He laughs and reaches for his wallet, looking for the waitress. When he makes eye contact with her he turns back to you and winks. ‘Let’s go to my place. I want to kiss you in a way that’s far too inappropriate for how much you hate PDA.’

You shake your head in amusement at how well he knows you. ‘Deal.’

#DRABBLEPALOOZA #jongin x reader #kai x reader #jongin fanfic #kai fanfic #exo x reader #exo fanfic #jongin fluff #kai fluff #exo fluff

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pastelgrungewrecker · 5 years ago

Text

Genesis As A Love Story

This is the eye of the hurricane, this is the only Way I can protect my his legacy…

Perceptor stared out the wide window of the observatory-turned-homestead he and Brainstorm had spent the MTO’s final years in. The sky looked dark yet burning, the wind howled instead of whispered.

Something knocked at the door.

They were scuffed and battered- lost and trembling.

They pleaded to be let in; their vocoder corroded and raspy and their hands worn down. Perceptor remained silent, tilting his helm and narrowing his good optic before he finally spoke.

“Why did you come here?”

“You saved one of us, once. You loved one of us, once. Please.”

His optic widened. He noticed the haphazard plating, the twitch of unfit cabling and beckoned the shivering form in before glaring into the cloying evening as it fell. The door shut like an executioner’s axe falling into the chopping block.

Like a guillotine hitting its mark.

They were an MTO, like Brainstorm had been. Born into the fires of the end of the war off an assembly line into a mission that was dead in the water. Off planet factories, hidden springs of life and hazards unknown and Perceptor handed them a fuel ration in silence.

“He called you the Least Warlike Autobot.”

“I was once known as that, yes.”

“I couldn’t think of anywhere safer to go when they raided the facility.”

Perceptor rested his chin on his own hands, thinking. Thinking to the times Brainstorm’s nightmares threw both their sparks into a death-tone spiral; thinking about the whispered confessions from a one time weaponsmaker, a coffin-filler.

“....How many of you are there.”

“Ten of us, the final half-batch.”

“Can you contact them.”

“...Yes, of course- they’re my unit, I-”

“Comm them, now. Give them these coordinates. Tell them to look for the observatory dome, and to come by cover of night.”

The mech looked at Perceptor in shock, mouth opening and closing wordlessly as The Least Warlike Autobot smiled tiredly.

“I did not love one of you once- I still love him. And this... This is something I will do, in his name. Because its the right thing to do. Because it’s what he’d want, I think.”

‘I want to make a DIFFERENCE, Percy!’, echoed in the sniper’s helm, ‘There has to be more than making assembly line weapons, assembly line people... Always war and more war- what about LIVING?’

And so, Perceptor took his place back at the wide, wide window to keep watch. Hours passed, he paced and fueled and calmed the nervous twitches of his new housemate.

The first one arrived in a clatter of unfamiliar wings and wide optics; the scorches of blaster-fire on his plating.

The second arrived with a limp- a cracked Autobrand and wobbling as they stood.

And then a third. A fourth. A ninth. A twelfth.

As days began to pass in blurs of color and sunlight Perceptor welcomed them with a quiet smile. Datapads were activated that had spent aeons in dim silence; lines of styluses slid over screens and there was clattering and clinking in the unused laboratory again.

They called him Sir, and their ranks grew.

They called him Commander, and their ranks grew.

And then, as Perceptor looked over the Observatory that had grown to house almost a hundred and thirteen MTOs from both sides of a broken war, he smiled his tired smile again.

“Call me Professor.”, he said softly, “Call me Professor; and call yourselves students. Scientists. Medics. Cybertronians.”

Word began passing around- to MTOs who feared going out in the daylight; to mechs who called themselves neutral but feared the gazes of old warriors.

And so, the ranks grew. The Observatory grew. The eyes of history turned their fickle gaze towards the one-time homestead as another construction project began.

As a sign, humble yet clean, was raised. As grounds were slowly acquired and purchased and cultured.

Genesis Academy.

The first ten graduated in a simple ceremony- no badges, no sashes, with only their fellow students and a few of their Professor’s friends in attendance. It was First Aid; shuttled in from medical duties scattered across broken galaxies, who painted the first new medic’s sigil upon the pauldron of the nervous First Graduate.

It was Minimus, chest puffed proudly as he saw his two newest apprentices bow low to him before taking the Oath of the New Accord.

It was Drift, soft-opticked for the first time since the war ended who greeted three brightly smiling mechs; packed and ready to follow him into the newly-budding cities as planners and guides.

Perceptor stood with a wide smile, flanked on either side by a new scientist and teacher.

The applause was soft, almost intimate. Perceptor adjusted the spectacles he now wore in place of his old reticule and his backstrut creaked. And then someone in the little crowd turned, and jogged towards the ‘entrance’ of the ‘campus’ grounds.

A dozen new faces, wary and nervous, looked back.

“Professor! New students!”

Perceptor glanced up, and stepped down from the short grandstand built for the small graduation. Rodimus greeted him at the gate with a debonair smile he hadn’t worn in longer than memory.

“I found some new faces, Perce. Got the room?”

Perceptor, as always, thought back to the first time Brainstorm slunk into the lab. Silent and shy and hesitant and wondering who would fire bitter words at him first.

“Always have room, Roddy. Always will. Welcome, students, to Genesis Academy. Let’s get you started.”

One of the faces twisted into disbelief, “But... But we’re CONS.”

Perceptor met their gaze, “Does that matter?”

Silence.

“The answer is no.”, he continued,”This is Genesis Academy, this is MY academy. There are no Bots or Cons here- there are students, and today there are graduates. Come with me- there is a celebration to be had, and then we will begin studies in the morning.”

Twelve hesitant frames followed the sniper-turned-science teacher to the crowd of brighter faces and smiles. A bellow of recognition, a shriek of glee- Perceptor glanced over, seeing a second-stage student bowl a new arrival over with wordless joy.

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD, HALF THE UNIT’S COMMS WENT DOWN-”

Steps creaked as Perceptor rose to the grandstand again and faced the crowd.

“Welcome to the new students, and congratulations to our graduates!”, he said, his university-accented baritone carrying over the gathered Cybertronians, “To my graduates- It makes my spark jump its orbit to see how far you have come- battered and beaten but never broken, all the way to rank and title!”

Ten chestplates swelled in pride.

“I know, deep in my processor- that you will do us all proud. Every single one of us- even the ones who are not present.”

Perceptor cleared his throat, optic dimming.

“All I will ask of you, as a final assignment- do not forget. Do not forget what you saw, what you lived. Do not forgive needlessly, but do not carry grudges longer than you need them.”

A moment of silence, of helms tilted down in respect.

“Now, with my blessing- congratulations on completing your education under my tutelage.”

The First Graduate stepped forward, “A cheer for the Professor!”

Perceptor jumped slightly at the dull roar that rumbled over the grounds; surprise replaced with a fond smile as he swore he heard Brainstorm’s voice in the crowd.

And then, the heavy thud of Whirl and Cyclonus’s steps.

Perceptor froze, and then turned- curious and confused. The last two of his students stood proud and tired and each with one of Whirl’s claws on their shoulders.

“May I present, Sniproscope-”

“PROFESSOR, you mean.”

“Whatever, Percy. But may I present- the first Artisans of New Cybertron; certified by yours truly. And my mech- they have one hell of a final project for ya.”

Both students stepped forward, each bearing one side of a holoscreen projector display.

“Another cheer for the Professor!”, called the one on the left.

The roar returned, as expected.

“And three cheers for Brainstorm of Kimia!”

Perceptor’s spark froze as the projection flared to life....

“Hiya Perce.”

The hologram grinned, popping it’s mask off and showing a crooked smile Perceptor missed more than he could ever say. Holo-Brainstorm laughed weakly.

“I can feel my spark going, Perce. I can feel it. So I’m recording this for you, and hiding it where you won’t think to look until you need it- or until I’m needed again.”

Perceptor’s hand shakily went to cover his mouth, and Drift moved like a flash of snowfall to hold him steady.

“Ratch is gone, and I know it hurt you to say goodbye to him. I could see it in your optic- and I knew one day that look would come back when they lowered me down. Hopefully you remembered what I wanted after all the fancy stuff was done.”

The hologram snorted a laugh, “Fire me into the unknown, and all that.”

A cleared throat, and Holo-Brainstorm stood tall.

“But.... In the event my projector plans can be. Well. Deciphered....”

The students puffed their chests proudly.

“It didn’t hurt, Perceptor. I promise. It couldn’t- I was with you, and that was all I needed. I lived my life, full and grand as I wanted it to be....”

Brainstorm’s smile recreated far too accurately.

“Come here, Percy. I hope, if you’re seeing this, and it’s built the way it needs to be.... I hope this works.”

Perceptor walked forward slowly as the hologram opened its arms. He stepped into the embrace, expecting the buzz of electricity when those arms closed around him-

And then he didn’t.

Firm and so close to real it broke his spark as the tears he had swallowed down since the funeral dripped from his optic- feeling Brainstorm’s faceplates against neckcables.

“I love you, Percy. Don’t close yourself away, okay?”, the hardlight hologram whispered, “There’s still so much to do in a brand new world.”

A soft laugh.

“Maybe start a school or somethin’. You always had a knack for teaching hard lessons... Sometimes with a whack to the helm. I gotta go now, I can hear you upstairs settling into the berth after making it again. I’ll see you on the other side one day; but not too soon, got it?”

A last squeeze, and the hum of the hardlight projection faded away like stardust.

The first new Artisan stepped forward.

“I was able to find most of the plans he hid away, Professor. I... If you grant your blessing, I can-”

“Build them all.”, whispered Perceptor, “Every last one of them. Put them in the world. For me. For him.”

The second New Artisan stepped forward, pulling a datapad from their subspace with what looked like a added memory drive, “I wasn’t much help with the building- but... here at the academy, I learned to love. Well. Writing. And I want to show you the first new title for New Cybertron.”

Perceptor held out his hands, breathing deep and taking the datapad and tapping the screen. It hummed softly to life.

“Genesis As A Love Story In Equations - Or, The Biography of Brainstorm of Kimia; and the Memoirs of His Conjunx and Fellow Crewmates.”, read Perceptor, his voice breaking softly as the words flowed out.

An awkward laugh, “It’s... a clunky title, but. I still have some drafting to do.”

Perceptor looked up, optic blurry and Drift’s hand on his shoulder strong and comforting.

“Thank you.”, he whispered, “From myself.... and Brainstorm. Don’t let them forget him.”

“I won’t- WE won’t.”, was the answer, “He was OUR Genesis; he was the First of us.”

Perceptor exvented softly, his optic closing peacefully as the final words passed from his processor to his spark.

“He’ll never, ever be left behind again.”

#tf #pastelwrites #perceptor #brainstorm #simpatico #big heart hurty

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preface2adreamplay · 5 years ago

Text

Under Your Spell (Part 11) - Surrender

Summary: A Jared Padalecki/OFC/Oscar Isaac fiction.

Stef is a musician, recently gone solo. Happy with her life as a forever single person until Jared makes it his mission to get close to her.

Her ex, Oscar isn’t sure what to make of her new relationship. Should he step in or leave her be?

(For the purpose of this fiction, I have liberated some lyrics from various artists and their videos. This is fiction, with real people mentioned.)

Chapter WC: 2,510

‘And what was the inspiration for this new album, because it seems a far cry from your previous work.’ The DJ had been kind so far. She had spoken to him a dozen times over the phone but this was the first time she had met him in person. Sitting in the small studio, headphones set on ‘small’ but still too big for her head, digging into her ears uncomfortably.

‘Yeah, it’s definitely a heavier sound. Lyrically, it’s not all too far from the last album. As you grow a little older you learn so much about yourself. This time around I looked back at everything that has happened. I’m a single woman living alone now.’ ‘Happily,’ she interjected as the DJ tried to exclaim his disbelief.

‘I’m happily living by myself WITH myself, I suppose. You know the human in you will always have something to pine for from your past.’

‘So you’re saying a happier person wrote these lyrics?’ He held the album up for her to see.

‘Oddly, yeah. No matter how happy we are in life, there is always a niggle there, something will be tugging on your sleeve you know?’

‘I get you. For those that don’t know, I’m talking to Stefanie James, who's new album dropped this week and it is sha-mazing.’

Stef laughed. ‘Never has anyone described it like that, thank you.’ They laughed together for a moment before he started taking questions sent by text.

‘We have one here about your next video, it’s coming out today?’

‘Yes, the second part to Walk Into The Fire.’

‘Aptly named Twin Flames,’ he explained for listeners.

Stef reminded herself not just to nod, but agree verbally.

‘Well, this person is asking if the man/demon in the video is who we think it is?’

Stef groaned, ‘it’s not even out yet and people know who it is.’

‘Jared Padalecki, of Supernatural fame.’ The DJ announced. It was ok at this stage. The label wanted the information out there.

Stef agreed with a simple ‘mmhm.’

‘So how did that come about then? The listeners are dying to know.’

‘He heard I was doing a video through some people I had worked with previously.’

‘Oh so he was a fan?’

‘He was, actually. So he got in touch with my people to see if he could be involved.’

‘How did he hear about it, like how would that come up in a conversation.’

Stef laughed, she loved talking about Jared. ‘We were looking for someone ‘large and imposing’ the idea being that he is a part of me that I’m running away from.

‘He is large and imposing.’ The DJ agreed.

‘But a hell of a nice guy. We have become good friends since, he’s truly a great person. He came out to a show with his friends when we were in Texas.’

‘I can’t wait to see the new video, we are going to play Twin Flames now.’

As the song played on in the background, Stef checked her phone that had been buzzing away in her pocket.

Jared: Hey you’re on the radio, I’m listening

Stef: Stalker.

Jared: Am not…:) You’re talking about ME, I gotta hear how great I am.

P.S. New song is great.

‘Is that Jared texting you right now?’ The DJ mused when the song finished.

‘Yes, he said he loves hearing about how great he is.’

‘Another listener asks if he’s a good kisser?’

Stef swallowed, ‘wtf?’ she thought, then flushed, realising the new video trailer had a flash of them pretending to make out.

‘Oh God, that wasn’t a kiss.’ She blushed furiously.

‘So you don’t know is the answer.’

‘Yeah I don’t know,’ she lied. ‘Probably, if he looks like that he’s gotta be a great kisser.’

‘That’s your final answer.’

‘Yes.’

‘So back to you, coz never mind about that hunk, you are in the hot seat right now. What are your hopes for the new albums. Who would you like to touch with it?’

Stef snorted a laugh, ‘who would I physically touch with it?’

‘Yes, who would you assault with the new album.’

‘Ok, if I could, I would give my drummer Evan a paper cut with the booklet because he has been posting awful pictures of me all through this tour on social media.’

‘I saw!’ The DJ exclaimed. ‘You with how many sausages in your mouth?’

‘Oh god, that was a dare, I can’t trust those guys.’

‘And I suppose I would touch Jared nicely with it. Since he was such a good sport with the videos we shot. I can think of lots of people I could touch with the new album, but we don’t have all day.’

‘A text just came in to say ‘your lyrics have saved me.’ What do you think of that?’

Stef raised her eyebrows, ‘uhhhhhh, I would say I’m glad. It’s a wonderful feeling when you put on paper your thoughts and people like it and people FEEL what you feel, you know? Showing vulnerability and emotion is a strength and that’s what I’ve always wanted to tell people with my music.’

‘Preach it sister. We will all be praying at Church Stefanie by the looks of this new artwork. For the people at home who can’t see what I’m holding, it’s the lovely Stef in what looks like a bespoke headdress covering almost half of her face and a wonderful flowing gown, surrounded by what looks like druids? Is that right?’

‘I dunno,’ Stef replied ‘people standing around me summoning the gods of good music, hoping they throw me a bone.’

‘Well it looks great, thanks for coming in.’

‘Thanks for having me.’

Jared: Stop talking about me.

Stef: I will and you won’t like it.

Jared: True. You having fun?

Stef: Lots.

Jared: Where the fuck are you right now anyway?

Stef: New York.

Jared: You gonna wear that dress for the show tonight?

Stef: Nah, I’m wearing something smaller and tighter.

A short video came through from Jared rubbing his nipples through his shirt, pretending to orgasm.

Stef sent one back of her licking her lips.

Jared: I miss your stoopid face

Stef: I’ll be home before you know it.

Realising that ‘home’ was 2,000 miles away from where he lived with his family gave her pause. She was in New York, where Oscar was currently living. Jared lived closer to her than Oscar did and both were what felt like a million miles away.

Sitting in the hotel lobby by herself, she decided to order a G&T. There wasn’t anyone else in the bar, so she curled up in a comfortable armchair away from the world. It got her thinking about how far away she was from everybody. Her parents had passed and she wasn’t close to any other family. She and Oscar had wanted to live in Canada, living in their own world surrounded by trees and mountains. It seemed perfect when they were younger. Then everything went to shit. Stef found him with another woman just as his acting career was taking off, so she kicked him out.

Finding the perfect home for her and Darius far enough away from everything she had grown up with, in a different country, leaving Oscar behind. Now Darius was gone too.

She lay her head back on the chair and sniffed, feeling a little alone. Grateful for everything she had, she was happy. But something was missing.

Stef never allowed her to think of herself as one part, she never felt like someones ‘other half.’ She was complete as herself.

Being with Jared was raising a lot of emotions she had kept hidden for a long time. It would be typical of her to rip them out root and stem as soon as they dared peek out of the soil.

Her phone beeped, making her jump a little. ‘Get a grip, Stef.’ She mumbled.

Jared: I wanna see you soon. Do you think we can be in the same place at the same time in the next few days?

Stef sighed heavily, sending him on a list of all the towns she would be in within the next week.

‘Drinking early?’

Stef looked up from her phone to see Oscar standing over her, a smile on his face.

‘Oscar! What the hell are you doing here?’

‘You’re in New York and you don’t want to spend every minute of it with me? I’m upset!’ He pulled her to her feet and wrapped her in the tightest hug he could manage.

It was exactly what she needed, she clung to him.

‘You ok? I thought I’d surprise you.’

‘It’s a great surprise.’ Stef assured him, slapping the peak of his cap over his face.

‘Stop it, woman. Two seconds and already you’re making me regret coming here.’

‘Lies.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

Oscar came back from the bar with quite a large beer for himself and another G&T for Stef.

‘Cheers to you and your success.’ They clinked glasses and drank, each keeping an eye on the other.

‘What’s new?’ He asked, still eyeing her curiously.

‘Nothing since the last time I saw you.’ She sipped the ice cold drink, shivering slightly.

‘You could say nothing new since the last time we spoke. Everything has changed since the last time we saw each other.’ Oscar leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs in front of him.

Smug bastard, Stef thought, shaking her head at him. Sure, the last time they met, they slept together for the first time in years and they hadn’t mentioned it since.

‘Well then, I don’t want to talk about it.’

Oscar sniffed. ‘Fine.’

‘I listened to your interview.’ He said softly, chewing his lip.

‘I’ve done so many over the last month, I’m afraid I’m starting to sound like a robot.’

‘Nah, you wouldn’t, you ramble too much.’

‘Do not!’ Stef shot him a look, he grinned in reply.

The following silence was interrupted by her phone notifications.

Jared: None of those work for me, how about I fly out to New York to meet you?

Stef replied frantically ‘Wow when can you come?’

Typing typing

‘Earth to Stef.’

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Jesus, you are completely in love, aren’t you?’ He half sneered, half laughed.

‘No. I’m not.’ Stef felt herself getting angry. ‘I hate it when you smirk at me like that. Stop it.’

Oscar sighed heavily. ‘Sorry. Alright? Can we just have a nice evening. As friends.’

‘Sure.’ Stef said, eyeing her phone to see what Jared replied.

Jared: I come every time you touch my penis.

‘Oh for fuck sakes.’

Oscar frowned at her but didn’t say anything

Jared: I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.

Stef: Can’t wait.

Her stomach flipped in excitement, feeling her palms getting a little sweaty, she rubbed them down her legs, leaning over and placing her head between her knees. Oscar leaned over the gap between them and placed a hand gently on the back of her head.

‘You ok, Effie? Sorry if I’m talking out of turn. I don’t mean to.’

‘It’s not you.’ Her response muffled.

Toying with the clasp of her necklace, he didn’t say anything else. If she wanted to share, she would. He could never force anything from her. She gave what she wanted to give.

‘You hungry? I have a nice place booked for dinner later, you’ll love it.’ Oscar settled back in his seat.

‘I’m so hungry.’

‘You been eating ok on the road?’

She looked up at him, into those big brown eyes she had loved so much, almost a lifetime ago.

‘No. It’s awful. Every time I go on tour I remember why I don’t like it.’

‘Yeah, but every time you do it you get more famous, eventually you’ll be flying in a private jet.’

‘Oh I hope not!’ She scoffed, feeling her mood rising again. ‘I’d hate to be as famous as you,’ Reaching up she took the cap off his head in a swift movement, putting it on her own head.

‘You didn’t shave off your hair!’

‘Nah, I didn’t want to piss you off. I seem to be walking a fine line lately.’

Stef decided not to let him bait her, she just flicked the cap down over her eyes and continued sipping her drink.

‘So...Darius sent me a picture earlier.’ Oscar pulled his phone from his pocket, flicking through his gallery, showing her a selfie of a very pretty girl with her son.

‘Holy shit, is that...’

‘The lovely girl from the party? Yep, she’s his girlfriend now.’

‘That’s so cute,’ Stef started chewing her lip. ‘You did tell him not to make us grandparents, right? I still have a lot of good-boob years to use up before I can be called Grandma.’

Oscar started laughing, seeing the look on her face was priceless. ‘Don’t worry about it, if we are grandparents, so what, it’ll be great.’

‘Would it? You want more children running around? We only got rid of ours.’

Oscar nodded, ‘I’d love more kids.’

‘Really? Stef blinked, surprised.

‘Yeah. But I’m not gonna worry about it. If it happens it happens.’

‘Twenty years after the last one, that’ll be a shock to the system.’ Stef drained her glass, feeling the alcohol going to her head.

‘Are you fit for another?’ He pointed at her empty glass.

‘Go on then, I’ll let you spoil me for an evening.’

Oscar walked to the bar to order the drinks, turning his head to watch her over his shoulder. She was smiling down at her phone, texting Jared. He wondered if she ever smiled like that when she text him.

He thought back to Darius’s party, after they had danced together. Oscar couldn’t help but look at Stef and wonder what their life would be like now if he hadn’t fallen into the grip of the other woman. Darius clapped him on the back to get his attention. He was taller than Oscar by a few inches, it was strange for him to look up at him rather than look down. His eyes were like his mothers, but the rest of him was Oscar.

‘Dad, did you ever think of asking mom out?’

Oscar opened his mouth and closed it again, feeling like a fish trying to gulp water on dry land.

‘Ask her out? Why?’ He asked, feeling sheepish.

‘If I were looking at a girl like that, I’d ask her out.’

‘Yeah but it’s your mom, we aren’t together anymore.’

‘I know, idiot. You two look at each other when you think the other isn’t looking. It’s stupid. Get over it and ask her out. I won’t even be weird about it.’

Oscar nodded, thinking that maybe she would say yes.

Looking at her now, there wasn’t a chance in hell. Not since Jared had wormed his way into her life.

He hadn’t seen Stef happy like this in a long time, he made his choice to just be happy for her.

CHAPTER 12

#oscar isaac #oscar isaac fic #oscar isaac x ofc #oscar isaac smut #jared padalecki fic #jared padalecki #jared padalecki fiction #jared x ofc #jared padalecki x ofc #smut o'clock #smut #o'ready writes #fiction #fanfiction #real life person fiction #real person fiction #real person fic #spn #supernatural

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the-many-worlds-traveler · 5 years ago

Text

In Good Company- Chapter 1

Summary: Virgil Harris had no real aspirations for a professional ballet career. After years of convincing himself there was no company who would accept him, a certain director made him an offer.

CW: Panic Attacks, cursing, food mention, mild drunken Virgil

Author’s note: Finally posting this here! The ballet au no one asked for. There is a glossary of terms and recommended reference videos at the end because I am a massive dance nerd and I adore teaching this subject (sorry). Enjoy!

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

Act 1- Prologue

Lausanne, Switzerland

Prix de Lausanne Competition Finals

Virgil Harris was never one for overstatement. Grand displays, flourish, pop, nothing. He prefers to keep it simple. Whether it be his words, if he chooses to speak at all, or his movement. Why spend thirty seconds exerting unnecessary energy when a simple gesture would suffice. A single word. A look. The sooner it’s done, the better.

Or rather, the sooner it’s done, the sooner he can retreat to the sidelines and pretend he were anywhere else.

Virgil, he likes to remind people, does not like being put on display. Practice was one thing, enclosed in a private studio, surrounded by walls, a door that closed, being around people he was at least passingly familiar with. In the studio he was safe. More importantly, his mind was quiet.

But there he was, moments to his entrance, music swelling, lights blaring and all he wanted was to dissolve into the heavy black fabric of the wings. Or perhaps climb the rope riggings up to the catwalks to make his stealthy escape. But no, his coach was there, hand firmly clasped to Virgil’s shoulder keeping him trapped in place until his turn.

This was not his studio or even a familiar theater. Instead he was thousands of miles from home, forced to perform in front of people who didn’t know him and didn’t care to. Those people out there were there for one purpose and one purpose alone.

To judge him.

The dancer on stage, a lovely, languid young woman in a dazzling white tutu, gossamer fabric floating from her arms, flitted playfully across the stage in the final moments of her solo, a selection from the 3rd act of La Bayadere, Kingdom of the Shades. The most minuscule of steps on the tips of her pointe shoes carried her effortlessly across the stage before bounding into a seamless grande jete leap, cutting through the air. The landing was perfect, utterly silent, taking a knee as if gravity were at her control allowing her to meet the ground like it were nothing at all.

She rose to her feet, applause carrying her to center stage. The young dancer took a deep bow, pointed foot trailing behind her, one hand to her heart, the other gesturing the audience and the judges.

Alright, idiot. Don’t fuck this up. Don’t do it. Don’t go out there. You’ll fuck it up. You’ll fall. You’ll be a-

“Virgil.”

He jerked his head away from the stage and looked to his teacher and coach, Louis Adley. Head buzzing, thoughts spiraling. “Virgil, you’re up,” Adley whispered, planting both hands on his student’s shoulders, eyeing him intently. “Ignore the voices. Breathe. You’ll be fine, kid.”

Virgil gave a ghost of a nod and turned to step to the edge of the wings, steeling himself for what was to come.

The applause died to a murmur, the sound of people shifting in their seats rattled in Virgil’s head, clashing with the god-awful buzzing. He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes and stepped into the light.

His selection of solo variation was an odd one, not commonly chosen for competition as it lacked the usual pomp masculine athleticism, but it suited Virgil and that was probably why it took him all the way to finals.

The Poet’s Dance from Les Sylphides, a ballet made famous by Ana Pavlova when it premiered in 1909. It had only two characters, white ethereal woman called Sylphs and the Poet. It was a simple ballet that relied on emotion and atmosphere over plot and decadence.

This was right up Virgil’s alley. Moody, dark, simple. It was an easy choice for him to make when the choice to compete in the first place clearly wasn’t his to make.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere of the Prix stage was hardly befitting. Stark bright lighting, a plain brackdrop, prerecorded music set to competition-standard tempo. It felt cold under the blazing lights over his head, like an operating theater. Except he was the one being dissected. Every movement of the arms, every slight shift of his foot along the floor was recorded and boiled down to hard numbers.

Virgil caught the eye of his coach in the wings, an eager smile on his face urging him on. The Poet’s Dance asked for a certain feminine grace as he skimmed the floor with luscious turns and pillowy jumps. When he felt his best, Virgil felt like he was floating.

The buzzing in his head quieted and the thoughts melted away with the soothing lilt of Chopin’s score. For a moment, just one quick moment, he forgot where he was and what was at stake. Scholarships, job offers, notoriety on an international level. In that moment, none of that mattered.

But then his eyes caught the judges table, lit by small lamps. Their eyes watched closely, glancing down quickly to jot notes on stacks of cards, each with a competitor’s name and profile. It all came screaming back, the lights, the audience, the buzzing, the damned thoughts. He pushed through, forcing himself to refocus.

Hold on, dammit. So fucking close.

His foot slipped slightly under his weight, causing what Adley later described as the smallest of hiccups in what was otherwise a perfect performance.

The music came to an end and his chest hitched in a mix of relief and panic. He swallowed, stepped to center stage and took a bow before running into the wing, remaining in character until he was far enough backstage that he could no longer see the lights.

Virgil came to a dead stop at the door and leaned his back into the frame.

Breathe. Breathe. It’s over. You fucked up like you knew you would, but you made it.

A low, choked laugh escaped his parched throat at the thought. He pitched forward, bracing his hands against his knees, willing his breath to catch up.

It wasn’t a difficult variation, so why in the hell was he so winded.

Because you’re weak.

He felt a hand rest on his back. Virgil didn’t realize his eyes had been screwed shut so tight so when he finally opened them he saw spots. But beyond that and the sting of sweat in his eyes he saw Adley, crouched down and gazing at him with a soft smile.

“You did good, kid,” his coach assured. “Those dancers out there are impressive, but you, Virgil? You’re a goddammed artist. A regular Baryshnikov.”

Virgil stood upright and smirked. “Man, what a cheesy line. Can we get the hell out of here now?” His coach righted himself and flung an arm around his student’s shoulders, turning them down to the holding rooms. “Yeah, kid. Let’s get you cleaned up. But you’re not allowed to leave until after the awards ceremony.” Virgil gave a petulant, guttural moan and Adley only sighed, patting his young charge on the cheek before giving him a light shove down the hall.

***********

The awards ceremony was always something Virgil actively tried to miss, either by faking some sudden stomach ache or by “getting lost on the way to the bathroom”. Someone always saw through his crap, tidied his hair, and all but pushed him onstage with the rest. The endless talking, the thanking of sponsors, the judges, the audience, the tired words of “how impressed they were by what was likely the most impressive showing of young talent in competition history”. He had heard it all before and he knew exactly why anyone was standing up there waiting through it all. Those cards in the Master of Ceremonies’ hands held the fates of a select few dancers. They were their tickets to the professional world.

Virgil didn’t care about all that. All he wanted was to get out of that sweaty costume, take a shower and sleep for a decade or two. He knew he didn’t belong with any company. No director in their right mind would want such a broody, anxious mess. Regardless, he stood there all the same, poised and “calm” with nineteen other young hopefuls all shaking from the raw, exhausted nerves. The gossamer girl from before his solo nearly jumped out of her skin when the first award was called.

Don’t get your hopes up, Virge. Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t get your-

**********

“The Audience Choice Award! That’s great!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t even place.”

Adley, wearing a crisp navy suit, sighed and pushed a flute of champagne in Virgil’s hand. “Look, you’re walking out of this with prize money and the adoration of the audience. What more could you want?”

“To go home,” Virgil said pointedly, scanning the room full of competitors and shoulder-rubbers. The gala. Almost worse than the awards ceremony. He took a healthy swig of his champagne, willing his chest to loosen up. Here’s hoping enough free drink will do it for him. At 18 it was more than acceptable to drink in times of celebration in Europe.

When in Rome, he thought, swiping another glass from a waiter passing by.

His focus drifted from person to person, catching pieces of stilted conversations. So many people speaking just as many languages- how anyone could carry on anything more than a simple chat was beyond him.

Virgil leaned into a table, not caring if his brand new black suit got wrinkles. He fiddled with the purple faux silk pocket square at this chest and took another gulp out of his glass. He watched Adley talk up a judge from the panel over a tray of cheese cubes. He just couldn’t grasp the concept of small talk. He would pull out his phone, but his parents wouldn’t shell out for an international plan, so stare into space it was. His coach would tire out eventually and walk him back to the hotel. He would have gone back himself if that asshole Adley hadn’t stolen his hotel key out of his pocket when he was changing clothes only to promise to return it at the end of the night. The man had him trapped. Crafty fucker.

He respected his coach. Hell, he even liked him. But damn it all, he was a pain in the ass.

Virgil ran his fingers through his bangs, ensuring his shield was at full strength. No one talks to the emo kids. He patted his back pocket, feeling for his iPod. Crap. That was gone, too. Virgil resolved to dip Adley’s hand in a bowl of warm water after he went to sleep tonight.

“This seat taken?”

Virgil snapped out of his reverie to find a man no older than thirty smiling at him, gesturing to the empty seat next to him. “No man, all yours,” he shrugged. But the man didn’t sit. He just stood there with a smirk, obviously waiting for Virgil to strike up a conversation.

You’re gonna be here a while, buddy. Better keep walking.

The man chuckled lightly and stuck out his hand. “Thomas Sanders. I’m with the Civic Ballet of Florida. You must be Virgil Harris.”

Virgil tamped down the on-coming sigh and the urge to walk away. Adley reminded him to at least be cordial, because “you never know who you could meet at these things.”

“Yeah? Who would want to meet me?” Virgil rebutted.

“Your future, Virgil, your future!” God, this man was a walking cheese fest.

He eyed Sanders from beneath his bangs and let his vision fall to his waiting hand. Fine. He took it and gave one steady shake before retreating a half step back, trying not to bump into the table behind him. “Nice to meet you Thomas Sanders of the Civic Ballet of Florida.” He looked over Thomas’ shoulder to see Adley watching him with a grin, giving him a thumbs up.

“So, uh,” Virgil started, trying to think of what to say next, “Are you a dancer with them? You seem a little old to be competing.” Thomas quirked an eyebrow.

Shitshitshitshit. Adley, his parents, and countless other teachers had chided Virgil for his sharp tongue. It had gotten him into hot water enough to try and keep it quiet, but it was his last-ditch defense mechanism that always seemed to kick in when someone just refused to get a clue and leave him alone.

He was shaken out of his panic by laughter. Thomas was nearly doubled over one moment and tossing his torso back the next with a laugh that can only be characterized as charismatic and… cartoonish? “Oooooh boy, I knew I liked you. No, I’m afraid I’m not a dancer with the company”. He took a steadying breath, righted himself, and looked Virgil in the eye, the effects of his laughter still present in his features. Everything about him was light and easy.

So, who is this guy?

“Anyway, I’ve come to make you an offer. As the artistic director, I’m duty-bound to seek out new talent even if it means trekking far and wide to find it!”, he said, gesturing widely around the room with gusto.

Hold on. Director? ARTISTIC DIRECTOR?!

The buzzing came back with brute force, pressure in his skull and chest building rapidly. He just insulted the artistic fucking director. To his face! His vision swam and the feeling in his fingers was nearly gone. He needed to sit. No, he needed to get the hell out of there. Find Adley, get his key, hide in his bed until kingdom come. Where was Adley? He scanned the room and couldn’t spot him. There was no time for this.

Time to cut and run, Virge.

He felt a hand resting softly on his shoulder and expected to see Adley there. Instead he saw Thomas, smile soft, brows slightly upturned, leaning down a bit to meet his eyes. “You alright there? You look like you’re going to be ill. Too much champagne?” Thomas guided Virgil to the chair the director never took and stole another from a nearby table, placing himself next to the young dancer.

“Can I grab you water? Are you here with anyone?” Virgil shook his head and attempted to level his breathing. He just couldn’t understand why this man was being to kind to him after being so clearly insulted by some snot-nosed kid. He could feel Thomas’ gaze on him but couldn’t will himself to look up.

He could hear the chair next to him creak with the shifting weight. Peeking out from under his hair he saw the man leaning back watching the crowd.

“I always hated these competitions. It’s always about the wow-factor, the tricks. They talk about artistry, but no one ever looks natural or even happy for that matter. No one really wants to be up there. Heh, no one really wants to be here” Thomas took a steady swig from his glass and set it on the table. “Honestly, I only ever competed because my teachers expected me to. And I needed the scholarship money to keep training. It’s exhausting. So, yeah,” he laughed, “I guess I am too old to compete. Just listen to me! I sound like an old man.”

A comfortable silence settled over them. Why this was comfortable he couldn’t pin-point. What was it about this guy?

When the feeling finally returned to his fingertips he sat up and watched the ebb and flow of the ballroom. “Yeah,” he started, “I only came to this because my instructor wanted me to. I’m... I’m graduating this spring and I guess he just wants me to have a fighting chance.”

“He sounds like a good teacher.”

Virgil smiled and rolled his eyes, finally spotting Adley in the crowd. “I guess he is. He’s good to me anyway.”

Thomas turned in his seat to face Virgil, features taking on a more serious tone. “That much is clear. He seems to have trained you well. Though,” he began, “what I saw up there wasn’t a dancer showing off every trick he’s got in one shot. I didn’t see a frantic grab for attention. I saw…” Thomas’ voice trailed off. “I saw emotion. And… a certain maturity that clearly goes beyond your years. You are technically strong, don’t get me wrong, and the polish will come with experience, but there’s another layer to your movement that I can’t quite put my finger on. You’re a bit of a question mark, but I like that.”

The director waited a beat, catching Virgil’s eyes. “I get the feeling you wouldn’t do particularly well in a strictly classical troupe and I’m guessing by your absolute enthusiasm about this whole shebang here you agree.” Virgil thought on that and he wasn’t wrong. He never saw himself dancing big impressive ballets and he definitely could not see himself fitting into the stereotype of machismo male danseur. He never really fit in anywhere, which suited him fine up until now. He would find his niche eventually, but this world of traditional classical ballet wasn’t it.

“Look, Mr. Harris, I’m not trying to sell you snake oil. I like what I see and I firmly believe you have a quality worth developing. And I’m curious to see what you become. Our company is not what you would call ‘traditional’. We’re always looking to explore new and, frankly, unusual ideas in dance. We don’t have to be stuck in the 1800’s staging the same three popular ballets to sell tickets. We’re not afraid to go against the grain and judging by your performance up there you’re not either. All I’m asking is that you give it some thought.”

Thomas stood, brushing off his trousers. Reaching into his pocket he handed Virgil a simple white card with a yellow star logo on the back. “It was a pleasure to meet you Virgil Harris. Hopefully this won’t be our last encounter”. With that, Thomas turned on his heel and stepped back into the crowd.

What the actual fuck just happened. He sat there, dumbstruck and not quite sure what to think next. Going against the grain? If anything, he was so afraid to go either direction that the grain was the least of his worries. Try to be unique and he risks getting rejected. Try to fit in and he’s miserable and will still get rejected. It seemed like a real lose/lose, but still…

Virgil downed the last of his glass and shook his head. Shit, he just offered you a job and you’re just sitting there like a moron. Say something, you idiot. Quick, before he changes his mind.

“Mr. Sanders?! Hold up.”

Virgil stumbled out of his chair, the champagne obviously having gone right to his head. Thomas turned back puzzled as he watched the little drunk fledgling scramble free of the chair. “I’m sorry for earlier. I, uh, I’m not great in social situations.” He took a deep breath before soldiering on. The job was his. All he had to do was ask.

“Would it be possible to, uh um, you know… View rehearsals at some point? You know, (stop saying ‘you know’) to get an idea of what you guys do?”

Thomas took a step forward and held out his hand once more, unable to hide his excitement. “Come take company class over your spring break. I think you’ll find you feel right at home.”

Virgil slid his hand into Thomas’ and shook. In one month he would travel to Florida and see it all for himself.

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

Glossary of terms: Prix de Lausanne- An annual international youth ballet competition in Lausanne, Switzerland for pre-professional dancers ages 15-18.

Variation- A short dance interlude common in classical ballets.

Grand Jete- (French) Large Throw- A “split leg” travelling jump that carries the dancer across the floor.

Wings- Large fabric panels dividing on and off-stage.

Video References: La Bayadere Shades Variation- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n8INJnPDzy4<br /> Les Sylphides Poet’s Dance (with Baryshnikov)- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yl0FIXUFTvM

#sanders sides #ballet company au #teen!virgil #needs more ballet

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comicgeekscomicgeek · 6 years ago

Text

Their Hero Academia: Chapter 13

Raw and unedited (especially until I get Chapters 14-16 written to upload along with it), but I finished the 1st draft tonight and I’m pretty happy with how it turned out. Especially with switching to some new protagonists. Chapters 0-12 can be found here:

Their Hero Academia – Chapter 13: Takuma Sero Makes a Show of It

If there was one thing Takuma Sero liked about living in the dorms, it was the sense of privacy. Sure, there were fifteen other people living in the dorms, three others on his floor, but compared to his home, that was nothing. Between his parents, his three younger brothers, and baby sister, there was always somebody trying to butt into whatever he was doing. At least on his floor, all he had was his best bro Kenta Sato. Daisuke Shoji simply kept his head down and Takiyo Aoyama had made it clear early on he had no interest in “whatever nonsense you two are getting up to.”

As if trying to become the next internet sensations was nonsense.

Which reminded him… he really ought to check their hit counter. With Kirishima-Bakugo out of the cafeteria yesterday, he’d actually been free to host a new round of “Will Sato Eat It?” without fear of being exploded or having her tear his arms off. He was actually pretty certain she wouldn’t do the last part. Their parents had been friends for decades and he was on reasonably good terms with her most of the time. But yesterday had been pretty impressive as far as the game went. Kenta had eaten a soup bowl, a baseball, a rock, and a tire that someone had somehow managed to get into the cafeteria.

Kenta’s dad had broken it up after that, with a threat to report their antics to Aizawa if they kept doing it. And Kenta had gotten a talking to from his dad later on about irresponsible Quirk use and making a spectacle of himself. At least the elder Sato had learned the futility of trying to rat them out to Takuma’s parents. His mom was one of the most Instagram-famous Pro-Heroes in the business. She actively encouraged his aspirations. His dad was just vaguely puzzled by the whole thing and just let his mom take the lead.

Checking the video upload, he found that the hit counter was already in the thousands. Wisely, he opted not to look at the comments. It was like his mom always said, “Never read the comments.” Sure, you got a validation high from some of it, but there were way too many trolls and mudslingers to make it worth it.

Takuma broke into a grin. “Yeah, we’re gonna be famous. Just you see. Heroes and entertainment sensations.”

He checked the time and found he still had nearly an hour before class. Plenty of time to finish getting ready. There was also the matter of homework he hadn’t quite completed, but he could probably copy the answers from somebody, at least enough to squeak by. Math was going to be the death of him. He understood numbers well enough, but once you started getting letters involved with numbers, his brain just refused to track any of it. It had nearly sunk his entrance exam score, but he’d managed to just barely pass that. A good practical exam score had done wonders for making up the difference.

Twenty minutes later, he was out of his room and ready to go. He did not have the world’s most developed fashion sense (much to the regret of Kimiko Ojiro, his other best friend, who had declared him “the worst gay best friend ever”), but he had an entertainer’s sense for showmanship in his appearance. He spotted Kenta coming out of his room and gave him a double finger guns.

“Sixty-five hundred hits in less than twenty-four hours, my man!”

“All right!” Kenta said, giving him a fist bump. “That’s twice as many as the last video!” He let out a burp and clutched his stomach.

“You okay, man?” Takuma asked.

Kenta shook his head and burped again. “Heartburn and indigestion. Dad says just because I can get anything doesn’t mean I should.” He grinned, thick lips pulling back to reveal his perfectly white teeth. “But I say it’s a small price to pay for being famous.”

“More famous in your case,” Takuma told him. Kenta was already a good bit famous from all the times he appeared in pictures and his stories on his father’s “Food and Family” blog. According to his mom, it was crazy popular with single moms.

Kenta waved it off. “That’s really Dad’s thing. This is ours!”

Takuma was about to begin discussions of the plans for their next video when he was distracted by the sight of Daisuke Shoji walking back to his rooms, clearly having come from the showers. The six-armed boy was only wearing a towel wrapped around his waist, his silver hair still damp, and a small about of moisture still visible on the muscles of his arms and abs. He nodded politely to Takuma and Kenta on his way back to his room. Takuma kept watching until Shoji’s door closed.

His trace was broken by Kenta giving him a small shove. “You okay there, bud? Kind of went away for a little while?”

He sighed. “Why are the hot ones always straight?”

Kenta gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Hey, there’s lots of other guys at U.A. You’ll find somebody. Or you could always try online dating?”

Takuma made a face. “I’m not that desperate.”

Anything further was interrupted by his and Kenta’s phones buzzing. Both checked and he saw they had identical texts from the school’s emergency alert system.

Homeroom has been cancelled. All first-year students should report to the Gran Torino Memorial Auditorium at 0800.

Kenta gave him a curious look.

“Don’t look at me, man,” he said quickly. “I haven’t broken any rules that would cause a grade level assembly.”

“This school year,” Kenta said. “I still can’t believe the time you…”

“Don’t remind me. I’m still barely out of being grounded for that.”

“I think that was the first time I ever actually saw your parents punish you.”

“Oh, would you look at the time, we should really be getting to the Auditorium!”

***

“Any idea what this is about, Takuma?” Kimiko asked. He assumed she was looking at him, but honestly, even after having known her all his life, it was hard to tell.

He shook his head. “Beats the heck out of me.”

All around, the other seats in the Auditorium were filling up with the first year students. There were the three Heroics classes, three General Ed classes, three Support classes, and three Business and Management classes. Sixteen students each in the Heroics, twenty in each of the others, for one hundred eight students total left the auditorium about half full.

Down on the stage, he could see the majority of the teaching staff. There were the three Heroics Homeroom teachers, Aizawa, Super Ball, and Battle Fist. There was Power Loader, the aging director of the Support courses. Word around campus was that he was considering retirement after experiencing the Iida Twins. And there was FireFox, their math teacher; Hawkeye, their English teacher; Figure Sk8, the dark-haired daughter of the Twins and Izumi’s uncle and aunt, who taught their Science classes; Palette, the paint-themed Art History teacher; and Hopper, Tokoyami’s uncle and their Literature teacher. There Hound Dog, the school counselor, Vice-Principal Midnight, and even Kenta’s dad. He also spotted Doctor Izumi sitting with her husband, Kota, the Rescue Hero and Rescue Instructor called Water Spout (or, at his mom embarrassingly always referred to him, “the first man to see me naked”) There was also All Might, and several teachers he didn’t know, who he presumed taught some of the classes taken by the other courses. Whatever this was about, they were taking it very seriously.

And slowly approaching the podium, leaning heavily on his cane, was Principal Nezu. Takuma wasn’t sure if he was a rat or a bear or possibly some kind of creature from Australia (or was it Austria? Whichever one had the kangaroos. Those were real, right?), but he understood that the old animal was crazy smart. He’d guided U.A. through some of its roughest years and managed to still come out on top.

“I am sorry to interrupt your usual class schedule,” Nezu began. “I know your studies are of great importance to you all. But after the events of the last few days, both here at our school and elsewhere, we have been made aware of events which you all deserve to know. The Center for Quirk Research is expected to make a statement later this morning, but we thought it might be best if comes from us.”

He took in a breath and continued. “The CQR has discovered, working in conjunction with several Pro-Heroes, the existence of a virus which causes the victim to lose control of their Quirk. It appears the Quirk is… man made.”

Any side conversations that had been going on were immediately silenced.

Nezu went on. “After an as yet unknown incubation period, it causes a power-flare up during which time the user’s Quirk will activate out of their control. This lack of control appears to last an indefinite amount of time, but appears to be a onetime flare up. Unfortunately, even as the number of cases are growing, information is scarce. There appear to be no obvious early symptoms and we are unsure how the virus is being transmitted. At this time, it appears that only Emitter and Transformation type Quirks are effected.”

A ripple went through the crowd as the full impact of the Principal’s statement took effect. Anything that could do that is dangerous indeed. From the time they were young, they’d always been taught about the importance of controlling their Quirks. And now something could just take that away…

“That’s… that’s not good,” Takuma said. Absently, he rubbed the patches on his right hand where his Acid Tape came from. His Quirk was technically a Mutation type, since he had slightly different physical structures to allow for it. But his mom was an Emitter type, so were many of his friends. So were a lot of people out there in the world. And there were lots of people out there with really powerful Quirks. What if somebody like Ground Zero or Deku caught this thing?

“We’re… we’re okay,” he heard Kimiko say. “Not… not like I can get more invisible.”

“Hey,” Kenta said, “it’s gonna be okay. People’re smart. They’ll get this figured out.” Kenta’s dad was an Emitter type too, he recalled, even if Kenta’s own Quirk was a very minor Mutant type.

Nezu continued, “We are able to run tests for the virus and will be doing screening following this assembly. However, as there are no tell-tale symptoms prior to manifestation, we urge you to talk to your teachers or Doctor Izumi should you have any concerns. We will be doing everything we can to protect you, which includes providing you as with much of your usual structure as possible. Classes, including Heroics courses, will continue as normal. Rest assured, everyone is doing everything they can to get to the bottom of this. But at this point, cases are isolated and sporadic. We advise caution, but there is no need to panic.”

Takuma made it a point to never take life seriously. But for once, that didn’t seem like such a good idea.

***

“You heard what the Principal said,” Aizawa said, after they had returned to the classroom. “The moment you feel anything out of the ordinary or even suspect that something might be wrong, I expect you to tell me or another teacher. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Mister Aizawa,” the class said, nearly as one.

“Good,” Aizawa said. “Now, we are going to proceed as normally as possible. Which means we have a little bit of business to settle. Choose a class representative. I don’t care how.” He zipped himself into his sleeping bag and disappeared behind his desk.

“Well,” Midoriya said, “I think we should probably vote on it?”

“I vote Toshi!” Shota Shinso cried out.

“Toshi,” Asuka Tokoyami agreed.

“I’ve got to go with Midoriya too,” Isamu Haimawari said.

“Toshi has my vote as well,” Izumi Todoroki added.

“Guys… Shouldn’t this be a secret ballot?” Midoriya asked quickly.

“Too late now,” Takuma said. “Besides, I think we all know you’re gonna win it.”

As much as he loved the spotlight, he loathed responsibility. Better Midoriya than him any day. Besides, it would take away from his own pursuits. And Midoriya really was good at taking charge and helping people who needed it. Guy wanted to help the whole world, even more than the average Hero-in-Training.

“Personally, I think moi would be best,” Takiyo Aoyama said.

“Oh, give it up, Frenchie,” Mika Mineta told him. “Midoriya’s definitely the best shot at this.”

“I fear I must agree with the rest,” Akaya Koda told Aoyama. She really seemed to be one of the few people who could stand the arrogant blond for more than a few minutes. She must have had the patience of a saint.

“Going with Midoriya here too,” Kenta said.

“Yep, me too,” Chihiro Kaminari added. “And Tokoyami for vice-rep while we’re at it.”

“I like those ideas!” Kimiko said. “Both of them!”

“Makes sense to me,” Shoji said.

“This is highly against protocol,” Tensei Iida said. “But I cannot argue with the consensus either.”

“My younger brother is correct,” Sora Iida said. “I agree with the conclusions drawn.”

“You really must stop using that qualifier! I am only younger by three minutes!”

“It is scientifically accurate! Do you dispute this?”

“It is needlessly semantic, and yet I cannot argue with the precision!”

“If I agree, will it shut them up?” Katsumi Kirishima-Bakugo asked.

Motion was carried. Midoriya and Tokoyami were their class reps.

Takuma belatedly realized that probably gave them some kind of power of his and Kenta’s antics, but that was their problem, not his. Besides, it was worth it to see Aoyama pout.

***

“Hua-whah!” Even though Takuma had practiced swinging from building to building by using his Acid Tape many times with his dad, doing it always made him feel like his stomach was going to flop out of his mouth. It didn’t help that his Quirk was more complicated than his dad’s. The elder Sero only had to think about shooting out his Tape until it hit something. Takuma’s Acid Tape meant that he had to be continually concentrating both on dispensing more tape and on maintaining the properties. Since he could make it anything from slick to sticky to acidic, that meant he had to do a lot more concentrating. And doing that while ten stories up made it all the more problematic.

Even if it was supposed to be a simple Heroics exercise in cityscape navigation. All they had to do was make it from one end of the faux-cityscape as quickly as they could. For quite a few, like Kimiko, Kenta, or Koda, there wasn’t much more they could do than run as fast as they could. Others were doing a much more impressive job. Midoriya was bouncing with leaps that were easily carrying him, the Iida Twins were blasting through the air, and Haimawari was zipping through the streets. And somehow, Kirishima-Bakugo had gotten herself up on the rooftops and was parkouring herself through the course.

Takuma let himself go flying through the air for a moment, before shooting out another strand of Acid Tape. It stuck to the fire escape and as he began to swing, he could feel something go wrong. With a sickening sound of tearing metal, the piece of the fire escape he had snagged with his tape snapped and broke, sending him falling!

He shot out another strand of Acid Tape, trying to save himself, but instead of snagging a lower portion of the fire escape, it melted right through it. He’d made it too acidic! He was gonna die! He was never gonna reach a million followers! Involuntarily, he felt his eyes close.

And just as suddenly, powerful arms caught him and he was rising. So he was dead then, and the angels were carrying him away. Good-bye world, he only regretted that he not let more of you gaze upon his awesomeness…

“Are you all right, Sero?” a voice asked. “I was afraid I would not be able to match your falling speed without causing you injury, but I believe I was able to calculate something close enough…”

An angel who apparently sounded just like Tensei Iida. He chanced opening his eyes and the first thing he saw was himself, reflected in the chest plate of Iida’s costume. Looking up, he saw a silver helmet. Definitely Iida. Which meant he wasn’t dead? He was alive! He could still get that million followers!

“Sero?” Iida repeated. “Are you all right?” He slowly started reducing power in his jets, letting them drift downward.

Oh, right. He needed to answer his rescuing angel’s questions. “Oh, ah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said, finding himself stumbling over his words. “You really saved my ass, there, Iida. Thanks.”

“Of course,” Iida said. “As your friend and classmate, not to mention as an aspiring Hero, it is my duty.”

“Well, right now, you’re my hero, Iida.”

Inwardly, he groaned. Was he really saying something that stupid? Apparently, he was. At least Kimiko and Kenta weren’t there to hear it. They’d never let him hear the end of it.

***

The Iida Twins could be found in the Common Room, pouring over blueprints. Usually, the Twins spent whatever free time they had in the Support Workshop, but according to Sora, Power Loader had kicked them out under out under threat of unspecified punishment, all because they had “accidentally used too much power and caused a few small explosions and fires.” So the two had returned to the dorms instead to work on what they could.

Takuma, Kenta, and Kimiko peered from around the corner at them.

“This is a really dumb idea,” Takuma said. “And I know all about dumb ideas.”

“If you were doing this for me,” Kenta said, “you’d be making your “good idea” face. The one that always means it’s something that’s going to get us in trouble.”

“Besides,” Kimiko said, “this is for romance! We’ve got to! You’re cute, he’s hot, you’re pink, he’s got pink hair, I’m gonna call you Pinky-Squared!”

“We don’t even know if he likes guys! He could be into girls! Or machines! I’m gonna make a fool of myself!”

Kimiko slapped him upside the head. “That’s loser talk!”

“You want us to film it?” Kenta asked. “You’re good in front of a camera.”

Takuma went a paler shade of pink. “…No. Definitely not. I do not need this preserved for posterity if it all goes south.”

“Look, this is the most romantic thing to happen since school started,” Kimiko told him. “So you are not chickening out now! Kenta and I are going to get Sora out of the room and you are going to ask Tensei out! Do you understand!?”

How someone whose face he couldn’t see could have such an intense glare, he didn’t know, but her tone suggested that there was no arguing with her.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s do this!”

***

I can’t do this!

With Sora out of the room (he was so stressed he literally could not remember what excuse Kenta and Kimiko had used to get her out of there and he had seen it literally seconds ago), Takuma was free to make his move. His smooth move. His ever so smooth move. He was the king of smooth.

He was not smooth.

As casually as he could, he approached the table where Tensei was still working. “Oh, ah, hey, Iida,” he said. “Ah, thanks again for saving me like that. Pretty sure I was on my way to being a pile of pink goo.”

“The fall was not nearly enough to reduce you to goo,” Iida said, looking up from his blueprints. “But it would have been very messy all the same. I am happy I was able to prevent that.”

He rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, well, either way, I appreciate it.” He frowned, trying to think of how best to proceed. “So, uh, what are you working on?”

A very crazed (and very attractive) grin spread its way across Tensei’s face. “Modifications to Sora’s and my Hero costumes. After training yesterday, we came up with several potential ideas to improve performance and work with our Quirks, such as a more adjustable wing system and potential storage for emergency supplies of apple and grape juice.”

“And that exploded?”

“Oh, no,” Iida said. “That was the idea for a capture-weapon to add as an additional support item. We may have made the propulsion element a little too strong. Power Loader apparently believed that we would benefit from some time away. But I do not see how we can improve our designs to their fullest without practical, hands on work. And we cannot do that if we are banned from the workshop for a week.”

“That sucks, man,” Takuma agreed. It’d be like someone telling him he couldn’t upload stuff to the ‘net. A guy had to have a passion, after all. “But, ah, I guess that means you’re gonna have some free time?”

Iida frowned. “Unfortunately, yes. There is only so much we can do without the space to put theory into practice.”

Okay, it was now or never. He could be brave! He had this!

…He didn’t have this!

He had this!

He didn’t have this!

He had this!

“So, um…,” he said, “if you’re gonna have the free time… maybe you’dlikespendingsomeofitwithmesomewhere?”

Iida blinked. “I… don’t think I caught that, Sero.”

He took a deep breath. “I was thinking, if you were gonna have free time anyway… maybe you’d want to spend some of it with me? Somewhere? Like a date?”

Iida’s eyes widened in surprise and for once, it looked like he was at a loss for words. “I… I would like that very much, Sero.”

He had this!

#their hero academia #my hero academia #fan fic #My writing #fan fiction

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daydreamingdust-blog · 6 years ago

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Shadows

[Act I]

All that could be heard now was the timeless roar of the river cascading over a tall cliff of white stone, illuminated to a blinding extent by the harsh sun, even filtered through the trees above. It was a warm sunlight today, mixing well with the summer air on skin, warming the water, bleeding into the lush plant life that thrived here. The insects, the birds, the sirens wailing in the distance, were all silenced here by the waterfall. I could stay there forever, conceptually. In reality, I would have to leave this place and never return.

Being hunted has never felt so freeing, so absolutely exhilarating quite like it does right now. I finally pushed back on them, I finally ended the passive aggressive dance we’ve been performing on the world stage for the past 20 years. I finally showed them all that I’m an individual, I won’t be joining their huddled masses to become another shifting-shambling shadow of a man, stepped on by a thousand hungry souls drifting from point to point in a world designed to breed them a million, billion times over until they sink back into the blackness and the dust that they were born of.

I finally, finally pushed back. I remember my victim so clearly. There was little provocation above the norm; one of them stared at me with their sunken pit-stain eyes and featureless, smooth meat sockets that pockmarked their faces. I was on the bus on the way to center city, just trying to make peace with this world, just trying to show them that I can move freely in the Outside despite their oppression. But this one had stared at me too long. As its tiny mouth hung slightly open to release that droning, buzzing, horrible sound they always seem to emit, I lost my composure. I snapped. My fists came pounding down on those sockets as if I were trying to punch through the creature, and I was. I kept pummeling and pummeling, all the other black figures shifting backwards as if to give me space as I continued my assault. My fists were stained with a fluid that I would come to find impossible to wash off; it ran onto my white T-shirt, a dark, muddled collection of streaks that would mark me forever. The poor creature gurgled in a pool of this liquid on the ground, its limbs convulsing as it struggled to make that horrible gasp.

Before more of them could react I threw myself from the now-stopped bus and hit the sidewalk running. Running past the ones already outside, I heard them hissing and shrieking their unintelligible language, shifting back and forth and out of my way as I barreled away from the bus. There were only a few blocks until the edge town so I kept sprinting, determined to get out of this world. As I came around a corner my knee caught the chin of a shorter one, sending it flying backwards until its skull made contact with the pavement and that same dark fluid poured from the point of impact. Some taller ones had been walking beside it, and rushed to the injured one’s aide while I kept running. A dark, chilling wail escaped the now gaped mouth of the first to reach the wounded creature, and another started to chase me.

Within minutes I was approaching the edge of the city, where man made constructions met the forest. With a few creatures in hot pursuit, I entered the forest’s edge to make my escape. One of them, mere breaths behind me, seemed to have a personal vendetta as it screamed with a voice that sounded as if it were melting out of his throat and shambled after me, tripping over tree and limb and rock. I nimbly leapt over my obstacles, the sounds of a nearby waterfall crescendoed more and more deafening. I knew I would need to change my path, but this screaming mass of flesh and hatred would make it difficult.

When I could hear it falling behind I dared glance back for a moment. We were alone, and decently far in the woods now. It was leaking from a few places, that horrible, staining fluid pouring all over the forest floor from the injuries it sustained in my pursuit. Despite these wounds, it appeared to be just as determined to bring forth my end in a soulless, terrible killing. I pressed on to the edge of the waterfall, barely stopping myself from careening over the cliff to my death. The water ran past my knees and felt cool, refreshing; invigorating. Standing in the riverbed now I stopped to give the beast a taste of it’s own medicine; I met its empty eyes with a cold stare of my own. Its mouth opened to release a lower, rage-filled roar. Its hands were fists now, its stance offensive, arms raised. With everything it could muster it charged directly at me. I barely avoided the shifting mass as its fists blew past my head, and with so much power behind the blow it couldn’t keep balance. The beast fell past me and screamed the whole way down. This river fell on rocks; this creature wouldn’t be coming back for me.

The sirens from the city were slowly fading as their semblance of a police presence scattered and scrambled through the city, unaware of the direction I had fled in. I knew it was all a farce, a mouthful of spit in the grave of humanity. These things were a gross caricature of a functioning society - they might appear civil from afar, with schools and grocery stores and bars and sports teams and vacations. But at night they tore each other apart, all over the world. They made kings of their false idols and put the darkest and most corrupt shadows on the world throne to govern and to rule, ensuring this cycle could never be broken. I saw them in the frenzy of violence more than once myself, and that’s when I accepted there were no humans anymore. They could never be reclaimed from the shadowy forms they’ve embodied. This horrible, worldwide dance of ritualistic chaos had consumed humanity, and I was the last one left to witness what the damned had become.

And now I’m going to be hunted to the ends of the earth for lashing out. No matter the violence, the horrendous sins they performed on themselves, my single transgression had not been in private and for that I would be damned to them as they are Damned in the eyes of God.

[Act II]

I saw faces in them... real, human, breathing faces.

These visions came in small shocks whenever they stabbed me. I was restrained in a small room with a low hanging fluorescent light that was always on, strapped to a metal table with a firm cushion underneath my head. Thick rubber bands were used to keep my head, arms, and legs in place while they came in and out every so often to prod and probe. I was completely naked, but the climate of this room was controlled extraordinarily; I never felt so much as a draft, even when the heavy metal door opened and shut.

These things were all tall, thin, and breathed heavily. They all looked the same - sort of fuzzy, with nondescript facial features that seemed to run together smoothly, as if a river had run over them for a few centuries, eroding the nose and the brow and the lips to a parallel. They wore lab coats and harnesses with tools wrapped around their waists, and whenever their sparse lips creaked open they all emitted the same horrible, horrible hiss. A shambling drone of sound, as if instead of vibrating inside their throats their vocals cords were rubbing against each other; a field of browned sawgrass, blades rubbing against each other as if to start a fire.

But the flashes of humanity I saw in them... I knew they were trying to change me.

This must be how they see each other, and these experiments, these needles, these drugs are all meant to make me see like they do. And they’re convincing. One of the faces was even pretty; she had freckles and pale, rosy cheeks holding up soft green eyes, and sometimes I would see her brushing locks of amber hair out of the way as she examined me; puncture wounds from the needles still fresh. But that was all I had; a few seconds of these faces which felt more like a memory than real life events.

It was all a lie, a lie that made me angry. These creatures were intruders breaking into my mind, ravaging the fabric of my reality. My mind and my body were separating in this room with every hour, day, and week that passed. The flashes of humanity I saw in them grew longer and more hyper realistic, and I was sure it was part of their process to convert me. They were going to get longer and longer until i saw them like that all the time, and then they’d offer me back my place in society.

I didn’t want that place back. The apartment, the bicycle I rode through my city streets when I was feeling athletic, the bus routes, the dead end job; all permeated by these shadow creatures and their pervasive auras. It wasn’t safe out there for me, out there, in here, anywhere. Now that I’ve committed a crime of passion in the eyes of the world they would pursue me to no end.

The next time the needle tasted my flesh I saw something different entirely. I was no longer in the operating room, and I no longer felt bound. The sky above me was blood red, and below me my feet were sunken on a white sand beach. My pale skin nearly created a camouflage effect, and I imagined if I were to lie down my naked body would be difficult to spot out here. I didn’t feel the need to hide, however. I felt safe and calm looking up at the cloudless sky, however ominous the hue might have felt. And when I looked down, I felt something that brought me only sheer delight and euphoria.

There were creatures everywhere on this beach, strewn about lazily like some impatient god had left them here, uncaring enough to stack them neatly or organize them by height or whatever else a god does. They were all facedown, some in the waves, others in the sand, others on top of others. And they were dead, all dead from exsanguination. They oozed their dark vital life juice all over this beautiful white sand beach, and the stuff soaked the ground and the rocks and the shells and mixed with the waves and amassed in pools where the sand grooved to prevent it from joining the ocean. So many, too many to count, and they could never cause me problems again.

I knew this couldn’t really be a god’s doing. After never making an appearance for all of my life this wouldn’t be their first. But I did see my own hands in this work, and the sense of fulfillment this scene gave me made more sense. This was the flesh of my creation. My Sistine Chapel. My hands were stained dark from my first victim on the bus, but now they were as dark as any of those bodies on this stained beach. Corpses. Bodies was too light, as if one of them could still rise up from their final resting place and taunt me again. I’ve made sure they couldn’t. I put an end to everything that caused me to suffer at last.

It was just a vision. When the vision ended I was out of my restraints, surgical knife in my hand pressed against the writhing, gasping, shadowy throat of a creature dressed in medical garbs. Its screeching was getting louder, more desperate. Oil dripped from the point of contact the knife made with its skin. I was free again. This one was at my mercy. This world would be at my mercy.

As I pushed the blade slowly into this foul creature’s neck, I heard another sound from the end of the room. The door handle was beginning to turn. More of them would be in here very soon. I have work to do.

I’m going back to that beach.

[Act III]

It was as if some deranged and jaded spirit had flipped a switch in my mind. I knew what they wanted, what they’ve been trying to force my hand to. The vision, this beach, everything came together perfectly. The world changed for a reason and I was a part of it. I had never been cast out. I wasn’t truly pressured to join. I was unchanged so I could fulfill my purpose. I would fulfill humanity’s purpose.

I had the bodies aligned as they had been in my vision. It seemed almost random, but every time I dragged another back I saw exactly in my mind where it needed to go. Arms and legs were twisted around, on top and underneath each other, some bodies twisted until something broke, others contorted in circles around others in a massive macabre orgy of broken flesh and spilled oil. The larger pattern was circular by nature, with a diameter of about 30 or so of the bodies, and grew more twisted and dense as the corpses were laid closer to the center. The center was the pièce de résistance; two women-like figures intertwined by their brutally snapped torsos, petrified forever in a violent embrace while their legs stood firmly on the skulls of frail old men.

I’d been working on this for months, gathering victims and discretely hiding them until I had enough. Tonight I had enough.

I sat back on my hands, partially ashamed of their saturation, but mostly proud of the blood that now dripped from them. In the distance I saw the skyline of the city I had come to know so many times now, glowing red and blue and every other color in great quantity. Somehow, the world carried on without humans. Somehow, the facade was that deeply rooted.

I was exhausted. Moving around in the shadows of shadows for so long had taken a serious toll on my body, and there were many nights I was unable to sleep lest I be discovered and ruin the mission. It was over now. All that was left was to be caught, to show my work on the world stage. Once my dark mural made its way into the minds of these husks they would finally open their eyes, they would finally see the world they’ve built is actually a horrible, hideous place where no one is safe, not even around the quiet spinsters they cast out...

I took a moment there on the beach to contemplate the horrific nature of my killings. Sure, they weren’t human. But what if they were? Would I not have reached the same conclusion with the society I used to understand so poorly? Would I be here on this beach, soaking my hands and the sands in crimson, twisting human flesh and limb to make this horrible sculpture? I tried to tell myself no, I could never hurt another person. Humanity was sacred to me; that’s what this beach, these killings, the oil I will never wash out, has all been for. Humanity.

But then again, humans can be inhuman too.

I must have sat there pondering these thoughts all night, for the next thing to grace my lucid eyes was the sunrise. It was rising over the ocean, on the horizon. It was... brilliant, the way the first beams of the morning stretched across the ocean’s ripples, touching the sand playfully, and finally illuminating the twisted mass on the shore. I finally felt what I had sought to feel, viewing my work through the lens of a sunny morning for the first time, everything in sight being exactly how it was meant to be. As the orange-pink light illuminated a sea of broken smiles and putrid flesh, I felt a dull homesickness. I’d wanted to return home for so long. Not my apartment, not the city. A place where my neighbor would invite me over for dinner or ask what I was cooking tonight. A community, a population. A livable world with other people is what I missed more than anything, but it was too late to even dream of that. Even if I gave in and attempted to conform, to become one of the shadows and see things through their drug-induced haze, they would never reintegrate me. Not after... this.

It took more time than I expected for them to find me on that beach. I think it was one of the children who discovered me, although I’ll admit it’s hard to distinguish the children from the adults; they have no faces, and some children are very tall and some adults are very short. Although it was never my intention, this quality of in-distinctiveness is what lead to several children being used in my masterpiece. It made no difference to me, but I’m sure to the world it made my message a little clearer.

I offered no struggle, resistance, or words from that point on. How would they understand me, anyways, when all they speak in is screeches and groans? I was faced with some dressed in police clothes and others in lab coats and others in judicial wear and others still in suits and suspenders and every other fashion archetype. There was no use, for them or for me. I tried my best to make it clear they were beneath me; sneering and snarling at them at every pass, the corners of my mouth constantly contorting to the point of exhaustion and sweat into a look of disgust.

They put me in a room and restrained me. Sometimes they give me the same medicine they gave me so long ago, the stuff that deceived my eyes and made them seem human. During those hallucinogenic periods, I saw faces pleading and begging to the point of frustrated tears with me to just speak, to tell them why, why would I commit such a horrific crime against humanity?

I laughed at their every mention of humanity. I wouldn’t explain myself further.

It’s been awhile since their last visit. I think they’re going to let me rot in here, until my body or my mind shuts down. They stopped trying to feed me, stopped trying to communicate. Once in awhile somebody will come in and force feed my body by nutritional injections, but whatever shadowy figure they send stays for less than 2 minutes before leaving me to my isolation. All I can hope for is that they saw my message, that these creatures understood my violence. If they understand that they are not and will never be real humans, my rot will have bee worth it.

In the end, though, I really do wish they would just kill me.

#short story #literature #poetry #horror #body horror #crime #shadows #young writer #unpublished #publish me

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flattopboy · 7 years ago

Text

just like dad

For years, I had urges that I really didn't understand. I'd masturbate to them every night. Then the guilt would come. It felt weird. It felt dirty.

It involved my Dad. No- not an incest thing here. I wasn't in love with him. I loved him: a great deal, in fact. In fact, I rather deeply admired him. I had my rebellion fits. It was 1970, afterall. I was a normal, moody, 14-year-old asshole. We had our squabbles. The squabbles had intensified over the last year.

One side of me wanted to break away. The glasses were easy. I managed to trade my old dark frames for some fashionable wire ones. Mom had intervened and I was allowed to grow my hair somewhat longer. None of the other kids had flattops. It took months of pleading and weeks of slow growth before my hair reached combable length. The next hurdle was being allowed to wear jeans and t-shirts to school. Dad threw a fit, but gradually gave in on that topic, too. My jeans had to be neat and whole. My t-shirts had to pass his approval. My body had started to develop by then. In my 70s jeans and T-shirt, I looked buff and pretty hip. The girls had started to notice me.

I finally got to look and act pretty much the way that I wanted to. Dad didn't like some of my friends. I occasionally broke curfew. Still, we arrived at a workable "truce"... pretty much like every other father and son.

Funny thing: none of this made me happy. On one hand, it made my social life much easier. On the other hand, I started to have some weird conflicts. Deep down, in my deepest fantasies, I wanted to look and dress like my Dad did.

The Urge had started as an ache- a painful longing. In time, The Urge invaded my idle fantasies. It conjured vivid pictures, each one more detailed and more exciting than the last. The Ache and The Urge collided. They created an emotional power, dominating my psyche as they crossed into my erotic consciousness.

For awhile, I was content to keep The Urge chained to my jack-off life. That was safe. I could get off, still look like I did before, and forget the whole thing for awhile. The Urge seemed rather repulsive after an orgasm. It was a relief not to look like the clean-cut boy of my fantasies. The Urge didn't last long as a passive fantasy. All too soon, it demanded to enter reality. The Boy, embodied by The Urge, demanded to be allowed to come out. I fought hard against Him. I tried to conjure up other fantasies. I tried to create something strong enough to make The Boy go away.

Fighting was pointless. Even then, I knew that The Urge wasn't going to go away. The Boy wasn't some alien invader. He was a part of me. He was the part of me that I liked the best. He was The Boy that I longed to be. A shoebox, hidden in the bottom of my closet, steadily filled with odds and ends. I'd bring out the box every night, then jack of madly over its contents. I would use the money from my paper route to buy small things for the box. Sometimes I'd pick up an old-fashioned hair cream, like Wildroot or Brylcreme. At other times, I'd pick up a cheap tie at the drug store. I felt compelled to have these things. My stash expanded to include pictures of businessmen in Crewcuts & Flattops from the local newspaper. I'd cut them out carefully, slipping them into my shoebox. Pictures of astronauts would come out of books or magazines to join my ever-growing collection. The first time that I discovered high school yearbooks from the 40s and 50s, I thought that I'd hit the mother lode. All of those young men in crewcuts and ties made me shake with longing. I wanted to be one of those barbered & collared young men. Most of my friend's dads wore crewcuts and flattops. Dad had kept me in a crewcut w/ a small "bump" in the front for most of my childhood. It was only peer pressure that made me whine to be allowed to grow some hair. I used to dream that he'd make me get a flattop.

I'd lock myself in the bathroom. Tons of goop would go on my hair. Then, I'd spend a long time molding it so that it all looked flat. It wasn't the same as getting a haircut. It did the job. I'd squint in the mirror and jerk off at my flat-headed reflection. Then I'd wash it out really fast.

One day, my mother asked me to pick up some dry cleaning. To steady my load, I used both hands to carry the bags home. When my hand first felt the stiffness of my father's shirts, it was like falling in love. Dad's business suits exerted a strong pull over me as well. When no one was around, I'd contentedly stroke and sniff my way thru the suits that hung in Dad's closet. My hands and my face memorized every weave, every fold, and every detail of the cut of each of those wonderful garments.

The Urge must've been waiting for this moment. It silently ushered me into the next stage of the Transformation. Lost in my suited oblivion, I absently slid a coat off of the hanger and slipped it on. My body trembled, then exploded with the heat of pleasure. Yes: that was incredible! I moved around, enjoying the caress of the coat over my body. The satin lining sent chills up my spine. I reveled in the way in which the suit coat lay against me. My mind started taunting me with images of myself in those suits. A hunger clawed at my belly. My arms, my legs, my whole body shimmered with longing.

No guilt. No reservation. Nothing stopped me as I shucked my jeans and climbed into the trousers. It all seemed to happen in a slow motion cloud of feeling. The feeling was akin to love. I didn't look in a mirror that time. I didn't need to. Simply sitting on the bed, dressed & groomed like my Dad, gave me such a sense of fulfillment, of completion. Quietly, I rock and flexed my body.

I got up and put the suit away. Relief flooded thru me as I "escaped" out of my parents' bedroom. I dove into bed and blasted off to sleep with the most powerful orgasm of my life.

After that, I would lie in wait for any opportunity to slick down my hair and dress in my Dad's clothing. Each session became longer and more powerful. During each session, I got better at molding my hair into a stiff and squared off semblance of a Flattop.

My dress-up sessions grew more complex and more delicious with each succeeding opportunity. My parents would leave for the evening quite often. The moment that the car left the driveway, I'd be in the bathroom slicking my hair flat. Next, I'd be in my Dad's closet.

Putting on a pair of his boxer shorts started the whole ritual. Nobody wore those but Dads back then, so it was a real treat. My dick would grow rock hard the minute it touched the underwear. One of Dad's white t-shirts came next.

The whole time, I'd keep one ear cocked for the sound of their car.

Then I'd reach for one of Dad's white shirts. His shirts were made for him: always white, always cut fuller, always made with a slightly higher than usual snap-tab collar. Carefully, I'd tie my tie just so. Often, I'd simply stare at myself in the mirror. Seeing myself, slicked and buttoned and ready to go, was a real source of excitement. I looked like a suit and tie man who was getting ready for the office.

Always with an ear for a car door, I'd just hug myself and get lost in the feeling.

Finally I'd pick out one of Dad's grey suits. It didn't matter which one. There I'd be: looking, to me, like every 3-button square that I saw downtown. My gut would ache by then. I'd be so turned on that it would take almost nothing to get Me Off.

I'd dream of looking and dressing like this every day. Fantasies of going out with Dad in matching haircuts & suits were a favourite fantasy. As a finishing touch, I'd put on Dad's extra set of glasses. Things looked funny, but wearing his glasses just set everything off right.

They helped in another way. I'd squint, just so. With some imagination I'd see myself in the mirror, wearing a bristled flattop and a dark suit. I'd stay dressed for as long as I'd dare. Sometimes I'd kneed my crotch to orgasm, dressed in one of those business suits. Sometimes I'd wait until later that night so that I could fantasize about how I looked.

Sometimes, I'd dream of being caught dressed in a suit. I'd jack of thinking of Dad catching me, and punishing me by making wear the suit and all day. I'd be marched off to the barbershop for a GI'd Flattop like his. Never happened, though. I was too careful.

One weekend they went to Grandma's. They decided that I was old enough to stay by myself. They pulled out of the driveway for the weekend. After waiting 10 minutes, I was up those stairs and into his closet like a shot. For the whole weekend, my hair stayed slicked and flattened to perfection. I stayed dressed in a suit and tie stayed quiet and didn't go out in the daytime. The lights stayed off, so that no one would bother me.

Man! I jacked myself off so many times that I was sore.

My last jack off of the night was imagining myself walking into the barbershop in a business suit. I conjured up a vision of how the clippers would feel as they sheared away my hip and modish locks. Touching my lacquered head w/ my free hand, I'd dream of how square and bristled my head would feel. As I blasted off, I saw myself happily sporting a Flattop and a business suit.

That was one of the best ever. You might've thought that the weekend would've cooled my fantasy life. In a way, I'd hoped that it would. No go. On Sunday, it actually kind of hurt to change back into my usual clothes.

For weeks afterward, my gut would burn with longing for another dressup session. I'd deliberately pass by barbershops, just to catch a glimpse of some man having his crewcut spruced up. Hearing the buzz of the clippers would send me into fits of trembling.

With each passing week, The Urge to become The Boy tormented me. As time passed, I'd see myself in a flattop in almost all of my imaginings. My dreams revolved around the barbershop and the men's suits stores. Something had to give.

I was scared, though. What would Dad say? Would he laugh, or send me to a shrink? It occurred to me that I was crazy. I didn't understand this aching, intense longing.

Finally the day arrived when I couldn't take it anymore. Dad and I had had an unusually good spell. We'd done quite a few things together. Things were going very well.

I'd awakened that morning with such a hardon that I couldn't stand it. My heart pounded. My hands shook. My mouth went dry. Every part of my being pushed me out of bed to have "that talk" with Dad.

The urge hit me hard. I shaved my budding beard extra close that day. Taking some leftover Brylcreme from my jack off stash, I greased my hair thoroughly. A few moves with the comb, and my hair was slicked back on the sides. I parted it, combed it to the side, and slicked the front back over the top. Instead of my jeans, I put on a pair of my "good" Sunday slacks. A white shirt hung in the closet, stiff and glossy from the cleaners. I hadn't worn it in a long time. My cock went rock hard. I pulled the shirt from the hanger and slid it over my clean, white T-shirt. It was chilly out. A v-neck pullover sweater completed my dressing.

It felt wonderful to be dressed so nicely. It took almost everything I had not to blast off an orgasm right there. But no, it was now or never.

I wanted to stop, to take everything off and forget it all. The other side of m proved to strong. Shaking, I walked out of my bedroom into Dad's study. Dad was reading over some papers. He didn't seem to notice when I walked into the room. I sat down in one of his chairs by the desk. I was shaking all over. The chair really was holding me up. I almost tried to sneak back out of the room when Dad looked up from his papers. Too late. Here we go.

A puzzled look on his face soon gave way to a broad smile. His eyes still betrayed curiosity.

"Well! You look very nice today, John."

"Thanks, Dad." I croaked. My voice had only started to change. Croaking was a way of life. Then I got quiet again.

"I must say, son: you look very nice today. I don't understand, though." He shifted to relax in his chair. His eyes smiled at me through his thick glasses. He ran a finger over his tie while he waited for me to continue.

I went numb inside. My dick was rock hard, but my body had stopped trembling. I continued. "I...I don't understand it, Dad. Something made me want to put this on today." I looked away from him. Snow was starting to fall.

"Well, I can't say that I'm not surprised, but I'm happy to see it." His eyes were warm and comfortable. I relaxed a little.

He chuckled as he continued. "You sort of remind me of a good looking boy that I used to know." His gaze remained steady. So did his smile.

"Well...yeah..." I blushed high crimson. "Like I said, I don't know what made me do it." I fidgeted in the chair.

Dad sipped his coffee. He waited for me to continue.

"A lot of things are happening that I don't understand. Things that I suddenly want to do. It's scary, but I can't help it."

Dad got up from his chair. He pulled me out of mine, and gently led me over to the sofa. He plopped me down, sitting right next to me. I must've looked very confused and frightened. He wrapped a comforting arm around me and pulled me into a hug. Normally I would've squirmed to get away. The fact that I visibly relaxed into him must've told him volumes.

"You're at the time of life when all sorts of strange feelings will come up. We discussed the changes that your body is going through already." I left my head on his shoulder. It felt safe. I felt like a happy little boy again. Suddenly I didn't want to be a grownup.

"You really want to tell me something, don't you?" His soothing voice told me that anything would be all right.

I took a deep breath, and let it all come out. "Dad, I don't know why, but I really, really want to get a haircut."

Dad's fingers checked the back of my head. He looked mystified. It had only been a week since my last haircut.

"I want to get a flattop- like yours. The kids will all laugh at me, but I really want one anyway."

Dad chuckled. He patted his stiff deck of tight bristles and asked: "A flattop? Really? Why the sudden change of heart?" He rubbed the smooth shaven back of his head, running a finger thru my slicked mop. "I thought that your old man had the goofiest haircut in town? You've been kidding me about it for years."

I looked him in the eye and shyly continued. It was too late to back out now.

"Yeah. I was pretty mean. All of that time, what I really wanted was to have a haircut like yours. I don't know why I want one, but it's getting to me."

He smiled, shaking his head, but let me finish.

"Dad, I really have to have one. Please- can you take me to your barber and get me fixed up?"

He sat up. I sat up. He took my hand, questioning me further: "You'll be about the only kid in creation w/ this haircut, you know. Are you sure that this is what you want to do?"

In for a penny, in for a pound. I continued, my voice quaking in tune w/ my shaking body.

"I've been pretty mean to you, lately." Then, I simply shot out what I had to say before I could change my mind. " Really... I've wanted a haircut like yours for a long time."

Dad sat dumbstruck for a moment. I could see the wheels whirring in his mind. Suddenly, he stood up and led me to the front foyer.

"Alright- let's do it. I don't get it, but who am I to argue when my boy says something as nice as this? Let's go"

In a flash, he had us in our hats and coats. We were on our way to Leo's Barbershop in no time.

We must've gotten there during a slow time. The other two barbers had gone to lunch. Leo was alone, and the chair was open. Dad helped me out of his coat. He simply removed his hat and began chatting w/ Leo. I stood there, saying nothing.

"The boy, here, has just asked me for something really special."

Dad ran a hand over his haircut and told him: "He's just asked me to fix him up with one of these little beauties. Give him a flattop: Bald landing strip, lather shaved high up the sides and the back."

He smiled. "Just like mine." A smile broke across my face. If memory serves, I actually blushed right about then.

Leo looked at Dad, then looked at me in astonishment. He shook his head, then chuckled. He looked at me again and asked: "Are you sure? I haven't given a fella your age a Flattop in a long time."

My voice held as I told him: "yeah- just like his" as I pointed at my Dad.

"Okay. Have a seat and we'll fix you up."

Dad took off his topcoat and hat. He made himself comfortable across from me.

Leo wrapped the cape around my trembling body. The paper neck cloth felt tight against my neck. I almost came when he snapped the cape fasteners into place. Everything became crystal clear. Every smell in the shop became sharper: the talc, the aftershave, the smell of clipper oil assaulted my nose. The smells of an old fashioned barbershop were suddenly closing in on me.

The leather of the chair was aged just so. The give felt great, in tune with the cold metal of the rest of the chair. Leo pumped the chair, bringing my head up closer to the clippers.

The smile on Dad's face told me everything. He was so happy to see me in the barber chair. No turning back, then. I was about to get a short bristled GI haircut.

My eyes landed on a display of combs that Leo had for sale. Dad must've been following my gaze. "You won't need one of those," he chuckled. He pointed to another display and added, "that one will be more your style, now."

I looked at the poster that he'd indicated. The lettering screamed BUTCH WAX, in big blue letters. Next to it was a cartoon of a guy in an impossibly sharp looking Flattop. Thank god for the barber cape. My dick was shaking. I felt something wet in my crotch. I'd started to pre-cum already.

"We'll get ya a jar of butch wax before we leave. You'll need it." Dad said as he picked up a magazine. He added, "Tomorrow, I'll show you how to use it. There's a trick to working it in right."

I was shaking inside. My mouth went dry again. I was sure that Leo could hear my heart pounding in my chest.

"Just relax, Johnny. You're going to look really nice when we're done."

He pumped the chair up. From behind, I heard the clippers roar to life.

He made a few passes thru my hair with the comb.

Suddenly, the clippers appeared in the top of my view. He took aim, then mowed straight back over the top of my head. I could feel the clippers as they moved down the centre of my head. The first clump of hair fell onto my shoulder. Leo picked it up and asked if I'd like a souvenir. I gave a dorky reply. Leo dropped that first lock of my sacrifice into my lap.

I looked over to see Dad, watching intently. His magazine forgotten, the man was absolutely transfixed by the proceedings. Dad smiled his encouragement.

It suddenly felt very cool up there. Too late to change my mind. I had to go thru with this now.

Leo ran the clippers over my head again, over and over again. My shorn hair began to rain down on my lap. It steadily dropped onto my shoulders as it spilled off to the floor. My hair kept tumbling steadily into my lap. I watched it pile up around the chair.

"Funny thing about Flattops," Leo observed "Sometimes, they never grow back."

Dad smiled, rubbing his own tight brush of bristles. "That's true. Leo gave me my first one back in '48 and I'm still wearing it." He laughed. "'Guess that I'm stuck with this haircut for life."

My dick grew so hard that I had to shift in the chair. The barber and Dad laughed about that. They didn't see the hardon. They probably just assumed that they'd given me a good scare.

Then he changed to a smaller clipper. He began brushing my hair, then cutting it off. Every stroke of the blade buzzed loud against my frozen body. He seemed to finish up there. I couldn't move. The sound of tools moving around echoed behind me.

Dad got up, and put on his coat and hat. "I'll be back soon. Wait here for me." He grinned as he headed out the door.

Leo tried to make small talk. I responded as best I could. Every part of me was focused.

At one point, Leo laid the clippers flat against the side of my head. He mowed steadily backward. With every stroke, the hot blade warmed against my skin. As soon as it passed, a heavy chill blew against my scalp. He laid the clipper on the other side, mowing straight back. He continued around- almost to the top of my head in back. The hair was still brushing over my ears. For the moment.

In no time, Leo had skinned and peeled the sides of my head to bare stubble. My head felt cold. I felt very naked and vulnerable.

He lay down the clippers. During that break in the action I ran a hand over the top of my head. My fingers probed the longer hair toward the front of my head. It was already standing pretty much straight up. I lingered in the middle of my head. There was a patch of stubble, barely there at all. I felt the rest of my haircut. It felt sculpted- everything trimmed perfectly into shape.

I heard a screwtop lid opening. Suddenly, he was massaging something waxy into my hair- what was left of it. It smelled wonderful! He took his time, massaging it until every bristle on the top of my head was coated. Then he brushed everything straight up. He took his time. Each pass of the clipper made a noise as it mowed ever more of my hair away.

Finally, he finished on top.

I heard the hot lather machine. Soon, he was working a cloud of foamy lather all around the back and sides of my head. He pushed and massaged that warm foam almost all the way to the top of my head. Leo picked up a long razor, stropping it on the leather attached to the chair. Quick strokes- they tickled as the fine point made slick work of the sides of my head. Hot towels, then another lather. Then another shaving- this time against the grain.

A warm wet towel took away the remaining lather. My head felt very cold. I felt very naked- very unprotected.

My cock was pumping hard against my crotch. My whole body shook.

Leo dried the sides of my head. He took a short brush and pushed the deck of my haircut up to full erection. When he dusted the back and sides of my head with that brush, I let out a gust of breath and relaxed in the chair. My naked scalp. No hair to protect it. Every stroke of the brush played havoc with my nerves. Even my nipples felt strangely alive against my undershirt.

He left me sitting there, trying to maintain. He went to the window. The snow was falling faster now. He looked both ways, thinking. He looked back at me, then said:

"Ah, what the heck. It's gonna be a slow afternoon. Probably will close early."

With that, he tilted me back in the chair. This was the first time that my naked head met the cold leather of the headrest. I froze. It felt fantastic! I'd had no idea that I'd feel so bald and clean. Leo wrapped my face with another hot towel. The soothing heat felt great. I just lay there in the chair, luxuriating in the most incredible experience of my life. Leo covered my face in hot lather. I giggled a bit as he stropped another razor. This was fun. Carefully, very slowly, Leo whisked away the hair from my face. It was a surprise: I'd shaved that morning. Inspite of that fact, Leo's razor found some whiskers to shave. I really did feel/hear the razor shaving my face to a perfect smoothness. Another warm towel, and he cleaned me off.

He had just begun to razor away what remained my mustache when Dad walked in. Our eyes met. We smiled.

"Just giving the boy some extra sprucing up. No charge for the shave." he chuckled.

I almost forgot that Dad was there as Leo finished making my upper lip baby smooth. He wiped me off, then applied a lotion to my face. It smelled great- just like Dad smelled whenever he came back from the barbershop.

He tilted me back to a sitting position. The sides of my head felt itchy. Suddenly, Leo's fingers were all over my head. He massaged the lotion over the whole shaven area. Imagine how it felt, the first time that my newly bald sides felt someone touch them. It was electric ! The sensation was so intense that I thought that I would pass out.

Dad stood up. He joined us at the barber chair.

Leo chuckled and said: "Are you ready, Johnny?"

"Get ready for a real shock, son." Dad added with a broad grin. "You might not recognise yourself." And with that, Dad started to turn the barber chair toward the mirror.

I held my breath, closed my eyes, and felt the chair turn around.

Dad's reassuring voice whispered to me. I felt his breath on my ear: "Go ahead, Johnny. Take a look. It's great!"

I opened my eyes. My body went onto a shock and almost came at the same time. In the mirror sat a total stranger.

I put a hand to my head. The deck of the flattop stood perfectly erect. I could see the sheen of the wax against the tight horseshoe. The horseshoe ringed the top of my head, stopping before the back. It was very short. So short that it just barely stayed flat on top.

Boy! Was it flat! I lifted up my head. The hair in the front was perfectly erect. The whole top of my head was a perfect square, just rounded a little bit along the sides and tilted in slightly. I could've balanced a book on the deck of that flattop.

I tiled my head down a little bit. The center was perfectly bald. Leo had actually shaved the very center smooth. The bald strip connected with the back of my head.

Moving my head around, I noticed something. No hair moved anywhere. I kept moving my head up and down, side to side. It was fantastic. The butchwax glistened my deck to erect perfection. Just a flat and tight cap of hair on the top.

No doubt about it. This was a tight, clean GI haircut. Every line was absolutely flat and level. Leo had taken his time to make this Flattop a model of upright perfection.

Dad put his hand against the back of my head. Wow! I felt his fingers as they rubbed me and squeezed. Nothing could've prepared me for the feeling of being absolutely hairless on the back and sides of my head. No hair- none at all. Completely smooth and naked. My scalp was a glistening white.

My ears stuck out at a slight angle. With no hair to hide them, they popped right out. It was going to take some getting used to- looking so jug headed. My whole face glowed pale and smooth.

The major shock was how young I suddenly looked. That scared me. The hair had always made me look older. Buzzed now, into a tight flattop, I looked very young. My smooth face looked as though no hair would grow there at all. All of those years of trying to grow something- cancelled. My face was as smooth as a baby. I no longer saw the budding stud of the ninth grade when I looked in the mirror. A nagging fear chilled my gut. I looked like a goofy little kid. A 12-year-old kid was staring back at me in the mirror!

Dad was standing right next to me- proud as I've ever seen him. He was beaming from ear to ear. He palmed his ears, then mine. I'd never really noticed how big his ears were before. That's where I got from: even the shape of our ears was almost the same. It was then that I realised how egg-headed we both were.

There we sat- looking in the mirror. We wore the exact same haircuts now. We looked almost exactly alike. Suddenly, I'd become a junior version of Dad. A rock hard-on made me squirm.

II.

"Wow. You look great, kid. I'm just so proud of you." He placed a hand on my shoulder. I felt warm and happy inside.

Couldn't help it, a smile burst over my baby face. My ears perked up more- just like Dad's did when he smiled. It was thrilling so see how much I looked like him.

As I got out of the chair, Dad paid Leo. They made some small talk, both smiling, as they looked my way. I slipped my coat on and waited for Dad to finish.

He shook hands w/ the barber. As he crossed the shop, he said:

"Looks like you have a steady customer now, right son?" He smiled so broadly that I could only nod.

"That settles it, Leo. We'll both be back next week."

Leo smiled. His only reply was: "Always happy to have a new customer, Mr. Reeves. That lotion should keep him smooth until then."

Dad explained that the aftershave lotion also had a growth retardant. My face and the sides of my head would stay perfectly bald for almost a week. By Saturday, there might be just enough to shave.

Next Saturday? Another haircut?

"Next week?" I replied, startled, to myself. I hadn't thought that far ahead. Getting the haircut felt wonderful. I'd dreamed so long about being sheared and shaven. The sight of my flat head, in the reflection from the window, gave me an instant hardon.

Dad finished buttoning his coat as he quietly continued: "Why so surprised? You're looking so sharp that I think that we'll just keep you in that Flattop for awhile."

Kept in a Flattop? Brought to the barbershop for regular haircuts, with Dad? The thrill was almost more than I could stand. Somehow, the idea of wearing the same haircut as Dad's all of the time gave me a real thrill. I really wanted to be kept this clean and barbered for good. I didn't understand it.

Dad picked up a bag and started to fish something out of it. As he did, he said: "Don't worry, Johnny. I'll tell everyone that I'm making you wear that haircut. To keep ya looking that nice, I'll happily play the villain!"

He winked as he said that. I could've sworn that he knew how thrilled I was at that moment.

"Here's a little present from me. You've made me a really happy man today." He motioned toward my haircut. "Getting that haircut was about the best present that a son could give his dear old dad. I'm really touched."

He pulled a dark grey hat out of the bag. It was high crowned, narrow brimmed. It had a black hatband and a small feather on one side. Dad always wore one like it. Do did every other white collared Dad of that time.

"That haircut's going to be kinda cold outside. Your other hats won't fit you, now."

With that, Dad fitted the hat over my new haircut. It fit like a glove. Perfect. The crown slid smoothly over the deck of my Flattop, keeping it in shape. The hat hugged the upper sides of my head, resting comfortably on my forehead. The lining just barely touched the top of my head, tickling it. It made me very aware of my short haircut under it. The bristles rubbed against the leather inner band.

Out the door we went.

Instead of going home, Dad took us to lunch at the diner. I felt some qualms as I took of my hat. Quite a few people stared as we walked through to an empty table. Most of the patrons had at least combable hair. Dad and I were the only guys sporting Flattops.

Dad got a laugh when the waitress brought a "12 and Under" menu for me. I was furious at first, but Dad's warm chuckling brought me back to earth. I really did look like a little kid, but what the heck? He went ahead and ordered for the both of us.

We chatted calmly as we ate our lunch. It took no time at all for me to relax.

My hand kept going to the top of my head, though. Feeling the slick bristles was becoming addictive. Over the years I'd noticed that most men in Flattops tended to pat the tops of their heads. It hadn't passed my notice that they often rubbed the sides of their heads, too. Now, I was The Guy in the Flattop. Now, I understood.

My reflection kept drawing me. I couldn't help smiling. There we were: Dad and I in shaved and buzzed down Flattops. The reflection caught the both of us: our flattened jug eared profiles; the glint of our shaven & hairless sides reflecting in the overhead lights.

Dad's smile matched mine. At that afternoon I felt closer to him than I'd felt in a long time. It was then that I realised how much I'd missed his approval.

As we chatted, he began to ask some interesting questions.

"You had a powerfully strong need for that haircut. I don't understand it, but I'm pretty happy with this morning's events." Dad stroked his collar and tie thoughtfully.

"How far does this need extend, Johnny? Anything else that you want to try?"

I squirmed. I hemmed and hawed as Dad just sat there. He sipped his coffee while he waited. This whole thing obviously fascinated him. I tried to be noncommittal, but finally just had to spill it.

"Well, Dad: I really like the way you dress." That stopped Dad's coffee drinking in mid air. He stopped dead still. "I wouldn't mind putting on a tie more often- but we don't have to, if you don't want to. I dunno... I'm really scared by this."

My mouth went dry again. My heart was pounding as I gulped a whole glass of water. My whole body was as hard as my dick right then.

"Dad. I don't understand it, but I want to look a lot more like you." I shook my head in resigned confusion. My voice squeaked. Dad had to have noticed how much I was trembling. It all sounded as weird to me as it must've sounded to him. Silence, as I waited for the axe to drop.

Dad took pity on me. His face blossomed in a warm smile. "Well... I have kind of missed you, the last couple of years." He draped his hand over mine. He looked at me, drawing me into his eyes.

"It seemed as though you didn't want a dad anymore. I'd remember all of the things we used to do. Maybe a part of you misses all of that, too."

His voice stayed very even- very comforting. The rest of the world fell away. The space between us grew safe and warm. I realised what a special and wonderful guy he was. I started to feel guilty for all of the mean things that I'd said and done to him.

My voice choked. It seemed to go higher & softer as I whispered: "Dad, I'm sorry that I've been so mean to you. Yeah. I guess that I really want my Dad back again."

He squeezed my hand. We smiled. It almost looked like he was going to have some tears. He didn't, of course. In a very quiet voice, he said: "Johnny, if you want me to be your dad again, by god, then I'll be your dad again. Let's be a real father-son team, huh? Let's spend a lot more time together. How about it?"

That invitation went straight to the heart.

"T-that'd-d be great, Dad. Yeah." I felt so light and so safe right then. All of my worries about my friends and my inner conflicts vanished.

"And, if you really want to look like the Old Man," Dad winked confidentially; " I think that we can swing that as well." His voice sounded giddy and hopeful. He really became a friend at that moment.

We put on our wraps and headed out the door. The snow had slowed considerably. Just one of those light flurries that makes the whole world seem magical. He put an arm around me as we headed down the street. My neck and my ears started to tingle from the cold. The shaving left my face very sensitive to the air. The streets were full of happy people. I was one of them, now.

All of the hippies and fashionable types were strolling, the snow dusting their hair. I no longer looked like them. Something told me that I would never look like them again. That was fine. I had my Dad with me. Everything felt right, now. Dad and I wandered thru the streets, enjoying the afternoon. That mild winter day, in that old town, was a classic movie backdrop.

Dad steered us around a corner, motioning for me to follow. He stopped in front of optometrists' shop.

"I noticed that your glasses have been coming loose lately. Let's go in and get them fixed. Won't take but a minute."

We blew in from the cold. The doctor stood at the counter. I got the impression that he'd been waiting for us. He greeted us cheerfully, ushering us back to a booth. I handed my glasses over. He disappeared into the back.

We chatted very quietly, mostly about what movie we'd see. In the course of the conversation, Dad mentioned that this was where he got his glasses. The doctor returned w/ a brown leather case.

He snapped the case open. The case didn't hold my glasses. Dad looked at me expectantly as the doctor fitted them onto my face.

Very heavy, they were. The lenses were more of a rounded rectangle than my glasses had been. The frames were a plain, 1950s style, and flat black. They were very thick, very wide. At that time, the only people who wore glasses like these were little boys and recruits in Armed Forces boot camps.

Before I could say anything, the doctor slipped the glasses onto my trembling face. Done deal. My face quickly grew to savour the weight and the tightness of my new glasses. The shaven sides of my head felt the bows pushing and forming themselves. I could feel my ears sticking out. They fit tightly behind my ears, pulling the glasses flush to my face. The nosepiece had been narrowed w/ a black fitted "plug". The plug made my nose look flatter, and my glasses look bigger and thicker.

I took a look in the mirror. Then I looked at Dad. Then I looked back at the reflection. My cock started to get hard all over again. The glasses were the same style as Dad's. He'd been issued this style in the Army, and had stuck with it ever since. Sometimes I'd kidded him about them, but always put on a pair during my secret dress-up times. I could scarcely believe that I now had a pair of my own. My mind could barely grasp the fact that I'd be wearing these nerdy glasses all of the time. That was fine. I was enjoying the whole thing too much to think very much at all.

Before I could really take it all in, Dad spun my stool around. The optometrist produced a thick band of black elastic. It had loops on either end, and a buckle for loosening or tightening. The doctor slipped the loops into place. My glasses now held fast to my head. They wouldn't move at all as I turned to and fro. They sat fast and firm. The hairless skin of back of my head tried to flex and move against the elastic. No go. The band held flush against my skull. Those black glasses made my face look even more smooth and pale than before. Looking sideways, the bows and the sport strap caused the sides of my head to glow in bald relief. The frames were so thick that they hid my eyebrows. My face and head looked completely hairless- except for the tiny, clipped Deck Brush ringing the top of my head.

Dad looked very happy with my appearance. Affectionately, he pulled on the front w/ a finger. When it didn't wiggle very far he laughed. "You said that you wanted to look like me. This seemed like a good place to start." I started to feel proud of the fact that I looked so much like my Dad now. Somehow I knew that I would be wearing those big nerdy glasses for a very long time.

No doubt about it. The glasses and the haircut had turned me the spitting' image of my Dad. I looked like a nerdy kid from a 1950s sitcom. All of those longhaired kids at school were really going to tease me over this. So what? Strangely, I was thrilled at the thought of being teased. I'd be constantly reminded of my jarhead haircut.

"Just another token of my appreciation, Johnny. And you are deeply appreciated." He stood up and kissed the top of my head. An affectionate pat on the back came with it. You know it: I just beamed and lapped it all up. He paid the doctor for the "rush job" and I stepped out in my goofy new appearance.

I don't remember the movie. Dad picked the film. It doesn't matter. We had a great time. I do remember feeling very close to him that day. It reminded me of the closeness we shared when I was a little boy. He could've reacted very badly, but he hadn't. He'd been great.

The two of us sat and enjoyed the film. Our crewcuts and glasses glowed in the flickering light. Even in the dark, the two of us stood out from the rest of the crowd. All of the teenaged angst and squabbling between us vanished. We were just two happy Flattoppers- Father and Son- passing a magical day together.

That wonderful time still gives me a warm glow when I think about it.

I was already in bed when a knock came at the door. It was Dad. He leaned in, slipping a couple of hangered clothes onto the hook inside of my door.

He stepped in and sat on the edge of my bed. Dad patted the deck of my flattop and continued:

"You gave me a very special gift today, Junior." He motioned toward the clothes on the door. "In return, I thought that, maybe, you'd enjoy dressing up a bit tomorrow."

I took a closer look. In the garment bag hung one of Dad's 3pc suits. It was one of his darker grey, glen plaid numbers. I got a hard-on just looking at the bag. There was a dark burgundy tie folded neatly over the suit. It had navy and grey stripes in it. Behind the suit, I spied a white shirt. It was one of Dad's high tab collared shirts. Wow!

Inspite of myself, a broad smile worked its way across my face. Dad gave me a knowing grin and continued: "I suspect that you'll know just what to do with those in the morning."

He hugged me again. He hadn't been so tender in so long. Dad kissed my shaved landing strip, all the time rubbing the back of my head. All I could do was slump into his arms and lap it all up.

"G'night, Junior. It's good to have my boy back again."

And with that, he tucked me in and turned off the light. Sleep was hard in coming that night. I tossed and turned.

The moment that my pillow touched the shaved sides of my haircut, I went rock hard. My hand kept rubbing my squared off head. I tossed and turned.

My naked face kept snuggling the cool pillowcase. The lack of a 5 o'clock shadow felt great. I had really grown to enjoy my smooth, beardless face.

Every time I started to fall asleep, I'd think about the clothes that were hanging on the door. They were waiting for me. In the morning I would put them on. I would be seen by everyone, dressed in a business suit.

The excitement finally became unbearable.I blasted off to sleep with the strongest orgasm yet experienced.

At 7 o'clock I came wide awake with a roaring hard-on. My body went from sound sleep to shaking with excitement in the blink of an eye.

I had to jerk off before even thinking of getting out of bed.

Off I went to the bathroom. When the light flipped on, I re-experienced the shock of yesterday at the barbershop. It took a split second to recognise myself. Perhaps a small side of me had hoped that yesterday had only been a phenomenal wet dream. It wasn't.

My hair had been cut so short and so precisely that it was still squared into place. The few hairs that had strayed snapped to erect attention when I touched my head.

The very stop centre was still almost slick bald. The sides of my head were still bare to the skin. No sign of regrowth at all.

For several weeks, I'd enjoy the shock and the thrill of waking up in a Flattop. Each day, the thrill would be joined by a growing sense of "Yes: this is the way that it should be."

My face was still smooth, even though almost 18 hours had passed since my last shave. By next week, I'd have the barest hint of stubble. Then Leo would shave and re-lotion my face. My baby face broke into a grin when I thought of my next trip to the barbershop. My dick grew hard again. I was really going to like this!

Being this hairless certainly made morning cleanup a snap. A few minutes to wash my whole head with a bar of soap and I was done.

When I came back into the bedroom, Mom had left a clean set of underwear on my dresser. It took a minute to climb into the underwear. My fingers kept exploring the snowy white T-shirt and boxer shorts. They smelled freshly laundered, and were still warm from my mother's iron. Everything fit perfectly. They were my Dad's underwear, and I'd grown into them. There I was, dressed in my Dad's underwear.

It felt so clean, so wholesome. Just moving around in an undershirt and boxer shorts tickled my body.

I knew that I was beaming with pleasure.

When I lifted the socks, two garters clattered onto the dresser. Oh my god! Dad really did know all about my dress-up sessions. That was embarrassing. My face turned crimson. I know it did. I caught my reflection in the mirror. My face blushed from my chin to the top of my head.

Hurriedly, I slipped the stockings up over my calves. I snapped the garters into place.

Then I simply sat there; staring at the garment bags that hung on the door.

I'd have to put it all on now. My mind could almost see my parents, at the table, waiting for me to get dressed. They were probably talking about it right then.

My secret dress-up sessions were over. My deepest fantasies had come true. I would have to put on a white shirt and dark tie. I would put on a grey suit.

In a few minutes I would step out of my bedroom in a crewcut and a suit. In a few minutes I would be sitting with my parents, dressed in my Dad's clothes. My parents would see me as I truly felt inside: as the squarest kid in the world.

Again, a side of me wanted to call all of this off. I thought of just putting on my jeans and telling them that I'd changed my mind. How could I do that, though? They were so happy to see me as I looked yesterday. I couldn't remember a time when they'd been so warm and so full of approval.

My "confession" and their happy reaction to it had really trapped me into this.

With a sense of surrender, I took the shirt off the hanger. My hand slowly broke the starch as it slid into the sleeve of the shirt. The crackle of the stiff material dispelled my fears and doubts. Buttoning myself into that rigid white shirt sent my body into spasms of joy.

Unlike the slow striptease-like buttoning of my dress-up sessions, my fingers flew up the button panel. Each button pushed thru the stiff buttonhole faster than had the previous one.

In no time, I found myself buttoning my collar. The material crackled a bit as the collar closed snugly around my neck. The shirt was so heavily starched that the collar had a smooth, glossy sheen. I flexed my neck and turned my head a bit to enjoy the tight confinement.

My hands were trembling. Now, I was in a rush to put on all of those wonderful clothes. This was the day that I'd long dreamed of. My heart was racing. My mind pushed my body, hungrily gobbling every second of this stellar experience!

I picked up the tie. Something dropped into my hand. It was a tie tack. Closer examination showed it to be a dark onyx stone in silver setting. I knew this tie tack. It was an anniversary gift from Mom, with Dad's initials engraved in silver: EHR. It was Dad's favourite.

I knew that Mom never went into Dad's jewelry case. Dad had to have picked it out for me. He wanted me to wear this. It was his way of telling me that everything would be all right.

Quickly, I knotted my tie and made the adjustments. I proudly fastened Dad's tie tack, stroking my tie for a moment or so. Finally, I adjusted the tie knot. With a resounding "snap", the tabs pulled the collar tightly into place. The tabs held my collar almost vertical- a solid band of formal restriction that imprisoned neck.

I almost passed out from the pleasure.

Finally the suit. Oh yes: it was fresh from the cleaners and flawlessly pressed. This was a different experience. I'd always been careful to dress-up in suits that had been set aside for the cleaners. Today, I was going to put on a suit that was clean and ready for business.

My snug collar pulled tight and my tie moved on its chain as I bent over to put on the trousers. That, and the pressed wool of the trousers, gave me an indescribable sense of well being.

My body moved to the music of the fabric. My legs tingled and swayed against the cool lining of the trousers. The trousers fit perfectly, as always.

The knot of excitement dissolved in my stomach. It exploded thru my body, as I grew happier than I'd ever been.

My cock settled, but a throb & a tingle danced deep in my groin. My buttocks eagerly snuggled against the underwear. I swear that I could feel both the layer of white cotton and grey wool as they fit around my tusch.

No more hiding. No more sneaking around. I was putting on a suit. I was going to wear a suit today- in public, in front of everyone.

My vest slid effortlessly over my body. It hugged my form, somewhat changing it. My broad chest and slim waste somewhat evened out, giving me a somewhat portly appearance.

As always, the contrast of brilliant white shirting played off of the drab grey wool. Seeing this never fails to stir me, even so many years later.

A Man in a vest is a glorious thing to behold. Truly, a man at his finest!

Still entranced, I slipped on my black oxfords. Then I headed back to the bathroom. The butch wax still held firm, so a few quick strokes of a brush had my Flattop standing straight to attention.

It was quite a thrill, seeing myself in the mirror. My smooth chin seemed to glow against the brilliant white of my shirt collar.

My collar hugged my neck snugly. Even after snapping the tabs, the collar held its stiff sheen to perfection. It stood almost straight up, pushing my chin up and my ears way out. The immaculate white made my haircut look incredibly crisp and precise.

I stood back, stroking my tie with pleasure. The shirt ballooned out just right. My tie sat just so. I caught a seductive shadow of my T-shirt under the white sleeve of the dress shirt. The vest and the trousers drabbed the silhouette of my body to a strictly business simplicity.

My image was so immaculately clean-cut. From the mirror smiled an office boy from 1958. I'd proudly stand out in any crowd, especially in 1970. I looked so proper and so straight arrow now. This brought a sense of completion. Yes- this was how I was meant to look.

My whole body felt light and breezy as I left the bathroom. In one movement I took my suit coat from the hangar and slipped it over my shoulders. It settled into place. Perfect fit, of course.

I took a few extra minutes to attend to some last minute details. The right pocket square, folded just so, into my pocket. Another adjustment to my tie. A quick, last minute shine to bring my shoes to a spit-n-polish gloss.

Yes, I was being overly fastidious. That didn't bother me one bit. This was such a fantastic day. I meant to do it to perfection.

My hand clutched the doorknob. A radiant calm took over. Then, I remembered something: my glasses.

Almost reverently, I set them on my nose. The bows hugged my denuded head. The nosepiece settled firmly, moving not on iota.

Those heavy black frames almost overwhelmed my face. They reshaped my features, making me look very bookish. They set off my dark business suit to great advantage.

There. Finished. Ready to go. My dick throbbing, my spirits soaring, I stepped out to present my new self to my family.

My parents must've heard me come down the hall. When I rounded the corner, they had stopped eating. They were astounded. Silence held for a moment.

Both of them broke into applause with a happy cheer. All right: I confess. Something made me do a complete turn around for them. I wanted to show them my new suited appearance from every angle.

Mom leaped up and gave me long, tight hug. That felt great. This was the first time that someone had hugged me while I was dressed in a suit. Every part of my body relaxed.

"Such a handsome young man, you are!" she bubbled. Her eyes were dewy. Her face glowed with pride. I blushed. That brought a chuckle from the both of them.

Dad joined us, patting me on the back. He fiddled a bit with my tie. He straightened my lapels. He sighed with satisfaction.

"Looking good, Junior." was all that he could say as he ushered me to my chair at the table.

Nobody said very much during breakfast. The three of us simply exchanged fond glances and happy smiles at each other. When we finished, I asked to be excused. I started to help clear the table. Mom held out a gentle hand to stop me.

"Not this morning, Dear. That's fine. I'll take care of these."

Dad and I just sat there, in matching Flattops, reading the morning paper. Every now and then, I'd catch him peeking at me. He'd just smile and shake his head. He was dressed, as usual, in a shirt and tie. He wore a cardigan sweater over his shirt, though. Dad looked very cozy and comfortable.

The contrast in our outfits was thrilling. Decked out in a 3pc suit, I was dressed more formally than my Dad was.

These few moments were a great learning experience. I quietly studied him. He moved differently than did someone more casually dressed. Here was a man who could relax in a collar and tie. I would have to learn how to move that way now. I was too excited to relax.

I was too excited to relax.

Mom knocked around in the kitchen. She was obviously inventing reasons to pass by the doorway, pause to get a look at her suited son, and then scurry back to her chores.

After awhile, Dad put down his paper. He called out toward the kitchen, smiling my way: "Honey, don't bother to set out anything for dinner. An occasion such as this deserves a night out."

She didn't reply. I did hear her dialing to make reservations, though.

Dad reached into his pocket, pulling out the car keys. He then produced a small sheet of paper. He shoved the both of them across the table to me. I scanned the paper. It was a list of easy chores.

"Junior, here are some things that I need for you to do today. I have a pile of work from the office, or I'd do them myself."

"Do you think that you could help me out?" He was beaming. A folded pile of bills crossed the table. "This should cover the costs. There's some extra for lunch, my treat."

"Sure thing, Dad. I mean: yes Sir!"

A mischievous twinkle caught his eye. He chuckled and continued: "Besides, this'll give you a chance to step out in your new image." My collar suddenly felt tight. I started to sweat. A deep throb set off in my groin.

Dad was sending me out in broad daylight like this. I was going to go out in a suit and tie. Everyone would see me dressed in a suit, sporting this haircut!

I quivered slightly from the thrill. No more hiding. Today the whole world would see me, looking the way that I'd always dreamed of looking.

We chatted as we walked to the foyer. Dad opened the closet, producing one of his dress car coats. It covered my suited form, caressing my suit closer to my body. This was a coat that I'd seen him wear hundreds of times. It was heavy grey mohair, with black short-nap fur trim. It had plenty of room to move in, but fit me very well. It fell to just the right point below the knee.

He set a heavy narrow brimmed hat on my head, adjusting it just right. The hat was charcoal grey, ribboned, with a small burgundy feather tucked into the bow on the side.

It occurred to me that it fit too well to be one of his hats. Dad read my mind. He opened the closet a little wider, motioning for me to look. Sitting in the racks were several new hats, of various weights and colours. They were all mine.

"What the heck? They were on sale," he said in a casual tone. He adjusted the brim a little more. He was obviously enjoying this. "And they're more appropriate for White Collar Men like us."

That impish twinkle reappeared. He added: "Besides, we're both going to be wearing our Flattops for a long, long time. Our style of haircut needs good head cover."

I started to fasten my coat when Mom hurried into to join us. "Junior, since you're going out..." she slipped a list of her own into my hand. A quick feel told me that more money was wrapped in the note.

She produced a burgundy scarf, fiddling and wrapping it on me. It didn't escape my notice that she let my collar and tie stick out, though.

With another deep breath, I stepped out for the first time in my new appearance. The day was cold and clear. My oxfords slipped more easily on the sidewalk, but I made it to the car without a mishap.

Just as I opened the car door, someone called out, "Mr. Reeves?" It was the neighbour. Oh boy! He scrambled quickly up the driveway, holding a package. He would be the first person to see me dressed this way. A momentary set of nerves passed to excitement.

"Mr. Reeves, this package was delivered by..." his eyes registered surprise. He'd thought that he was addressing my father. "..mistake. Oh! Sorry John. I didn't recognise you."

His eyes zeroed in on the collar and tie firmly hugging my neck. All I could do was smile.

"Well! Uh...is your father home? This was addressed to him."

"Yes, Mr.Sorenson. Mom and Dad are both home. Shall I let you in?"

My tone really sent his mind spinning. Only the day before I was a typical grubby teenager with no couth. My new appearance and polite manners stunned him. To his credit, he recovered.

"That quite alright, Johnny. I'll just deliver the package and have a nice chat."

The surprise in his voice gave way to something very cordial. He nodded and started up the sidewalk. He made it to the door, and then turned around.

"You look really nice, John", he called. "Keep up the good work."

I touched the brim of my hat in reply, and then drove away.

The whole day passed in similar fashion.

It wasn't frightening at all. It was quite the opposite, in fact. Going about my errands in a my new clean-cut appearance proved to be a happy adventure. I parked the car and walked everywhere. Dressed so finely, I virtually paraded down the sidewalks of the town. I caught the eye of everyone who passed, smiling and nodding. It was contagious. Everyone smiled back at me.

Store clerks treated me with a respect that I'd never before experienced. Most were younger men, dressed in suits or in a shirt and tie. Often, we were the only people in the store sporting suits. This made me feel bonded to them. As we transacted purchases, I could feel our eyes scanning each other's ties. The sense of camaraderie was intense.

For lunch, I chose a place near the banks and law offices. It proved to be a good choice. Almost all of the patrons were dressed for business.

Nothing but white shirts and grey, black, and navy suits stretched out as far as the eye could see. Every one of the men were soberly dressed and groomed. They seemed very much at ease in their suited finery.

My heart fluttered. My raging hard-on almost killed my appetite- almost. Taking a seat, I vanished into the crowd. I became just another white collared diner. I looked quite a bit younger than the other patrons, but only I seemed to notice that fact.

My GI haircut drew some curious looks from some of the younger men. A few looked worried. A hand would occasionally drift upward to touch a full head of hair. That was a kick.

I noted a fair number of crewcuts and Flattops on the older men. The sight of such men relaxed me considerably. I was dressed and barbered just like them. Occasionally, one of those suited burr-heads would catch my eye. They would favour me with an approving nod, patting the tops of their own shorn scalps.

I really don't remember what I ordered. The whole experience so jazzed me that it passed in a contented blur.

After lunch I just wandered through the stores. It felt so good to be out in the world in my new appearance. Taking a quick turn around a corner, I passed by Leo's Barbershop. Leo looked up just as I passed his window. We both smiled. I took off my hat, waving it in a salute to the man who'd shorn me so cleanly.

The young guy in his chair looked very worried. I was decent enough to suppress my laugh until well out of sight of the poor man.

A few extra dollars remained in my pocket as I passed a department store. A quick memory jog told me that Dad and I had been there last night. With my cock madly banging against my suit pants, I strolled in.

The clerk in the Men's Department was the same one who'd waited on us last night. His eyes lit up as he greeted me. As we chatted, he fidgeted with his tie. Watching him as he fingered that silky material almost caused me to pass out from rapture.

I asked to see his tie selection again. We spent the next hour discussing and looking over almost every tie in the place. He showed me tie clips, tie tacks, and collar bars.

Every time that I stroked my collar, or adjusted my tie, the clerk would suppress a chuckle. I noticed that he had been doing the same thing.

It was pretty obvious that this gentleman enjoyed his work. The clerk proved to be the department manager.

No- this never led to anything. If he was, indeed, trying to make a pass at me, it went right over my head. It would be a few years yet before I figured THAT out about myself.

Many years later, as an experienced suit and tie fetishist, I wonder...

The upshot of that pleasant hour was that I walked out with two new ties. The manager even threw in a couple of tie clips at no extra charge.

I had just made my first business wear purchase.

The afternoon ended all too soon. I returned home euphoric.

Dad offered me the evening paper when I returned. I settled into the living room while he worked in the den.

For a couple of hours I lounged in a chair, reading the paper. I read it from cover to cover in a slow, leisurely fashion. For the first time, my suited body began to relax. It all felt very natural.

Every time I moved, my coat would slip against my vest. The suit would move in tune to my body, resettling around me, as I grew more and more contented. The weight of the suit wrapped me in a cocoon of woolen comfort. Crossing my legs set my trousers moving against my stockings. My boxer shorts tickled and tormented my throbbing cock with their white cotton rectitude.

My tie would bulge when I swallowed. I would catch myself absently stroking the silky satin. My fingers would squeeze and play a tune against the knot, still bound firmly against my collar. Still stiff as a board, my collar stood tall and snug. The tabs kept it firmly in place around my neck.

My starched collar would occasionally bump up against the back of my skull. the back of my head was still so cleanly shaved that the starched material slid against the bare skin. Man: it felt amazing! That made me smile. Running my fingers across the bristled brush of my Flattop sent me into another zone altogether.

I acted like I was reading the paper. Of course I was buzzing on the sensation of the naked skin, the tight bristles tickling the tips of my fingers. No telling how long I was doing that. Suddenly, a sound broke the reverie. Dad was standing in the doorway. Before I could react he gave me an approving nod and a smile. He ran a hand across his own tight Flattop and winked at me. He told me that dinner was ready and left the room, still stroking the shaved skin at the back of his own head.

I drifted into the dining room, blissfully content with my new Flattop and my formal business dress.

Yes- this was the way that it should be. I hoped that it would always be this way!

The first teacher to see my new look was Mr. King- my drafting teacher. I was really nervous. I hoped that Mr. King would tell me that I didn’t look as dumb as I felt.

That old Army sergeant just stared at me for a minute. Then he laughed: “What the hell did you do to yourself, Kid? I almost didn’t recognise ya.” He said that I looked like a soldier out on weekend pass.

I tried to laugh it off. He kept probing. Finally I told him that it’d been an impulse thing. Dad had taken it as a kind of Christmas present, so I was stuck with it.

Mr. King thought that the whole thing was pretty weird, but whatever. He warned me that I’d be in for a lot of grief from the other kids. He said that I looked really sharp in a Flattop, though. “I hope ya decide to keep it.”

He joked that sometimes Flattops never grow back. 30 years from now, I’d probably still be wearing that same haircut. He was right.

He & I became tight after that. Now as a fellow Flattopper, Mr. King turned me into his pet. The other kids called me a brown noser. He had me take attendance and issue equipment. He gave me extra help with my projects.

He always kidded me about my weekly trips to the barber shop. On Fridays, he’d tell me: “See ya Monday, Soldier. Get a dang haircut!” I’d reply with a sharp salute and an eager: “Right away, Sir!”

On Mondays, he’d always check my fresh cut. He’d set a ruler on the deck of my Flattop and say: “You passed inspection, soldier. Now get to work.”

Mr. Howard was the school principal- a total jerk. When he wasn’t yelling at someone he was busting kids for the smallest infractions. Kids with long hair were his favourite targets. He wore a high & tight burr with a butch waxed bumper in the front.

Unfortunately he was the 1st person I met walking down the hall. My gut twisted. I got a hard-on. Mr. Howard just came up, shook my hand, and praised my appearance. He was all smiles.

When I replied: “Thank you, Sir”, the creep was all smiles. Still, he wondered why I’d changed so drastically for the better.

I told him that I was tired of my attitude & wanted to try something new. I fingered my buttoned collar and joked that Dad was picking out my clothes now, too.

The principal was impressed! He offered to help out in any way that he could.

The rest of the morning was kind of nerve wracking. I was glad that Mr. King had reacted so well to my new appearance. Mr. Howard acting like my new best friend was kind of unnerving, though. It meant that he’d be keeping a closer eye on me.

The other kids hated my new haircut. Most just cut me off. Some pointed & laughed at me as I walked down the halls. Even the ones who were nice to me said that I looked ridiculous.

I enjoyed the humiliation on one level. The other part of me got tired of the constant stares and jokes. I was starting to hate the way that I looked. I could’ve kicked myself for getting that stupid haircut.

I fled to the library, where I knew that Wayne would be happy to see me. Wayne was a junior who interned in the school library.

Wayne was from California. His father won him in the divorce. They came back to town to get away from his hippy mother. When they got here, his dad had Wayne’s hippy length hair sheared into a tall, spiky Flattop. He made him wear a bow tie every day. He put the kid through a church-run behaviour modification program. He was determined to turn Wayne into a crewcut Christian straight arrow.

It backfired. Wayne loved it! The forced haircuts and bow ties just amped up his suit and haircut fetishes. Wayne enjoyed the ride. He turned into the kind of guy that he wanted to be anyway.

His dad sent him to the Study Academy. The school put him back one year so he’d get 4 full years of their academic and Social Reform training. Wayne was in freak in freak heaven.

The school liked his positive attitude. When he asked about becoming a librarian, they sent him over to our school library a few hours a week to start his training.

I fell half in love with Wayne the first time I saw him. One look at his flattop & bow tie and I knew that I wanted him for a friend. One look at me and he knew my whole story.

We became friends that day. I eventually told him about my secret urge to cut off my hair & put on a tie. I thought he’d laugh. He didn’t. He got really excited about it. Every day, he’d do something to encourage me. Sometimes he’d let me touch his haircut, then tell me how great I was going to look in a Flattop.

When he saw that my Dad was a Flattopper, he really put on the pressure. He pushed me into finally asking for the haircut.

When I walked into the library he broke down & applauded. His reaction made me feel better about all of the hassle. He knew that I’d finally have to do it.

Wayne’s support helped me get thru the first few weeks. He helped me learn to enjoy all the teasing that I got from classmates & teachers. I started enjoying my role as the school joke.

So, for the rest of the school term, I attended school looking like this. This was during the early 70s, when even the teachers were adopting a more casual appearance. The other kids joked and made fun of me for dressing up every day. I’ll admit it: there were times when I desperately wanted to call this whole thing off and go back to the free and easy style that I’d had before.

Being a bug eyed, burr-headed nerd proved a rough adjustment. I was thrilled to look like a nerdy little kid, but I wasn’t thrilled with the way that the other kids treated me.

Before I'd given in to the Flattop, I was considered a pretty cool guy at school. Guys no longer perceived me as competition. I was always invited to parties. After the haircut, all of that stopped. I now looked too silly and too juvenile. I wasn’t fun anymore.

After one particularly bad bout of teasing from the kids, I begged Dad to let me grow my hair and go back to my jeans. My parents froze, shocked. I'd been such a clean-cut, obedient son for so long. This ran counter to my months of stiff collared obedience.

Dad tried to reason, firmly but sympathetically. I argued. Dad began to threaten. I defiantly ignored the warning signs.

Suddenly, Dad grabbed me. In one smooth move, he had me pinned across his lap. I bucked and struggled and fought him. Escape was impossible. My collar and tie seemed to pull tighter, making me feel even more helpless in Dad’s iron grip. He kept my head in a firm headlock. As I kicked, I felt him pulling down my pants.

This spanking was rougher than any that I'd had before. It hurt. It hurt a lot. My bottom was on fire. The agony was unbearable. I sobbed and wiggled as Dad's hand blistered my bottom for what seemed like hours. In no time, Dad had me begging and screaming for forgiveness.

After a time, I dumped onto my knees. I buried my head in Dad's lap and cried. It poured out of me. My whole body heaved as the tears forced their way out. Dad's hand stroked the back of my head as my crying ran its course.

Dad gently helped me to my feet and gave me a long hug. He straightened my tie while Mom pulled up & re-tucked my pants. They both smoothed out my coat as I tried to choke back the sobs. I was sent to the corner to sit on a hard wooden chair for an hour.

The spanking was painful and humiliating. Dad hadn’t spanked me like that since I was a small boy. Still, I submitted to his correction with humility & gratitude. It was reassuring to know that Dad intended to keep me under such firm control.

I happily submitted to the New Discipline that rigidly defined my life from then on. Although I generally stayed on my best behaviour, I did slip occasionally. Spanking was always the penalty for such slips. I submitted to my punishment like a good boy. The spankings hurt, but reassured me of my place in the family. They began to feel strangely fulfilling as well.

SCHOOL UNIFORM

Later that week, Mom brought in a dark green blazer and a pair of grey slacks. The blazer was a double breasted 6 button model with gold buttons on the body and the sleeves. She had me try it on. It fit well, as did the slacks. The coat and pants were very well made, with full linings and small details.

I liked it. Having never worn a double breasted blazer before, this was a real treat. Mom asked if I’d like to wear it to school in the morning.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied, “This is really nice. Thank you.” I continued to examine myself in the mirror. The outfit really looked sharp.

“Good. I’m glad that you like it.” My mother replied. “This was your Father’s school uniform, from when he was a boy. It was in such good condition and I thought that it just might fit you.” She handed me four bow ties: green like the jacket with small black & white stripes.

So this was Dad’s school uniform. I examined the coat closely. The buttons were stamped with the school crest. A pocket patch bore the symbol of the school. I liked the design. I recalled that the school had closed years ago, so nobody would mind if I sported the emblems.

In the morning I dressed in my new outfit, taking extra care to tie the bow just right. This was Dad’s uniform and I wanted to do it justice. When I buttoned the coat I felt very smart and very dressed up. Dad was very pleased when I came out to breakfast. His warm approval gave a special glow to the day.

My outfit got rave reviews from Wayne. That didn’t surprise me, given his bow tie fetish.

That night, Dad told me to keep the uniform. He even brought a couple more coats and slacks out of storage for me. When looking for the clothes, he found a box with a dozen school ties. He gave those to me as well.

“Seeing you dressed like this brings back memories. You remind me of myself when I was your age.” He showed me an old school photo. It was a shock. I really looked exactly like he did when he was my age: same haircut, same uniform, same glasses.

Dad continued to march me off to the barbershop with him every Saturday. My haircut, under Dad’s strict orders, was kept buzzed down, waxed up, and skin bald on the sides & back. My facial hair was gradually destroyed by Leo’s aftershave lotion. My face is as smooth as a baby’s to this day.

I looked forward to our Saturday trips to the barbershop. With each passing trip, Dad and I grew closer. Looking like him made me proud. I cared less and less about what the other kids said about my haircut. It felt nice to be teased about my shaved and bristled Flattop. I got a hard-on every time someone kidded me about my appearance.

A NEW NAME

About a month later, Dad gave me a very special gift. Dad had been calling me Junior for quite awhile. It seemed perfectly natural to make it legal.

It was simple. We talked to the judge. Dad paid a fee and some paperwork was shuffled around.

45 minutes later, my name was legally changed from John David Reeves to Edwin Alfred Reeves, Jr. My heart skipped a beat as I saw the document bearing my new name.

My mind rolled and wrapped around my new name. It sounded very square and old fashioned- very formal. I loved that.

Late that night I got up and went to the bathroom. I stared at the boy in the mirror. My crisply barbered head glistened in the lights. Compulsively, I brushed my flattop to attention. My nipples tingled; my hands trembled, as I slipped my glasses into place.

Carefully, I searched the mirror for some sign of the studly guy that I'd been a few months ago. He wasn’t there anymore. A homely little geek stood in his place.

He wasn't the same old Johnny anymore. Who was he? Another thought emerged: Johnny had been a young man, Edwin was a boy – a Daddy's boy.

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