#nothing does much. it's a fuckin steel type

[front-facing-pokemon]

[narcolini]

white room - pt. 5

johnny davis x gn!reader, 18+, canon typical themes and language, 5.8k words, 5 of ? ao3 link | previous part a/n: hellow :3 we are back after an unexpected hiatus and lips finally gets to meet benny ! very exciting all round <3 i hope you like it and forgive me for falling off planet earth for a bit

Might sound kind of stupid, but recently, you been thinking that you’ve finally got it all worked out—about Benny, that is. Somewhere between the last time you saw him, and the Saturday of the picnic, Johnny’s weird kinda way of talking around him started making a whole load of sense. And it wasn’t just some little joke when he said he didn’t want you knowing Benny, it was pretty much sort of the truth, you think, hidden under all the hums and grumbles of him. He actually was cut up about it a little. Nervous, though someone like Johnny never aught’a be nervous about nothing. And you really would never say it to his face, or anyone else’s for that matter, but you’ve even been considering the possibility that Benny might be part of the reason things with him and Betty didn’t work out. 

Fuckin’ rat up the drain pipe sort of shit, right? Never saw it coming ’til it started scratching at your head one night. You were lying there staring at the ceiling and thinking, huh, Johnny talks about Benny the way you’d be talking about Johnny, should anyone ever ask you about him when you didn’t really wanna say nothing. Eh, he’s just some guy, you’d say, yeah, we hang around with each other, you know, doing stuff. Stuff, and other things and what not. 

Like, he’s got a hold on him, alright, the same one Johnny’s got on you. A real, steel grip, hold. You started off thinking well maybe it’s a jealous type of thing, you know, old guy wanting to step into the young buck’s riding boots, but it ain’t just that. Can’t be. Half of Johnny’s crew are ten years younger than him, but well, they aren’t Benny, right? And there’s something about the way he looks at him—the few times you’ve been around to catch it—something ‘bout the way Johnny watches him. And talks about him. And makes excuses for him, and the way he is. Sure, he may like him like he wants to be him, you know, foot taller, blonde, pretty as anything, but by the time Saturday rolls around and you’ve really sat on it for a while, you’re starting to think: well, what if he likes him the way every girl that ever meets Benny likes him? The way even you might’a liked him, had you never seen Johnny, of course.

Seems obvious once you’ve really put some time into the idea. Nothing about Johnny says he couldn’t be liking men the same way you do and, jeez, maybe you’re dumb for it, but even with all of that, you can’t find a single part of yourself that seems to mind. Johnny still treats you good, still makes the nights feel longer than the days—and he invited you to this picnic of theirs, which he says is only ever for wives and girlfriends and serious things like, so you figure you’re someone real important to him now, cause even if you aren’t one of those things, you’re something, right? And he did all of that with Benny around, so what difference does it make to you? Sure, you can share as long as everyone’s playing nice, you’re not spoiled or nothing.

Well, alright, maybe not share, you aren’t an angel—who is?—but right now, if Johnny likes Benny like he likes you, he sure don’t even know it yet. Or if he does, he’s still two hundred miles back from dealing with the meaning of it, and you know he’s not planning on running nowhere on those knees of his, so it’s whatever, right? Can’t fix nothing if it ain’t broke yet.

“You like dirt bikes?” he asks, while he’s dragging you across this damn field that you spent all morning riding for, grass wet from yesterday’s rain still. No place for any sort of picnic you’ve been to, but for Vandals, sure, it’s like a natural haven to them or something. 

“I never liked any sort of bike ’til I met you, Johnny.”

“Yeah,” he winds, like he knew as much but didn’t really care in the first place, “few of us are gonna race ‘em. See that track there?”

You see nothing but a whole load’a mud on top of another bunch of it. “Mhmm.”

“That’s where this whole thing started.” 

“And when you go spinning over the handlebars, that’s where it’ll end it up,” you say.

He laughs, but he goes on, “I’m serious,” through the smirk of it. “That’s where me and Brucey got the idea for the club in the first place. Well, that and, yeah.” He nods. “Here, when we was racing.” He waves toward the tracks in the dirt, and the bikes in the dirt, and the men that are fifty-percent fuckin’ dirt, like the whole lot is some sort of sacred ground to him, like he’s just a humble guide blessing you by bringing you here, then he says, “and I never come off no more, so don’t worry about it.”

And you like him enough to go along with it, cheesy Colby Jack that you are. “It’s something special,” you tell him, mostly meaning it. Well, all the way meaning it, but only in the way people look at scraps of metal in a museum cabinet, and think that it’s really something just cause the guys in tweed say that it is. 

“Benny race with you?” you ask him.

“No,” he shakes his head a little, “not his kind of…”

“What, you gotta be short like jockeys to race or something?” 

“No—“ he shoots a confused look at you, then realises that you’re joking, at his expense, and forgives you for it too, all in the same sort of moment, “—would you give it up with that?”

“Hm, think I have maybe three ‘just under six foot jokes’ left in me,” you promise, “but I’ll spare you today.”

“Yeah, you will.” And it’s as much a threat, as it is an invite, cause he’s smiling like a little something or other, and your lips find his in a real awkward, bumpy, kind of way, noses knocking as you walk, you know. Giggling and stuff. Real cutesy lovebird shit that you wouldn’t be repeating to no-one, if you wasn’t, well, you know.

“So where’d he come from then?” you ask, wrapping your free hand around the arm that you’re already attached to. Half-way close to crawling under his leathers, under the shirt and undershirt too, right under the curl of hair beneath that chain that he wears, if you could. “If it wasn’t the racing, I mean.” 

“Benny?”

“Yeah, Benny.” 

You should probably not be asking so much, now you know what you think you know—even if you don’t know it, and have just convinced yourself that you do—but it’s bothering you, well not bothering, but toying with you. He’s never wanted to say much about him and you figure you should take advantage of that sentimental look in his eye, for research purposes, of course.

“He just. He’s just always been around,” he says. “Came through one time needing something, yeah, and he stuck around when he found it. Like any of us would.” 

“You mean Kathy?” 

His face screws up, sort of like a wince almost. “No—me, the club. He needed someplace to be. Something to belong to, you know?”

“Yeah.” You know. 

“All just gotta have somewhere to belong.”

“And you ain’t let go of him since,” you think, not meaning to say it aloud, but saying it anyway, cause Hell, it’s the truth, whichever way you wanna look at it. 

He don’t like it of course. Tightens up right to the sides of his neck, and wrings his hand around the strap of the bag on his other shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “Nothin. It’s good he’s got you guys. And Kathy.”

Johnny nods. That, he can agree to, though he don’t look happy about it. You caught him and let him right back out again, cause you’re not looking to pick fights, and that bothers him as much as if you were, apparently. Keeps him all quiet and rigid as you finish up the trek to where you oughta be. 

The closer you get, the less barbaric it seems. Picnic benches, coolers, brave sorts on tartan blankets right on the rain-wet floor, but still, that sticky, dirt bike track in the middle, winding all over the place.

Not bad, all in all, suppose it is somewhere you don’t mind spending your Saturday so much. 

“Sorry,” you tell him, “for always poking my nose in.”

He squeezes your hand. “S’nothin. We’re mixing it up, right?”

Yeah, Vandal stuff and you stuff. Two hands at once. No more juggling. But, obviously, there are some Benny shaped parts of that, that don’t seem to be mixing too well at all.

You know, you and him haven’t talked once, or so much as breathed the same air at the same time, right, which isn’t too crazy, but would be if it goes on much longer than it has. Cause one time, when Johnny came by, he had Cal with him. And you said hi and stuff, before he went on again—well, it was real heavy on the stuff cause Cal talks exactly as much as you do—and another time, Wahoo and Corky were with him, yeah? And sorta, somehow, you met a few of them; not all, not properly, but a few, and never having more than a bit of small talk, you know, but it was something. 

But you never even got introduced to Benny, so you asked him once, and Johnny said that’s cause Benny is either with his lady, Kathy, or with the guys at the club, or on his own, doing something he shouldn’t. That’s it, supposedly. Course, you said, wait, what? You ain’t never gone nowhere alone with him, just you two? And he just shrugged and made a noise like you should quit talking about it, like you were asking something of him that he couldn’t explain. Like Benny was some sort of mystical kind of guy, like he wasn’t really all the way real, or something. Just a guy you only see when the light’s hitting the right place, or the stars are in a line, or some shit.

Well, today, you decided it’s gonna be different, and you’re gonna talk to him. Properly. You don’t got a choice, right? Cause you figure, you don’t know Johnny ’til you know Benny, and you’re getting real hungry for the full picture of him, if he’s gonna be around so much, that is.

“You mind sitting here while I…?” He points to the bikes, angling you toward the bench he’s apparently picked out for you. Front row, not even a splinter. High prize for the VIP. 

“Yeah,” you throw him a good smile, an easy one, “you go ahead. I’ll watch.”

He looks back at you, all sweet, lips curling, then pulls a helmet from that bag of his—cause apparently, these ones need ‘em, but the other kind don’t—and then he’s off, going like a kid. Half jogging, half walking, and heading right over there to the rest of them. 

They’re skinny bikes, these ones, kinda looking like street dogs. All wiry and bite-y, and a whole world different from the big, hulking, spoiled dogs of his usual sort. No shiny curves and nice painted metal here, just rahh, and grrr, and all that sort of shit. You know which ones you prefer just by looking. And you really know which ones you wouldn’t be caught dead riding on. 

You put your hands in your pockets and wait, looking all sorts of all over the place, cause the racers are chatting still, and no-ones going yet, and that bench actually looks as wet as it is rotten, so you got nothing much else to do other than stand there, looking about you some. 

This can’t be all of them, you don’t think, cause you see some faces you know, and a whole load that you don’t, but no where near enough to be their chapter and the new one combined. But then, is it really all that surprising that Vandals, wherever they’re from, aren’t used to turning up on time? It’ll be nearly evening before it’s a full turn out, no doubt, and, God, standing in a field that long? You had no idea what was coming when you agreed to this.

You look down at your boots, splattered with mud, and try to remember the last time you wore them for longer than a few hours. Which was a long while ago, or maybe never—though you do remember how bad the blisters were, whenever it was, so it must’ve happened once—and you suppose Johnny’s worth living through that again, just about, so you decide to stick with what you were doing. Accepting your fate and that, in with a bunch of people you barely know, looking round ’til one of them knows you too—and then you spot Benny.  

And he must’a saw you before you saw him, cause he’s coming right on over. 

He doesn’t say nothing, so you stay standing with your hands in your pockets, wondering if he was looking at you at all, or if he thinks you’re just some tagalong from Milwaukee, waiting for a bike to polish. But then he stops right next to you, and turns back facing the way he came, and puts his hands in his jacket like he’s copying you or something. 

So you stand, and it’s quiet, and he looks at the guys getting onto their bikes, engines growling and barking all at once, and you think, my God, you have never survived a silence like this. You wanna wait him out, but he could be a mute for all you know. You never even thought of that. He could’a taken a hit to the head coming off his bike and lost his nerve for speaking, or maybe he’s from Europe. Maybe he don’t know a lick of English, especially not the kind you’re gonna be talking, you never even thought to ask Johnny about that—what if it’s that? 

And the longer it goes without him saying nothing, the more certain you are that whatever you end up spitting out is gonna be the most insane thing a person could say to someone they never spoke to before. Like how’s your relationship with my maybe sort of boyfriend going? Anything I should know?

“Think the green’s got this one.”

“What?” Not mute. Not mute, and not European. Talking and pointing and waiting for you to say something back, even though he’s not looking at you, up there, under the flop of his dirty blonde hair, but waiting all the same. Like he’s fly fishing and you’re ignoring the lure no matter how much he flicks it. “Green who?”

“The bike,” he says, “don’t know his name.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Green fucking bike, what do you know? You can’t even tell the colour of the one Johnny’s on, you can’t even see him no more really, not when they go up there by that corner there. 

“Sorry, wasn’t paying attention,” you tell him, and you know you don’t sound sorry, but him talking like he knows you has thrown you all the way off. Your big scheme to get in and get cosy now seems real dumb and real pointless. “You’re Benny, right?”

He nods. Then he pulls his arms tighter, denim pockets bunching above his waist, like he’s freezing—which he might be, cause his jacket don’t have sleeves like Johnny’s does. 

“Feels like you’re the last one of them that I ought to be meeting,” you say, and cause you’re still good mannered and things, you throw your name out for him afterwards. 

“I know,” he says back. “Johnny talks about you.”

“He does?” 

He nods again, which is real great, cause it means he talks just as little as Johnny does, but instead of humming and making noises, he just nods and looks at you. Jeez, he really does look at you. Not too long, nothing creepy, you know, but long enough like he might’ve flicked through the file-o-fax in your head and plucked out exactly what he wanted. 

“Johnny doesn’t talk about anything,” you tell him, hoping that whatever he thinks he saw, is the opposite of what you actually said. “What’s he say, ‘I’m seeing somebody’?”

To your surprise, Benny laughs at that, and shit, he’s as movie star pretty as you’d expect with a smile on his face. It just gets worse with this dude. “Yeah,” he says, “thats, er, that’s pretty much it.”

“Figures. I gotta get him in a headlock before he says shit about you—or anyone else that means something to him.”

He’s looking ahead again, but you can see he’s smiling still, even if it’s small. He really is a quiet type, two minutes in and you’re realising as much already. Even when he’s talking, or doing anything, there’s a real quiet to it, which is probably the last thing you expected to learn about him. None of these biker guys are ever like that, not even Johnny, somehow, he’s loud even when he’s saying nothing. It’s in the face, in the way he carries himself. But Benny? You could switch his colours for a church suit and believe that he was a good kid Sunday through Friday, never speaking back to no-one.

Which makes no damn sense, and can’t be the fucking case, and makes you realise all at once that he’s the sort of person you keep around just to try and solve the puzzle of him. Shy smiles and listening ears in a guy like him, riding bikes like that? Yeah, sure. The club might not be doing much as far as you know, but it sure is doing more than that, and yeah, you remember, he said it once, Johnny said Benny got all wrapped up with some cops a few times, so who the hell is this?

“You like the picnic?” he asks, flicking his head that way.

“Depends on whether there’s any actual picnicking, or if it’s just standing around watching stuff.”

“Yeah, there will be. Kathy, she uh,” he rubs his face on his shoulder, like he’s getting an itch and the itch is small talk, “she brought some stuff,” he says. 

“Then I guess I like it,” you say back. “Skipped breakfast.” And real surely suffering for it, stomach aching like you’ve not even sniffed food in years. 

He puffs a short breath through his nose, like he’s laughing without trying to. “Don’t think I’ve had breakfast since the fourth grade.”

You can’t help it, you answer like you’d answer anyone else, Benny or no Benny. “That’s sad. You know that’s sad, right? No breakfasts, not even as a kid?”

He shrugs, and he don’t seem offended, but he don’t seem amused so much anymore either. He certainly ain’t knocking back with a joke like Johnny would have. 

“I think waffles are a fundamental necessity,” you say, just to say something again. Then you put your focus on the track, cause the wheels are back now, spinning and spitting up wet dirt, and the looped route they took might’ve gone around a couple times without you noticing, cause it seems like they’re done. Like someone’s kicked a stand and thrown his helmet and started shouting like he’s a winner.

“Green,” Benny says, like you might’ve been betting against him. 

“And Johnny—?”

“Third place.”

You find him in the group, grinning like he’d won, helmet on, goggles pushed up over the curve of it. “Used to be faster, right?”

Benny shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”

“You been with the club long?” you ask.

He chances the air, pulling his hands free and a pack of cigarettes along with them. “Feels like it,” he says.

You laugh, though it’s mostly sort of a scoff, and probably sort of rude, but, come on, what’ve you gotta do to get a real answer round here? “Jeez, between your riddles, and Johnny’s half sentences, I don’t know how you guys even found yourself to be friends.”

He cracks a light and takes a drag and you’ve pretty much given up on getting anything more out of him, when he says, “Johnny’s only like that when he’s talking to someone with more to say.”

“Yeah, yeah,” your eyes roll, “Lips, I get it. Course he’s been spreading that around already.” 

“Lips?” He tweaks an eyebrow, looking at you through the smoke.

Great. So you really are just like that. “Dumb name he’s come up with,” you say, though you’d rather not, considering he didn’t know about it until you brought it up. You and your lips. “Why don’t you have one? Don’t seem fair to me. I mean, you got Cockroach, walking round with a name like that, and you get to be just Benny?”

“Things like that aren’t planned.”

“Feels like they are.”

He smirks like you’re real crazy. “And you think I’m a special case?”

“I think you’re the favourite,” you tell him. May as well come out with it.

He snorts. The cigarette smoke goes like an ink spill around his head. “You never figure they don’t give names to people that might not stick around?” he says.

Well, that gets you, because no, you never did think of that. And now that you are thinking bout it, the truth feels like a jackhammer against you and him both. Him, who hasn’t got a name and you, who has one already, willing or not. Johnny wouldn’t stumble into a thing like that by accident, would he? 

“You move around a lot?” you ask, with all interest and no attitude. Cause if he’s right, and that is the reason, he must’a done something to make them think as much.

“Used to,” he says.

“Me too.”

“You miss it?”

“Fuck no,” you laugh, “no, I’m planning to spend a real long time in one place from now on.”

He nods, but he doesn’t comment any more on it, and you take his quiet to mean that he thinks the opposite—well, that and the way he’s looking off now, smoking like he never asked in the first place. All of that seems to you like someone who’s planning on moving around some more, some time, whenever it is, and, if you’re real honest, for a second it reminds you of Mom, and that way she’d be when she started itching for it again. Something new, something unattached. You near enough shiver at the thought. Last thing you want is to be drawing a line between Benny and your mom, at your first big meet-the-family picnic of all places.

“I better check on Kathy,” he says, pointing that way with the red end of his smoke. 

“Yeah,” thank God, “yeah sure, nice meeting you.” You smile, waving as he goes, and he takes all that weird, creeping feeling along with him. 

Half successful, half fucking weird. Benny ain’t the sort you thought he was, but you don’t like him and you don’t dislike him neither, which is probably music to Johnny’s ears, should you ever tell him that. But as he walks away you find yourself watching the back of him, and as dead-ended as the conversation was, you feel like you’re wanting to make some more sometime. Just to work him out, you know? Just to see what Johnny sees. 

* 

“You could’a gone again, if you liked.”

“What? No, nah, one’s alright by me.”

“Got it out your system?”

“Yeah, yeah, couldn’t spend all day away from you, could I? Leave you standing up there all alone.”

Couldn’t, but would’ve, if you hadn’t caught his eye over the way there and given him a look like you were real thirsty for him. Took some fighting inside, you know, to take his helmet off and leave the racing to the rest of them, but he did, sweet as he is, and came and swept you up with all the other guys that are more keen on picnicking like you are. 

And he’s sitting beside you now—well, you sat down on one of them benches there, expecting him to come right up next to you, but he went and sat on the table part, still clearly with you but above you, you see, so that his thigh’s resting against your shoulder and your neck’s half breaking just to look at him. But you kind of like it. Having the head dog sitting over you like that, hand resting on the little bit of skin between your hair and the collar of your shirt. Sure, maybe it’s possessive, and maybe he really is worrying about you seeing something in one of these other guys that you’re never gonna see. 

But the more he does that, running a couple fingers over your neck like that, the more you’re thinking he’s worked out that it gets your stomach doing all sorts of summersaults, and that’s why he likes sitting up there like that. Hell, he can sure enough feel how hot your skin’s getting, so it wouldn’t take a scientist to figure out what it’s doing to you, and at the end of the day, a man’s a man, you know? 

“You not finishing your…what was it again?”

He’s pointing over your shoulder now, at the napkin-rolled parcel of good fucking food waiting there on your lap. You had only put it down for a second to get yourself situated. Would’ve eaten it in two bites if you didn’t have Johnny to think about. “Some kind of sandwich,” you answer. “Though it’s more like a burger in a home that don’t fit it—and yeah, I’m finishing it. It’s good. It’s alright.” 

You can hear him smiling, feel it without even looking back at him to check. “Just alright?” he asks. Then his head’s down by your head, ear by your ear, eyes across the way to where Kathy and Benny are snuggling on the opposite bench. “Now don’t let Kathy hear you saying that.”

Which he says altogether too loud, exactly as he planned to do. 

“Hey, no!” And you hate to admit it, but you’re talking louder like she might’ve heard, just to cover your back that don’t really need covering in the first place. “I mean it’s good. It’s real good! They ran out of regular buns is all.”

Kathy smiles, you think, and Johnny laughs at you relaxing at it—and you would’a liked a kiss or something as an apology for getting you to fret like that, but he just leans back again and runs a thumb down your cheek at the same time, like that’s near enough the same thing. Real charmer. So comfortable already, you know, so sick that he thinks that’s enough, and so perfect and fine and sweet, that it has you smiling while you un-peel the damn napkin. You seem to be taking turns these days, over who has who wrapped round their little pinky, and today it’s your go around that bent little finger of his. Broke it coming off his bike, he says, but you know a fighting injury when you see one, and he’s certainly no type of guy to be avoiding a bust up when it’s put in front of him.

“John, who’s that skinny, mousey looking dude over by Wahoo?” you ask, before taking a mean bite of your sandwich-burger. Then you chew and chew and and God, if Kathy weren’t married, you’d be asking her yourself, before licking your lips and clarifying who you mean, “The one with the camera and the tape recorder?”

“Oh.” He clears his throat, fidgeting enough to make his leathers creak. “That’s Danny. He’s a… I dunno, a sort of journalist, I guess. Yeah. Scouting out stories and things. Been riding with us for a while.”

“Yeah?” Your brows go up, ‘cause that’s the last sort of answer you thought you’d be getting. “He’s out here interviewing you guys?”

“Putting together a book, he says.”

“Hmm.” S’all you can manage to say to that, Hmm. 

On that second or first date of yours, Johnny was real antsy about the idea of you going home and typing out his secrets, and you had to be seeing each other for weeks and weeks before he wanted you to really meet everybody here, but now you’re learning that this whole time they’ve had a walking talking wire tap rolling with them? Asking Q’s and getting A’s? Yeah, feels like something that makes no sense to you, coming from the big boss himself. 

“He’s from New York,” Johnny adds, like he don’t like your silence. Like he thinks you’re weighing this Danny guy up, or something. “S’a good kid.”

“You speak to him much?”

“Nah. Spends a lot of time over at Kathy’s place.” 

Figures. He probably wants to work Benny out the way you and everyone else does—and what better way to work him out, than to get talking with his lady like that?

“Maybe he’ll want to talk to me,” you say.

“Why’d he wanna do that?”

And you don’t like the joke in his voice, so you turn right round to face him, elbows sitting on his thighs. “Why wouldn’t he? I got stories to tell.”

He’s not looking at you, but looking over your head at Danny and Wahoo still. “You’re new to the Vandals,” he says, “you don’t know nothing about it. What’ve you got to say to him about all this?”

You agree as much as you don’t. And you’re itching at the principle of it anyway, so you were planning to keep on going, agreeing or not. 

“I know you, don’t I?” you tell him. “Plus new people got as much to bring to the picture as old people, you know, and when you’re writing something up you gotta have the whole entire picture from as many people as you can get, right—and I know, I like to write too, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“So why wouldn’t he wanna talk to me? I could tell him a whole load about all sorts of things—how someone like me got all wound up with someone like you, for starters—“

“Alright.”

“And how it feels to be fitting in with a bunch of people that are as much like you as they aren’t like you, you know?”

He’s looking at you now, and in the break you take to get some air and another point lined up, he asks, “You done?” Like you’d been talking forever or something.

And you’re surprised enough that you can’t say whether you are or not. 

“I don’t want you talking to him,” he says, “about us. Can I ask that? Am I allowed to ask that of you?”

“Sure you are, Johnny.” That was beside the point. You was just giving an example, you know, of why Danny might wanna point that microphone of his in your direction. 

Johnny’s looking down at you in one of those sorta ways that reminds you he’s a father still—and a father of two girls at that. The kind of look a guy might give a lion after kindly asking him to put his teeth away. “Feels like maybe you got a problem with it,” he says.

“You don’t want me talking to him about you? Fine.” You shrug. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean, come on, I just don’t like the implication that I got nothing interesting to say to someone like that.” Which is the truth, and you aren’t anyway shy of admitting it to him. 

He hums in response, and you don’t know if it’s a ‘you’re so funny’ kind of hum, or a ‘you’re getting on my nerves but we’re in public and I can’t say nothin’ kind of hum. And you don’t get to work it out neither, cause Cal shouts from the next table over like you’d been listening to his conversation, and not your own, this whole time.

“You coming, Lips?” he says.

“To what?”

“Car show, couple weeks from now.”

Right, cause that clears it up. “Why’d I do a thing like that?”

He looks down a little, like you caught him feeling nervous about the thing. Like it was prom and you were waiting for him to ask you, or something, lone earring swinging while he doubts himself. “Well, usually,” he says, “when a guy’s going steady with someone—not to assume or presume, Johnny, every journey is a beautiful one—but, well, usually they bring ‘em along to these things.”

You’re laughing. Well, trying real hard not to, cause he’s trying so hard to be… whatever that was, and you don’t mean to come off as rude so early on, y’know? “No, I mean, you bike guys go to car shows? Where’s the sense in that?” 

“S’more of a wheel show,” Cal says.

“S’more of a something to get drunk and start fightin’ each other for no reason,” Kathy adds from across the way, conversation travelling like a bunch of fish going upstream, “you don’t wanna be there, trust me. They just like lookin’ tough to all those nice boys in the 4-wheelers there.”

And you believe her, having said no more that a few words to her in your life, cause if anyone knows about these things, you kinda figure Kathy does. 

“You wanna go?” Johnny asks, before you can say anything about the drinking and fighting part. 

You look up, and he’s frowning like he might’ve asked you something real troubling, or like he’s trying to suss you out, even though he’s already done that and more, you reckon, sussed you out down to the parts even you don’t like thinking about. 

“D’you want me to go?” you ask.

“Well, yeah,” he says, easy but hesitant, “I do, yeah.”

“Then sure.” You turn back to Cal, who’s smoked up like a teenager in the brief moment you looked away from him. “S’pose I’ll be there, then.”

“S’pose we’ll be glad to have you,” he says back, and it’s probably only the weed, but he’s smiling like he means it. Like you’ve spent a whole lifetime with these guys, and not just one muddy afternoon in a fucking field in the middle of nowhere. 

Funny how it works sometimes, ain’t it? Johnny spent so long trying to balance things between you and the Vandals, when all he really had to do was stop worrying so much, and let everything fall together. One big pile of imperfection is a Hell of a lot easier to deal with, and you don’t mind being a part of that. Dirty boots and Benny included. 

>>>>>>next part

~~~~~~~~

taglist: @drabbles-mc @hausofmamadas @garbinge @raven-black102 @lyralu91 @hoodeddreams13 @businesscalamity (pls let me know if i forgot you or you no longer want to be tagged!)

[enniewritesathing]

memory management (time of death 2)

⏮️Previous || (📚Previous Stories) || Beginning ▶️

⚠️ The following update contains the following triggers: death, blood, gore, strangulation, needles, gun, violence.⚠️

(An air of frustration, failure, and disappointment fills the lab.)

(Everyone is silent; Jordan puts their hands together in prayer.)

(Bernard stares up at the ceiling, massaging his forearms. Shit, if he thought he was do CPR for damn near two hours straight, he would've taken arm day more seriously.)

After a sigh, he breaks the silence. "So, what now, Char? What do you think went sideways?"

(Charles taps the side of his temples. He already knows the answer and he feels Daniel's steel blue eyes boring a hole into him.)

Daniel: "Charles."

"Answer the question."

Charles: (with slight irritation) "If you insist, Daniel."

"We pushed him too hard. Fact of the matter is we went into this trial too soon. It was discovered hours before that Johnathan's heart had accumulated damage over time from previous endeavors; his HF was becoming inefficient at fixing said damage. You can put two and two together."

"With him fighting us, his HF was overloaded. When it failed, his heart failed. Simple as that."

(Bernard scoffs.) "Of course. Of course. Of course he was going to fight us to the very end; look where it got him."

Daniel: "You're missing the point--"

Bernard: "Give me a fuckin' break, Dan!"

(Bernard reaches for John's arm to take off the bracelet, but first he needs to tell this righteous asshole off.)

"Let's have a moment of hypotheticals. Suppose we did manage to get wolf-man back? But wait a minute -- his heart stopped six times and for way too long periods of time. Werewolf or not, ten minutes is all we got. Even if he came back, his brain would be done."

"Am I right, Charles? Or do we have notes on if and when his HF will fix that?"

Charles: "I placed too much faith in Johnathan. He is... was young and stubborn. Obviously, I took advantage of that fact; it was a grave miscalculation."

Bernard: "Hmph. You succeeded in getting rid of the werewolf. We all did."

(Daniel continues to stare at Charles, largely ignoring Bernard's words.) "What are you going to tell his loved ones?"

"What lies are you going to tell his mother that she's lost another son to this affliction? Only this time, it was you."

"You made the decision to go ahead with the trial, despite my warning not to."

Jordan: "Is that true?"

Daniel: "Yeah, it is."

Charles: "And yet, here you are. Now, I've given you plenty of chances to excuse and recuse yourself, my dear Daniel. You didn't in either case; in staying, you agreed.

"Even with Johnathan's death, we have gathered valuable data and that's all I can hope for. We did get results; it wasn't the type that we wanted. Does that make you feel better?"

(Jordan appears at Daniel's side, placing a hand on his arm.)

"Dan. We did everything we could. You... you have to let this go. Please."

"We can deal with this later. I'm tired. Okay?"

Daniel closes his eyes and heaves a great sigh as Jordan rubs a small circle on his back. They're right. "Fine."

Bernard: (sighs) "I know I've gave you shit, Dan. For what it's worth, I do feel a tiny bit what you feel. Same sea, different boat though."

Charles: "Are we all in agreement that the trial is over?"

(Everyone else utters a tired "yes".)

"Good." (He sighs.) "I'll go break the news to his mother."

(Jordan walks back to the table. They straighten out John's head to take off the mask; his eyes unfocused, staring at nothing, shifting with the motion.)

(What a shame.)

(Jordan offers another prayer before closing John's eyes.)

"Good night, John."

// Next ⏭️

[smileymoth]

still philosophizing over the morality of interacting with art/music made by questionable people or by people who are working together with questionable people

is it morally right to listen to type o negative since peter steele is dead, is it morally correct to listen to and talk about the beatles knowing one of them was an avid wife beater, has it been enough time to forget that oli sykes had a dv case against him in 2014 because its been a decade and nothing else has happened that the public knows of (and does it mean its acceptable for me to want to get band merch that costs far too much for my wallet), are hollywood undead clean of being freaks despite touring with ronnie radke, what crime is too much . is charlie xcx promoting kamala more cancellable than tswift being an ecoterrorist (using the term loosely. btw.) because its more widely known about. does the fact that david bowie allegedly had sex with minors make brian molko a bad person for missing him. whats the scale of atrocities someone needs to commit to get written off. is g way a normal man when his once best friend is an alleged pedophile. surely he had to know of him kissing underage fans at his shows at one point or another. and his wife is bandmates with the guy, surely she would know about it. is it acceptable to listen to pirated mp3s of msi since the band is inactive or is the music too reprehensable to even be listened to without the lead guy. if not listening to small artists who are weirdos stops their income then doesnt that go against the idea of everyone should have enough money to live a normal life without being in poverty or whatever. well. its probably a question of having power but. you know what i mean. you can also have power over people working an office job. but if you stop listening to a big popular artist bc they're a freak does it even change anything since they probably already have so much money that it wont matter.

i think about these things so fuckin often and i never come to conclusions because 90% of the music industry is fucked and even the ones who are "normal" can get immediate hate overnight because they said sth a bit "off" or whatever. ie i saw people being bitchy on twt at chapel roan for saying she likes trisha paytas or something.

should charlie scene get cancelled for singing "everywhere i go bitches always know that charlie scene has got a weenie that he loves to show"

[ratofthemedievalsewers]

Heart of Steel - Part I

DBH Connor x Male Reader

Word Count: 2.5K+

Content warning: Minor injury detail, PTSD, language

Original game dialogue I got from this video:

https://youtu.be/32Np9LKI1Vg

We were attacked in the night.

After returning from a mission back to an outpost several miles from the red zone, we removed our gear save for a few pouches on our belts we could bother with later. Our team leader set up a fire while the SQ800s, CyberLife commissioned combat androids, began loading up the trucks with extra artillery and resources. A job that could have waited until morning, but Alpha always gave the androids something to do. He said that they creeped him out when they would just stand there in a dormant state, waiting for their next mission to be given to them.

"You know what I'm going to do when I get home?"

"Here we go again."

"I'm going to get me a WR400," Foxtrot; not everyone's favourite but he certainly kept us entertained when there was nothing to do.

"Uh-huh and with what money are you going to be using to pay for this WR400? A military salary definitely ain't gonna cut it." Echo always called out Foxtrot's bullshit, he was the only one that had the patience to deal with him.

"Fine, my birthday is comin' up, if you put towards two-thirds of what it costs we can share. How does that sound?"

"I am not sharing anything with you, I don't know what diseases you carry." Their constant back forth sent chuckles through the group.

"Alright, that's enough you two. It's getting late and past everyone's bedtime, I want you all awake by O-five-hundred at the latest," Alpha would often stop them before Foxtrot would take it too far, but he could never hide the twitching smile on his face.

"Yes sir," Foxtrot mock saluted as he stood from his seat around the campfire. "Hey Echo, that offer is still-"

One moment Foxtrot had a wide grin on his face, the next there was a hole in his head between his eyes, the sound of gunshot ringing in everyone's ears.

"SHOTS FIRED! GET TO COVER NOW!"

"FOXTROT IS DOWN! I REPEAT, FOXTROT IS DOWN!"

It was dark, we couldn't see where they were firing from. The android was the only one still standing, firing off in random directions as they were gunned down. The next was Delta, shot in the left shoulder, then the throat. My gun was back in my tent and there was no chance of me getting it. Stupid.

"MEDIC! GET TO DELTA! NOW!"

"GRENADE!"

I heard the thump by my feet before I saw it. You would think it would be terrifying, to know you're staring death in the face, but for a second it was peaceful. My body was cold and I already felt like a corpse, the Rigour Mortis freezing me in place, just softly gazing at what would kill me.

Something grabbed me before the grenade exploded, saving my life but destroying the android.

The bedsheets were crumpled and soaked in sweat again when my eyes shot open. It was hard to breathe, the panic was still running through me and closing up my throat at the memory.

In; one, two, three, four. Hold; one, two, three, four. Out; one, two, three, four. Hold; one, two, three, four.

It took a few minutes for me to remember where I was. That I was home and that I was safe. Out of nervous habit, I gripped my dog tags, they were wet from the sweat that had soaked through my shirt in the night.

"Shit." It was four in the morning, there was no chance of getting any more sleep and the station wouldn't be open for another two more hours at the least. Saying that; Fowler wanted to speak to me first thing, which never meant anything good for anyone.

It was aching again at the joint. The biomechanical component always felt itchy where it joined at the elbow. Anytime I would have that dream I would scratch at it in my sleep, it was like my subconscious knew it didn't belong. It knew my rotting left arm was still in the desert somewhere being picked apart by vultures.

It's almost ironic; to be saved by an android and then to have part of one attached to me. I hated it.

*****

"Morning Cyborg, you look like shit." Gavin was forever pleasant to talk to.

"Fuck off, Reed." He constantly hovered around the coffee machine, hogging it like it was his newborn baby. "Is Fowler in yet?"

"Not yet, you in trouble?" He took his time making his coffee, exceeding in being the department's resident asshat. "Did he catch you looking at porn on your work terminal again?"

"I'm pretty sure that's only ever happened to you." Not wanting to be reminded of his previous escapades I got no response. Gavin let out a small huff before moving to the side with his fresh cup of coffee, freeing up the machine.

"Officer (L/N)." Oh for fuck's sake.

"Sir?" Captain Fowler stood outside his office, his coat half soaked from the rain.

"My office, I need to speak to you." He didn't give a second glance to me before turning and letting the glass door shut behind him.

"Ha, good luck cyborg." Shooting Gavin the middle finger, I followed Captian Fowler into his office.

"What was it you wished to talk about, sir?" Feet shoulder-width apart, back straight and hands behind my back; habits from the army were destined to die hard. Often I would find myself moving my hand up to salute before leaving the presence of a superior, something else for Gavin to make fun of.

"You're aware of the deviant cases I've assigned to Lieutenant Anderson, correct?" Fowler sat at his desk, wet coat now hung on its rack, but there was slight dampness to his suit blazer where his coat had been left open.

"Yes sir. I believe he's being accompanied by a prototype RK800 from Cyberlife."

"That's correct. I'm sure you're aware that these deviancy cases are on the more..."

"Dangerous?"

"...Unpredictable side. Now, I can't exactly issue a gun to a prototype android if it's going to be in the field and, while I value Hank as a police officer, his record is on the rougher side."

"Captain Fowler, with all due respect, I don't believe-"

"Office (L/N), with all due respect, you don't have an opinion in this matter. I want you to accompany Lieutenant Anderson in these assignments just in case a deviant becomes too much for him or this android to handle. You've certainly got the skillset for it and you're not unfamiliar with working alongside androids, unlike quite a few officers in this department."

"I understand that, but-"

"Whatever you're gonna say I don't want to hear it." Captain Fowler didn't give me a chance to argue as he stood and walked to his office door, the annoyed look on his face worsening. "Hank, in my office!"

I let out a sigh before Captain Fowler turned back to his desk. Through the office wall made of glass Hank reluctantly made his way towards us grumbling something under his breath at the request, the RK800 model obediently following behind him like a little, lost puppy. Hank sat in the chair opposite Fowler while the android stood next to me, giving a small smile as a greeting.

Captain Fowler was the first to talk, "I've got ten new cases involving androids on my desk every day. We've always had isolated incidents, old ladies losing their android maids and that kind of crap... But now, we're getting reports of assaults and even homicides, like that guy last night. This isn't just cyberlife's problem anymore, it's now a criminal investigation and we've gotta deal with it before the shit hits the fan. I want you to investigate these cases, alongside officer (L/N) and see if there's any link."

"Why me? And why do I need a god damned partner? A stupid android is already too much. Why do I gotta be the one to deal with this shit?" Props to Hank for trying, but arguing with Fowler was like talking to a brick wall. "I am the least qualified cop in the country to handle this case! I know jack shit about androids, Jeffery. I can barely change the settings on my own phone."

"Everybody's overloaded. I think you're perfectly qualified for this type of investigation," They were already starting to blow up at each other.

"Bullshit! The truth is nobody wants to investigate these fuckin' androids and you left me holdin' the bag!"

"CyberLife sent over this android to help with this investigation and I've given you (L/N) as well. You've got a state of the art prototype and a leading police officer to act as your partners."

"No fuckin' way! I don't need partners, and certainly not this plastic prick and some action hero fucker."

"Nice working with you too, Lieutenant Anderson," I said under my breath, not intending for the others to hear. Connor turned his head slightly in my direction, I could see his LED blink yellow for a moment before going back to its bright blue.

"Hank, you are seriously starting to piss me off! You are a police lieutenant, you are supposed to do what I say and shut your goddamn mouth!"

"You know what my goddamn mouth has to say to you, huh?"

"I'll pretend like I didn't hear that, so I don't have to add any more pages to your disciplinary folder 'cause it already looks like a fuckin' novel! This conversation is over."

"Jeffrey, Jesus Christ! Why are you doin' this to me? You know how much I hate these fuckin' things. Why are you doin' this to me?" Most of the department knew why he had such a distaste towards androids, no one could necessarily blame him. Ever since losing his son Hank had become completely different as both a person and an officer. Admittedly, Fowler was harsh on him, but if he wasn't then Hank would drift.

"I've had just enough of your bitching. Either you do your job or you hand in your badge. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do." Hank left in a strop, letting out his frustration on Fowler's office door.

"Well then..." Connor was quick to break the tense silence. His voice caught me off guard, it was smoother, more human than any android's I had heard before. The SQ800's voices had always been more robotic than other models so it had been a shock when the androids back home had sounded so normal, it felt like that all over again. It was jarring. "I won't keep you any longer. Have a nice day captain."

Connor left and I followed behind, giving a small nod of dismissal to Fowler despite him still looking at his terminal screen.

The android went straight to Hank either oblivious or ignoring the lieutenant's current bad mood, granted there was never a time the bastard was in a good mood. Heaven itself could rain down on Detroit and he'd huff at it like a hair in his food.

"I got the impression my presence causes you some inconvenience, Lieutenant. I'd like you to know I'm very sorry about that. In any case, I'd like you to know I'm very to be working with you." Ever the enthusiast.

"I'd give in now. You're talking to a toddler in a fifty-year old's body and the toddler is having a hissy fit." I half sat and half leant against Hank's desk, using my arms to support my weight.

"Apologies, I don't believe I've introduced myself. My name is Connor, I am the android sent by CyberLife." He turned to me, a gentle and manufactured smile on his face. "It's a pleasure to be working with you too, officer (L/N). I'm sure we'll make a great team."

"Er... (Y/N) is just fine."

"Is there a desk anywhere I could use?"

"No one's using that one." Hank points to the desk opposite him, while still sulking like a child.

"Gasp, it speaks," I said in a sarcastic tone while turning to Hank.

"Fuck off. I've already got an android on my ass, I don't need you on it too."

I grabbed a terminal pad before perching myself back at the edge of Hank's desk while Connor got comfortable at the empty one. The light at the side of his head flashing yellow for a moment like he was hesitant to speak."You have a dog, right?"

"How do you know that?"

"The dog hairs on your chair. I like dogs. What's your dog's name?"

"What's it to you?" Hank shifted in his seat, "...Sumo... I call him Sumo."

"Under all those shitty shirts and questionable stains there's a warm, beating heart," I say more to myself than the other two, skimming over the recent case files sent in by Fowler.

"Officer (L/N)... (Y/N), knowing that we'd be working together I read your academy and field records. You have quite an interesting background."

"Oh yeah, then you understand that I may be a little driven to get these cases over with. I can't say I'm a fan of you terminators."

"I understand you have a... warped view of androids due to what you've experienced, but I hope you understand that I am your partner and not your enemy."

"Connor, you're not my partner, you're cyberlife's latest gizmo for us kick around." I sigh, turning to sit at my desk adjacent to hanks, taking the terminal pad with me. "Just look through the deviant case files. Terminals on your desk, knock yourself out."

They're nothing but machines. They are not your friends.

"Two-hundred and forty-three files, the first date back nine months. It all started in Detroit... And quickly spread across the country." Connor had only connected the terminal moments before.

"Don't work your CPU too hard," I mutter under my breath, catching a quick huff of amusement from Hank.

"An AX400 is reported to have murdered a man last night. That could be a good starting point for our investigation." Hank was doing his best to pretend Connor didn't exist, but the android was persistent. Connor stood from his chair and made his way into Hank's personal space.

"Uh, Jesus..." Hank turned his chair away.

"I understand you're facing personal issues, Lieutenant, but you need to move past them and-" For an android, Connor has some balls on him.

"Hey! Don't talk to me like you know me. I'm not your friend and I don't need your advice, okay?" Hank's mood had soured like milk, it wouldn't be long until Fowler was adding another page to Hank's disciplinary folder.

"I've been assigned this mission Lieutenant, I didn't come here to wait until you feel like working."

"Connor, you're just gonna-" I had wasted my breath, Hank had already stood and was grabbing onto Connor by the collar of his Cyberlife jacket and slamming against the screen next to his desk. "Hank!"

"Listen asshole. If it were up to me, I'd rather throw the lot of you in a dumpster and set a match to it. So, stop pissing me off... or things are gonna get nasty."

"Hank," I placed a hand on his shoulder to try and lightly pull him away from Connor but only earned a nasty side-eye. "Leave off him, you don't get paid enough to replace him."

"Lieutenant... Officer (L/N), uh... sorry to disturb you," Looks like the tin can was saved before Hank could knock the light out of him, "I have some information on the AX400 that killed that guy last night. It's been sighted in the Ravendale district."

"I'm on it." Hank didn't glance back when he dropped Connor's collar. The puppy dog look on his face almost made me feel bad for him... almost.

"Come on, WALL-E. Don't want to keep the old man waiting."

[babbushka]

*insert Bernie voice* I am once again asking for a Clyde blurb for size kink 😩❤️❤️❤️

1.2k, NSFW (soft dom!Clyde, size kink, car sex, semi-nudity in public)

Late at night, when his shifts drag on into the 2’am hour, you get a real strong desire for your man, your Clyde. Sometimes, if you’re in a desperate enough mood for him, you’ll drive on down to Duck Tape and spring your achin’ need on him, and he’s happy enough to comply. But sometimes, you’re too desperate, and you can barely throw enough clothes on to be decent, so Clyde’s gotta meet you at the car.

You’ve called him to let him know you’re on the way for one of those times, and when you pull up to the front of the parkin’ lot, the place jam packed for bein’ a weekend and all, Clyde’s already waiting for you.

Damn it all, was he big. Six foot three without his boots on, and seemingly just as wide. A proper fuckin’ line backer, your Clyde was, and he’s heading your way. One of the things that was so tantalizin’ about him, was the way he was solid, real solid, all the way through. He didn’t have any curves really, he was thick, a brick wall. It made your mouth water, made your hands tap tap tap on the steerin’ wheel in anxious need.

“Hey there lil’ lady,” Clyde opens the rear passenger side door, cuttin’ right to the chase, “Heard you were in need of a good fuckin’.”

“Clyde please, I missed you too bad.” You whine, eagerly climbing over the center console and landing right in his lap, your legs straddling his strong thighs.

“I’ve got ya darlin’, don’t go apologizin’, I’ve got ya.” With a deep rumbling chuckle in his chest, Clyde tugs his cock out and strokes it with his good hand, mouth already seeking yours as you wriggle and whine impatiently above him. He nips at your bottom lip and orders, “Spread them pretty legs for me real nice and slow, let me see her.”

You’re in nothing but a see-through robe, one of the ones Clyde got you as a joke gift one valentine’s day, the mesh type with feathers around the hem and the cuffs. It does absolutely nothing to conceal any part of your body, but you do as he says, spreading your legs, wanting to be good for him.

“I should be punsihin’ you for showin’ up to the bar naked.” Clyde jerks himself off for a minute or two until his cock is so hard it’s got that delicious curve that you’re anxious to get stuffed up into your cunt.

“I’m not naked! I’ve...” You gesture down to the flimsy and see-through robe, huffin’ out a laugh, “Well I’ve got somethin’ on.”

“Not enough sugar, what if I wanted you to come in for a drink? Say hello t’some friends?” Clyde taps the side of your thigh then, and you rise up up up onto your knees, the leather of the car seat creakin’ under the shifting of your weight.

“You wouldn’t.” You breathe as you start to sink down on his cock, the head of it teasin’ right at your folds.

“No?”

“Nope, you want me all to yourself, ain’t that right?” You moan on the last word, as you let gravity pull you down onto Clyde’s dick, needing to steel yourself from the sheer overwhelming sensation of being so fuckin’ full.

“Fuckin’ hell you’re tight.” He grunts lowly, his hand rubbing circles on your back, eyes shuttin’ tight from it all, “C’mon darlin’ relax for me.”

“I can’t help it you’re -- oh yes! -- you’re so big.” You moan, because he was! He was ten inches of pure fucking power, and all of it was buried down to the hilt inside your body. You can feel the head of his cock knocking against your cervix, and it’s almost painful, but not quite, just so much.

“You like that I’m big?” Clyde eggs you on, an uncharacteristic speech that only tends to come out this late at night, when it’s just the two of you in the whole wide world, “Like how I can fill ya up real good?”

“Yes yes yes, I do, I love it Clyde, fuck I love you.” You’re bouncing on his cock, now that your body has had a minute to adjust, you can’t stop yourself from thrusting down onto it, taking the pleasure that his massive body gives you. You rock and grind your hips against his, your hands clutching and clinging to his shoulder for leverage. He’s so sturdy that he doesn’t barely move even as you bounce and moan wantonly loud.

“Alrigh’ stay quiet for me now, don’t go makin’ me cover that pretty mouth o’yours.” Clyde leans in to kiss at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, and you have half a mind to tell him to gag you anyway, wanting to be stuffed from both ends, all over.

But then that would mean he doesn’t get to touch your clit and make you cry in pleasure, so you shut your mouth and swallow the louder shouts down into somethin’ less attention-grabbin’. It was a full bar after all.

“Come for me darlin’, get what you came here for.” Clyde is close, you can tell just from the husk of his voice, the way he’s startin’ to thrust up into you erratically, no longer as composed as he was.

“Oh fuck!” You suck in a sharp breath, tryin’ not to be loud in case anyone’s in the parkin’ lot, as the two of you come in tandem, the heat from your bodies steaming up the car.

A minute or so later, Clyde helps you off his lap, and buttons himself back up into his jeans. He gets out of the back seat and reaches onto the floor where you’ve stashed a little towel for this exact purpose, and dutifully cleans you down while you grin up at him through hooded eyelids.

“I came to see you too, y’know. It ain’t just about your cock or nothin’, honest.” You say sincerely, and he blushes deeply, his ego shootin’ through the roof.

“I know.” He kisses you gently, that big bear of yours shy and snuggly underneath his hardened exterior, “But I gotta admit, I like that you like it so much. Ain’t never had a girl go so wild over me.”

“Good thing you married then, huh?” You wink, and he blushes even deeper.

“Yep.” He takes a good look at ya, sighs out a little, “I wish I could bring you in for that damn drink. I don’t want you to go just yet.”

“Well, maybe you could lay out here with me for a while? Ain’t like the bar’ll turn to anarchy if you sit with me for a couple more minutes.” You offer, and he nods, takin’ you up on it, climbing back into the rear seat and settling himself on your chest, listenin’ to your heart beat.

The whole damn thing could go up in flames and he wouldn’t give a shit, if it means he gets to sit here with you, he thinks, and even though he doesn’t say it, you hear it anyway, and hold him extra tight for those few golden minutes before you make the drive back home, knowing he’ll be walkin’ through your door again soon for round two.

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

Taggin' some Clyde lovin' friends! @mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @babayagakeanu @safarigirlsp @steeevienicks @lovinghufflepuffgirl @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @groovetoob @bxnnywriting @glassbxttless @angel-bxby3 @smallgirlbigpersonality @lovelyyy-luna @2000andwhat @raddo1975 @cornmousequeen @caillea @painttheskylineforme @holding-on-to-starwars @kylo-ren-is-alive @caitlin-was-here

[not-me-simping-for-blasty]

I Melt With You - Bakugou Katsuki

All Parts

Part 8:

It’s a sunday evening, and you’re kicking your feet up. The television is on low, and your apartment smells like the food you’d had for dinner earlier. All things considered, it’s the most relaxing day off you could’ve asked for. You’d slept in, stayed in, and not got off your couch for anything more than food or a bathroom break. It was perfection.

But perfection expires. Even quicker when somebody forcefully shatters it with a fist against your balcony door.

At the sight of Bakugou, you can’t help but be confused. You’d seen him last just a few nights ago, and, as he already proved, he only came around as a last resort. But, even stranger that his mere presence was his appearance. It was nearing evening, and Bakugou was standing behind the glass in civilian clothes. Normal ones, with a scarf and a coat for once- no hero costume or gauntlets in sight. He had a shopping bag held in the other hand, crinkling the plastic with impatience as you open the door for him. 

“Back again so soon?” You comment.

“Shut up.”

“You could try a hello once in awhile, you know.” You sigh, sliding the door open wider for him. “But I guess I’ll let you in. It is pretty cold out.”

“It’s not cold, you’re just a bitch-”

“Ah!” You scold, spinning around to face his smirk. “What did I say about calling women, and me, that?”

“Don’t know.” He shrugs, mouth drawn up in that way you’d quickly come to realize irritated the hell out of you. “Wasn’t listenin’.”

Bakugou brushes past you easily, somehow leading you into your own kitchen. A part of you wants to yell at him for it, but a larger part quickly realizes how much of a lost cause that would be. After all, it would be pretty pointless to yell at a wild animal for acting like a wild animal. 

Swinging from his hand is a plastic bag, and with no ceremony whatsoever, Bakugou slams it onto your counter. The sound makes you cringe and you’re not sure what takes more damage- the contents of the bag or your own countertop. Then he turns his back, stepping away without a word. He takes a seat at your table, flipping the chair backwards, settling into it, and resting his chin on his hands- and says nothing, of course, because it’s Bakugou. 

“So- what, you’re just gonna leave your stuff there?” You ask, fighting the urge to look inside the bag. “Just, like, out on the counter?”

Bakugou must see your eagerness, because then he’s rolling his eyes. He lifts his head like the gesture pains him, and points loosely towards the bag. 

“Go. Look.” He says. “Knock yourself out, leech. ‘s for you.”

“You bought me something?”

“Yeah? And? What about it?” He bites out defensively. “’s not a big fuckin’ deal or anything.”

“Nothing- I- that’s just nice, I wasn’t expecting it. Thank you.”

He seems to fluster at your words, casting his eyes to the floor. But he waves his hand again, and you realize he’s waiting for you to open the gift, so you near the counter.

 Inside the bag are new dish rags and high-quality bandages and a mountain of cold compresses. You dig a little further, finding some tissues and gauze and even painkillers. He seems to have accounted for and replaced everything you’d ever given him- and then some. 

“I- this is really nice. Really.” You say earnestly, unpacking everything and setting it down on the counter. “Thank you, Bakugou.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Only did it so you don’t think I owe you anything.”

“I never thought you owed me anything in the first place, you know.”

He just shakes his head at that, mouth curling around a subtle smirk. “Only an idiot serves people for free.”

“I don’t- I’m helping you!”

“I know, chill the hell out.” He laughs. “I was kidding, leech.”

You look at him, and Bakugou looks a lot different that you’ve ever seen him. He’s refreshed, skin no longer pallid, his eyes bright and alert. It’s nice, you realize, to see him in something other than pain, absolute exhaustion, or a mood for once.

He almost beautiful- in very much the same way his explosions are. From an incredibly healthy distance.

You shake your head of the thought, turning around quickly before he can notice the heat in your cheeks. It’s a silly thing to be embarrassed about, and you know it, but that doesn’t stop the feeling. 

So instead of dwelling on it, you ignore it entirely- spin on your heels and start walking towards your bathroom. 

“Where’re ya going now?” He asks, and you hear the chair squeak as he stands. Then he’s trailing behind you for a few steps. “Hah?”

“Bathroom. Gotta get the kit so I can put all the new stuff in it!”

“Well don’t sound so fuckin’ happy about it.”

“I am happy!” You call over your shoulder.

Truthfully, you’re actually little unsure- almost assuming there must be some sort of catch to Bakugou’s gift. Sure it’d be a normal gesture from anyone else, but this was him. He didn’t just do nice things regardless of whatever reason he claimed.

You grab the medkit, striding back out to find him leaning against your counter. His eyes follow you, focused and intent as you start packing the new things away. It’s a little intense honestly- you almost start to wonder if Bakugou even knows how to blink.

“Wow- this is the exact brand I like and everything.” You smile at him, tucking all the bandages away neatly. “How’d you know?”

“Noticed.”

“You noticed?”

“The packaging, idiot. ‘s not hard.”

“Okay, yeah, maybe not. But I didn’t expect you’d notice it while you were injured is all- oh, and speaking of, good job! Showing up here, not bleeding out and exhausted, I mean. It’s nice to see you not on the brink of death.”

“Yeah- just means you shouldn’t piss me off. I’ll kill ya for sure this time, leech.” 

His tone is a little weird- a little too light, almost teasing. It’s not until you look up at him that you notice- he’s joking. Bakugou Katsuki is making a joke, in your kitchen, and somehow smiling with very little argument beforehand. A part of you is sure that hell must’ve frozen over.

Still, you smile right back, rolling your eyes at him playfully. “Mhm, I get it.” You say. “You’re totally scary and mean. No need to threaten me any more with it.”

Bakugou just nods, seemingly very satisfied with your comment. You wonder if he knows you were being sarcastic, but knowing his ego, you’re not sure it even mattered anyway. You chose to say the words at all, and that was your worst mistake. 

You finish putting away all the medical supplies into your kit, organizing it neatly within the compartments. Bakugou watches you intently the entire time, not really moving much aside from taking his previous seat back on your kitchen chair. It’s a silent for a while, nothing but your little shuffling sounds and his quiet breathing- until he clears his throat, sighing and slumping forward against the back of your kitchen chair.

“You going shopping again soon?” He suddenly asks, voice pinched and terse. Like even bringing the subject up at all irritates him. “Gonna be out even later or whatever?” 

“I mean- yeah, some time in the next few days? Why?”

“Don’t.”

His tone is clipped- short and harsh like every other word he’d ever spoken to you, but his expression has shifted. There’s no pretense or tough act to follow his command. No front whatsoever. 

“That’s- that’s not really something you get to decide.” You finish unsurely. Something about him is making you nervous- the intensity over something so seemingly trivial. “Why’re you even asking?”

Bakugou straightens in the chair, dropping his arms from over the back. He rolls his shoulders, puffing out his chest with authority. “It doesn’t matter why I’m fuckin’ asking. Just do what I say and stay inside.”

“How many times have I told you this, you don’t get to make orders-”

“It’s not orders.” Bakugou sneers, mimicking your voice. Then he drops the posturing, tilting his head as his voice colors condescending. “I’m saying it’s dangerous, idiot. Quit being so goddamn stubborn.”

“I’m not.” You scrunch your nose at the insult. “And dangerous? Really? I’ve literally never been attacked, not once, in the entire years I’ve lived here. If it’s concern, I appreciate it, but I’m fairly confident I’m fine.”

“It’s- you even listenin’ to me?” He sneers. “I’m warning you. Tellin’ ya not to go out and do something stupid just to prove a stupid fuckin’ point. I’m serious about it- don’t.”

His tone strikes you as odd. Bakugou wasn’t the type to ask for anything. He didn’t bow to anyone or anything, but in that moment you could’ve sworn he was pleading with you. Like he knew something you didn’t. You start to realize you were right earlier, about the way his gift had a catch.

“Bakugou. Did you see something? Like, around here or-”

“No. Not yet.”

You want to tear your hair out. Once again, it seemed Bakugou had you pulling teeth with him, even though he was the one who showed up at your apartment in the first place. 

“Not yet? What does that even-” You sigh in frustration. “Look, if you know something, and that something is dangerous, then you need to tell me.”

Bakugou’s entire face to seems to scrunch up at that, but then he’s dragging a hand down his face and smoothing his features. When he looks up at you again, you can see the way his eye twitches. The way his jaw ticks when he leans forward.

“I can’t.” He growls, running a hand through his unruly hair. “If I could just fuckin’ tell you I would, but it’s not that goddamn easy. Even knowing in the first place is how they- just, just fuckin’ listen to me about this!” 

Bakugou tilts his head, catching your eyes with his hardened stare. His eyes are solid again, like strengthened steel as he looks at you. It’s almost harder to keep his gaze than it is to even try and look away.

It’s yet another stare off, and up until now, you’d won every match. You had seen him at his worst, had forced him to relent even if it was through brute force- but this didn’t seem like those other times. Between his clenched fists and merciless stare, it didn’t seem like surrender was even part of his vocabulary. 

In that moment, Bakugou was serious. More serious than you’d ever seen him before.  

“Yeah. Okay.” You say, nodding. “I got it- but I’m not sure what you want me to do exactly? My shift’s graveyard, so if the problem is it being dark and late, then I’m not sure what to tell you.”

Bakugou nods, but he doesn’t look exceptionally thrilled. He rolls his lips together, thinking for a moment, before he speaks. “Same time every night?”

“Yeah? Most nights?”

“Then it’s fine.” He nods once more to himself, shoulders relaxing slightly. “I’ll be there.” 

You look at him a little funny, squinting in absolute disbelief, but it doesn’t matter. Bakugou’s already made up his mind it seems. 

“What- like every night?” You ask. “You’re just gonna walk me home, every night?” 

“Got a fuckin’ problem with it or something?”

“No, but that’s- do you not have a job? I don’t- you really don’t need to go through all that trouble just to pay back whatever debt you think you owe me and-”

“Idiot.” He shakes his head, swearing under his breath. “This isn’t about a stupid debt, alright? It’s about your shitty quirk. And don’t start fuckin’ asking me to explain how, because I won’t, no matter how much you beg. Just believe me, and fuckin’ listen. For once.” 

You shrink back a little bit at that- your stomach dropping.

Your quirk? What the hell would your quirk have to do with anything? 

“Don’t give me that shit, woman. I already told you.” Bakugou gruffs suddenly. “‘m not saying anything else, so shut up about it alread-

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“Didn’t have to, leech, could see it in your beady eyes.” 

“Well excuse me for having a natural reaction!” You snap, squinting at him. “You can’t just walk in here, say something cryptic, tell me I’m in danger apparently, and then expect me to just be perfectly calm about it, alright? It’s not fair.”

To his credit, Bakugou does actually seem to mull over your words for a second. He huffs another breath, something exhausted and a little annoyed before he speaks again.

“Don’t go spiraling about it, leech. Nothing’s even fuckin’ wrong. Yet.” He gruffs. “All ‘m saying is that going out alone at night is a shitty idea, even for you, and you should stop doing it.”

“Okay. Fine. I guess. Even though it feels sorta backwards, I guess stuff like this is pretty much your job, huh?” You sigh. “But what did you mean earlier, about my quirk? What would it even have to do with anything? No one but you even really understands it.”

“Mhm, and we’re keepin’ it that way.” 

“That’s unreasonable. I can’t just, like, stop using it. It’s a huge portion of my job!”

“Tough.”

“Tough? Tough? Really? That’s all you have to say?” You huff in frustration. “It’s- Look, I can admit you probably have a point about the not going out at night thing, but I’m not just gonna stop using my quirk entirely and-” 

“When the fuck did I tell you to stop using it completely? I didn’t, so stop putting your words in my mouth, leech. What I said is you need to stop just fuckin’ usin’ it on everybody you see. Any idiot with half a brain cell could see how strong it is, alright?” He says. “So you need to figure out how to keep it to yourself. Stop drawing so much goddamn attention.”

“Drawing attent- Bakugou! I’m a nurse, alright? Not a celebrity. Not like you.” You huff, irritation coating your words. “I appreciate the concern, but I really, really, don’t think me doing my job, is gonna put me in danger! I hardly have control of it as it is, and I highly, highly, doubt my unimpressive skillset is gonna attract some crazy supervillain!” 

Bakugou just stares at you blankly while you rant, hardly even blinking as he lets you calm down. When your settled at bit, taking a deep breathe, he clicks his tongue at you.

“You already did.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, you already did, you moron.” 

“That’s- are you- you’re kidding? Right? Please tell me you’re kidding!” 

“What the fuck? Of course I’m not, idiot.” He scoffs, arms flexing as he wraps them around the back of the chair. “I wouldn’t even be here right now if I was. Stupid shit like that is a waste of my fuckin’ time.”

At his words, you can feel the nerves rolling in. It seems your life only got crazier and crazier the longer Bakugou invaded it, but this was something else. You had no business being involved in his world at all, you knew that, and especially not like this. At the very center and seemingly the cause of the problem. It made you feel sick. 

“Oh wipe the dumbass look off your face.” Bakugou rolls his eyes. “You really think I’m that useless? Nobody is going to get you. If anything, it’ll just make it easier for me to catch these fuckers with you sittin’ out like bait all the damn time.” 

“Bait? I’m not being bait for you!” 

“Jesus, leech. That’s not what I meant and you know it, so calm the hell down.” Bakugou reassures. “I meant, they’ll get greedy and sloppy sooner or later. Maybe even do something really stupid like go after you- but it’s fuckin’ fine because I’ll be there. No villian worth anything is dumb enough to come after you in the day, and I’ll walk you home at night. So there’s no goddamn issue.”

“No issue? This entire thing is an issue! I feel like you’re not taking this seriously!” 

Bakugou’s eye twitches at that, and you see him huff, pushing the chair away as he stands. He nears you, solid steps against your kitchen tile until he’s just a few feet away. There’s fire in his eyes, raging and relentless as he towers over you, his broad shoulders almost blocking out the overhead light. His expression is pinched something harsh, shadows gathering under a jaw he sets sharp enough to cut steel. In the dim glow of your kitchen, Bakugou looks mean. Much, much, scarier than he’s ever been around you before.

“I am taking this seriously.” He seethes. “Those evil, sadistic motherfuckers are not going to get away with this shit- but this only works, if you do as I say. ‘m gonna blow ‘em to hell either way, and I’d rather  not do it with you tagging along as their idiot fuckin’ hostage. So you’re gonna stay in and not take any stupid risks. You understand? Leech?” 

A part of you wants to shrink for a moment, cower and collapse under the heat of his gaze. Bakugou is intimidation like you’ve never experienced before, and strangely enough, you find that brings a weird sort of comfort to you; because he looked furious, but he looked incredibly determined too. Like no force on the entire planet, divine or otherwise, could possibly save those villains from his wrath. 

“Yeah. Okay. I get it.” You say. 

“Good.” 

Then he backs off, taking and few steps back and shoving his hands in his pockets. The rage seems to melt off his face, running fluid down his nose until his eyebrows relax and his grimace goes smooth. You’d always thought he’d looked angry before, but compared to his previous expression, you realized you were wrong. As it looked now, around you, Bakugou might as well have been docile. 

“It’s- is there anything you can tell me about whoever this is?” You ask shakily. “I know what you said, but I can’t just throw myself into danger like this, alright? If it involves me, I need to know.” 

“You can’t. Knowing is the entire fucking issue.”

“What does that-”

“I already told you, I’m not telling you, alright? So fucking drop it.” 

“I can’t! How am I supposed to watch out for myself if I don’t even know what we’re up against-”

“We’re? No. We’re not up against anything.” He barks out. “You’re staying inside. I’m serious. No exceptions- that is the only fuckin’ way any of this’ll work. Don’t make it any goddamn easier for them then it needs to be.” 

“H-how do you even know any of this? Where is this even coming from? I didn’t even live anywhere near here until I met you, and even that was only months ago!”

“It’s not important how I know. I just do, alright? So stop makin’ this so hard and just quit fighting already. You’ll be fine if you just let me do my fuckin’ job.” 

You run shaky hands through your hair, trying to battle the anxiety coursing hot through your veins. A part of you wants to protest, to screech at him, but you’re not sure that would be of any help. Bakugou looked dead set on his plan already, like he’d already strategized ten steps ahead, and, when you thought about it, maybe he did. Nobody could become a top-ranking pro off pure luck, and concerning Dynamite? Well the skill behind the intimidating name was obvious. Bakugou had never been beaten. Not once in his entire career had he ever let somebody get away without injury. It’s a strange, frightening, bloody kind of bright side, but concerning your situation, you figure you’d take what you could get. 

And, when you thought about it, maybe his plan wasn’t all that bad. It was just laying low. You could do that. You could do that. 

Maybe. If you didn’t die of a panic attack first. 

“So- you thought you could butter me up with a gift and then drop a bomb on me, huh?” You ask tiredly, dropping your elbows onto your kitchen counter. You collapse into them, head in your hands as you slump. “Nice strategy, you asshole.” 

You hear him exhale something like a laugh behind you. 

“Don’t laugh!”

“Oi- quit your bitching. I told you- I’ll gonna kill them all, so chill the hell out already.” 

You turn to look at him, replying flatly. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to kill anyone. Even villains.” 

“Not literally, you bitch.” He grumbles. You hear steps behind you as he moves closer. “Just listen to me and you’ll be fine. Don’t go running off and trying to take care of it yourself. Don’t waste my time like every other dumbass civilian.” 

When you lift your head up again, Bakugou is leaning against the other side of the counter. He’s towering over your slumped form, and when you look up at him, he actually doesn’t look that pissy. You almost find that to be the strangest occurrence of the entire night. 

“Oh god no. No self-sacrifice here. You can do all the fighting, thanks.” You shiver. “Even the thought of it nearly makes me sick. I don’t think I could hurt anybody.” 

“Good thing. You’d be flat on your ass in seconds, leech.” 

“I would no- actually, no, you’re probably right.” You close your eyes, taking a deep breath. “God, I’m fucked, aren’t I?” 

“No. Don’t be so goddamn weak about this. You’re fuckin’ fine.” 

“What- you’re gonna protect me?”

Bakugou seems to nearly seize at your remark, his face pinching up into a snarl. If he was half an iota more juvenile you’re sure he would’ve made an audible gagging sound.

“Jesus fuck, shut your mouth.” He barks at you, cheeks flushing. “I’m gonna get ‘em, but it has nothing to do with you.” 

“Mhm. Yeah. Whatever. As long as they can’t get to me, I don’t care what reason it’s for.”

You fall into silence after that, and you try to focus on just your breaths. They feel less momentous, less anxiety-inducing, in your world that has quickly become very stressful. You can’t help the nausea settling in your stomach. You were scared.

You’d meant it when you said you couldn’t hurt anybody. Even in a life or death situation, you’re not sure you could do anything to cause harm. It just wasn’t in your nature, and the thought of being violent made you sick almost as much as the fear did. It was a strange sort of battle- one that left your fingers itching for somebody to heal. Somebody to soothe since you wouldn’t get any peace in your own mind it seemed. 

After giving yourself a few minutes of grace, just standing there in the fear didn’t seem like enough. You were overwhelmed, yes, but you weren’t alone. Even if he was bit of an asshole, you knew he’d keep his word. You wouldn’t get hurt- as long as you tried your best to be vigilant. With that thought in mind, you turned to Bakugou, trying your best to steady your voice.

“My shift ends at midnight. Or it’s supposed to. Most nights we run late, but there’s not much I can do about that.” You tell him. “I’m not sure if you already knew that or if that’s even helpful, but I figured I’d tell you anyways.” 

“So you’re listenin’?”

“Yes?” You ask confused. “It’s not like I could fight them off myself- not successfully like you could at least. What other choice do I have?” 

“That’s-” Bakugou shakes his head, disbelief rising for a second before he masks it. “Didn’t expect it, leech. Thought you’d fight like an idiot about it. You wouldn’t believe how fuckin’ stupid most civilians are. You tell ‘em they’re in danger and the morons just stand there and watch.”

“No, I know. I’m the one patching all those morons up, remember?” 

He nods, laughing something exhausted before he drags a hand down his face. It’s a strangely humanizing gesture- something devoid of anger and almost bordering genuine connection. You’d come to realize that there were cracks in his armor. Little bits of him that really did seem fond of all those people he worked so hard to save.

“So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then. And every day afterwards.” You say, rolling your shoulders back. You stretch you arms out in front of you, sighing tiredly. “Congrats on the the promotion to being my glorified guard dog.” 

Bakugou scrunches his nose up in disgust, lip curling. “I’m not your fuckin’ guard dog.” 

“Kinda seems like it.”

“It doesn’t seem like shit, leech.”

“Yeah. Okay. Whatever you say.” 

“I’m serious.”

“I know. God forbid I make a joke, grumpy pants.” You mutter quietly, clapping your hands with finality as you change the subject. “Alright, I think that’s enough panic for the night, thank you. Is that all? Or are there any other horrifying tidbits you wanna share with me?”

“Nope.”

“Well that’s- actually, no, I was gonna say that makes me feel better, but it actually doesn’t. Not at all.”

“Don’t be a bitc-”

“Bakugou! What did I say about that word?”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Little bitch. Don’t be a little bitch.” 

It’s a strange thing to laugh at- an insult in the face of so much fear. But you do. His comment makes you laugh, slices the tension in your string wound far too tight. Bakugou seems satisfied at that, smiling slightly in return as he retrieves his jack and shrugs it back on. 

“Oh- you’re not staying? It’s late.” 

“Nah. Got patrol, leech.” Then he looks you up and down, squinting at the slippers on your feet. “Some of us actually got our lazy ass out of bed today.” 

“Hey! It’s my day off, you dick!”

Bakugou just laughs under his breath, nimble hands winding his scarf back around his neck. “You’re too fuckin’ easy.”

“Only because you’re dead set on being an asshole!” 

“Yeah? And?”

“That’s- don’t defend yourself!” You sputter, following behind him to the door. “You shouldn’t feel confident about that!”

He just shrugs, pulling open your balcony door with excessive force. He steps out, and the cold air floods in quickly, pinking his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Maybe it’s his lack of costume or his relaxed expression, but suddenly, you can’t help yourself with the words you say next. 

“Be careful, yeah?” You say. “I don’t wanna see you again until tomorrow night.” 

He looks at you a little strangely, tilting his head almost imperceptibly. Then he’s shaking it off, clenching his fist as a dangerous smirk rolls across his face.

“‘m all good. Bitches won’t even get a scratch on me.” 

You’re about to yell at him for word choice again, and he must see it in your eyes. Bakugou waves you off, laughing as he vaults on top of the balcony railing in one leap. There’s sparks popping in his palms, before he turns back once more, cheshire grin and fire in his eyes as he flips you off. Then he’s skydiving below the horizon line and out of sight. 

You curse him out, but your words are drowned out by explosions. 

When you walk back inside, rubbing the cold from your arms, you realize you left the first aid kit open. You latch it shut, but leave it on the counter just in case. You were being honest earlier- you didn’t want to see him again that night, especially not injured, but you’d help him if you had to.

At this point, it felt like no matter what you did, you just couldn’t get rid of him. 

--/--

edit: pls y’all i forgot to add the taglist when i originally posted ,,, omg this is so embarrassing whoops

taglist:  @fluffyviciousbunny @definitelynottrin @imsuperawkward @i-need-air @ahbeautifulexistence @brennabooz @jazzylove @flattykawadoorusmilkbread @katsuki-bakubabe @sorrythatspussynal @bakugouswh0r3 @cloudsgathering @un-limit-edd @thekatsukisimp @pollayra21 @the2ndl @officialtrashbusiness @waffleareniceandfluffy @monempathieetmoi @koiwoshinai @christianagrace9  @the2ndl @the-shota-king-masayuki @shy-panda02 @devastyle @shoto-supremacy00 @shotoful

[silkylious]

Limbo (Bakugo Katsuki x Fem!Reader)

Pairing: bakugo katsuki x female reader warnings: heavy angst, eventual tiny bit of fluff at the end

omf this request is so nice i feel so bad that my writing is literally garbage in this, but thank you sm for requesting this!! <3 and im so sorry if i didn’t do your request justice (i legit hate my writing here :’))

To say the state of your relationship was unbearable would be the euphemism of the century.

Your thoughts often ran amuck, always hopelessly crawling back to that one despaired curiosity; wondering if he shared the same sentiment about your wishy-washy “friends” status as you did. He probably didn’t. That’s the seemingly unshakable brick wall that would inevitably dead-end your lovesick daydreams, each and every time. Though when his roughed-up hands linger on your skin a millisecond too long, when his steeled stare melts, hard rubies morphing into blazing lava pits, threatening to mar your very heart and soul with their scorching intensity –you’re not exactly certain you’d mind that– that’s when a flicker of something ignites within you. Hope, longing, doubt. Whatever it is, it terrifies you. Because you’re agonizingly aware of what that entails. He’s got you hook, line and sinker, but torturously he refuses to do anything with that. Almost like pulling someone in for a hug then abruptly and without explanation stopping midway, he keeps you at arm’s length. Not too far, not too close. And how that cycle destroyed you.

Katsuki was the type to jump into action and ask questions later. Except a lot of the times when these questions pertain to his own emotions, he didn’t even try to answer them, opting to shove them to the corners of his psyche, collecting dust, steadily accumulating until they become too much to ignore and he (sometimes quite literally) explodes. It’s a vicious loop that he could never break away from, he’d even come to find a sordid comfort in it. His coping mechanism was by no means healthy, far from it, but he’d grown familiar to the toxicity.

Katsuki couldn’t make heads nor tails of his feelings for you. Whenever he impulsively threw himself into the lion’s den that was your affection, caught in the moment, in the glimmer of genuine adoration in your eyes, he never came back the same. A piece of his heart would irreversibly split off and reside in the palm of your hand, he was scared that nothing would be left of it, that he wouldn’t be able to regain his bearings until it was too late. You so effortlessly juggled with his feelings, all with a single smile, it scared him that you had so much power over the fluttery sensation in his chest and yet, in the moment, it felt good. It felt so good to indulge in whatever fucky feeling was messing with his head, to let you hold him in the depths of obscurity with all prying eyes shut and what little words exchanged hushed. It felt so alleviating to feel skin on his own (for once not in battle), gentle, comforting but not coddling. It was unspoken between you that you were both more than friends. You knew it, he knew it. Neither of you ever mentioned it. What neither of you knew, however, was how far the other’s feelings ran.

But as high as your silent love made him feel, he crashed back down into the concrete when he was left to his own devices. Without your intoxicating scent, distracting touches fogging his rationality, Katsuki had all the time in the world to overthink. And overthink he did. His pride picked apart the delicate flowering in his heart, ripping it petal by petal until nothing was left but a garden of beautifully withered leaves, a condemnation to what he considered a weakness.

Katsuki was a taker by every sense of the word. Basking in your wispy adoration, only to brush you aside in favor of focusing on academics once he’d had his fill of your love. It was sickening.

Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t outright confessed to him, maybe that’s what soothed the overbearing guilt that crawled up his throat whenever he saw that dejected face of yours, the one you made because of him. If your feelings for him ran deep, surely you would have said something by now, at least that’s what he thought. Or more precisely, that’s the excuse his mind conjured up in hopes of easing his conscious, trying to convince himself that self that yes, he was hurting you, but at least he wasn’t hurting you that bad. He was infinitely aware that this doesn’t put him in any sort of moral high ground, nor does it justify his actions, but, again, it was a last-ditch effort to relieve his anguish if just by a little bit, even if he knew that excuse was bullshit.    

Surely he knew, there’s no way in hell someone as hawk-eyed as him didn’t notice the tyranny he held over the porcelain pitter-pattering of your heart, didn’t notice the fleeting, love-filled glances you sent his way. This was getting ridiculous, you were starting to believe he was taking some twisted sense of pleasure from your heartache, but he wouldn’t do that, right? He didn’t derive some sick kick out of having you indefinitely under his thumb, at his beck and call… right? A few months ago, you would have answered those uncertainties with a resounding “No!” defending his cruel behavior till the bitter end. But now…

Now you weren’t so sure.

And yet you still found yourself in his dorm, on his bed. It was supposed to be another study gathering, but one thing was glaringly missing. Y’know… the gathering. Kirishima was out training and he hadn’t bothered to invite the rest of his brain-dead, self-proclaimed squad. And that’s how you found yourself alone. With your best friend and secret crush. Just dandy.

Your hands were restless. Pulling at the seams of his blanket, cracking your own fingers, picking up your pencil for a brief moment of concentration, answering one or two questions only to drop it back on the mattress again and fidget some more. Katsuki wasn’t fucking blind, and your unease was ticking him off. Though he surprisingly hadn’t said a thing about it just yet, he was clearly nearing his wit’s end. His silence didn’t prevail for much longer, the meek sigh and not so subtle glance you chanced his way being his tipping point.

“What.” It came out as a statement, a demand rather than a question. What was he demanding? He hadn’t thought of that yet, his temperamental limbs already taking the wheel and pressing on the gas without a destination in mind, just being short fused for the sake of it. Was it even his place to be making demands in this situation? Katsuki knew the answer to this one like the back of his hand, a solid no.

“What…?” You really had no idea what Bakugo was expecting with a question like that. He still had the audacity to roll his eyes.

“The hell’s got you so jumpy?”

“It’s nothing…” It was a lot more than nothing, that’s for sure.

“Don’t lie to me, (name). What the fuck is up with you?” Ah, there it is again. That look. His words were as cut-throat as ever, and his mouth was still pulled into that seemingly permanent scowl. But his eyes conveyed something that was whole worlds asunder from his harsh tone. Golden brows furrowed as they usually were, though unusually upturned just the slightest bit. You despised that look. It ensured that you’ll forever be caught in his grasp, forever there for him when he never spared you the time of day.

Your lungs constricted by a force of gorgeously wretched agony. Katsuki wasn’t fair when he bared his soul to you like this, it filled you with such fervent euphoria that torrefied its way through your being, singeing your veins with luminous infatuation. And it hurt. Because you knew he’d cage himself right up as soon as the moment of vulnerability perished.

A crystalline sheen permeated your vision. This wasn’t going to end well.  

“I said it’s nothing,” Your voice raised. You hadn’t meant for the words to be as frosty as they came out, but it seemed like your subconscious was utterly done with the tedium of heartbreak he keeps putting you through.

“What is fucking wrong with you? I was literally just asking why you were being so goddamn obnoxious today and then you go and make a big fuckin’ deal out of nothing!”

“Well, maybe I’m just fucking tired of giving you everything I have and getting nothing in return, Katsuki!”

Your chest rose and fell with each scalding breath that entered your lungs. The blood through your veins was pumping. Never had you been confrontational, and your sudden outburst wasn’t exactly welcome to your system. You wanted to vomit. This was not how you wanted things to turn out, you absolutely needed to leave, distance yourself from the emotional strain he was inflicting on you.  

Without taking notice of the panicked glint in the cherry red of his irises, you bolted out of the suddenly claustrophobic room, leaving Katsuki to stare at his agape door before flickering his unfocused attention to your supplies still laying on his bed.

Katsuki erupted time and time again, with you being as patient as a receiving end could ever be. It’s specifically because of your godly patience that he never considered what he would do once you erupted.

With your back sliding down your dorm room door, and little friction stopping your descent, you wondered and maybe even wished he’d call after you, come banging on your door with bristling apologies on the tip of his tongue. However, the jarring reality was very clear to you. You’d decided on that day, with your head buried in your tear-stained pillow, that these were the last tears you’d ever shed on him, that you were going to put him through the same wringing hell he’d put you through.

You were going to ignore Bakugo Katsuki’s existence just like he’d periodically ignored yours.

The following week had been bleak at best and excruciatingly bitter at its worst for the both of you. It was so strange having to adjust to the absence of the other, even if your company more often than not had been a quiet one, it was company nevertheless. The most grueling part though, was your shared friend group. They’d noticed that something was obviously awry, but since neither of you said a thing about it, they decided it would be best if they didn’t either. The awkward dead silences during lunch were still purgatory to behold. But after a few more slow paced days, the sun seemed to shine bright again. For you, that is.

You didn’t realize how much of your schedule revolved around Bakugo until he was completely out of it. How much time you spent with him, dreading him, thinking about him… him, him, him. He’d consumed your thoughts from the first sparks of dawn till the hallows of dusk. You had so much free time now that he was out of the picture, it was crazy. The more time you spent on yourself, on your hobbies, getting to know other classmates outside of your immediate friend circle, the duller the ache in your chest. Until it was but a static buzz. Yet you couldn’t deny that, with time, your fury had mellowed out, leaving behind a cold loneliness you couldn’t elude whenever your aimless stare landed on him, almost like it was drawn to him by muscle memory.

He was the exact opposite.

You’d think the throbbing within him whenever you finally gazed his way then instantaneously looked in the opposite direction would knock come modicum of sense into his stubborn head. But nope. And seeing you thrive without him only cemented what he already knew. He really was no good for you. So much so that it barely took anytime for you to readjust to the lack of him in your life, and not only did you adjust, you were the best he’s ever seen you both mentally and academically. In the first week of you ditching him completely, his bruised ego kept him for reaching out to you, but now, seeing that elated grin on your face –the one that had been gradually dwindling over the past few months– he didn’t want to take your newfound happiness away, he’d figured he’d done you more than enough harm already.

Heart heavy with reluctance, Katsuki made the decision to give up on your relationship. Deciding to wordlessly cheer you on from the sidelines and watch you bloom, flourishing into the person he robbed you of being for a chunk of your life, though whenever your spring hit, it would be without him. Until some day in the future where his pride wasn’t as suffocating, where he could genuinely, wholeheartedly repent his grievances and only hope for your forgiveness.

Kirishima never took Bakugo for a quitter, hell would freeze over before he even thought such a thing. So this was certainly a shock. What was even more shocking ­– and overwhelmingly concerning– was the fact that Katsuki had willingly, on his own accord confided in him, and he’d, in his own roundabout way, taken accountability for being a gigantic douche to you. As much as the redhead respected his friend’s decision to stay clear of you, he couldn’t help but wish you’d just talk to one another for once. Kirishima really was a saint, having to listen to two idiots ramble about how much they miss the other.

“Listen, man. I know you feel bad and all that, but maybe you should just talk to her? I’m sure she’d like some closure on this just as you do, even if that doesn’t mean things will go back to the way they were.” Eijirou tried to reason, praying to whatever higher being out there that Katsuki would just get the fuck over himself and communicate with you.

“Fuck no. That’s not fucking happening, shitty hair,” Kirishima rolled his eyes at the oh so affectionate nickname, thoroughly done with his best friend’s melodrama. Welp, I guess there’s only one thing left to try. He heaved internally, mentally and physically preparing himself for Bakugo’s tantrum.

“Well, you know that if you won’t talk to her, others will, right? I heard some guys saying they’re gonna ask her ou–”

“Shut the fuck up! I don’t give a rat’s ass who asks her out!” He definitely did. Eijirou hid his smile. Checkmate.

“Whatever you say, dude.”

Later that day, three distinctly powerful knocks woke you up. Needless to say, you didn’t think that night would end up with you and Katsuki staring each other down, seated on your bed at one in the morning. Words got stuck in his throat, so he just… noiselessly watched your face, as if trying to telepathically ram his constipated emotions into you, in hopes that you’d make sense of them. Obviously, that didn’t work.

“Did you come banging on my door at one in the morning just to stare at me, Bakugo? I mean I know I’m pretty but still–”

“Shuddup.” Not really the best thing to say to you after weeks of radio silence. You were about to make another salty remark, but he opened his mouth first.

“I fucked up,” The fact that he was acknowledging he was at fault was… something. But that wasn’t nearly enough to pay off the debt off turmoil he’d caused you.

“No shit.” You replied without missing a beat. The ice that tinged your words caught him off guard, but he really shouldn’t have been surprised. He sighed, knowing he’d have to strip himself of everything, including his pride (especially his pride) down to his very core, to have a go at a second chance.

And so, he did.

He poured his everything out for you to observe, without an ego film distorting his words. Syllables reeked of muted agony, he really had rid himself of anything and everything that wasn’t his deepest soul. He finally offered you himself just as you had done countless times before. Katsuki swore that his heart would –and always has been– explicitly yours, he’d roar that fact at the constellations above if you so wished him to. And while it would take a while to heal from coruscating blisters he’d inflicted, you were more than content mending and welting your heart with his.  

[honestsycrets]

Seeking Sunlight | [ Hvitserk x Reader

❛ pairing | drug dealer!hvitserk x druggie!reader

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | hvitserk came to sell his brother’s shitty boyfriend some drugs. he stays when someone catches his eye-- for all the wrong reasons.

❛  tags | drug use, drug dealing, serious dub!con (nothing graphic here), choking (slight), parties, lotta referenced sex, somewhat implied prostitution, slight abuse, lgbtqia+ characters: oleg, torvi, gunnhild, and ivar, minor violence, minor sexual content, party reference, dark fic to be, 18+, slight sadism?, offensive language, hvitserk is an asshole.

❛  sy notes | read the warnings.

He slid through clustered groups of people under the dismal light of the normal uppity and cheery backlights. Everyone he looks like another stranger in the grand scheme of it all, grinding ass against dick, or pussy against pussy, or maybe dick to dick. Hvitserk rubbed his eyes under the dark frames, dragging down the stairs from which a girl rushes past, straight to a group of bitches that look half-past toasted.

He breaches the bottom and heads past the sliding door where he hears his name shrilled out from behind a plastic neon cup. He looks up, realizing its Ivar sitting by his newest man, someone who had more problems than Ivar’s legs could ever have.

“Hey,” Hvitserk jogs toward the two. Oleg tilts up his hips, fisting out a roll of cash with one hand and with the other fondles his brother in places he never really needed to see. Ivar sucks down a cup of pink mystery punch.

“Hvitserrrrkkkk,” Oleg has this natural sing-song to his voice because he has everything and anything in control, that included Ivar. Something he thought he could never say before the man walked into the picture. “You have a little something there. Enjoyed Margrethe?”

He suppresses the sneer that’s snatched across his face, wiping his mouth of a little hot pink lipstick across his lip. “Enjoyed would be a stretch.” He snatches the money from Oleg, feeding it into his clip and stuffing it into his white hoodie pocket. Later, when he’d find somewhere, he’d put it one of his black steel-toed boots that wasn’t packing heat.

“She’s losing it, isn’t she?” Ivar says. He wishes he wouldn’t.

Hvitserk grunts, nodding his head like it’s with the wave of the obnoxious music beating in the distance, a few decades too early to be the old sugar daddy’s music. It’s not Ivar’s jazz, either. Hvitserk looks around, catching the sight outside, everyone that he’s known or should know.

“What you got for me, baby boy?”

Fuck-- he sneers at the name, rolls his lip into his mouth, then back out. “Your shit,” he quips quickly, fisting Oleg’s favourite out of the side pocket of his black slim jeans. Oleg takes it from him with the kind of broad smile that itches you.

“That’s my boy.”

He ignores that, too.

“I’ma go get a drink if it don’t bother you.”

Oleg slides open the ziploc, nodding his head toward the finely cut drug and flicking his hand out. He has what he wants. Ivar peers over at the bag as Hvitserk starts for the table where a topless woman is grinding her worries away. She looks happy now. Probably would sob later. “All good, Hvitserk.”

Hvitserk rolls on his heel, cocking a grin. “Why wouldn’ it be?”

He’s not even that thirsty-- but Oleg is a fuckin’ creep. He rather spend his time watching his ex-sister-in-law grind against his other ex-sister-in-law as it is when he jogs a little closer to Torvi and Gunnhild. Where’s Ubbe? He fists his hand into his pocket for his blunt.

Don’t know. Can’t care.

With a flick of a lighter he picked up two parties ago, he’s intent on working away all thought of him. When he turns around with his drink-- looking for a nice, safe, tree without jizz, he catches sight of eyes upon him.

Which, uh, why wouldn’t there be? But at the same time-- what did you want? Hvitserk takes a long sweep of his joint, maintaining eye contact the whole while. You’re pretty. Sad eyes, even from that distance, even if the warmth of a glittery smokey eye was trying its best to prove otherwise. He could only tell because you sat perched on one of Oleg’s questionably clean sofas a few leaps away, illuminated by the large floodlights. A skirt, cherry red, tight.

Good taste-- but talking to one of Oleg’s lackeys, pressing your hand to dangly earrings, pushing your breasts up for a nice look at what was under that draping blacktop. The ankle boots are cute, he decides. But you’re clearly working it up to Thing Two.

He huffs out smoke and looks at his cup.

“Hi,” he glances up.

Oh, hi. Your boots have sunk in the moist grass a little bit, but because he’s a fuckin’ gentleman, Hvitserk switches his just delights into one hand, and holds out the other to help you balance. “Not exactly the kinda space for boots, babe.”

“He’s a gentleman,” you laugh at first, then continue. “Most people don’t come to parties to hide in Oleg’s grass.”

Hvitserk snorts. From this angle, he can smell the drink on your lips. You’d been here a lot longer than he had, and that’s saying something. Maybe you’d been here as long as the couple fucking behind Oleg’s pristine hedges. Call it fertilizer, he’d say.

“Maybe not,” Hvitserk flicks his hand, motions for you to take it, and you do. He watches you press those silky lips, cherry red and chili hot, to it. The smoke plumes out between your lips, blowing in his face, but it doesn’t phase him.

“You want somethin’, don’t cha?”

You flick a loose curl behind your ear, looking at him behind expertly placed fake lashes, and he knows its not real. It’s another fucking hoax on top of the hundreds that were stomping around at this party.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, she fuckin’ says.” Like he’s that stupid-- or he doesn’t know-- you probably watched him with his tweaker brother and the creepy sugar daddy too. You let his hand loose to offer him back the blunt. He takes it, puts it out with ease, and stands up straight. “Talk short.”

“I saw you give Oleg some.”

“He paid. I gotta feeling you’re here because you can’t.” Hvitserk knows he’s leering now, shifting around, shifting you too against the tree. “What’re you offerin’?”

Before you can answer, there’s a rustle from the bushes beside you, and a couple slips loose. You flick your head toward them, maybe expecting him to cut you loose. Or maybe because someone’s seen you, you feel more comfortable.

“I got part?”

Hvitserk’s eyes open up, wide like they do, either annoyed or surprised. He traces the line of your jaw to the soft tickle of cheap earrings. “I didn’t pay for part a bag,” Hvitserk leans his fingers up, tracing the muscle in your throat up behind your ear, and gives it a tug.

“Please? I can-- give you something else.”

It’s cruel to derive the sort of pleasure that Hvitserk does at hearing that-- but please, pressed out between your lips, rushes straight through his body. “You seen me wit’ Margrethe.” His amusement manifests in a small rolling chuckle as his hand comes over your throat lazily, and you settle those sad eyes over him, and fuck he could get used to that. “That’s a prior arrangement. Unlike what you sluts might think--”

“I’m not--”

“--I don’t fuck just anyone.”

“Please?” Hvitserk flicks your jaw back to look at him-- not the topless women jumping into the pool -- or Oleg shouting obscenities with Ivar shouting right back.

“Say that again.”

You reach out to grasp the strings of his hoodie, probably because you’re sinking again in the dewy grass and mud, offering a more confident please this time. It doesn’t tickle the same way. “Na, not like that.”

There’s this realization that fills your glassy eyes, maybe because he gives your throat a meaner squeeze, just like he likes it. Now Hvitserk’s not a particularly aggressive guy. He likes to deal for the fun of it-- to be that guy -- the one everyone has a need for. Shit, Oleg needs him too. He just doesn’t know it.

Something about you he can’t place. It’s the soft desperation behind those eyes. Maybe the gentleness you probably have that reminds him a little too much of someone he used to know. But he wants more of that sweet feeling in the worst of ways.

“Pl-ease,” you almost sob out. He loosens his grip a bit, that smile ripped playfully across his face. He pats your cheek with a little bit too much joy and slips away from you, taking a once over of your body, like it must meet his standards. He’s sure he has another condom somewhere.

“C’mon,” Hvitserk pats your ass. It’s gentle, this time. He’s sure you don’t know when his kindness will start or when it’ll end. But he’s not that kinda guy. You’d just have to figure it out. He offers his arm again, “Let’s go inside.”

“But--”

You pause, looking back to the brush like you expected to be another one of those women shoved up between the hot brick and itchy greenery. Hvitserk takes one look at it before decidedly propping up an eyebrow. You take his arm to avoid losing out on this opportunity and walk with him toward the hard concrete.

“You expectin’ me to fuck in a bush?”

“Oleg doesn’t let--”

“He’ll let me,” Hvitserk quips, passing by where the merry happy couple is fucking, and Hvitserk shouts something in a language you don’t recognize. It’s cute, Hvitserk decides; when your eyebrows scrunch up nice and tight. For a moment, you stop, looking back to where Oleg and Ivar were. “But why?”

“That’s easy,” Hvitserk leans in, setting a chaste kiss to your neck, perfumed with a spray you’ve gotten as a sample. Oleg flicks his head and its good enough for him to grasp your waist this time, rushing you past the first floor, bouncing with movement, toward the second and its winding stairs. “They need me.”

The door clicks in its lock. It’s a small noise, normally so harmless, but with the music thumping below, you’re reminded where you are. You’re in Oleg’s castle with a man you’ve only heard the name of. Hvitserk, the dealer.

You know very little about him, only the way he feels when he’s pressed against you when his cock is hardening up against your ass, and all you can feel is him. His cologne is rich, almost overpowering, if not more than the way he comes up behind you, his mouth dancing lines across your neck.

It’s decidedly gentle from earlier. So much so that you don’t even realize it was there, if not for Hvitserk growing in intensity, sliding his large palms under your shirt. You can feel the bruises bubbling up to the surface. “Should’a told me you bruise so easy,” he reprimands. You’re not sure what to say. “More like a princess than a druggie, huh?”

“No one calls me that.”

“Druggie?”

“Princess.”

Now that explained it. Now he knows.

@tephi101 @alicedopey (even tho i know you’re going to hate him to pieces ahahahha) @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys  @bluearchersstuff​ @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage​ @tgrrose​ @cookies186​ @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim​ @msmorganforever​ @beyond-the-ashes​ @queenmissfit​ @x-valhalla @hissouthernprincess @tierneygonzalez​ @alicedopey @rekdreams-fandom @athroatfullofglass @supernaturalvikingwhore​ @laughinglikenialler @ilvebeenabad @mblaqgi @neeadinghugs @gruffle1 @p8tn0lish​ @lol-haha-joke​ @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @lovelynerdytraveler @winchesterwife27 @tephi101 @therealmrshale @vikingsmania @igetcarriedawaywithyou @the-geeky-engineer @whatamood13 @strangunddurm @thethyri @peachesnpisces @ms-allenbrown @tempt-ress @isthat-tyra98 @unacceptabletatertots @deathbyarabbit

[darth-does-stuff]

its ramble time. also yeah this is gonna be p long (hence the word - rambles) and prob talking a lot about patton and janus because i havent talked about them much and i have IDEAS

(also i know i want remy to be involved somehow but i havent figured out how yet. suggestions welcome ghjghjgs)

so thomas and logan are elves, roman remus and virgil are magic users (witches warlocks wizards whatever the word is lmao), remus specializes in wind magic, roman in fire, and virgil in weather. 

the magic virgil uses is often called chaos magic and in order for something to be generally classified as chaos magic, it needs to be unusual/rare, chaotic (duh) or unpredictable, and destructive. (these classifications might change as i think on them more). wind magic is largely argued upon whether it is chaos magic or not, seeing as how it is largely unpredictable and can be seen as destructive, but it doesnt fit the bill with the first one, leading to the arguments. same with fire magic, but they said it was too common for it to be chaos magic. virgil having weather magic means that he can create storms, sandstorms, generate lightning, windstorms, and also able to control (or rather ‘bend’) rain. of course, there are drawbacks and limitations, adding to the fact that virgil has a very hard time controlling his magic and harnessing it, he is not op dw. magic is also very much tied to emotions btw

also ro re and vee have two moms and they are a lesbian couple sorry i dont make the rules

elven lore and shit time - while gold is rare in many places in the fantasy land (i still have yet to decide on a name), in the elven land (i have not decided names for each section either lmao) iron and steel are actually harder to find than gold. gold still holds its own worth, but iron and steel are generally regarded as superior in worth than gold, which is why many nobles possess the material. and ive already explained the left eye crest thing with the elves, their left eye has a shape or crest to it along with a color that glows slightly. the glow can be dimmer or brighter depending on their emotions at the time. logan has a diamond shape to his left eye and a leaf green glow to it, which also happens to be his eye color as well. thomas’ is a heart and rainbow color and glow, while his actual eye color is an almond brown. ill discuss appearances in another post btw. anyways, the elven lifestyle is the most similar to humans, having a battleschool, its system nd shit, etc. although it does differ in terms of ‘rulers’. the humans have a monarchy while the elves rule through a council of 9. (an odd number so there arent any ties) logan uses both a sword and a bow as his weapons of choice. thomas was forced to go to battleschool so he basically just dips as soon as he can after teaching logan what he knows and becomes a healer because HEALER THOMAS 

PATTON AND JANUS TIME PATTON AND JANUS TIME PATTON AND JA

 patton is one of the merfolk, who (in this au) are a species that have two forms. their mer form, where the lower half of them is the mer tail fish tail what the fuck is it called. anyways the color of pattons tail (wtf is it dude) is a desaturated light blue. he has these like ??? spikes?? is that the word? jutting out from his forearms. (at the very least pointy things) and he will not hesitate to use them as weapons. yeah he’s a feral boy. he has some spots of scales on his upper body but they are pretty scarce. in his human form, he just looks like a human i dunno what you expected lmao. in the water his eyes are a really potent blue while on land they are much duller. he can also breathe underwater regardless of the form. patton also cant really will himself to either form, if he wants to be human form he has to be on land and vice versa for the mer form.

janus is a fucking uh,, dude idk the word for it. i guess the general word for it would be dragon but he’s more humanoid than dragon. a cross between the two ig. anyways he has scales on one side of his face, scaly wings because fuck yeah, horns jutting out from his forehead, and more shit that i have forgotten but i know he has it. the scales are a golden color, with warm yellows and light oranges mixed in. left eye has a dragon pupil type thing, like a slitted pupil. fuck i hate describing things ghdgakhgask. im playing around with the idea that dragons can shapeshift but nothing is set in stone with that tbh. most dragon folk are like janus, a mix between dragon and human, and only the really powerful ones are the ones that can actually turn into dragons so thats pretty rare. but fuck descriptions its time for fucking FRIENDSHIP and FAMILY

janus has a little brother whose name is emile and they are 6 and actually pretty shy. it took them a while to warm up to patton but now he literally loves pat and everytime he sees them he bolts over and just gives him a huge hug. patton tries to act all tough but he is so soft for emile there is no denying it and they all know it. jan and emile have an agender parent and a genderfluid parent. agender parent uses xe/xem btw. 

patton has a mother and never knew his father. he and his mother have a rather,,, distant relationship i suppose. his mother is in the royal guard so she is called away often (though it does not excuse the neglect in the slightest) her and pat just mutually acknowledge that they both exist and go about their day. one day pat confessed to jan that he never really felt that they were his mom, more just a person who birthed him. one time in a particular bout of drowsiness, patton confessed that janus and his family were the ones that he truly considered family. janus got choked up and was like ‘shut up you bastard im supposed to be tough /pos’ 

the first time janus showed him how he could get rid of the dragon aspects of himself for a limited time, patton literally took one look at his human form and shouted ‘what the FUCK’ and janus was like ‘IVE SEEN YOU CHANGE FORM BEFORE WHATS YOUR DEAL’ and patton just screams ‘THIS IS FUCKIN WEIRD’ (all /lh) janus and patton get up to so many shenanigans its a wonder they havent gotten caught yet lmao

patton, once again in sleep deprivation cause thats the only fuckin time he’ll confess anything about his emotions, told janus that he was his first friend and that he was so scared to mess it up when they first became friends. he’d spent most of his life alone and always in this state of just,,, perpetual anger, bubbling right underneath the surface with no way to escape. it led to him getting in a lot of fights and just lashing out, especially at people who tried to become his friend, scaring them away. when janus came along and stayed, he said it was the best thing that ever happened to him. he finally had a friend. even when he lashed out and retreated back into himself, putting up those walls again, janus still stayed. he helped break those walls down bit by bit, helped patton with his anger issues, helped patton realize that janus was here to stay, and that he wasnt leaving.

if you cant tell, i love them sm ghdgaskgjs

[dreamonhunters]

dyin’ ain’t so bad, not if you both go together

tw // major character death, graphic depictions of violence, guns, blood, references to drugs

yet another birthday present!! happy birthday to @aw-jus-let-em-try ! rizz i love you so damn much and i’m so grateful to call you my friend!! ♡ i do hope you enjoy immortal javid as much as i think you will 🥺

read it here on ao3!

Jack Kelly died when he was twelve years old.

And again, when he was thirteen.

There’s a tombstone that says he died when he was fourteen, again at sixteen, eighteen, nineteen, and the one on his twenty-first birthday that he doesn’t talk about because alcohol poisoning isn’t a very cool way to go.

Different names, of course. He’s many things, but stupid isn’t one of them.

There’s more. Jack remembers each and every last one of them, vivid technicolour in his mind. Some of them are lost to time now, forgotten and unrecorded. Never been one to keep his legal documents in order.

He’s twenty-two now, and the tally on his chest — emblazoned on the soft flesh over his heart, dark against tan skin — says he’s died twenty-seven times.

He’s lived more lives than years.

Fingertips graze over those dark lines. A blessing and a curse. Jack Kelly is unbreakable, because his life isn’t so fragile. You fear nothing and nobody when you can’t be destroyed, when the light behind your eyes can never be extinguished.

He hears shifting beside him, and his eyes flicker over to the bed. Expensive sheets cover a man’s sleeping form, curled on his side, one arm resting beneath his head. Softly illuminated by the rising sun, filtering through the cracks in the blinds.

David is beautiful when he sleeps.

Jack lets out a soft sigh, allowing the fabric of his shirt to drop back down. Turns to watch his lover sleep, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth upwards. He’s a lucky, lucky man, truly. People like David Jacobs don’t fall for Jack Kelly. But neither of them should exist, because they both died a long time ago, and so Jack doesn’t look at the improbability of it anymore.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he murmurs. Davey mumbles something unintelligible, rolling over onto his back. “C’mon, we got work to do.”

“What time is it?” Davey asks, voice still thick with sleep. Blinks blearily up at the ceiling, letting his eyes adjust to the change in light.

“Half seven,” Jack answers, without glancing at the clock on the wall. Doesn’t need to, because he wouldn’t get up any earlier than that without six alarms and a strong cup of coffee. “Think Finch an’ Albert are up. Heard ‘em bickering.”

“Unsurprising.”

He laughs, turning to lean against the wall. Davey rolls back onto his side, and that little smile lights up Jack’s world. Reminds him why he fell in love with this man all over again.

“You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous,” Jack murmurs.

He laughs, shaking his head. “No need to flatter me, Jackie. I’m getting up.”

“Not flatterin’. Admiring.”

Davey pushes himself upright, stretching his arms. Arches his back until Jack hears that satisfying crack, the type you get from a good stretch. “You’re sweet.”

“Don’t you know it, sugar,” he murmurs, moving across the room to press a soft kiss to Davey’s lips. “C’mon. Up an’ at ‘em. We got a deal to close.”

Davey’s laughter fills Jack’s ears as he waltzes out of the room, rolling his shoulders back. Shoots a tired-looking Racetrack his trademark grin as he passes. Albert and Finch are still bickering in the kitchen, although they both look a little more animated now. Romeo’s head rests on the table, a glass of orange juice long forgotten beside him.

“Mornin’, lads,” Jack greets. Uncharacteristically cheerful for this time of morning, but he chooses to ignore that minor detail.

“Mornin’, boss,” Albert drawls, mimicking Jack’s tone in the most obnoxious manner possible. “Didn’t think you were gonna make it.”

“I ain’t that lazy, Al,” Jack deflects. “Gimme a break.”

“You want coffee?” Finch offers, placing his own mug back on the counter.

“You already know I do.”

“I don’t think Jack can function without his coffee,” Davey’s voice chimes in, and Jack turns to see his lover standing in the doorway. Leaning against the frame, small smirk tugging at his lips. Cocky. A quiet challenge, just between the two of them. The top of his shirt hangs open, unbuttoned. Unusual for Davey, but more than appreciated.

“Good mornin’ to you too, David,” he drawls playfully, turning back to smile at his boys. “What’s got you lot up so early?”

Finch groans, sliding a cup of coffee across to Jack. “Ask me after.”

“Someone’s cheerful,” Albert comments, earning himself a sharp jab to the ribs.

“Racer had another stupid idea,” Louis mumbles, somehow managing to avoid eye contact with anyone as he enters the room. As he always does. “And you know he isn’t gonna just give up on it.”

Jack simply laughs, sits himself down beside Romeo. “Rise an’ shine, Juliet,” he teases, nudging the boy’s shoulder. He stirs, grumbling something under his breath. Still doesn’t lift his head.

“We’ll be out most of the day,” Davey adds coolly, retrieving the milk. “Got a deal to close.”

“Anything important?” Finch asks, head inclined slightly towards Davey as he rejoins Albert at the table.

Jack shakes his head, jaw cracking as he yawns. “Nah. These guys ain’t regulars. That’s why I want more money off ‘em.”

“And you think tha’s gonna work?” Albert questions.

“You know me,” Jack smirks. “I don’t take no for an answer.”

“And we don’t have long,” Davey reminds.

“That we don’t,” he agrees, draining his cup. “Laters, boys. Don’t burn the house down.”

“So keep Race away from the toaster? Got it,” Albert teases, earning himself a dark glare from the blond.

He follows Davey out of the kitchen, and maybe he’s lagging behind just a little to admire his lover. Not that he’d admit to that.

Davey and Jack have always made a good pair. Maybe has a little something to do with the fact they slept together on their second meeting, but Jack likes to gloss over that fact. It’s not the most romantic story, but it suits them, he thinks. Jack was never one to beat around the bush.

“You sure we shouldn’t bring Racer along?” Davey asks, voice betraying just the slightest hint of anxiety. They’re in the garage now, with Jack making a beeline towards his preferred vehicle. “He’s the talker.”

“Nah. I got this, Dave, don’t worry ‘bout it. You know I got a way with words, an’ you’re not exactly quiet.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that. Doesn’t really require an answer, really, because Jack’s right, and they both know it. They’re equally as competent, and sometimes it’s nice to have something for just the two of them.

They don’t talk while they drive. Jack doesn’t have anything to say, and Davey doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s at the wheel. A quiet hour to prepare themselves, mentally and physically.

Jack fiddles with his glock. Flicks the safety on and off, that soft clicking a small distraction for his mind. Davey would complain if he weren’t so focused. Occasionally, he’ll hum quietly to himself, break the silence for a few fleeting moments, and it’s nice. Pleasant. Comfortable.

Davey pulls up a few blocks away, rests his arms on the steering wheel. Jack knows that expression. Steeling himself.

“You ready?” Jack asks softly, leaning over to press a light kiss to Davey’s cheekbone.

“Mm,” he answers, not meeting Jack’s eyes. He needs these moments. It’s a little harder for Davey to create that mental separation.

They stay there for a short while longer, listening to the other’s breathing. Jack waits for Davey to unbuckle his seatbelt and pop his door open, taking another deep breath as he steps out. And he follows his lover’s lead, tucking the glock into his waistband. Insurance, more than anything.

Davey’s by his side in an instant, the back of his hand brushing against Jack’s. He resists the urge to intertwine their fingers, just for those few fleeting moments, because he doesn’t quite need that physical reassurance anymore.

You can’t hurt Jack Kelly, and you can’t hurt David Jacobs, because every time they come right back. Death has no permanence. Blink, and they’re awake, side by side, gasping for that first breath all over again. A blessing and a curse.

Jack’s fingertips trace the tally on the inside of his lover’s wrist, a feather light touch. Davey isn’t so laidback, however. He explains his fears quietly, when it's just the two of them in a darkened room, bodies pressed against each other. Every death marks one closer to the end for him. A fear that one day this little performance will come to a horrifying close, and suddenly the fragility of life will become all too real. There has to be a limit to their immortality, he insists, even if Jack disagrees. Just how far can they push it?

His head turns, steely blue eyes meeting deep brown. “Be safe, Jackie,” Davey murmurs, eyes filled with a concern most people wouldn’t quite understand. When you don’t quite fear death, your biggest fear is loneliness, Jack realises.

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

A modern office building towers above them, morning sunlight reflecting off the large glass front.

“Little bit more than I expected,” Davey murmurs, and Jack shrugs. Punches a code into a small keypad, buttons glowing blue beneath his fingertips. Not a single smudge on those glass double doors.

“Hey, they’re payin’ us good money. I just want a little more, y’know?”

“As always,” Davey sighs, with that faux irritance that Jack knows and loves.

A voice crackles over the little intercom, a female voice. “Who’s here?”

“Jack Kelly and David Jacobs, here to see Mr. Pulitzer?” Jack asks, that usual drawl disappearing from his voice. He means business.

There’s a soft click. The doors slide open, and the pair step into a modern lounge area. “Floor twenty-seven,” Jack murmurs, shoes clicking against the polished marble floor. Nobody else around, no other sounds.

Davey doesn’t speak, follows Jack into the elevator silently, leans against the cool metal railing as they ascend. His brow pinches together with a silent anxiety. Gets like this every time. The doors slide open.

“Kelly. Jacobs. Good to see you again,” a smooth voice greets. Pulitzer is a tall man, greasy hair that’s greying at the roots and bright blue eyes that crease up a little when he smiles.

“You too,” Jack smiles, lips pulled into a tight grin. False, a little too strained around the edges, but only Davey would pick up on that. “This ain’t gonna take long.”

“I’m sure it won’t,” Pulitzer mutters, turning on his heel. Leads them towards a door, right down the far end of the hallway. Too polished and perfect. Their footsteps echo as they walk. Holds it open for them. Davey shoots him a small smile as Jack sits down.

“So,” Jack drawls, leaning forward. Long arms cross on the edge of Pulitzer’s desk, one hand coming to rest under his chin. “I got bad news. We’re gonna have to up rates, ‘cause suppliers are screwin’ me over.”

“Is that so?” he asks, leaning back in his seat. Davey’s fingers hover over his own gun, just a little anxiety settling in his gut. “Who supplies you, may I ask?”

“Smaller cartel across town. The Delanceys.”

“Interesting.”

Pulitzer drums his fingertips on the desk rhythmically. A dim sound, and somehow it echoes in Jack’s brain. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, hyperaware of the way his clothes feel against his skin, the weight of the gun on his hip, the gentle sound of Davey’s breathing somewhere close behind.

“How so?”

There’s tension in Jack’s shoulders. Something in Pulitzer’s expression just doesn’t sit quite right with him.

“I just so happen to know a certain Morris Delancey. And I just so happen to know he hasn’t changed his prices in four years.”

Shit.

There’s a predatory grin on Pulitzer’s face, toothy and shark-like. Jack doesn’t like it one bit. Can’t think of a way to talk himself out of this one, and Davey isn’t forthcoming. He’s a deer trapped in the headlights, waiting for Pulitzer to finish him off.

His brain doesn’t quite register the gun, or the shot that fires off, or the smell of smoke that fills the room. Dimly, he registers the sound of a body hitting the ground, and he already knows it’s Davey. Doesn’t have time to react, because his vision is hazy as a second bullet pierces his own skull.

There’s a sudden moment of peace. The darkness envelopes him, like an old friend, a comforting embrace. Fleeting.

And then there’s agonising pain, splitting his skull straight down the middle. Because recovering from death isn’t a painless process, of course not. There has to be some kind of drawback to immortality. Every single time, your body has to rebuild what is broken from the inside out, bring itself back from the end, and that’s no easy feat.

Maybe that’s why Davey’s so afraid it’ll all be over one day. That there’s a limit, and one day his body will give out, unable to muster the strength to rebuild itself once again.

Jack isn’t so sure.

When his eyes reopen, he feels concrete beneath his fingertips. Gunpowder on his tongue, blood stuck between his teeth. Coppery. Licks his lips, sore and cracked. Darkened sky, the few stars you can see despite the city lights glinting overhead. Distantly, he can hear cars, somewhere far below. A rooftop.

How fitting.

He’s alive, all over again, and he lays there for a few quiet moments. Feels the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, how he can move each finger independently. The ground is scratchy against his skin.

Davey’s there, and he sits up a little too fast. Chest heaving, eyes wild. Some things never change.

“Hey, calm down,” Jack murmurs, slowly easing himself up. “You’re fine. We’re fine. It’s good.”

“This time,” Davey whispers, voice cracking just a little on the second syllable. “This time, Jackie.”

“An’ that’s what matters, ain’t it? This time? I don’t give a damn about next time, ‘cause it ain’t happened yet.”

Davey shakes his head, still trembling. “I don’t know how we live like this.”

“‘Cause if there is a limit, we ain’t gonna find it by standin’ still,” he answers. “C’mon. You’re gettin’ yourself all worked up over nothin’. We’re alive, Dave. Who gives a shit about this ‘limit’?”

“I do.”

Jack sighs, moves his hand to rest on top of Davey’s. Familiar touch. Smooth skin beneath calloused palms, worn rough from years of firefights and underhanded tactics.

“Let it go, Davey. We’re okay.”

“This time.”

“Sure, this time. An’ all the times before.”

Davey’s still shaking. Slowly, carefully, Jack pulls him a little closer. Intertwines their fingers. Matching gold bands gleam in the streetlights.

“You still got me, ain’t ya? And I ain’t goin’ nowhere without you,” Jack reassures. There’s a smile on his face. A different look, softer behind the eyes. Silent promise, just between the two of them. “I love you, David.”

“I love you too,” he replies. Breathy. Eyes still wide with shock, heart still racing. It’ll take a while for him to calm down, back to that trademark neutrality Davey’s better known for.

Jack lays back down. The concrete isn’t comfortable, but he doesn’t really feel like walking back. They could be miles away, for all he knows. Dark eyes fix on the stars, lips twisting upwards. Innate comfort. A ghost of a smile.

“Sleep here tonight, Dave. They ain’t gonna miss us.”

He silently shifts closer, rests his head on Jack’s chest, lets his lover hold him close. There’s no words. Doesn’t need to be, because they understand each other perfectly without the need for words. Davey drifts off first, exhausted from the whole ordeal. And Jack feels him breathe, feels his heartbeat, feels the warmth of his skin. Calm.

He’s alive, and real, and in a strange way it feels like he’s never been alive at all.

Jack has died twenty-eight times. Davey’s on fourteen.

One more strike over his heart.

[365days365movies]

March 13, 2021: Kwaidan: The Black Hair (1963)

Three hours of Japanese ghost stories. OK. How do I do?

Time is always a complicated mistress for me, so I really have to plan this accordingly. OK, let’s see, what do I know about Kwaidan? Well, it’s a Japanese anthology film...ahhhhhhhh, there it is!

OK, solution discovered! This film is broken up into four disparate short stories, so we’ll be tackling each one one at a time. Four shorter posts, one full movie! Nice. Now, normally, I’d go through a bit of an introduction, but I don’t know much about this film, or the short movies contained within. So, instead, let’s talk Japanese mythology.

Hate to admit it, but basically all of my knowledge of Japanese gods and folklore comes from anime. Which isn’t the worst source, necessarily...but it’s definitely not the actual source. I’ve seen Noragami Season One, I’ve watched a button of other slice-of-life and folklore-based anime, so I know a little bit. The GF is far more adept (she’s the one who got me into Noragami, amongst other things), and she’ll be watching this movie as well, when she can.

So, I’m a relative novice when it comes to these things. What makes this more interesting is the fact that these stories are based on somewhat more contemporary sources, which means that they may not borrow from Japanese mythology much at all, outside of shared themes and morality. Sound familiar?

Yeah, that basically describes Ugetsu Monogatari, which I covered a few days ago (here, here, and here, in that order). While it’s based off of a book, it shares elements seen in a lot of old Japanese folklore and traditional beliefs. Don’t needlessly pursue material goods and fame over happiness, and don’t fuck ghosts. Yeah, that’s mostly what I learned from that one.

Kwaidan, which literally means “ghost stories” in Japanese, came out over a decade later, is in color, as was directed by Masaki Kobayashi, and this is the only movie of his that I’ve ever heard of, so that’s something. In any case, I’m excited for this one! As excited as I am...worried. Because I have absolutely no idea what I’m in for. LET THE THREE HOURS COMMENCE (broken up into four palatable pieces).

The movie segments are as follows:

The Black Hair (黒髪, Kurokami)

The Woman of the Snow (雪女, Yukionna)

Hoichi the Earless (耳無し芳一の話, Miminashi Hōichi no Hanashi)

In A Cup of Tea (茶碗の中, Chawan no Naka)

We’ll start with The Black Hair, which is giving major “The Ring” vibes, just as a name. We’ll see if I’m right about that, I guess! SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap (1/4)

We start it all off with the Criterion Collection logo, and then...ink.

Ink of black, red, and blue, dropped into water set against a white background, is seen cascading down the screen over the opening credits. The titles of the four short films are also introduced, as the ink colors are mixed over a mostly silent background. And once the end, we begin with our first story.

The Black Hair

There’s a dilapidated estate, and as we travel through it, all of the background noises are amplified, and a set of doors opens, seemingly with the breeze. We enter, and a narrator tells us that there was a samurai that lived in old Kyoto, brought to financial ruin by the workings of his former master. To regain financial and social status, he’s decided to leave his wife behind. We join them now.

The samurai (Rentarō Mikuni) leaves his sobbing wife (Michiyo Aratama), refusing to rot away in the estate, no longer dilapidated, as we’ve clearly gone back in time. Despite the desperate pleading of his wife, the samurai leaves Kyoto, and cruelly shoves his wife aside, hitting her with his sheathed sword at one point. So, yeah, he’s a dick. And his quest for fortune will almost certainly be his ruination. Like I said, certain shared themes.

That’s made even clearer by the next scene, in which the samurai is now married to a wealthy woman (Misako Watanabe) that looks very much like the woman from Ugetsu, smudgebrows and...impressively long hair, GODDAMN!

The wealthy family of said daughter welcomes the samurai into the family, and he provides for her while also enjoying a higher social status as a result of the marriage. One day, he brings her to his post, and we clearly see that she’s in love with material possessions, moreso than her husband. Which, yeah, sounds familiar.

Looks like the samurai’s also starting to realize this, and he reminisces about his first wife, presumably still Kyoto. Yeah, bud, ya fucked up, don’t be a dick. Also, I assume that it attracts ghosts, since...you know, this is a ghost story. But yeah, he realizes that he still loves his first wife, patient and loving, as opposed to his cold and selfish second wife.

And so, in his heart and mind, the samurai returns to see his first wife. Meanwhile, in his new life, the samurai is constantly haunted by memories of his first wife. It interferes with his archery on horseback during an exhibition with a competitor. Dude’s fucked up.

Meanwhile, the spoiled second wife is bored, coldly dismissing her handmaidens while waiting for her new husband to attend to her. She happens upon him, asleep next to a scroll. She tries to kiss him, but the great idiot turns her away. She slaps him, upset at both his own selfish ways, and his still-lasting devotion to his wife.

He gives up on pleasing her after this, and decides to officially return to his first wife to make amends for not appreciating her in the first place. However, despite this, his duty as a samurai in the region still lasts a few years, and he’s unable to return to his first wife until that point. And when he does, the place is mostly still OK, but somewhat wrecked on the outside.

Yet, despite this, there she is, working at her loom and spinning wheel. The two are happy to see each other, and the samurai notes that she hasn’t left his mind, and apologizes for being a dick. He also notes that she hasn’t aged a day. Yeah, she’s 100% a ghost, fuck.

Anyway, he begs his definitely ghost-wife for forgiveness, which she quickly and enthusiastically gives. She even says that she never felt worthy for being his wife, and that she doesn’t deserve love from someone of his station, as compared to her own. Goddamn, dude really is a dick for leaving this ACTUAL SAINT of a woman.

He pledges to make amends, and that nothing will ever separate them again. He notes that her hair smells the same as it did before. The same glossy black hair, he notes. He compliments her looks as they kiss. And yeah, real talk, she is a GORGEOUS woman. Again, dude’s a dick. But whatever, at least they’re together again.

And the samurai’s love QUICKLY gives way to horniness, as they make their bed in the room that they “first made love in”, according to him. They pledge to be together for the present and the future, and the swordsman falls asleep with his wide watching over him.

The sun rises the next day, and the samurai wakes up next to his wife, and sees her long black hair...

AAAAAAAAAND it’s a corpse. It’s her dead fuckin’ body, and the hair’s still attached. Saw that coming...although I didn’t think my whole “don’t fuck ghosts” joke would come true that quickly.

AND THEN THE HAIR FUCKING ATTACKS HIM AND DRAINS HIS LIFE FORCE, WHAT IN THE NINE FUCKS

Yeah, no, he’s rapidly aging, and he tries to escape the estate, now obviously completely dilapidated. The now elderly samurai does get out of the estate...but he doesn’t escape.

Damn. Story Number One concluded. 

Weird-ass story, in a way, but very well-shot. as it finishes, the GF begins to elucidate on the actual cultural relationship of this story. Here she is now, actually.

Iridescent. Anyway, she told me about onryō (怨霊), vengeful spirits that come to exact revenge on those who committed wrongs on them or in general, taking their spirits from their dying bodies. Apparently, husbands wronging their wives and getting fucked over by the spirits is a common occurrance. Neat.

It’s also possibly a reference to the yōkai called the futakuchi-onna (二口女). That one, I already knew about. She’s the two-faced woman with her second face hidden behind her long hair, draped and kept down. Said hair is also prehensile! And for the record, I only knew about her because of this:

Yup, Mawile is a Steel/Fairy type Pokémon based on the futakuchi-onna. Neat, huh?

Anyway, that’s the end of the first story...shall we move on to the second one? Next up, Kwaidan: The Snow Woman! See you there!

[kaiju-z]

Seon Adventures, Episode 35:  The Tomb Of The Fallen King

We carry on from whenst we left, the entrance of the tomb, where our heroes would, hopefully only temporarily part ways with Aryn, the Half-Dwarf. With the promise of and gifting of coin and that they wouldn’t abscond with too much of the contents of the resting place of the king, the party would head inside, with Luctan at the front, followed by Mournimar, Belli, Jun and Malak. Morgan stepping along beside them in his Dire Wolfy way.

All around the wall, these blue lights come on.Blue, like on the base of a really hot fire. There’s a sign on the front, saying “Those who continue risk disturbing those who sacrificed themselves to grant “us” our lives.”

The words themselves immediatelly give off a bad vibe, given the multiple meanings they could hold...

The party would take their path to the northern door. Through it, they can see that the walls are lined with depictions of battles and clashes and the walls west and east, each has a dragon. The right one is shaded a darker color than the opposite. They bring down destruction. Another door ahead, a horned man with a dark blade. The walls have dates on them. Around 5-6 years ago.

The dates show things like, a year before the war ended on one. No one knows why the creatures were sent.  The other is a couple of weeks after the war ended. Didn’t happen long after.

This... is a fairly young tomb. Even if no one really comes here.

Stepping further upward, there appear to be three pathways, in an open hallway.

In blank sandstone, the doors don’t seem to have locks on them. Followed closely by Belli,  Mournimar diverts and checks what’s on the right.

To the right, there’s a room with a fountain. Long dried out and kind of, gold lining the circles around the fountain. The majority of the place is painted purple and they stare at the backwall. Another artwork, more of a mural than a carving. To the left of it there’s a dragonborn outlined in golden paint. Beneath the art is the description. And in the back, to the center of the wall is a coffin.

With a call, Mournimar brings the rest of the group inside. Much to the party’s surprise, the door closes behind them, but with a quick checo if it’s locked or not, it opens easily...

With a sigh of relief, the writing can be read now.  “Here rests Toxal the Never-Conquered. Even in death she never showed fear.” Notably, on the right side  of the coffin there’s a mural of her leading an army of kobolds.

At the bottom, a similar layout. But in this room, again a coffin in the middle. It appears to be of a lizardfolk warrior, dual wielding a pair of weapons. Engraven below, in Draconic are the words “Here rests Zaidi the Unending. She rests here to protect her King.”

Making a split decision,  Luctan and the duo go to check the lizardfolk’s room, while Jun and Malak go to check the other room. But the moment they enter, stepping on a particular plate on the ground causes iron bars to drop on the entrance behind them.

Much to their shock, a type of green, ill smelling gas emits from the coffin and slowly begins to fill the room they are now trapped in. And it is then that they notice a skeleton in a corner of the room, drooped and unliving.

Malak would step back quickly from the room ahead of them and join the group at the bars, from where he’d check for a possible way to get them out. With an observant eye, the cleric would discern that there is a handhold at the bottom. With a combined physical effort, the party manage to lift up their would be death prison’s entrance and escape to the other side.

And interestingly, this is when the poisonous fumes would stop.

With that concern out of the way and a determination to be more perceptive on the path ahead, the team watches as Malak approaches the skeleton, after Mournimar performs a careful check on the room so they could avoid the pressure plates. Standing and then crouching before the boney body of the skeleton, Malak casts Animate Dead and raises it upwards with necromantic powers.

Enter: Skelli

With the body animated, Malak now has a test subject with which the party can more easily traverse through the rooms and corridors of the tomb. And he is put to work immediatelly in the room north of the fountain and statue, stepping on plate after plate.

And the Skelli-roomba’s prognosis is: the room’s clear.

As a reward he is armed with an axe, by Malak. And he orders his servant to unlock the door ahead. Which doesn’t work well, as Skelli’s finger breaks off. Luckily for them, Mournimar steps in, frees and re-attaches the finger for the skeleton, before unlocking the door with his thieves’ tools.

The door opens with a light skree. And the room in front of him is fucking huge. The size of at least two rooms stacked next to each other. With 12 coffins on the east and west parts of the room, about kobold size. And a huge sarcofagus in the middle. A very concerning threat, one might say.

In a group effort, helping one another, the party sneak with the help of Mournimar’s Pass Without A Trace, from the east part of the tomb’s 1st floor to the west part, with no trouble. The skeleton being of the stealthiest nature.

In this room, in the back, the gravings show 3 sets of weapons. A Longsword, Two shortswords overlapping each other and an elegant dagger. Fancy engravings, where the artist gave up partway through. And the backroom is a case with a glass top.

Belli follows Malak as they check the room to the south. Similar situation. There is a depiction of a dwarf with a very long beard and no hair at all. “Here rests Navaren the Fearless. Even in death, their protection lives on in us.”

On the other end of the room... A similar kind of pattern. Again an empty room, in the corner, a skeleton with very long arms and a battle axe on top of it. The skeleton is very long dead.

Malak checks the skeleton... With a medicine check, we can tell it was a hobgoblin. The skull is caved in and the ribs are cracked. Leg bones fractured. This was a very rough night that they had. By the looks of the daggers by the waist, the battle axe is less of what the Hobgoblin had brought and more what was brought onto their skull.

Concerned about magical demise, Malak casts  Detect Magic... And nothing in particular catches his eye  here. But it sure does look pretty. That done, he casts Speak With Dead and proceeds to converse with the body.

1. “What killed you?” he asks. – “The fuckin’- dead bitch in the sarcophagus.” the answer comes.

2. “Why did you come here?” he questions. “Money.” is said in turn.

3. “Did you steal anything?” he wonders. “I tried, but I didn’t get a chance!” the skeleton admits.

4. “Did you see any other creatures in here?” the queary is almost done.. “Only the dead ones.” ...

5. “Were there any in the large atrium in the room next door?” “The dead bitch in the sarcophagus was and her 12 friends.”

And the conversation ends there. Malak steps away and updates the party on what he had learned. Through a quick discussion, the decision is made to walk forward and quietly, unless the corpses themselves come back up.

At one point, as they threat carefully, the team can hear a loud clunk from Malak’s armor, but Luck instinctively grabs said armor piece and holds it in place, knowing how Plate Armo can be in such situations and thus, they make it through to the 2nd floor.

In a surprisingly empty room.

The murals on these walls depict empty sets of armor and kobolds standing among the rubble of what used to be the army. In the south corner of the room, there are several kobolds holding helmets and staring off into the sunset.

A quick sweepthrough of the room establishes that there are no loose plates or the like. And with some relief, Mournimar now leads the group forward, through a hallway, keeping his eyes peeled on possible dangers ahead...

It’s very clean, as though someone recently swept it and Mournimar notes this. Being the quietest,  Mournimar stealths a bit forward for the group. Scouting work to be done! There is a door to his right… And ahead in the hallway, there’s an open entrance.

Thick, wide room. It’s seemingly empty. The door to the south looks very heavy. There’s a very strong, probably steel looking lock that looks more intricate than anything. There’s a rug in the room, large and square 

He checks the weird rug.

It’s just a rug.

Resigning to this revelation, he moves back and up north, to the room he’d see ahead, once he made the first turn... And stepping through...

It seems completely empty and he can’t see anything... 

He stealths inside. Turns his head to the right as there is a mirror.

At a closer look, the mirror is a bit off. The reflection is more hunched over, longer claws and Mournimar backs away instantly. He can tell it’s magical as fuck.

Mournimar talks to his reflection. “What do you want? What are you doing?”

Aren’t you just going insane?!”Considering talking to the mirror, yeah. The feral reflection claims that i t’s having a great time, on the other hand.

The reflection condescends on Mournimar. Mournimar goes back to the group and calls for the others.

As they enter the room, the door slams behind them, naturally. And this time with a click to it. As opposed to a simple shutting. Morgan on the other side of the door.

Now trapped inside, they look at their reflections.

Skelli appears to be a dwarven man with blueish skin, however his proportions are off, a bit stretched. He wears red wizardly robes and has a bushy beard and hair.

Belli waves at her own duplicate, who is in mostly pink clothing. Much to her chagrin. And the two have an all out sass off about their personality.

Jun has a side shave going on. And a lump on her abdomen.

Luctan is full mountianman and there’s a constant twitch in his eye. Paranoid to the max.

Malak is the scariest of all. Because instead of his usual self, he just has the moustache. Like, pencil line moustache (EVEN THOUGH I MADE IT THICKER!).

They put it to us planely. They are trapped in this room, until we answer 3 riddles in order and to the satisfaction of their duplicates. Seeing as they can’t find another way out, the party accept. And the first question gets pitched by Nega-Malak.

“There was a green house. Inside the green house there was a white house. Inside the white house there was a red house. Inside the red house there were little black babies.”

The debate rages o nbetween the five, with Skelli blankly standing at the side, as they try to figure out what the answer could be. The specific words, in that order... What could they- And then Luctan comes to a realization. A memory of his past hits him of his days, when he was still being pampered, back in Hell.

Confidently, the red tiefling steps up and proclaims “Watermelon”. At first it seems like he failed, but the Nega-Malak admits defeat, frustrated that this one got answered so well.

The Evil Jun steps up next and gives her riddle: “When I live, I cry. If you don't kill me, I'll die.”

Again, debateing the answer for a bit, with the creatures in the mirror taunting them, asking them if their suggestions to each other are their final answer. Until Belli answers with trust in Luctan’s suggestion on what it could be: “A Candle!”

And again, correct answer! The doubles were now getting a bit tense, because the party wasn’t being “any fun” with their correct answers. But there was still at least one more chance to fuck up and restart this whole thing.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise.” The paranoid Luck double steps up and rasps his own riddle, sounding like he had smoked for 15 years.:  Never was, and yet will always be. I am never seen, and yet always come. I carry nothing, yet hold much for some. Tell me, what am I?"

This one appears tricky for them to answer. Even confiding in each other about the answer appears to be unhelpful, as many options could apply. That and Jun was still a bit freaked out about the suggestion from the chaos siblings that the answer to the previosu question was “a baby”.

Malak decides to cut the bullshit and answer as best as he can figure. “The Future”. And that was the wrong answer. Close, but it was really, just “Tomorrow”.

And so, the game would restart. There is banter between the two sides. With Malak suggesting that he ask them a riddle, in turn for the door. But they refuse, as they are the ones in control here. Them’s the rules. But for Malak, this isn’t about rules or control.  He just wants to prove these assholes wrong.

The next question to be asked is spoken: “Many have heard me, but no one has seen me, and I will not speak back until spoken to.”

And Mournimar steps up to give his answer: “Echo”. The correct answer. 1/3

“I'm light as a feather, yet the strongest man can't hold me for more than 5 minutes. What am I?“ comes the next riddle. And the answer is uttered among the party: “Breath.” 2/3

The doubles then bring up another riddle. Confident in the puzzle of it:  How far can you walk into a forest?” They almost finish their question, before Belli raises her voice in determination, confidence and knowledge:

“Halfway and then we’re walking out.” The doubles are annoyed that they were bested by the people they were copying in such a distorted mannor and the door opens for the heroes with a light screech, a tail wagging dire wolf on the other end.

Malak proceeds to ask them a riddle of his own: If they fail, they must provide them with information on what’s in the tomb. Everything. “What has wings like a dragon, it will never fly. It can swim in the ocean, but will always stay dry." And they fail to provide the suitable answer.

The tomb is 5 years old-ish?! They started building it 7 years ago. There’s a secret entrance to the private restroom. We need to go to the northwest to the king’s floor.

They ask Malak for the answer to that riddle. And he provides them with the words “Dragon’s Shadow”. The answer evoking a response from Mournimar’s double, who screeches “ I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em!” but leaves, anyways.

As the sibs go through the door, Luctan observes Malak as he pulls out the Fated Potential Great Axe, with Jun watching inside the room. He ponders on the nature of those beings, following Jun’s suggestion they rid the place of the mirror, so as not to risk others befalling to this riddle game as well.

He recalls some knowledge. Those things? They’re not devils, but sometimes, and it’s usually one of Jorzoth’s perverted methods of torture, Devils trap spirits, who hated each other in life and leave them with a minor glimpse of the outside world. This mirror is one of those glimpses.

Malak shatters the mirror and swears he hears a deep breath from the mirror. And then nothing.

Jun makes a Wisdom Save. 7. Hm. Malak would then walk out of the room, with Luctan making way for Jun to pass before him. And they’d leave this part of the tomb.

Returning to the carpet room.

Mournimar shows Belli the big metal door. It’s Big. Made of metal and a door. A big metal door! And the underside of the carpet is clear.

The party head Northwest.

There’s a sign, saying the same old same old. That no one should enter, etc. Skelli is sent to inspect the room on the left. And once he enters, the door closes behind the skeleton. From there, 8 seconds pass. And Malak feels his spell on the boney half-dwarf drop. (RIP Skelli).

Planning occurs. And Belli summons Orion, much to his protest, to use him for the task she has in mind. She brings out a gunpowder bomb. And has Orion take the form of a seagull. She ties the bomb to his ankle and the poor familiar “bravely” enters the scene, wherein Belli can see two metalic figures, in rusted armor, swing for the birb.

Needless to say, Orion has no enjoyment in this. Also needless to say, he gets smacked. And the bom goes off in a loud explosion, which shakes the room itself.

With Belli’s update on what happened, the party get the time to prep. Thanks to Belli’s gift, Luctan throws in a smoke bomb. And using The Pass Without A Trace, by Mournimar, the six slink through the smoke, avoiding direct contact with the rusted guardians.

They then get to the 3rd floor.

Passing by a deadend, they go downward, to the west.

Scouting ahead, followed by his partner in crime, Mournimar enters a room with five pillars. Four ahead and one to the left. On P4, there’s a wire leading to the ceiling and a slight panel that would shift if the wiere was moved.  Mournimar cuts the wire and it snaps up into the ceiling. Half a second later, the panel opens and Mournimar and Belli need to make Dex Saves.

1 and 18 respectively.

The two get sprayed with glass from above and mournimar gets the worst of it, as it embeds into his face, arms, legs, tail... It’s not a pretty sight. But through a combination of Cure wounds from himself and Malak, they recuperate as good as they can, given the circumstances.

“Please be careful!” Luctan says late in the situation. From around the corner. Covered in safety-wafety armor.

“I’ll try!” says Mournimar. In his leather armor. Offering barely enough protection. And inspects the remaining four pillars. 1, 2, 3, 5. With 1 being beside him, closest to the door to his left. Each, compared to the one he had just yoinked, were smooth.

Mournimar elects to use the one next to him and opens up a tunnel. A secret tunnel, which Mournimar leads the group through to a library.

The lights on this floor are a golden white color. An entrance ahead and a door to the side. He tries to open the door to the side and it opens. Empty as fuck!

While Mournimar and Belli explore ahead, Jun, Malak and Luck take a gander through the many tomes inside this place. Each finding a particular book that catches their fancy:

Luck finds a book called “To cheat a devil”. It’s a typography of a man, who cheated minor devils. It feels like this man should be much more well known.

Jun’s eyes go to one, named “Short and Stout”, a dwarven cookbook.

Belli, who had nabbed a book, before following Mournimar, had found " Personal Hygine” for Belli, about hygine on the road.

While Malak had gotten his hands on a heartwarming book about a baby dragon burning down a village. Fuck them peasants.

Up north, the walls are lined up with kegs. It looks like a drinking room.

And the other way is a corridor, through which Mournimar and Belli stealth. Down to the bottom, where they look through an opening and see...

A weird, huge monstrocity with rocks and metallic shields on each arm. And it doesn’t see them,because the orange light is turned to the library, where the rest of the party peruse. Sneaking back around, Mournimar warns the three, all hush-hush and they head upward.

The door ahead is locked, but Mournimar tries his luck at it, still. And he picks through the lock.

With a 19, the door swings open and on the back wall, it’s a portrait, in detail, of the king’s final battle. It seems older than any other piece. Original style on the edges. It’s like the original artist didn’t have the time to finish it, or something. 

There are doors on the northeast and south-west.  In the south-west, a corridor. And seeing as they are meant to head south-west, they head there, anyways.

Ahead, there’s a red rug and expensive looking furniture.

The walls in this room are covered in the famed mantra, all over in a lot of languages. All over. It’s just “His duty is done, may he rest proud and eternal.” All orderly and stuff.

Above the door is the word “King” in Infernal.

Walking ahead, there’s a small corridor. And a door, which, the stone work is smooth, completely. It would have taken a while to carve this. It’s quite probably the throne room.

A red carpet with golden silk detail leads ahead. The stone work is beyond intricate. Runes and patterns that would have taken years to make this room. In the back is a throne, and a coffin behind it. Gems litter it to the side as it’d littered the well. The lights turn red.

As they step in, one after the other, a ghostly image comes forth.

A pale purple spirit stands before them. Mournimar and Belli kneel. A tiefling man in much more humble clothing greets the lot of them, with his arms up.

And asks of our presense here.

Mournimar truthfully explains why they’re here and what our new intentions are.

They have questions, he has answers.

Previous Episode / Next Episode

[sterling-starlight]

No Texting During Drama Club

Me: Alright! Week two of Vesuvian pride is all about the modern day AUs, I can do this!

*Eight pages later*

What happened? (Pen pals/online friends meeting in person for the first time. Not quite as adherent to the prompt, but I think it works well enough)

Unknown Sender

3:30 PM.  

“-heard u have a&p with prof valdemar. If you let me copy ur notes, I will owe u pizza for the rest of our lives.

-this is Julian, btw. from the theater club.

-in case u thought this was some, u know, random creep.”

You

3:35 PM

“-Fine. But only because no one deserves to be failed by Valdemar.  

-I’ll drop them off at the dressing room tomorrow. I like pineapple and olive pizza.”

Unknown Sender

3:37 PM

“-pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza, u monster!

-sigh. but I'll let it slide since you’re saving my ass.”

You

3:41 PM

“-Did you really just type out ‘sigh’?”

Unknown Sender

3:43 PM

“-….

-Yes.”

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

You

6:30 PM

“-So, hey. Congrats on getting to play Hamlet.”

Julian

6:34 PM

“-not the most original production we’ve done, but a role’s a role. seeing Lucio’s face when he realized he wasn’t the star was worth it.”

You

6:40 PM

“-Remind me who that is.

I’m seriously drawing a blank here.”

Julian

6:43 PM

“-blonde. rich. Insufferable. loud.

-he has that fancy prosthetic arm that somehow makes him better than everyone.”

You

6:50 PM

“-Oooooooooh. Him.

-He doesn’t really come to bother us production people unless he wants to bitch about costuming or the sets. Which is a lot.”

Julian

6:55 PM

“-i think I've heard you chew him out a few times. Ur the girl with the venterran accent, right?”

You

7:01 PM

“-Aye.

-Surprised you could even understand me. Not a lot of people can when I get PO’d.”

Julian

7:10 PM

“-i understood enough to know you called him a prick.  

-my mom and dad took me to venterre once. it was almost as pretty as you.”

You  

7:20

“-Wow.

-That was horrible and you should feel horrible.”

Julian

7:12

“-I have no shame, and never will, my dear.”  

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

Julian

3:00 AM

“-natalia

“-hey, natalia.”

“-tali”

Julian 3:05 AM

“-how did people in the middle ages first think to start using leeches?

“-like, did they stick leeches on themselves and realize that pain and blood loss and disease was the medicine?”

You

3:06 AM

“Jules, it is 3 in the goddamn morning. Go to bed.”

Julian

3:07 AM

“I work the graveyard shift at supermarket.  it’s my lunchtime.”

You

3:08 AM

“-Then fuckin eat your lunch and let normal people sleep before I cram it up your ass.”

Julian

3:10 AM

“- I can think of much more fun things we can do.”

You

3:15 AM

“-Fuck you, I’m going back to sleep.”

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

Jules

2:30 PM

“-So you really had a pet ram as a kid?”

You

2:31 PM

“-Technically, I still do. I just couldn’t bring him with me.

“-my flat allows large dogs, but won’t allow rams? It’s bullshit.”

Jules

2:32 PM

“-rams aren’t really normal pets tho.”

You

2:33 PM

“-Says the guy who has a pet crow.”

Jules

2:34 PM

“-malak is a raven, number 1.  

-number 2, he is an absolute delight. how dare you say otherwise?

You

2:40

“-Rufus is better.

“-Behold the glory”

Jules

2:50 PM

“-oh, so it’s a pet off then? Fine! May the cutest animal win!”

You

3:00 PM

“-Fine!”

Jules

3:05 PM

“-Have at you!”  

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

When Natalia’s phone rang, she was actually shocked to see Julian’s caller id flash on the screen.   They had never actually... talked on the phone before.  

The worst-case scenarios instantly popped into her head. Was he hurt? Did something happen? What if this was the hospital calling her to say he was in critical condition. Why would he put her as an emergency medical contact without telling her?!

Her phone buzzed again, more insistently, and she pressed the answer button with a trembling finger.  

“Hello?”

“Oh, hi~” The feminine voice from the other line was definitely not Julian, not even at his most dramatic falsetto. And she sounded too chipper to be the bearer of doom and death. Natalia let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding. “This is... Tali? Right?”

“It’s Natalia, actually. Who is this?”

“My name is Portia! I’m Ilya’s- oh, sorry. One sec,” Portia put a hand over the speaker, muffling the commotion on her side of the line. There was thumping, shuffling, and her shouting “You have her listed as ‘My Dearest Tali’, Ilya! Come on!”  

A voice that sounded somewhat like Julian’s shouted back something, but Natalia couldn’t hear it clearly.  There was a sound like static or rushing wind, before a door slammed and Portia let out a triumphant laugh. Portia’s voice fully came back on the line. “Sorry. But, yeah. I’m Ilya’s little sister. I would have liked to meet you in person, but my brother is completely hopeless.”  Someone thumped against the door, and Portia lowered the phone again. “You know I’m right!”  She yelled at the door.

Back to normal. “Aaaanyway. He’s been lamenting, and sighing, and wallowing over whether or not he should ask you out. So! You wanna go on a date with him?”  

Natalia opened and closed her mouth a few times, wordless sounds escaping. She was sure her face was burning pink. She could feel the heat spreading from her cheeks to her neck.  “Take your time. I can be in here all day.” Portia said casually. Natalia could almost picture her reclining back casually on whatever it was she was sitting on.  

“Ah- Ah,” Natalia finally managed to choke out. She took in a deep breath, and let it out in a slow whistle.  “...if he really wants tae.” She finally said.  

“Oh, he does. Trust me, I know him better than anyone.” Natalia could hear Portia’s smile through the phone. Distantly, a lock clicked and a door swung open. “She said yes, Ilyushka. You can thank me later.”

“That wasn’t- you’re missing the-!” Julian stammered. He took a breath and lifted the phone to his ear. “Listen, whatever Pasha said, you can just forget it. Really. It’s nothing.”

For a moment, Natalia found herself stunned by the sound of his voice. It wasn’t anything new to her. She had heard it from behind thick velvet curtains and up on catwalks. She had heard him bellow for lost love mournfully, monologue passionately, and condemn his enemies. But those were all characters. Hamlet, and Romeo, and Othello. None of them had been Julian Devorak. Not really.  

“Natalia?” His voice broke her out of her stupor, and sent a shiver down her spine. The way his tongue curled around the syllables of her name, like he had never spoken anything more sacred, sent her heart aflame in the best possible way.  

“Julian.” She spoke his name barely above whisper.  Natalia leaned against her desk for support, head spinning. When had- how did- why didn’t he- she- they-? She took in a breath through her nose, just as Julian heaved a resigned sigh.

“Good night, Tali.”  

“No, wait, Julian! Don’t-!” The dial tone droning in her ear was all she got.  And when she tried calling him, all she got was his voice mail.  

Try again. Voice mail.

Try again. Voice mail.  

You

8:00 PM

“-Julian, you asshole! Pick up your phone!”

*Last Read by Jules at 8:05 PM.  

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

Natalia Valeth was not a quitter.

She hadn’t given up when she left her home country to become a pharmacist. She hadn’t lost hope when she didn’t make the cut to be on the acting team. She didn’t back down even as Professor Valdemar verbally tore the first draft of her thesis to shreds. So, when she drove to the community theater the very next weekend, she was a woman on a mission.  

She was hours early for once, but not so early that the doors to the theater weren’t already unlocked. The only person who would wake up at the ass crack of dawn for theater was Julian, and that was exactly what Natalia was betting on.  She threw open the auditorium doors with a resounding bang that echoed resoundingly all throughout the room. Sitting on the edge of the stage was Julian, who looked up at her when she made her entrance. The script he had been looking over listlessly fell from his grip, scattering like leaves in the wind. In such a quiet room, Natalia could hear him curse as if she were right at his side.  She steeled herself and marched down the steps of the auditorium, stopping less than an arm’s length away from were Julian sat on his haunches collecting the papers.  

“We need tae talk. Face tae face this time.”  

“Do we?” Julian finally collected the script and rose to his full height. Despite having a good foot on Natalia, he had never looked smaller gunmetal gray eyes looking everywhere but at her. He turned his back on her to tap the pages crisply against the stage.  

“You bet yer ass we dae! Whit th’ hell urr ye thinking’s? Whit, did ye think ignoring this wid mak’ it go away?”  

“...Maybe a little.”

“Och! Yer impossible!” Natalia threw her hands up with the exclamation. “Did ye think Ah juist said ‘aye’ tae fuck wi’ ye? A’m waantin’ tae gang oan a date wi’ ye! Mibbie even twa! If we feel really crazy, we’ll mak’ it three.”

It might not have been the three magical worlds that would have been most dramatic. If this were a stage production, this would be the part where the lights would dim, and the spotlight would narrow over the two lovers, giving the illusion that they were the only two people in the world.   With the theater as empty as it was, they might as well have been.  

“Do you... Do you mean that?”

Such vulnerability didn't seem like Julian.  Julian could throw out innuendos as easily as breathing. Julian was overly dramatic in everything he did, even when he wasn’t in front of an adoring audience. But it was the Julian who wanted to be a doctor. It was the Julian who looked at all the pandemics of the past, and wondered why so many people had to die.  The Julian who was wound up so tightly like he was bracing himself for ejection like it would come as a physical blow.  

Sarcasm felt like it would just add fuel to the fire, so Natalia opted for compassion instead. When she brushed her hand against Julian’s cheek, he leaned into it like he needed her touch the same way needed air.

“I’m willin tae huv a go at this.” She said gently, like everything would shatter around them if she was too abrasive. “Ye in?”  

“Absolutely.” Julian placed a hand over hers and tilted his head enough to plant a shy, fleeting kiss to her palm.  

Maybe this would end in a romance for the ages. Maybe this would end in tragedy. Whatever happened, it was better than not pursing it at all.  

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 73

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Title & Song: Loverman

Summary: Alfie takes revenge to defend Genevieve's honor. He keeps his promise and tells her after he does. Genevieve has a surprising reaction, even taking her off guard as the night leads to more honesty between them than ever before. **Chapter song is Loverman by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds .**

Warnings/Tags: References to past sexual assault. Explicit Sexual Content. Torture. Not graphically described. Language. Protective Alfie. Revenge by Alfie for Gen. Confessions of feelings. 

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.)

Alfie sat silently in his anger on the drive back to London. He was stone-faced and hearted as he let himself go back to that dark place he knew inside himself to do the things this man deserved to have done to him.

He's careful and planned as always in these endevors. Different cars, guards, not wear his signature hat. He makes his way into the back entrance of the club and down into the cellar. Ollie waits, hands clasped in front of himself as he can tell from the sound of his boss's footsteps that this would be a long and bloody night for him.

"He's in there." Ollie says not making eye contact. Alfie takes off his coat and shirt, leaving his suspenders hanging from his sides, not wanting blood on anything light enough for it to show. "No one saw us. Everything's in the clear." he remarks as an afterthought as he saw Alfie was ready to get to his dark deeds without need of the confirmation. "May I ask-?" he begins.

"No." he states, turning his face towards Ollie and he diverts his gaze on sight.

He stomps into the windowless stone walled room. The man hangs from his tied wrists from a hook in the middle of the dark, bare space. A drain sits in the middle of the floor, the only thing to interrupt the echoing of Alfie's intimidating footsteps is the crates stacked against one wall.

The man squints under the single bulb, a single bead of blood coming down from his brow where he'd been knocked unconscious to be brought to his final resting place. "Who the hell are you?" he asks with a posh accent.

"You can call me, yeah? The wanderin' Jew." he says with a nod, walking slow around the man and thumbing his nose. "But it looks like you are the one that has wandered into the wrong place, mate." he says with a dark tone dripping from his words as he spoke them slowly and certainly.

"I don't know who you think you are or what you think this might bring you but you've got the wrong man."

"Nah." he shakes his head, stopping in front of him and crossing his arms, his brow low and heavy over his eyes, lips disappeared under his mustache as he commands his anger. "I know I've got the right one 'n this is gonna be a judgment of satisfaction. 'At's what 'is is." he raises his chin, his face shadowed by his sharp features and the stark light to obscure his face and make him look even more threatening than his body language already managed to.

"For what? What did I do to you?" he asks, his face still looking pompous somehow."

"You have hurt someone I care about. And I'm the type of man who don't let fings go ya see." he squares up against the man. His chin pushes back in concern for the closeness of Alfie's rough face.

"What do you want? Money? I can get you money. I haven't killed anyone." he says defensively.

"No I've got me own money mate." he says with a huff from his nostrils. "And you innit killed no one? I believe you might've killed a little girls innocence or time or two, yeah? Killed her belief in herself? What sort a man does such a thing." he puts his nose so close to the hanging man's he has to back away for them not to touch.

"Oh, bloody hell. You a pimp of some sort? Look I paid for what I did to those girls."

"No." he says loudly, slapping the man across the face hard and fast. "Looks like you're an even ore miserable excuse for a man that I thought." he backs away, looking at the contents of the room for something he could use.

"Look, a man like what he likes." he says with a nervous chuckle. "How am I supposed to know what I did if you don't tell me?" he asks.

"Fink reaaaaal hard." he says, reaching out, his head lowered and shoulders still to reach for a crow bar laying on top of a crate. "Almost fifteen years ago now. Little girl you threw yourself at. Barely a woman. Her father believed your words over hers. Daft fuckin' prick he is. Just like you." he turns and points the bar of steel at the man.

He sees the man's eyes searching. "Oh." he says, eyes looking away. "Greene." he says quietly.

"Her name is Genevieve." he says, hitting the man in the stomach with the edge of the bar.

"Yeah." the man says, groaning and gasping.

"You remember now?" he asks, an attitude in his voice.

"Yeah." he mutters, eyes hesitant in meeting Alfie's.

"What makes a man do and say such things, eh? To a little girl no less?" the question is mostly rhetorical as he takes the bar to the man's knees. "Now me. I was in the war. I've done some fucked up things meself. But never in me life have I hurt a woman in such a way. What would your mum fink of ya, eh? What an aboslute maggot you are. A fuckin' manky monster. Preying on little girls and lettin' 'em get put out in the streets, tellin' 'em they's broken and you own 'em?" he puts the end of the bar under the man's chin.

"She was young, I knew I could get away with it. She was supposed to be married to me so I thought, why not take it now?"

Alfie puts the curved end of the bar in the man's mouth. "She was not yours to take. And to fink you would've treated her the same or worse if that monster did make her marry you. You are lower than dog shit on the bottom of me shoes you fuckin' tosser."

"Why do you care? That was forever ago." he says, his words muffled.

"Because she'll be my wife and when she saw you tonight she looked like she'd seen a ghost. And nothing scares that woman. 'Specially not some dodgy posh cunt like you." he growls.

The man swallows, drool accumulating in his mouth from the taste of metal and grime from the bar Alfie was slow pressing into his jaw. His brow furrows, trying to think if he knew who this man was. "Durand." he mumbles.

"'At's her name now, yeah. But not for long. Soon it'll be Solomons." he hisses, a demented smile on his face.

"Oh fuck." the man groans, realization as to who he was dealing with hits him.

"Oh fuck is right!" Alfie laughs, jerking the bar back quickly and taking out a few on the man's teeth with it.

He moans and shouts, blood pouring from his mouth.

"Now 'at we know each other. I'm gonna have you tell me everyfing you did to her. 'N for everyfing you did to hurt her I'm gonna hurt you worse. And if I fink you're leaving somefin' out... I'm gonna hurt ya. So best to tell me the truth, eh?" he commands with a tilt of his head. "'Cause you're not gettin' outta 'is room alive, mate."

------

He has the boys take care of the evidence after he kills the man. Or take care of what was left of him. He washes off at his home in London, scrubbing away the evidence and changing, burning his clothes that held any blood on them. He could hear the cries of the man broken by the wet sounds from his throat and lungs filling with his own fluids. The fractured clotted sludge from his insides coming out of holes Alfie had put in his body, the blood that was spat out of his mouth as he pleaded and begged washes down the drain. Alfie's face stays cold, knowing he'd done what needed to be done for the thing that was most precious to him.

He comes back home to you, once again driven in silence. He wasn't feeling regretful in the least, a calm and self-assuredness came over him after he watched the man breathe his last breath. He kept repeating to himself over and over, no one would get away with hurting you as long as he was around.

He comes in quietly to your bedroom, sending Aggie away with a gesture of his hand as he takes off his clothes and gets into the pajamas you'd bought him. He watches you as you sleep, totally at peace, snuggled up to the pillow that was serving as him in his absence.

Light from the moon barely filters through the tops of the windows, he can only make out the faintest traces of your soft skin, his fingers moving down your cheek and jaw slowly, taking in your delicate features at rest, something he hadn't had as much time for as of late. You stir, something he didn't expect and he sighs, watching you stretch like a harmless kitten before rubbing your face.

"Alfie, darling is something the matter?" you inquire with sleep heavy words, propped up on your side in the bed. You can almost make out his face, it's set stiffly, his eyes hidden in shadow as he reaches out and takes your hand into his.

"Nuffin's the matter, my love." he whispers to ease you. You nod and let yourself rest your head back on your pillow, rubbing your thumb over his hand.

"Then come back to bed with me." you insist softly.

"I'm afraid I've got somefin' to tell ya first, Gen. It can't wait 'til mornin'." you see his head shake and hear the solumn tone in his voice. It raises your subdued senses into higher alert.

"What?" you rasp out, sitting up and scooting closer to him.

"I'm sorry to wake you with this love. But there's somethin' I should tell you." he pauses, his words holding grit to them as he forces them out.

"What have you done, Alfie?" you ask, your grip on his hand tightens.

"That man." he begins.

You shake your head. "Alfie, no." you whisper.

"That man at the club tonight." he pauses, taking a moment to audibly swallow. "After we left I had my men follow him." his sentences are paced and well rehearsed. "I had 'im put into the cellar. After you went to bed I left and went back to the club. After some... persuasion... he answered all my questions." he says with a certain, calm tone. "And I killed 'im." he states coldly, a nod and a characteristic grunt afterward.

"Alfie you-" you hurry to move up to your knees, your hand on his shoulder.

"Listen to me, Genevieve." he demands. Your mouth hangs open and you hold your words back with a sigh. "We ain't gotta talk about it. In fact I'd prefer if we forgot either of us ever fuckin' knew." he spits out. "And I know you dinnit want me to do it." he says defensively. Your shoulders slump. "As long as I'm 'round there innit gonna be no one that hurts you, Genevieve, yeah?" he moves his head towards you as you kneel next to him on the bed.

"You didn't need to do that, Alfie." you mutter, slightly worried.

"I wanted to." he states clearly.

"He's of high standing." you tell him, your hand going to his face to make him look at you. "What if you get caught?" he only sees worry for him when he meets your eyes and it hurts his chest.

"I ain't gonna get caught." he responds reassuringly.

"Why did you do it?" you beg for andanswer with your eyes and you shake his face. "I told you not to."

"I had to for what he did to you Genny, you fuckin' know 'at, why you keep pushin' it, eh?" he says holding your upper arm.

"I could've done it if I wanted to." you bite back at him.

"Well now you don't have to, do ya? I took care of it for ya." he says roughly releasing your arm.

"Alfie."

"I don't wannt hear it, Gen."

"Alfie."

"Fuckin' wot?"

You swallow loudly and it breaks his confusing growing anger. He's completely disarmed when you wrap your arms around his neck as his arms move up to hold your back. His hands hit your bare skin. He takes a shaky inhale at the feeling of you so warm and soft in his arms. You were something he was compelled to protect, this version of you. This soft and heartbroken woman was his to keep safe.

"No one's ever done anything like that for me before." you whisper into his ear. Your soft tone blindsiding him. You pull back slowly, your lips dragging from his ear to mouth. Your eyes were stinging with confusing tears as you wanted to be angry and you also felt so gut wrenchingly moved by his tone and willingness to exact an act of revenge when he knew you wouldn't. "You're going to keep trying to protect me even though I tell you not to aren't you?"

"Are ya just now figurin' 'is out?" he asks, somehow makign the words feel like they raked across your inner thighs. "No one's gonna hurt ya and get away wif it." You plant a soft kiss against his lips, his words sending direct blows to your chest. "Ever." he states defiantly before pushing your lips together again, exhaling harshly as one hand moves to the side of your head.

"Why would you be so reckless?" you whimper out through his biting kisses. "You can't be so brash," you say weakly as he groans into you. "You can't let them find out you did it, Alfie." you whine into his mouth, his hands kneading into your back as you move across his lap, straddling him.

"No one's gonna know, love." he sucks on your neck for a moment before moving his mouth to your ear. "I promise." you murmur against his words, wanting to believe them desperately.

"Don't let them take you from me." you rasp out in a broken breath as his teeth graze your collar bone. His tongue drags across the place he was kissing as he grunts as your words hit him. He stops and holds your back and hip tightly, looking into your eyes and finding them threatening to cry. He lets his eyes shut for a moment as he collects himself. He holds you tightly and moves you onto your back gently, keeping your body close to his. His knees are on the bed as he leans over you, the arm that was holding your back still there securely as his other hand holds your face. He leans in and looks over your soft, wanting expression. He's never seen this look on your face before.

"Is that why you didn't want me to do it?" he whispers, looking at your lips as they tremble with subdued worry. Your eyes widen and he can feel your shakey inhale.

"I cared about you, not him." you admit with a soft shake of your head, his thumb rubs your cheek as he sighs down at you. "He was too high profile to kill. People will come looking for him." he stays quiet, looking at you everywhere but your eyes. You move your hand, your fingers touching his face like he was yours in tender caresses. "I don't care that you killed him. I care that you'll get caught." you gulp and let out a small whine as you hold back tears that have sat behind your eyes for far too long. Your hands are light and trembling as they press to his chest. "They've taken too much from me already." you say with a slight shake of your head, you wrap your hands tightly around the collar of his shirt, yanking him closer. "Don't you fucking dare let them take you from me too, Solomons." you order through clenched teeth, your eyes sparkling with tears in the low light.

"Nothin' is ever going to take me from you again, Genevieve." he says softly, holding your face, your hand on top of his now. "I should've never left to begin wif." he admits with defeat in his voice, he kisses you hard and you want to sob. "Fuckin' wanker I was." he says between kisses as he feels you smile against his lips.

"They can't take you from me, Ari, I wouldn't be able to stand it." you confess into the dark, his lips pressing into your cheeks, lips stinging from the salt of your silently falling tears as you speak.

"No one's takin' me nowhere, pet." he promises with a gravelly tone, hands moving to your chest, hands desperate and firm against you as his kisses were planted with no rhyme or reason. "I'm stayin' wif you, yeah? Always." he moves down, lips fast to your chest. "Not even death is gonna make me leave you Chanah. You understand?" he asks with a harshness to his voice that makes your heart flutter.

"Stay alive. Stay with me. I can't have him take you away. I can't. I-" your words are rushed out in your desperation for him to understand.

"Shhhh." he presses his lips against yours, hands now up your gown and moving over your hips. "No one's takin' me, love. I'm yours. None of 'ems worth shedding a tear over. He's dead. I killed him for you. I'd kill anyone to avenge ya, love. Anyfin'. Everyone. You're mine and I'm your keeper now. No one hurts you and gets away with it anymore. No one." With the desperate words come more desperate kisses and hands. Your clothes quickly removed and the air heavy with a twisted, romantic agony that serves both of your dark sides. You are filled with a heartbroken lust for each other, as if it could be the last time you had him in your bed. As if he could be taken away come morning, you loved him.

"Ari I love you. Please, darling." you pant out, so many emotions rushing through you, your body feeling on edge and tense, his skin the only thing that warmed you and eased your suffering.

His lips suck against you, taking in the buds of your breasts, the softness of your stomach as he nips at your thighs, parting them and resting himself between them. "And I more than love you, Chanah. Never you worry that beautiful mind over any other man. It's all my burden to bear for you now." he huffs out, his mouth spilling out words without much thought or consequence as your legs locked around him, him grinding himself against your center.

"How dutifully you love me, Ari. How sick we are for each other. How mad have we let ourselves be for love?" you moan as he pushes into you, your sincere words being expressed physically by you both. "To have let ourselves become so dependent on another?"

"I am as demented as a man can be." he pants, lips moving back to your own, a heavy hand on your thigh, the other by your head on the bed, latched into your hair. "I will serve you as long as I live in this fuckin' insanity, my love. I no longer wish to be called sane since lovin' you. There is no going back to who we were before now is there? Only this madness. Only us." he pumps into you with careless thrusts, your mouths open and molded against one another, speaking hurried and passionate words as you shared the same breath.

"Only us." you moan out, hands clutching to his back. "Only you darling. There's only you now." you cry out, as your eyes squeeze shut and tears break through. Your life was now one you felt. He had taken a life in the name of your honor, to help you heal a part of yourself that you couldn't do on your own. There would never again be another Prittance to hurt you. Alfie would never leave you alone because of something another man did to you. He would always believe you over any man's word. He would never hurt you, abuse or use you in the ways other men would. You were safe now. You were with a man who would kill for you and you the same for him. You were both irreversibly connected in this love you'd found. It felt like madness. Like you were losing yourself, something becoming unhinged as you let yourself open up to the possibilities. You didn't need any sort of ceremony to define it for you, in this moment your bodies as one and your breath shared you were reconciled to the time your souls had spent apart. He had given you something you didn't know you needed. He gave you himself, fully, making your hurt his. He would carry your pain with you, and it had been so lonely and heavy all these years.

"You are mine, my love. Mine." he groans through gritted teeth against your throat. "My hunger for you knows no bounds. I want all of you. Good and bad. As long as it's you I need it." he moans, both your voces lilting higher.

"I'm yours. All yours. Take me." your voice sounds like you're begging, and maybe you were. You were finally loved enough to give yourself over to it. You let it engulf you, drowning willingly as his hips grew faster and harder, the sweat and tears from you both dripping across your skin, you could almost taste the intensity of it as your lips rhythmicly pushed againgst his head and shoulder, whimpering your revelation to him. With your eyes closed, your face feeling the brush of his hair and beard, you bask in the smell of him, soap and musk, your tongue reaching out to take him in with every sense.

Your mouth open and panting, taste the sting of salt against your lips as the sounds that emanated from you were no longer voluntary, both of you sounding angry as your bodies found their end. The painful night you'd both had concluded where it should, it each other's arms. You lie together in a tangled mess, your skin pinked and now covered in bumps as the chill of the air hits you before he encases you in a cave of covers.

He lay across your chest, your fingers combing through his damp hair as you felt his breath fan across your neck where his rough cheek was planted on your sternum. "Alife?" you breathily whisper.

He pushes the covers back, exposing yourselves to the darkness. "Mmm?" is the grunt he manages, his muscles now sending signals to loosen and shut down at the weight of the day they had carried.

"I know people think me mad." you begin, your voice heavy with honesty, a softness that only comes with true vulnerability is laced within it and his ears pick up on it the moment your swollen lips part to speak. "I have been at times. I'll admit. But it was only temporary. For the purpose of completing something." your voice trails and his blue eyes catch the light, looking over your face cast in shadows. "But I've never let myself need anyone else. Ever. Not my mother, not Altar, no one." you pause and sigh, wetting your lips as you projected your eyes down to his face, set in an open and honest pose against your skin. "It..." you let out a small noise of discomfort and he raises his head to get a better look at you. "It frightens me." you confess, your brow furrowed, chest now rising and falling slowly beneath him, the rush of the deed now passed, but the emotions still moving frantically in your mind.

"Fear has it's place." he says with an agreeable nod. "But that place is not our love." he assures you simply, a kiss to your forehead. "C'mere my precious flower." he says, grunting and moving to his side and taking you into his arms tightly. He speaks quietly to you, his hand holding your chin up as your face wants to bury itself in the warm and thick seclusion of his chest. "Know you have no reason for fear when it comes to me. I will not leave you, as I know you need me as well. We wouldn't purposely do irreversible damage to something that has come to us in such perfect condition would we?"

"Never." you whisper in response.

He presses his lips to your head as it shakes gently back and forth in support of your sentiment. "You are a strong woman, Chanah. The strongest that I know. Tenacious to a fault." he smiles against your hair and closes his eyes, letting you retreat to the safety of his embrace. "The only fear I know now is losing you. And it is frightening, have no doubt. To make yourself reliant on another. As we both know us humans are so terribly flawed." he sighs. "But isn't that what makes it so astoundin' love? That we, in all our imperfection, found somethin' that we fear. We were not wholly human before. There is no man without fear, for without it he isn't a man. But now we know it. Now we are so frightfully human we are aware of how fragile we are in actuality." his voice is soft and smooth, the certainty of his words, some you had said to him before calm you. He was so eloquent in his rough delivery of sentiment to you. But the coarse voice made the brilliant words that much more charming to you. "You have taught me, yeah? In all your beauty and art, that the messy parts of us are what make us human. And our love is that pet, it is messy. It's only perfect in that it was made for us. Nothin' else comes so easy. Not with people like us. You're dramatic, I'm stubborn as an old 'orse and we're both prone to outbursts at the expense of those 'round us." he let's out a tiny huff of a laugh. "But it's who we are. We ain't changin' it now." he lets out a gruff laugh and he feels your shoulder shift as you smile against him, face nuzzling into his chest as he wrapped his arms around you fully, pulling your body against his fully.

"I wouldn't want you to change." you murmur against him.

"'N 'at, see? 'At's love. Ya puttin' up with me, me puttin up wif you. Although I do say I got the much betta bargain out the two, love." he grins and squeezes you, pressing his face into your hair. "I love ya to pieces, Genny. I do. To the point of madness. Always. Never question it. Ya got nothin' to fear when it comes to me lovin' you, yeah?"

You nod and move your arm to around his waist. "I've never loved someone like I love you." you admit, your eyes shut and feeling the soft scratch of his chest hair against your face.

"Nor I you." he whispers in agreement.

"And you aren't frightened by it?"

"Why would I be frightened if you are the one keepin' me heart? I know no one more perfect for such a job."

You hum happily. "I'm not perfect. But I am yours." you say, kissing his exposed skin.

"You need your rest." he hums, feeling his body settle and relax against yours. "No other reason for you to say such nonsense as you not bein' perfect."

@fangirlfreakingout @jaegeeeeer @cosettewinchester @lookuptheskyisfalling-blog @brianaisasongbird @cry5t4l-w4rri0r @iliveonchocolateandnetflix @jess2464 @hardygal69 @thegarrisonpublichouse @a-flock-of-angry-pigeons @pootle @negansdirtygirl22 @musingsby-night @wtf-is-wrong-with-this @shine-dont-shadow @inkinterrupted @vale0413 @lafayettes-baguettes-1 @sxlomons @aphnxrising @emerald-bijou @elaenom @give-jack-a-lightsaber @anrm1 @ultrablackwidower @tinastarkandco @arrowswithwifi   @marvelgirl7 @they-are-not-just-stories   @ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes

[karenpage]

1!!!!!!! For the prompt!

1. “We’re not just friends and you fucking know it. 

It’s cold in January, wet cold, the kind cold that has Karen Page clutching her coffee like a lifeline to her numb fingertips. Anything to thaw out as she stands with snow melting into puddles at her feet, in the hallway outside of Ellison’s office. She’s started staking him out every day - in between meetings, editorial reviews, and even at his favorite hot dog stand. You’re stalking me, he pointed out a handful of times, only to be met by Karen listing the practicalities of giving her her job back (and she has not nor will she ever take ‘no’ for an answer).

They settle someplace in the middle. Compromise, it’s called, where Karen will be a freelance journalist and provide the Bulletin with pieces that come from her and are run as an advocate for the independent New Yorker’s voice.

But, he’d lifted his finger up to tone down her giddy, delighted outburst, you have to run a piece on Frank Castle, an honest one.

There’s no shortage of suspicion, edged under the rim of his glasses or how he sees Karen, really and truly sees her - until she’s forced to reluctantly concede.

So that’s where she is now, sitting cross-legged at the foot of her bed with only the title of ‘He’s not who they say he is’ and a long, blank page beneath it mocking her.

How does she begin to quantify her relationship with Frank? Does she start from the beginning? How and where she knew she could trust the man every media outlet painted as a monster?

Karen’s fears are rooted in selfishness; what will people think of her, if they knew. If they knew that she smiled at him, bruised and bloody. If they knew that he’d used his body as a shield from bullets, and she’d held on just a little bit longer than necessary. If they knew she cried when the roses started to wilt or when setting them on her window sill became a melancholic habit, knowing he wouldn’t call.

She slams her laptop shut, the glow of the screen had been the only source of light in her room, leaving Karen staring into the abyss like it might provide inspiration. Pretending that even now, her broken heart doesn’t cast a shadow in the dark.

This is her chance to get back into Ellison’s good graces and she’s not going to martyr herself over it. It’s just an article. She’s written a thousand of them about a thousand different people and it didn’t matter then, so why does it now?

Frank’s the one who is gone. She doesn’t owe him her silence after a year of his.

Karen grabs a beer from her fridge, brings her laptop into the living room, and gets to typing. It doesn’t have to be an extensive expose, the nitty-gritty details can be glossed over. The public wouldn’t care if she tweaked some things, painted Frank as a friend she needed, not necessarily as one she chose.

It’s a lie. A column’s worth of it. But by the time six A.M rolls around, Karen’s done. She stares at what she’s just written, neatly packaged as an attachment in the email sent to the Bulletin’s newest editor, and feels nothing like the thrill she’d had, bringing down scandals, exposing criminals, doing right by the downtrodden and exacting justice onto the cruel. It’s the least excited she’s ever been to see her byline and knows that Ellison won’t believe a word of it anyway.

But it’s her shot to reintroduce normalcy into her life and at this point, Karen is desperate to have a routine.

She’s mad at Frank, Karen realized the moment she pressed send. And somehow, admitting that to herself in the cold, dim light of dawn, is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. She’s sobbing on her couch, big and ugly, gasps ripped out of her throat and tears so thick she can’t see, can’t blink them away. They’re like tar. Keeping all the hurt inside has rotted her, and she’d done it for so long. For everything. For everyone.

Locked away Ben, Daniel, Kevin, even James Wesley. There’s so much she should have written about. So much she should have said.

Maybe tell the world that Frank Castle had kissed her cheek, that he’d pleaded with her with a broken voice, haunted by all he’d already lost, that he couldn’t lose her too. She’d called him a friend, and what’s worse, she’d written like it was … an anecdote. Not something, or someone, who’d kept her going through the worst of it. When the world had been the cold steel of a bomb at her back, and Frank had come for her.

It’s pulling venom from a wound, too long left neglected.

Karen cries and cries until it’s noon and the only thing she has to show for a morning well spent is red, puffy eyes and a raging migraine. Two painkillers washed down the remainder of last night’s beer, and she opens her laptop right back up, squinting until she fumbles to turn the brightness down.

She’d write something real, this time. It wouldn’t be for the public, it isn’t something constructed for accolades or clout. It’s … a diary, maybe. An autobiographical apology to everyone she’s let down and hoping that letting out this ache, venting it, might keep her from falling to pieces entirely.

Karen spends the next twelve hours writing nonstop. The blur of her fingers over the keys fades into the backdrop, she doesn’t stop to eat or drink, she doesn’t even edit grammatical mistakes that sit there, underlined in red.

It starts with Kevin. And it ends with Frank.

She falls asleep holding the still-warm computer to her chest. No concept of what time it is, or what she’d even written, only the satisfaction in knowing she’d actually said something she meant, regardless of whether or not anyone ever saw a word of it.

Karen wakes up to wind rushing across her living room, bringing with it the bone-chill of winter in Hell’s Kitchen - she’s frazzled, disoriented - she could swear up and down that she’d closed that window last night long before she’d drifted off.

When she stands to close it, however, there’s a shadow standing in the hall, and Karen freezes until the headlights of a passing car illuminate him.

Frank.

“Jesus,” her hand falls to her chest, heart pounding underneath it. “I have a front door, you know. With a doorbell. It works and everything.” Karen’s go-to defense mechanism; dry humor. Pretending that the sight of him doesn’t spring tears to her eyes (when she’d made the mistake of thinking she’d cried them all away). She’s already turned towards the kitchen - it’s still dark out, so grabbing another beer can hardly hurt.

He’s got something in his hand, it’s – a newspaper? His fingers are fisted around it, knuckles white and he’s breathing like he’d just run a marathon to get here, eyes wild, unfocused, far away.

“What’s that –?” trailing off, she points to the paper with her beer before twisting the cap off and padding her way back to the couch on socked feet.

Her phone is dead, fantastic, and she’s immediately distracted by the hunt for her charger cable, plugging it into her laptop with a victorious sound. Frank hasn’t moved, and she’s doing just about everything she can to ignore him. Out of spite, fear, or guilt, Karen hasn’t decided.

When her phone powers on, Karen frowns at the screen - it’s not tomorrow, it’s tomorrow’s tomorrow. Evidently, her writing catharsis had been more like a coma and she’d slept for twenty-six hours. No wonder she’s in a fog.

“We’re not just friends and you fucking know it.”

“—what?”

“We’re not just friends and you fucking know it,” Frank says, slower, through his teeth. Like he’s… Like he’s mad at her for not understanding the first time around. She blinks owlishly at him, surprised by the sudden display of rage.

He throws the newspaper at her, opened up to page four and wrinkled to hell but - she makes out the article Ellison had run. She smiles sleepily at her byline – it’d been a wild forty-eight hours – and then her brows furrow as comprehension settles in and then it’s a punch to the get when she realizes what he said.

“Frank I–”

He’s pacing. Hands shoved into the shallow pockets of his windbreaker and jaw tight (the muscle in it jumps, flexing every time he rotates to pace the other way).

“That what you think of me, Karen? Just… some schmuck who came into your life an’ sure, maybe I saved it a couple’a times but it’s just par for the fuckin’ course for our friendship?” The last word catches on his teeth, broken, and it breaks Karen just a little bit too.

She stumbles up, hand on the edge of her couch while her feet slide against the hardwood floor. It might be a comical sight, under any other set of circumstances, but as it stands, it just makes Karen look every inch of the fool she felt then, “You know - you know that’s not what I think about you, Frank. You should know me better than that.” It’s hollow, and Frank barks a humorless laugh.

That just makes Karen angry.

“You left.” Interjected, stiff upper lip and all, “-you – you left without a word, Frank. Gone. I had to reach out to Agent Madani just to hear that you’d been granted some leeway by the CIA and homeland … I was … I thought you were dead.” Her resolve is wavering, the words tremble at the end, betraying the false front of her composure.

Frank’s fingers twitch at his side, but he doesn’t reach out to her. Doesn’t speak. He hangs his head a bit, tilted towards her so she knows he’s still listening.

Her eyes glance, briefly (and treacherously) towards the roses, half-dead on the ledge of her window and she hopes he didn’t notice. But he does. Of course, he does. He’s Frank, and he draws in a staggered breath before speaking.

“Karen… the dust settled an’ I was.. I needed time, alright? You’re right I shoulda… shoulda called, maybe yeah.. And I sure as shit didn’t expect you to wait for me, some Jane Doe with her man out to war but.. This?” his voice is that low, steady thunder that makes her toes curl and her heart stop, but Karen can only continue to let the tears fall down her cheeks in silence. He picks up the article, crumples it in his fist, “I have killed for you. Nearly died for you. I’m not just your fuckin’ friend,” Frank means it to sound stalwart, but in the context, it just comes across like: please.

“What – what more do I gotta do to show you, Kar? I” His adams apple bobs, rough as sandpaper but he’s asking her, the honesty of it makes him tremble. He’s afraid of her answer.

“Stay.” and that’s the core of it. He left her. He always left and most of the time it’s alright because she knew he had to but he’d been safe. They could have been, safe, and he’d been gone all the same so she doesn’t have a solution at the ready. She just wants him to – “stay, Frank. Please.”

Frank takes one step forward, hesitating before the next. And after a few more tense moments of this swaying in the space between them, he closes the distance and wraps her up in his arms, only to find out that she too, is shaking.

“You know I can’t,” at her ear, a frantic whisper but in it is a desperation that she has to hear, has to know. “Not all of the time but I will… I’ll stay, an’ when I can’t, when I gotta go I’ll come back to you - if you want me. If you want me here I’ll be here, Karen.” He pulls back because she’s not speaking, there’s doubt cut into the crease of her brow. A sadness in her eyes that he’d put there and is kicking himself for it.

Frank reaches under the collar of his shirt, pulls a silver chain over his head and slips it over Karen’s wordlessly, his thumb sweeping the raised letters on the dog tag that comes to rest just beneath her collarbone. “I’m makin’ a promise to you, Miss Page. I still got things.. Loose ends.. I might need time an’ shit but I will always come back for you.”